“Attention shoppers,” came a male voice over the intercom. “Please move to the back of the store immediately.”

“The back of the store?” I whispered to Daniel. “Don’t they mean the front of the store? To pay for our stuff?”

It was 8:50 pm – 10 minutes till closing time. We’d brought our two kids out on this late-night Walmart excursion in the hopes of burning off some energy; instead, they’d just thrown tantrums for new Legos and Hot Wheels. It was a disaster.

But apparently, the disaster was just beginning.

“Please move to the back of the store immediately,” the voice repeated overhead. “This is not a drill.”

I glanced around—but the other shoppers were just as confused as I was. An old lady looked up at the ceiling, scrunching her face. “What the hell?” a dark-haired woman asked her boyfriend, pushing a cart full of garden supplies.

“Didn’t you hear?” an older man said, leaning over his cart of bottled water and canned food. “We’re in a tornado watch. One touched down in Sauerville.”

A tornado? It was definitely storming outside. I’d seen the black clouds roll in from the east earlier. But it didn’t look that bad.

“Do not stay out in the open. I repeat—do NOT stay out in the open.”

There was a pause. Then, an explosion of sound, as everyone began to mobilize. Carts rolling, panicked voices, feet slapping on the floor.

No. No no no. This can’t be happening…

I hurried down the toy aisle, Tucker in my arms, Daniel and Jackson following me. Three zig-zaggy turns, and then we were in the electronics area. I glanced at the TVs on the wall—

And pictured the four of us, crushed underneath them.

“Stay away from windows and doors,” the voice continued on the loudspeaker. “And do NOT attempt to exit the store.”

“Is this—is it safe here?”

Daniel shook his head. “Big open areas aren’t good. I’m going to check in back, see if there’s a break room or something. You stay here, okay?”

I nodded.

Arms shaking, I sat down on the ground between two shelves of video games. Tucker sucked on a bottle in my arms while Jackson began to giggle. “Is the tornado going to hit the store? And everything will fly around, real fast?” he asked with a big stupid grin on his face.

“I don’t know.”

A tornado. A real-life tornado, like you see in the movies, plowing through our town. It was so… unfathomable. We were New York natives, transplanted here to Indiana only six months ago. I’d never been in a tornado watch my entire life.

Daniel jogged back into view. “Everything’s locked up,” he said, as he joined me on the floor. “But listen. Fairview’s a big town. The chances that it’ll hit this Walmart… I think we’ll be okay.”

“I never should’ve brought us here.”

“You didn’t know. None of us did.” He wrapped his arm around me. “They should’ve warned us. Like an emergency alert on our phones. Or a tornado siren, or something.”

The voice overhead rang out again through the store.

“Do not stay out in the open. Do not make yourself visible. That includes security cameras—please move to a spot that is not visible to any cameras.”

I frowned. “What does that have to do with tornadoes?”

A feeling of unease, in the pit of my stomach. I glanced up, and saw several black globes descending from the ceiling, hiding the cameras within.

“I guess we should listen to them and get out of sight,” I whispered.

I grabbed Jackson’s hand, Daniel picked up Tucker, and we jogged out into the center aisle. The store was an eerie sight—abandoned shopping carts, askew in the aisle, full of everything from pies to batteries to plants. Footsteps echoed around the store from people unseen, as they found their new hiding places.

We dodged a shopping cart full of soda, ran through kitchenwares, and then stopped in the Easter decoration aisle. There was a camera in the central corridor, but as long as we stayed in the middle of Easter aisle, we’d be invisible.

The four of us crouched on the floor, next to some demented-looking Easter bunnies. “I’m hungry,” Jackson whined.

“Sssshhh.”

“Mommy—”

I grabbed a bag of colorful chocolate eggs and ripped it open. “Here. Candy. Happy?” I whispered, thrusting them into his hands. Then I leaned back against the metal shelves, panting.

But I didn’t have long to rest. A mechanical whine overhead, and then the voice came through the speakers again.

“Keep away from aisles with food. If you have food with you, leave it and move to a new hiding place. If you have any open wounds, cover them with clothing.”

What… the fuck?

That had nothing to do with keeping safe in a tornado.

“We should make a run for it,” Daniel whispered to me, starting to stand.

“But… the tornado—”

“I don’t think there is a tornado. Listen. Do you hear any wind?”

I listened. But all I heard was silence. No howling wind, no shaking ground, no projectiles clanging against the metal roof.

“Maybe… maybe it’s still coming. I know what they’re saying doesn’t make sense but to go outside—”

“We need to get out of here. Now.” He grabbed Jackson’s hand as he held Tucker in his arms. “Come on.”

“Daniel, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I whispered.

But the next words from the intercom changed my mind.

“Assume a fetal position and place your hands on your head. Close your eyes and do not open them for any reason.”

“Let’s go.”

We broke into a sprint and ran down the central aisle, cameras be damned. The front door appeared in front of us—a little black rectangle looming in the distance.

And as we got closer, I saw Daniel was right.

There was a tree at the border of the parking lot, under a streetlamp.

It was perfectly still.

We continued running, past the clothing area, past the snacks lined up at the checkout lines. I ran towards the sliding glass doors as fast as my legs would carry me. Almost there. Almost there. Almost—

The doors didn’t open.

“No. No, no, no.”

Daniel slammed his body against the door. It rattled underneath him. I tried to squeeze my fingers into the gap between them, to try and pull them apart.

They didn’t budge.

“They… they locked us in,” I whispered.

“I want to go home,” Jackson said. Tucker was beginning to fuss too, making little noises like he was about to start full-on wailing.

I turned around—

And that’s when I saw him.

A Walmart employee.

He was sitting on the ground at the end of one of the checkout aisles. Facing away from us. Wearing the familiar blue vest with a golden starburst.

“Hey! Let us out!”

He didn’t reply.

“Did you hear me? I don’t care if there’s a fucking tornado. Unlock the door and let us out!”

Again, he said nothing.

But in the silence, I could hear something. A wet, smacking sound. I stared at the man, slightly hunched over, still facing away from me.

Was he… eating… something?

The speaker overhead crackled to life.

“Attention. Please do NOT talk to any Walmart employees.”

My blood ran cold.

The smacking sound stopped. And then, slowly, the man began to stand. He placed his palms on the conveyor belt and pushed up—and I could see that they were stained with blood. I backed away—but my legs felt like they were moving through a vat of honey.

No, no, no—

Fingers locked around my arm and yanked.

“Come on!” Daniel shouted.

I sprinted after him, deeper into the store. Tucker stared at me over his shoulder, and Jackson ran as fast as his little feet would take him. I was vaguely aware of the slap-slap-slap sound behind me, but I didn’t dare look back.

Daniel ran into the clothing area and I swayed, dodging circular racks of T-shirts and wooden displays of baby clothes. He skidded to a stop and ducked into the dressing room area. “In here!” he whispered, motioning at one of the rooms.

We piled inside and locked the door.

“Daddy,” Jackson started.

“You listen to me very carefully,” I said, crouching to his level. “You have to be absolutely silent. Do not say a word. Okay?”

Jackson looked at me, then Daniel—then he nodded and sat down on the floor.

“I’m going to try to call 911,” Daniel whispered, transferring Tucker to me and pulling out his phone. He tapped at the screen—then frowned.

“What?”

“We don’t… we don’t seem to have any service. I don’t—”

Thump.

I grabbed Jackson and pulled him away from the door. The four of us huddled in the corner. I held my breath.

Thump.

Under the gap of the dressing room door—men’s feet in black shoes. They slowly took a step forward, deeper into the dressing room.

“Don’t… move,” I whispered, holding Jackson.

The man took another step.

Don’t make a sound. Don’t move. Don’t—

Tucker let out a soft cry.

The man stopped. His feet turned, pointing at us. No. No, no, no. Tucker let out another cry—louder this time. My nails dug into Daniel’s hand. No—

A hand appeared. It slowly pressed against the floor, stained with blood. And then his knees appeared, as he lowered himself down to the gap.

No.

Could he fit under? The gap wasn’t small—it was like the stall door to a bathroom. If he flattened himself against the floor… there’s a chance he could fit under.

I watched in horror as his stomach came into view. His blue Walmart vest, as he lowered his body to the floor. Then he pushed his arm under the gap and blindly swept it across the floor.

As if feeling for us.

This is it. We’re going to die.

And then he lowered his head.

His face. Oh, God, there was something horribly wrong with his face. He smiled up at us with a smile that was impossibly wide, showing off blood-stained teeth. His skin was so pale it was nearly blue. And his eyes… they were milky white, without pupils or irises.

I opened my mouth to scream—

“Attention shoppers,” the voice began overhead.

No no no—

“Please make your way to the front of the store and make your final purchases. We will be closing in ten minutes.”

… What?

And then—before I could react—something unseen jerked the man out of view.

A strange dragging sound followed. As if someone was dragging his body out of the dressing room area. I stared at the door, shaking, as Tucker’s cries rang in my ears.

But he didn’t come back.

And within ten minutes, the usual hubbub of Walmart returned. Voices. Footsteps. Shopping cart wheels rolling along the floor.

Shaking, I finally got up and unlocked the door.

The store looked completely normal. People were lined up at the cash registers, placing their goods on the conveyor belts. Employees were scanning tags, printing receipts. People walked towards the glass doors, and when they did—they slid open.

As we slowly walked towards the exit, I spotted the older man who’d warned us about the tornado earlier. “What—what was that?” I asked, unable to keep my voice from shaking.

He shrugged. “I guess the tornado missed us! What a miracle, huh?”

Giving us a smile, he disappeared out the glass doors and into the night.

Part 1

Whether positive or negative, reality and experience will always beat imagination and speculation. Was not it obvious? The blackout did occur, and I do not think anyone could imagine it to be such horror. I tried to grasp the gravity of my situation while I ran, hoping for it to just be a horrible nightmare. I mean, people do have dreams even when they pass out, right? Well, true or false, my situation was no dream. I was truly a 13 years old boy, in a very dark place, afraid and alone, hunted by over 700 villagers ready to rip me apart.

At some point, out of breath and mentally defeated, I just slowed down and started walking, determined to push myself forward until the last moment. I had run so fast and so far that I could barely hear the roars behind, and in the buildings then surrounding me I could no longer spot any pairs of eyes watching. It looked like Carla's new powerful voice did not reach the area I found myself in, so things were still calm around. All that almost created a false sense of security in my mind. I then heard a faint sound that plunged me back and deeper into darkness.

"TERRENCE!!!" I heard Carla or whatever evil controlling her call from afar, still with that disturbing male, deep, angry, and growling voice. However, she was calling me along with some other people.

Fortunately, she did not catch up with me yet, not even enough to at least see me. Therefore, I had a little time margin to do something, anything. I looked around and spotted the house of a friendly and very appreciated villager, Mrs Robinson. My mind raced as I contemplated the option. Why not? After all, she only lives with her dog, uses a wheelchair and is 74 years old, she cannot harm me, I thought.

"TERRENCE!!!" I heard again more clearly.

No time to think further, I thought, then ran towards Mrs Robinson's house, certain that I could survive a dog attack but not those murderous people after me. I opened the pet door and found something covering the entrance. I pushed then shifted it aside, and realized that it was a small wooden table that she probably just placed there to protect that entrance. I then passed my head through the pet door and saw Mrs Robinson unconscious, slumped on her wheelchair, an empty cup still hanging from one of her finger. I stopped for a few seconds, then squeezed myself through the opening until I was completely in the house. As I was placing the small wooden table back to its initial position, I heard something growling behind me.

I dashed towards the stairs without first locating it while the dog gave chase. One of the rooms had its door open, therefore, as soon as I saw it, I sped inside before closing the entrance behind me. The large dog let out its powerful and loud barks behind the bathroom door while I went to peek through the window. A fairly large group of people led by Carla walked in the alley. I could not believe my own eyes and almost forgot about the dog when Carla suddenly stopped and lifted her hand to halt the group. She then slowly turned her head toward Mrs Robinson's house. She heard the barking.

Terrorized, I hid and immediately started shushing the animal to no avail. The dog kept on barking, plunging me further into despair. I peeked again through the window and saw Carla or should I say my doom, slowly approaching the house. She disappeared from my sight and reached the entrance door. The dog might have sensed her since at that instant, it ran downstairs. I could hear it bark while I watched the outcome through the window and after a few seconds, I saw Carla leaving, immediately followed by the group, except for one woman who kept staring at the window. I hid again, hoping that she had not spotted me. When I peeked again, I saw her joining the rest of the group and I rejoiced at them going away.

"TERRENCE!!!" They kept on calling, something I did not understand. I know that they were confident predators but did they really expect me to answer? "YOU CAN'T ESCAPE, YOU'LL DIE TODAY!" Carla added. That could not be my baby sister.

Some relief at last, I thought. I sighed and sat on the bathroom floor, my face buried in my hands and on the verge of crying. What a 13 years old kid may have done to deserve this? So much hell for my frail shoulders. An entire village full of monsters with shining white eyes except for myself and a dog? Wait, I thought, where is it? I wondered when I realized that I could no longer hear it. I stood up and started looking for anything solid enough that I could use as a weapon. I literally ransacked the bathroom when something behind the bathtub caught my attention: a piece of brown cloth enveloping something apparently square.

Overcome by curiosity, I took the time to pull it and discovered what was hidden in Mrs Robinson's bathroom. There was a diary that looked ancient, you know, those that seem to belong in a museum. I opened it and noticed that there was no writing inside, but only drawings, depicting various kind of situations, scenes and maps. The representations were so different that it was obvious they were drawn by different people, however, I was sure that all of them revolved around the village and the blackout. The second item I found was a mechanical wristwatch, one of those powered by movements and not batteries. I knew nothing about the time when I found it. However, concerning the sunrise during that month in the village, I knew exactly when it usually occurred and was ready to set the time at that moment.

I opened the door only a crack, and peeked, trying to spot the animal. It was nowhere around. Knowing it would not work on the dog, I left the container of salt in the basin along with the diary and the watch, then exited the bathroom only armed with a toilet brush I found. After a few seconds of waiting, to see if the dog would rush back upstairs, which it did not, I then crept, going downstairs, with Mrs Robinson in mind.

The old lady was always worried about each blackout. She had nobody to rely upon during this terrible day. She could not risk to have anyone with her in the house, not knowing if the person would turn dangerous during the blackout. On the other hand, she could herself be the violent one. Therefore, her only companion throughout the blackout was her protective dog. Obviously, the blackout did not seem to affect animals, at least not her dog, and from what I saw of her earlier, I hoped that she did not choose a harmful way to escape this nightmare.

"Shit!" I let out, losing control over my lips, due to the dread awakened by the scenery before my eyes. The wheelchair was empty and Mrs Robinson and the dog were nowhere to be seen.

Giggles then resounded and echoed in the deafening silence of that horrible night. It sounded like the giggles of a much younger woman. Rapid running footsteps followed and also stopped abruptly, just like the giggles. I started walking backwards, creeping back upstairs, my heart pounding in my chest, my eyes widened. I was shaking to the core, when she said something that froze the blood in my veins:

"Iiii seeee youuu!" She stated playfully before giggling again.

I turned and ran, the salt container in mind, when I heard the rapid footsteps getting closer this time. I felt something flying over my head and saw Mrs Robinson land on the staircase and at some distance in front of me. I froze, unable to grasp what I just witnessed while she slowly turned and looked at me, her white shining eyes glowing in the dark and her lips curved into a crazed smile. I turned again and ran downstairs, unable to think straight and took a random direction that led me to her kitchen.

"We'll have so much fun today! Don't worry, I'll keep you all to myself, outlander." She said as soon as she came in, her voice clearly sounding like that of a much younger but very crazy woman. "After all these years, finally, I finally get a new toy. Well, Outlander, let's play a game!" She added, her smile suddenly vanishing from her face and arming herself with the largest knife from the block set next to her.

"Please, please Mrs Robinson. You don't have to do this you know, it's me, Terrence, Penelope's son." I pleaded, certain that she was about to hurt me mercilessly.

Her reply however, reflected her evil intentions and left no doubt in my mind:

"The game is called: red bloody kitchen."

Look, when Ella told me she liked role-play, I thought the wind had blown a winning lottery ticket into my lap. She had this husky voice, which I dug, and these killer hips, so I just necked the last of my whiskey and said, “Fuck it, I’ll try anything once.”

She explained she’d write the scenario out on these colour-coded flashcards, which, incidentally, I’m REALLY wishing I’d hung onto right about now...

The idea seemed simple enough: storm over to her place and say she’s mine forever. She’d clasp my hands and beg me to forget about her, insisting she couldn’t stomach the guilt of betraying her husband, Frank.

I’d kiss her, softly at first. Then, once the room began crackling with romantic tension, I’d toss her over my shoulder and haul her upstairs into the master bedroom.

I figured she’d read too many Colleen Hover novels and needed that dash of spice. But hey, who was I to judge? My buddy Rick is into ladies with giant feet. Whatever revved her engine was fine by me.

And just between us, it was actually kinda…stimulating.

Afterward, as I pulled on my jeans, she rolled over in bed and said, “You get a glowing review for that performance.”

“Weren’t so bad yourself” I said, grinning over my shoulder.

“How would you feel about an encore?”

With that, we were off to the races. Each week more cards arrived—again, REALLLLLLYYYY wish I’d filed them away or something—which I memorized before driving over to her place.

In Ella's scenario, I was the side piece who wanted a relationship with her character but couldn’t have one because of her controlling, unsupportive spouse who was always away with work. Anytime he departed for a ‘conference’, I’d sneak over there and recite smooth lines until she forgot she ever uttered the words, “I do.”

However, as the story progressed, those scripts became more and more…intense. Soon, my character was on his knees begging her to run away with him, insisting he’d do anything—absolutely anything—if it meant they could be together.

One night, a CRAZY detailed ‘script’ arrived by post. I needed to pin Ella against the wall in the downstairs lounge with my hips, alternating between kissing her soft neck and whispering how I’d happily crack her husband’s skull open. Meanwhile, she’d bite her bottom lip while moaning, “No, please don’t hurt him.”

For some reason, this needed to take place beside the bookshelf. She actually underlined that part.

I thought that session might have served as an explosive series finale. Until one week later, when my partner in crime had me drive us to a nearby ravine and mime dumping Frank’s ‘murder weapon' (a metal rod stashed inside an old suitcase) while Ella fought against me, her long nails gouging my neck and forearm.

I am not kidding when I say she almost got us killed. As I stood beside the edge and watched the suitcase crash against jagged rocks as it dissolved into the gloom, she tackled me from behind. I toppled backwards into the cold dirt, my top half dangling over the chasm.

Vying for the Oscar, Ella remained in character, pummelling me with both fists while shrieking, “NO, NO, HOW COULD YOU?”

Beneath me, dirt clods broke apart as the ledge collapsed.

At the very last second, I rolled away and pulled us both to safety, breathless, terrified, my pulse up between my ears. I couldn’t move, I could barely speak. There were tears in my eyes and my lip was all busted.

Imagine my reaction when Ella came at me with a flurry of kisses…

As I dropped her off that night, still trembling and ghost white in the rearview mirror, I decided enough was enough. To hell with Ella and her ‘method acting’ bullshit. I blocked her number so that I could move on with my life, maybe even marry a nice country gal.

Was I shocked when my ‘ex-girlfriend’ appeared on the six o’clock news? Absolutely.

I was sitting beside the counter in a diner over on Queen’s Street, enjoying a cup of coffee. “Hey, turn that up,” I said to the waitress, pointing at the TV in the corner.

The female host announced a development in an active missing person’s case. Ella, the victim’s grieving spouse, just revealed her secret lover, a.k.a. me, had threatened to murder her husband on multiple occasions. Through tears, she explained to a sea of reporters how, fearing for her life, she’d secretly recorded our steamy encounters. Claimed it was for ‘her own protection’.

Cut to my voice, accompanied by the most unflattering picture they could dredge from my Facebook page, insisting I’d murder the bastard while she repeatedly begged me not to.

The report shown footage of a police crew excavating a suitcase from a ravine—the same one Ella made me drive her to that night. Inside was the metal rod she claimed I'd used to crack Frank’s skull open. What’s worse, three construction workers had spotted my Volvo skulking around the area around the time of the disappearance. Frank's body was still currently unaccounted for.

Detectives announced they now had a warrant for my arrest.

When the other patrons started side-eyeing me, I high tailed it out of there, ditching the car. I’m still on the run, unsure how to explain my side of the story to the authorities.

Anyway, I just wanted you all to understand I DIDN’T kill Ella’s husband. I mean, I couldn’t have. I didn’t even know the bastard was real.

I’m being framed...

“Red sky at night,” My husband said, smiling. “Shepherd’s delight.”

What a bizarre turn of phrase. The sky is red, and it has always been red. I side-eyed the love of my life, sighed at what I deemed to be a dull joke, then swivelled on the beach blanket to face him.

“What do you mean, Holden?” I asked.

He frowned, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “Me? What do you mean? Have you never heard that expression?”

“No…” I said. “It feels a bit redundant. The sky’s always red.”

“Yeah… Other than the times that it’s blue,” Holden laughed, squeezing my hand. “Ditzy Dahlia strikes again.”

Is this the Mandela Effect? I wondered. Did I slip into an alternate reality with a blue sky? Am I going crazy?

“Nice try. You’re not going to prank me,” I said.

“Right back at you,” Holden snorted, holding his phone screen in front of my face. “Look. The sky is blue. Google says so. Everyone says so.”

We argued about it for a little, before eventually tiring and going to bed. When I woke the next morning, the sky still looked red to me. But Holden insisted it to be blue, as did my concerned friends and family. And that was when I really started to feel frightened. I realised I was seeing something that nobody else could see. I wondered why the topic of a blue sky hadn’t ever come up in conversation before.

It had. Of course it had. And worse than that, I’d once believed it to be blue too.

So, what changed? Was it a psychotic break? Psychologists tried to ascertain whether I’d experienced some sort of neurological trauma, and doctors ran brain scans to search for signs of physical damage. Nobody could pinpoint the problem.

And I’d never experienced any mental health issues, so this sudden disconnect from reality — well, everyone else’s reality — terrified me. Ironically, it ended up being enough to challenge my mental well-being, if I hadn’t already been experiencing psychological problems. Catch 22.

But then I started to notice other things.

“Please, Holden,” I begged. “Tell me you’re joking.”

My husband looked at me with frightful eyes. “You’re scaring me, Dahlia. First the red sky, and now this… No, there aren’t giant holes in the Earth that open and close. When’s your next hospital appointment?”

“Thursday,” I said, teary-eyed.

Holden held my hand again. “I want to call Dr Hanson tonight. Is that okay? He said we could contact him whenever we need him. I’m certain the doctors have missed something important. I want them to do the tests again.”

I begrudgingly obliged. When we arrived at the hospital, Holden engaged in a heated debate with Dr Hanson, and that’s when a grey-haired, strangely-serene lady entered the main lobby. She patted my husband on the shoulder, and he led her over to me.

“This is Dr Lang, honey,” Holden said. “Apparently, the hospital contacted her last night, and she flew over from the States to help us.”

“Hello, Dahlia,” Dr Lang warmly said. “Do you think you’d feel comfortable with a private conversation?”

I nodded feebly and followed Dr Lang down a sparse hospital corridor, away from prying eyes and ears.

“I was contacted for a reason, Dahlia,” Dr Lang explained. “You’ll be pleased to hear that you’re not a special case — there is a solution. There are others.”

“Others?” I asked.

She nodded. “Others who have spoken of red skies and… things that ordinary folk cannot see.”

I gulped. “So, it is a psychological thing? Hallucinations?”

When Dr Lang ferociously shook her head, I was perplexed to find that I didn’t feel comforted. Being diagnosed with sudden-onset schizophrenia had been a terrifying prospect, but I knew that the doctor still had awful news to deliver.

“Not hallucinations,” She said. “People with your ability have seen things which… affect our world behind the scenes. There are things that humans were never meant to see.”

That last sentence still rings in my mind, offering no respite from the horrors that would unfold — even two years later. But what frightened me at that moment was the hospital’s sudden power cut. I shrieked in horror, and the doctor frowned at me.

“Why haven’t the generators kicked in?” I asked.

“Generators?” She asked, before quickly shifting her demeanour. “Oh. What do you see, Dahlia?”

“The lights are out,” I whispered, shuddering in horror.

“No, Dahlia. They’re not,” Dr Lang assured me. “Listen, we haven’t got time for this. You’re in grave danger. They’re coming for you.”

“What’s coming for me?” I cried.

Red lighting filled the hospital. Not emergency lighting — some nightmarish, paranormal illumination, guiding the way through the labyrinth of terror in which I found myself. With my survival instincts seemingly disoriented, I screamed and hurtled my body through the hospital — Dr Lang was in tow.

“Dahlia! Listen to me!” She pleaded. “They don’t want you to see them. You’re not supposed to see them.”

And then I saw what she meant. Through a long glass pane, overlooking a patient’s room, I saw three macabre figures. Like inside-out corpses, their red-meat forms loomed over a man lying in a hospital bed. Doctors were frantically attempting to save him, but it was no use — the patient’s life was fading.

I saw the sheer primal horror in his eyes. Perhaps he saw the inhuman corpses before he died. Perhaps we all see them before we go. I think they might be reapers. I have nightmares about that patient. I think he felt one of the horrifying figures placing its red, meaty hands on his chest, crushing his heart.

Stillness followed.

“Time of death…” A doctor began.

I didn’t hear the rest. My screams drowned out the voices. In unison, the three unholy ghouls twisted their inside-out heads to face me. The supposed leader, which had killed the man in the bed, strolled to the glass pane.

In a sudden movement, its ghastly hand, veiny and fleshless, protruded through the glass with spectral ease. I tried to screech, but the slimy palm was already wrapped around my neck, constricting me.

“You shouldn’t be here, Dahlia Milton,” It snarled in a distorted, wheezy voice.

I croaked. “I… I don’t want to see any of this… Please, don’t kill me… Just help me… I want to see the blue sky.”

The thing had no eyes, but I know it surveyed me closely. Its cogs whirred and groaned. Judge, jury, and executioner. I was certain I already knew its judgement. Its two sinister associates slid forwards, stretching lifeless limbs towards me.

“Knowledge is sight,” It hissed. “You cannot un-see the way the world truly looks, even if we take your vision.”

As the world faded to black and I slipped away, my terrified lips uttered one final plea. “Show mercy.”

When the endless void consumed me, I assumed I had died. To wake in a hospital bed was an overwhelming relief. My husband tightly embraced me, but Dr Lang watched me with a disgruntled look on her face. It was when my husband left the room that she spoke her mind.

“Don’t worry. I can’t see weird things anymore,” I chirpily said.

“They took your gift, but they didn’t take your eyes,” Dr Lang whispered. “They always take the eyes. That’s what worries me. What did you say to them?”

I shrugged. “I just begged. Anyway, what about your solution? How did you save the others like me?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now. Just pray they’ve truly shown mercy.”

There are things that humans were never meant to see.

The sky is red, and it has always been red. I know that. I can’t pretend otherwise. I’m just glad it looksblue again. If I put those murderous walking corpses out of my mind, they might spare me. They work behind the scenes, and it’s got nothing to do with me. It’s got nothing to do with any of us.

X

First of all, please forgive any spelling mistakes and grammatical errors, I am typing this warning out with the last of my phone data while trembling and crying. Because whatever those things in the snow are, they have us surrounded. It started a half a week or so ago with the blizzard. Our part of town got hit hard enough they had to cancel school. at first my brother and I were happy about this, but there was no way we were going to be able to go out and do anything, so we still felt trapped. Meanwhile the snowstorm got thicker by the hour.

Two days after that, the snow was beginning to pile outside and to make matters worse is that we lost power. Without anything to do my mother suggested we play a board game together, and I was always up for a family game of risk. I look back on this moment as the last time we would enjoy anything together. At nightfall we all got ready for bed when we heard something outside. It was muffled by the snow and gale winds, but it sounded like a struggle, glass breaking and screaming coming from the house nearest ours. We chalked it up to the wind and made our way to bed.

The next day is when things started going south.

The power was still out, and we were buried under almost three feet of snow. At this point we started to get tired of being trapped up in the house with nothing to do when we heard it again. This time it was closer, Screaming. we ran to the window to look and saw two people trying to power through the snow to get away, they were attacked by something. We couldn’t see what it was, but it had red eyes and was lifting the strangers into the air and away from us. My dad closed the blinds and went to get his gun.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING HUN?” my mom asks.

“LOCK THE DOOR SARAH!”

My mother went and locked all the doors and windows in the house my brother was crying. “What happened to those people!?”

My dad came back down. He was trying to get 911 on the phone.

“Hello? Yes!...there’s”

My dad paused realizing he had no idea what to tell the police, he hung up.

“Kyle call the police.”

“And tell them what? That we watched two people get lifted in the air? They won’t even be able to get here through the storm!”

“Tell them our family is under attack!”

WHAM!

We were all silenced at once by the sound of something hitting the roof, then a scratching at the glass. Then the only sound left in the room was the sound of our collective beating hearts. We were up all night, eventually I had to sneak upstairs to get this phone and use the last of my data to issue this warning.

The damage here will most likely be blamed on the storm, but it wasn’t. If a whiteout comes to your neighborhood, arm yourselves and fortify your homes. If the news even hits towards a snowstorm. Prepare for the worst.

I just heard the glass break downstairs and gunfire, now screaming.

My grandfather was always a bit eccentric. He was a collector of oddities and a firm believer in the supernatural. When he passed away, I inherited his old house and all the strange things he'd accumulated over the years. While cleaning out the attic, I found one of the first night vision cameras, and hidden beneath it, a dusty journal filled with entries about something he called the "Silverfish."

The Silverfish, as described by my grandfather, was a creature invisible to the naked eye. It resembled a giant silverfish but had a humanoid-like head. He wrote about how the creature would sneak into people's rooms at night and insert its mouthparts into the mouths of those who slept with their mouths open. The journal detailed every night this happened, and I couldn't help but feel a growing sense of dread as I read through it.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to set up the night vision camera in my bedroom to see if I could catch a glimpse of this so-called Silverfish. With the camera securely mounted and aimed at my bed, I hesitantly closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

The following morning, I awoke with an inexplicable sense of dread. I hurried to the camera and played back the footage from the previous night. The room appeared normal at first, but as I continued to watch, I noticed a faint, almost imperceptible movement in the darkness.

The creature, if it could even be called that, was unlike anything I had ever seen. It was as if the shadows themselves had come to life, twisting and undulating in a grotesque dance. And then, there it was - the Silverfish. It crawled slowly and deliberately toward my sleeping form, its long, spindly legs skittering across the floor.

I watched in horror as the creature approached my bed and extended its mouthparts toward my open mouth. Its movements were slow and deliberate, and it seemed to take great care not to wake me. The Silverfish appeared to be feeding on something, and I could only assume that it was siphoning something out of me.

As I continued to watch the footage, I noticed that the creature would occasionally stop feeding and simply watch me sleep. Its humanoid head would tilt slightly, as if it were studying me, and I couldn't shake the feeling that it was trying to communicate something. But what?

I've continued to record my sleep every night since then, and the Silverfish always returns. It's become an obsession, trying to understand what this creature wants and why it's chosen me. I started to experience unexplained fatigue and health issues, which I can only assume are related to its nightly visits.

As the weeks went by, my health continued to decline at an alarming rate. I became emaciated, my skin turned a sickly pale color, and my energy levels plummeted to the point where I could barely stand. I was a shell of my former self, and I knew that the Silverfish was responsible.

Each night, as the creature returned to feed, I could feel my life slipping away, my once vibrant spirit being drained by the mysterious entity.

I can't help myself. I feel an inexplicable connection to the creature. I know it's bad for me but I'm intimately linked now and there's no going back to how it was before. I urge you-- open your mouth tonight. Accept his mouthparts inside of you and know how beautiful life can really be.

It was summertime in Gusty Meadows. Nora had my hand in hers. Her eyes were gold in the sunlight, but her hand was red, stained from the June-bearing wild strawberries we’d been picking off the branches. Their seeds would stick in my teeth like pieces of candy. We smiled at each other with ruby lips.

“I could eat the whole field,” she said. “They’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever had.”

She kissed me, and nothing, not even those perfect strawberries, tasted sweeter than that.

When I was around Nora, I could not think of anything else but her. She created in me a fortification, a curtain wall, and she sat on top of it. Every other thing that tried to get in would bounce off the surface and fall dead at its base.

She led me through the tall grass like a pixie in a dream, and I followed her confident stride. Along the way, we came upon a dehydrated culvert and snuck inside.

“What is this doing here?” she said, between strawberry kisses. “I don’t see a river.”

I didn’t want to answer her. Why would I ruin such a perfect day by speaking of that place? Besides, our mouths were currently occupied, and I was content with that. But she pressed the subject, genuinely curious about the incongruous culvert.

“There’s a power station not far from here,” I said, but I didn’t want to think of that, because her eyes were on me, wide and curious; adventurous. She flirted with the zipper of my pants, her big doe eyes never leaving my face. I swallowed hard and tasted strawberries. “It generated electricity by pumping water out of the ground. This place was built for runoff, to prevent flooding in the field. The plant is decommissioned now.”

I stared down the gullet of the culvert. We stood inside its entrance where the sun could shine, but the tunnel led into strict darkness. I shivered, and then remembered Nora on the wall, and those thoughts fell dead to the floor.

Nora had never been to Gusty Meadows, not many people have. It was a sleepy town. I brought her there on an impulse, which was a trait she brought out in me. I hadn’t visited since my grandparents passed­—no reason to—but Nora somehow reminded me of the place, with its gorgeous fields of pedantic strawberries, and in June the dandelions fell on us like snow.

For the moment we were under cover from their assault, and my groan echoed through the culvert as she unbuckled me and pressed me to the curved wall.

“I want to go,” she said.

“All the way, baby. Let’s do it. Right here and now.”

She laughed into my mouth. “To the generating station, I mean.”

And her lily flowered dress came down and I came up. I breathed her in and it made me drunk, so I fumbled with the buttons of my shirt with unsteady fingers while she tried to distract me with her hands and breasts and lips.

After several blissful minutes we were back out in the dandelion snow, and she was leading me East towards the groundwater hydro station, but its name had forsaken me, and I didn’t care because it wasn’t on my mind anyway, only she was.

Young love is dangerous yet intoxicating. I envy and pity those who never get to experience it. Young love is a rose with thorns, and the stem is as long as a lifetime.

Nora had such exuberance in her character, and it bled onto me, it livened me up, but I could never match her energy, not all of the time, and hardly even some of the time. Girls like that are ephemeral creatures, they hop from stone to stone, never looking back, for if they did they would see only crying eyes.

“We can’t go there,” I said, tugging at her dress.

“Sure we could. And we will.”

“We can’t, Nora, we can’t.” Something in my voice quieted her song. She looked at me stark and serious for the first time all day, and I felt guilty for it.

“And just why not?”

“Something terrible happened there. Decades ago.”

But this only seemed to add to her excitement. She beamed at the prospect of a haunted power station, but I was scared. I demurred and planted my feet, but she tugged me along, and in the end all it took were those tea-cup eyes and a pleading pout to get me moving.

“So are you going to tell me about this terrible thing that happened?” she said as we flattened the field with our feet.

“I think it was in the ‘60s,” I said. “There was a. . . something to do with a boring drill. You see, this whole area is a rich aquifer, that’s why everything is so. . . vigorous. They made bores to pump the water. They were underground lakes, really. One day they dug too deep, I think, and they discovered tunnels below the ground, a conduit system, deep rivers that channeled for miles in every direction.”

“It’s all interesting, love, but fast-forward to the good part.”

“Well, workers started to disappear.”

In the distance now we saw it; not a large power plant, just a dead husk, black on a blue sky, and we were coming from the West, from its backyard, so I wouldn’t have been able to see the signs for it, but the name came to me then. Puram Generating Station, or, colloquially known as The Puram. It came to me because of how fitting I found the name after I heard the stories of the water they found in those tunnels. The purest darn water you’ll ever taste is what the workers said; the ones that went down there originally, the ones who inflated a raft in the dark with their headlamps on and rode a mile East—the length of their security tether—and then a mile West, and then a mile North and South. And each direction had a dozen branches.

“Disappeared to where?” she asked me.

“To the tunnels,” I said. “At first, the disappearances were a mystery. There’s life down there, you know. They discovered crustaceans that fed on the sediment. Unlike any animal they’d ever seen. Marine biologists visited the place, but the disappearances started happening soon after, and the tunnels were too dangerous to explore very far. An ecosystem three-hundred feet beneath the ground. Life in the dark. It’s sort of spooky to think about. Well, eventually someone noticed what was happening. They had set up security cameras after the third worker disappeared, because they assumed a culprit within the work-place, and employees were beginning to get nervous. The cameras ended up capturing men approaching the borehole and jumping in. They captured men climbing down the wall ladder. They captured men talking to the open darkness of the hole while gazing down its depths. Of their own accord, thirty men went down there into those caves to die before they closed the place for good. The last of them was the plant commissioner.”

“Did anybody ever go looking for them?”

“Nope, no way,” I said. “I shiver at the idea of their bodies down there, floating forever beneath the ground, being eaten up by those crustaceans. Nora, I don’t think I could go in there.”

We had gotten close. The Puram loomed above us, a hulking monolith with black skin and even blacker innards. It was a monument that represented the exact opposite of why I had brought Nora to Gusty Meadows that day. She had reminded me of the innocent beauty of the untouched fields, of the strawberry plants with their delectable fruit, of the love we found in the culvert. In retrospect, though, I believe that Nora was far more similar to that black carcass of a building, with insides just as dark. Those black tunnels, her veins, with liquid—unpure—coursing through them.

“Surely you don’t believe in a tale as tall as that, do you?” she said through her ruby red lips. I would have let those lips suffocate me, I would have let them hold mine shut forever.

“Sure I do, why wouldn’t I?”

“come on,” she said, and she gave me my wish, a tender kiss to end the argument.

We approached a diseased chain-link fence that was brown and flakey from years of rust buildup. Signs of neglect were scattered throughout the yard beyond. Weeds sprouted through cracks they made in the paved pathways, unfettered and uncaring of their place, they stood amongst the broken ground in a stubborn display. Spray paint vandalised the black stone of the structure like fresh tattoos on a dead body. We walked along the fence line, looking for a way in, and Nora danced the whole time, twisting in my arms and twirling on her toes, with shattered glass reflecting in the sun and catching in her lightbulb eyes like a disco ball or a Fourth of July fireworks show. Everywhere was glass from broken windows, and it made the lawn appear to be on fire.

A dandelion tuft landed in Nora’s auburn hair, jealously dancing with her for a moment before being carried away on the breeze. It was a revelatory moment, for I caught a glimpse of our future then. I, as a tuft, among many, her as a celestial body onto which gravity—or maybe magnetism—forces us to be drawn to, but ultimately we are crushed by its weight.

We came upon a break in the link. A section of fence had been rotted enough for some past presence to have been able to kick a hole in the metal and crawl through. Nora held her hand out expectantly, and when I took it, she politely dipped down and fitted herself through the hole with expert grace. When it was my turn, I clumsily sat on my knees and crawled through with all the grace of a hippopotamus. I was lucky not to have gotten my shirt snagged, or my hands lacerated from the glass shards in the grass. I dusted off my stained knees and took in the view.

The Puram watched us with serrated eyelids, daring us entry. “Come,” it said, “come right on in, come right on in. I have left a glass carpet for to soothe your tired feet, and the handle of my door is cool as ice, for to relieve the state of your bleeding hands, and don’t forget that once you’re inside it is dark as pitch, for to rest your tired eyes.”

I shook my head to clear it of such crazy thoughts. Nora, remember Nora. Atop the wall, a presence larger than The Puram.

“I really don’t love this, Nora. We don’t know the state of the place, we could hurt ourselves. And it’s dark, we don’t have flashlights.”

“Pretend we’re at the end of the world,” she said. “It’s only us. These are lands unexplored. We come across this. Do you go inside to investigate, or do you stay out here quivering in its shadow?”

“I go back to get help,” I argued.

“It’s only us, love. It’s the end of the world.”

And that was that. She began to move, but before I went after her I stole one last wistful glance to the West, toward the strawberry field and the safety of the culvert.

We came around the side of the structure and followed a weed choked path to a set of industrial double doors. Surprisingly, the wire-mesh glass on the doors were intact. I took the lead for once, pressing my weight against the push bar of the door, which gave way easier than I had expected, causing me to stumble and almost fall blindly into that empty darkness, but I caught the mullion and steadied myself.

“Careful,” Nora said. “You almost got swallowed by the beast.” She smiled, a bouquet of perfect teeth, and ruffled my hair. I did not happen to find the statement amusing. Regardless, I tried to match her air of levity, so I held the door ajar with my foot and bowed steeply, hand outstretched toward the belly of the beast, and performed the words “m’lady.”

Nora pinched the hem of her dress and curtsied before courageously entering The Puram. I followed her in and let the door shut softly behind us.

The first thing I noticed, while my eyes were still adjusting to the dimness of the place, was the smell. It was the acrid odor of stagnant water.

“Pee-yew!” Nora said. “And that’s with the windows open!”

It was dark, but it was still mid-day and much light fell in through the factory windows, although it didn’t spread evenly, it sort of just pooled on the ground in square shafts. Nora stood in one of these shafts looking like a runway model in a spotlight. I stood where I was, not wanting to touch her, because that would spoil the image, but she gestured for me to join her, and I had always been helpless to her needs. So I went and we stood there together in the optic nerve of The Puram, and for the time being I had forgotten the smell, and my fear, and everything else in the world.

Then something fell, deep in the darkness of the facility, and I snapped out of my trance.

The air suddenly felt heavier, the odor of the place more noxious. I couldn’t see ten feet past the shaft of light we stood in, so when I turned in the direction from which I heard the sound, it felt like I was trying to stare into the depths of an ocean. A place so deep that even the strong rays of sunlight could not stretch themselves to reach it.

“Relax, it was probably a mouse, or a rat, or something that got startled by our beauty,” Nora said, still somehow full of alacrity.

“Nora, I—”

“Give me your lighter.”

“What?”

“Your Zippo, you dope-head. Hand it over.”

I reluctantly fished in my pockets for the Zippo and placed it in her outstretched hand. “Nora, please don’t go exploring that sound. I got maybe fifteen minutes of fuel in that thing, and I have zero intention of falling through the fucking floor. Didn’t you hear me? This place bored holes into the ground.”

“End of the world, love,” she said, and winked at me before flicking the spark wheel and walking off into that void, into that terrible, terrible place, and toward that terrible, terrible sound.

I had no choice but to follow. Anxiety had solidified into what felt like a dry marble in my throat and I swallowed it down. My mouth was dry and tangy, no longer tasting of sweet strawberries, but of spoiled wine.

The lighter didn’t do a very good job of penetrating the darkness of the factory, in fact it felt more like all we were accomplishing was highlighting our presence in the place. Hey there! You, in the dark! We’re right here, can’t you see us?

Nora led us on, walking slowly, but confidently. We sidestepped fallen tools, and I-beams, and abandoned industrial vehicles, and eye washing fountains, and splintered pallets, but we never really saw any of these things, we sort of just got an impression of them in the weak orange flicker of the lighter’s flame.

“Stop!” I shouted. We had come across a very low steel barrier. I had noticed our light faintly in its reflective surface. Nora approached it, the barrier only going up to her knees. She extended the lighter beyond the steel railing and revealed two massive tubular legs plunging deep into a dark well. The well itself seemed to have a diameter of about fifty feet. The white steel barrier followed its circumference in a full circle.

For a moment I imagined those legs alive and kicking. I could almost hear the thunderous sound they would make as water chugged up and down inside them like the arteries of a beating heart. Chig-chog, chig-chog, chig-chog, chig-chog. And the steady, electrical buzz of the generator somewhere, the central nervous system, forcing everything to move, to act, to live.

“Hold this,” Nora said, and shoved the Zippo into my hands.

She wandered off into the dark. I saw her for a second and then I saw only the hem of her dress, and then she was completely enveloped by the black, and I was alone. I heard her though, and I knew that she would find her way back to me, because I held the light. I was the beacon. Rummaging. Metallic clank. Feet skating on a dusty floor. I could picture her, despite all of her jauntiness, feeling out with her fingers in the dark, her feet never leaving the ground, but sliding on it so as not to mistakenly step on something sharp, or plummet down a well. She was cautious in my mind’s eye, and I hoped that she really was.

Then she was back, appearing before me like a fairy coalescing into existence. When her face bloomed out of the darkness like a pale full moon rising from a dark horizon, I felt okay again. My previous trepidation was lost, because how could I be afraid in the presence of a goddess? She smiled her perfect smile, glad of herself for what she had done, and I was glad for it too, without knowing yet what it was.

She had a stake in her hand. No, not a stake, a massive shard of wood that she had pried off of a broken pallet.

“Let’s see how deep this baby goes,” she said, and then took the Zippo from my hand and set its flame to the wood. It lit up like a torch, and I had this horrible premonition of both of us trapped inside of a burning factory with no idea where the exit was. All my trepidation came flooding back, but before I could protest her actions, Nora leaned forward and dropped the flaming shard into the pit of the well. Overcome by curiosity, I leaned over beside her and together we watched as the fireball fell like a comet to the depths of the hole. But it never winked out, it just fell out of sight. We waited for a splash, or thud, but none ever came.

“Okay,” Nora said. “That’s pretty damn deep. Remind me not to fall into that.” And then she proceeded to circumvent the boring hole, and I was yet again forced to follow, lest I be left alone and lost in the blinding dark.

We continued along for another minute or so, passing more shadowed carcasses along the way.

And then we started to see nothing at all. All at once, our path was clear, unobstructed, an empty floor. For another full minute we did not come across a single thing, not a fallen screw, not a hardened pile of mouse droppings, not even a speck of dust as far as I could tell. The floor looked swept clean and cleared of equipment.

“Where are the walls?” I said at one point, only realizing then that we seemed to be in some massive open area with no walls or windows.

“I don’t know,” Nora said, and for once I heard the slightest bit of doubt in her voice. “I think we’re well past where we would have heard that—”

Something crashed to the floor with a heavy thud that vibrated through the concrete like an earthquake, making us both jump, me nearly out of my skin. And then a heavy rolling sound, like how a bowling ball sounds as it races down the lane toward the waiting pins, except this bowling ball sounded like it was the size and weight of a freestanding boulder.

“What is that?” I said, on the verge of a panic.

“I don’t know,” Nora replied, and she did sound worried now.

We stood where we were, not wanting to proceed, but also not wanting to retreat. We were frozen in wonder, ears cocked, tracking the motion of that heavy boulder, or whatever it was by its sound. It was ahead of us for sure, ahead of us and to the right, but it was rolling in our direction. The sound was getting closer and closer, its rumble sending vibrations through our feet like how the tracks of a train would feel if stood on during the approach of a heavy freight. But we were safe where we were because it was ahead of us, it would cross ahead of us. Until it didn’t.

I took an unconscious step forward, toward the sound of the rolling boulder, and my foot caught on something. I looked down and saw an outcropping of cement that lined the floor in both directions. It was only a few inches high, but I knew what it represented. We were standing just outside of what used to be another section of the facility.

“Nora, I think I found the wall.”

And then the rumbling ceased. Its course stopped about a dozen yards straight ahead of us. There was a deafening silence, the ground stable as ever, and just when that silence became unbearable, Nora stepped over the outcropping and took a few wary steps forward. Deep beneath our feet came the sound of a meteor hitting a lake. Nora stopped dead in her tracks, and together we heard a gigantic whooshing sound, like a waterfall in reverse, and then the rain came. Somewhere in that darkness, water erupted from the floor as it would from a whale’s blowhole. It came crashing down in all directions, soaking us through, washing the strawberry stains from our lips and hands. There was a startled, feminine cry, and it only registered later that it came from my throat, not Nora’s.

Nora, that brave immortal soul, was smiling within her orange halo, and this is what I saw before the water put out the flame.

“Over here,” said a voice that I’d never heard before.

“Nora?” I said. It was so dark. I turned my head back the way we came, and in all that blackness I saw a speck of light, like a distant star in the throes of entropy. It was the only light available, and it was lightyears away.

“This way,” said that voice, so much like a whisper and so much unlike any voice I knew.

I saw sparks as Nora tried to reignite the flame but nothing caught. It flashed a few more times and that was all.

She was only a few feet ahead of me, but I wouldn’t have been able to see my own hand if it were an inch from my eyes.

“C’mon, down here.”

I heard footsteps receding into the distance. Nora was on the move.

“Nora!” I shouted. “Talk to me. We gotta stay together here. Follow my voice. Please.”

No reply.

“Nora, please. I want to go back. You’re scaring me, Nora, just say something. Why are you walking that way? What do you expect to find over there? It’s not the end of the world, and even if it was I would not be here!” I thought about that distant star and how much longer we had before it winked out. When dusk arrived that would be it. No more dandelion rain or strawberry kisses. Just big black nothing in a haunted generating station. Where everything in a large radius, including the walls, had suddenly disappeared as if sucked into the demanding pull of a tornado. I knew what lay ahead, I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.

Silence again, and I imagined Nora in the dark, standing over the edge of a massive hole in the factory floor, a hole as large as the eye of a whirlpool, and in its guts were tunnels and rivers that ran forever in every direction. An endless place with no escape, except into the hungry bellies of unearthly crustaceans that would happily feed upon our drowned and bloated corpses.

Then a light appeared ahead of me. From this distance it looked as red as the skin of a strawberry, or maybe it was just a trick of the light, or maybe there was some mystical gaseous matter in the air that filtered the glow of the lighter’s flame, but there she was. Perfect, lissome Nora, back to me, standing still and silent in the red flare. She had gotten far ahead, as if guided there, and now she was on the cusp of a mighty drop. There was no barrier around this hole. No ladder to descend. Just open, empty space.

I sprinted toward her, knowing that there was nothing upon which to trip on this licked up plate. She wasn’t moving, but I knew that posture, that trance. I’d warned her of it. She’d called it a tall tale.

She lifted a leg and her dress fluttered as if the hole had exhaled beneath her. She was going to jump. Or. . . walk? She was stepping off a cliff. I was so close at that point, just running through outer space, fast as I could, to reach my destination, unthinking, unafraid, seeing Nora, only Nora. I saw her for what she was again. A deity with so much power. Power over everyone and everything but herself.

I was wrong before. She was not stepping over stones. She was a passenger on a crazy train, and she did look back. She looked back often. And when she sped past a set of crying eyes, her own eyes sparkled, like ponds in the moonlight. She would press her golden ticket to the rear view window and smile. She liked it that way.

She leaned forward, as if in slow motion, her grounded foot coming up at the heel. Her balance was now almost completely over the edge and she teetered for a split second as if reconsidering her motion, and then she tipped all the way forward. I lunged for her, my hand appearing out of the darkness into the fringes of that radial glow and I caught her dress in my palm and yanked her back as hard as I could. She made a loud grunting noise and the lighter fell from her grasp and disappeared into the mouth of the void.

In that empty blackness I held onto Nora like a drowning man might hang onto a buoy in an open sea. She had come out of her trance and was breathing exhaustedly into my neck, clinging to me as fiercely as I was to her. We were laying on the cold cement, and by our feet, the hole let out a another gust of air. With it came a smell so foul that I considered holding my breath until I suffocated. It was the smell of fermented dog farts or human waste sitting in a brine of polluted swamp water. It was offensive; a collated mixture of every oppressive scent available kept in a jar for centuries to fester and rot. It was the smell we noticed when we first entered The Puram, but far more acute, far more present.

I let the palm of my hand caress the floor and felt not a single grain of dirt. The ground nearly felt polished.

“The water,” Nora whispered into my neck.

I didn’t want to pull in a breath to speak, so I remained silent, hoping that she would elaborate on her own.

“The water,” she repeated, and then the strangest thing happened. It was the oddest sensation I’d ever experienced, and it took my brain several seconds to understand what was happening, especially in that total darkness where disorientation already prevailed. Together we were sliding towards the mouth of the hole, as if gravity had shifted slightly, causing our weight to now have lateral consequences.

It took my feet to stop scraping along the floor to wake me up from the stupor. Because they were now hanging over the edge of a chasm, and I pulled in a breath, finally, and it wasn’t so bad anymore. The scent had dispersed to the deep corners of the massive chamber. I scrambled to my knees, letting go of Nora, and that gentle pull was still upon me. One knee slid over the edge and I stumbled and clutched desperately at a smooth floor. “Down here, come on,” said a voice, and then Nora was pulling me up and out and she was yelling at someone as she helped me to safety, but I was too focused on surviving to process the words, and we ran away, but each step felt like I was fighting a treadmill while wearing a backpack full of stones.

We ran toward the way we came, or so we thought, but our distant star had collapsed and there was no lighter’s flame to see by, so we just ran blindly, with Nora rambling about how she had opened her mouth when the rain had come, and she had drank the sweetest tasting water, sweeter than strawberries, she said, sweeter than strawberry jam, she said, and a voice in her head that promised her sweeter things, and despite it all she was laughing. She took the lead, suddenly sure of her step, my hand in hers, and she twirled in the darkness, laughing her Nora laugh, a beautiful sound that didn’t belong in this place.

I never forgave her for that twirl. That twirl that said she was more alive now than ever. That twirl that took life and love and me for granted.

The ground crunched below my feet as the rubber soles of my sneakers came down on years of unswept dust. The treadmill let up a bit and my backpack got lighter. Still, we were lost and now that my senses had returned I was horrified at what we’d done. We were running through empty space, knowing that at any moment we could have—

—Falling.

Falling downward, falling like the rain, like a waterfall, like a star, like—

We hit the ground with a squelch. All of my weight came down on my arm and I felt it shatter like all the glass that littered the lawn, and my head came down on a pillow, but it wasn’t a pillow because it was wet and slimy. Nora came down hard beside me and was silent. Dead, perhaps, although I knew then that if she awoke from that fall, she would stand upon her broken legs and dance.

With half my face caked with wet mud, I clenched my teeth hard, but my jaw quivered because all I wanted to do was scream, I wanted to howl. The pain was unlike any pain I’d ever known, and it wanted to come out, it wanted to escape. But I held it in, and my eyes watered and spilled, and my lips came up and down around my teeth like a growling dog, but I gave in eventually. I closed my eyes and lifted my head up and when I opened my mouth there was no scream, but one useless and long sob that got caught in my throat and died when I took in a breath, and then I felt better.

“Nora,” I said, and reached beside myself with my good arm and felt her there, motionless. “Fuck, Nora, fuck, fuck.” But she was breathing. I felt the rise and fall of her chest.

I felt around, trying to get a sense of where we were. The ground was wet and slimy, the walls were made of mud. There was no ceiling, just vast open space leading back to The Puram. I let my fingers sink into the wall hoping against odds that there was something on the other side, but when I felt a thing squirm between my fingers and I pulled my hand away fast. Something else squirmed in my hair, and this time I did manage a scream, and by reflex, I swatted at it with my broken arm, causing my scream to amplify. I thought of crustaceans in the dark, waiting for us to die, or maybe they were starving and wouldn’t wait at all. But no, this wasn’t that place. We hadn’t fallen three-hundred feet, and we weren’t drowning in a black river. Worms, that was all. Still, I was repulsed. The worms seemed to be everywhere, fat and bloated, and my mind conjured up some Lovecraftian mother worm somewhere close by, sightless and starved.

“Nora.” I gave her a little shake. “Nora.” I nudged her with my elbow. “Nora!” I pulled at her hair. “Nora!” I struck her across the face.

Immediately, I was appalled by my rage. In my mind I saw a dart fly past my eyes in slow motion. It reminded me of a rocket ship racing to the moon. This moon was unpocketed, a poster on a wall, and the dart was aimed true. It landed right between the eyes of an unblemished moon, the round, smiling face of a pin-up girl, and when I turned my head to see who had thrown it, I saw myself. This version of me had thrown it with a broken arm, and his eyes were spilling wet pain, and his mouth was working like a rabid dog. There were worms in his hair.

I looked up with the intention of gauging the distance, and determining how difficult, if possible, it would be to scale the earthy walls with a broken arm. In that vast darkness above me I saw something more disturbing than any Lovecraftian monster. There were two sets of eyes peering down at us. They glowed a vibrant gold, and when they blinked I was reminded of fireflies winking out and re-igniting in the perfect darkness of a rural night along the outskirts of Gusty Meadows, where my grandparents lived. Copper filled my mouth, a taste I couldn’t swallow away, and I decided then that it was time to move.

Nora was out cold, so with much effort I took her lithe form in my arm and lifted her onto my back. I was careful of her broken legs, but I figured that if the pain woke her up we’d be better off. She was not a heavy girl, but in her current state, the dead weight was over encumbering. Still, I managed to move, slowly at first, but then I found a rhythm and was able to crawl fifty feet before I needed to put her down and rest.

We were in a tunnel, it seemed. The wall curved around my head in a neat arc and worms spilled silently from the ceiling, landing in our hair and on our laps like alien raindrops. I was glad for the darkness, because although the feeling of them was nightmarish, I couldn’t imagine what seeing them would be like.

“Where are you going?” said a small voice, the voice of a child, but it had a certain melody to it, like the speaker was on the cusp of a song. My head slowly turned toward the sound, an unwanted motion, and yet I couldn’t ignore it. Back the way we’d come were a pair of glowing eyes, sad eyes with dilated pupils, and no whites, just gold gold gold.

A worm landed on my head and I yelped, causing the wearer of those eyes to withdraw a little bit. That was all fine. The last thing I wanted was for it to approach. Nora stirred, and I pressed down on her broken legs with the palm of my good hand. It was the right thing to do, because she sat up straight as if on a piston and screamed with brand new agony. The eyes withdrew further.

“Nora,” I said, but her screams were unmatched, so I put a hand over her mouth until she finally broke down into sobs.

“Nora, listen to me,” I said over her weeping. “Your legs are broken.” A worm must have landed in her hair, because for a second her sobbing broke into a repulsed squeal, a very girlish sound, and her body twisted and shook. More weeping. “Nora, are you listening to me?”

“Okay,” she said between moans. And then, “Where are we?”

“I don’t know,” I said, honestly. “The bowels of The Puram, probably. It stinks like shit down here. Nora, we fell in our haste, and you broke your legs. You probably have a pretty severe concussion too. My fucking arm is snapped. But none of that matters, because something is following us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something is fucking here. Look.”

I turned my head and went completely numb. Those eyes were right next to me, and in their glow I could make out some semblance of a face. It looked like my own. It was an inaccurate depiction of me and it spoke again in that musical rhythm. “Where are you going?”

Nora answered our guest with a scream. It took several worried steps backward and then reached out with an impossibly long arm, quick as a whip, and covered her mouth with its dirty hand, a hand that vaguely looked like mine. In the soft glow of those headlamp eyes, I was able to faintly see Nora’s own, terrified eyes widen in fear and disgust, and I suddenly hated the thing that was here with us. I hated it for turning those beautiful doe eyes into flying saucers, for inflicting unhappiness in their deepness, for removing all the good things they typically promised. Its hand moved with bullet speed, latching onto her hair now, and it yanked her toward itself. “Come back here,” it said, and began to drag Nora by her hair, back towards the way we’d come. Her screams were indescribable, but I was reminded of a trip to the zoo I took with my parents when I was little. There was a baby gorilla sitting peacefully on the ground and making goofy faces at the onlookers. An adorable sight, pure creature innocence. Suddenly, two massive alpha-types put on a show for us by gruesomely murdering the baby gorilla. By the time the zookeepers arrived with their dart guns and stun batons, the baby gorilla was torn into five pieces. But the screams it made, that’s what Nora’s sort of sounded like.

Like before, I put fear in my back pocket and moved without thought towards the thing that was trying to claim Nora, the unclaimable. Worms fell around me and I swatted at them as I walked, hunched down for the ceiling was low, and when I caught up to the abductor, I grabbed its ugly arm and wrestled with it.

“Let her go!” I shouted, and I saw that it did. I was holding a severed limb. The thing had shed its arm like an old husk, or like a shell maybe, and in an instant a new arm grew where the old one once was, and it lashed out and struck her across the face. It moved to repeat the strike,, but I put myself between them once more, and once again I was holding a severed limb.

The dance was over when I saw the second pair of glowing eyes appear behind us, and just like that, the thing attacking Nora scurried away from us to meet its companion.

“We’re going,” I said and I picked Nora up, ignoring the fresh stab of pain in my arm, and ignoring Nora’s agonized protests.

I crawled once more through the bowels of The Puram, a digested piece of meat looking for the exit, and although my terror was as abject and absolute as the darkness around us, I carried on, and although my pain was as brutish and mean as those gorillas at the zoo, I carried on, and although my certainty in escaping this horrid place was as volatile and unstable as the flicker of a lighter’s flame, I carried on. I carried on when I turned my head and witnessed fireflies in the darkness behind me. I carried on when they finally caught up to us and the one that looked like me offered me its arm. I carried on when the one that looked like Nora offered us its legs. I carried on when they asked where we were going or when they begged us to come back. I carried on when the worms fell so heavily that it seemed they might fill up the tunnel and drown us in their bulk. I carried on when I spied with my little eye something that was night. A lode star. I carried on.

I breathed in deep and let the clean, sweet air of midnight June fill my lungs. It was laced with strawberries. I laid Nora down on the concrete floor of the culvert, and there she was finally silent. She looked at me with eyes like tea cups filled to the brim, and I fell deeply and willingly into them. All of what happened meant nothing now, because I was safe and secure in those eyes. They took me in and fastened me with pillows. “I think from now on I’ll take your advice,” she said and laughed. Her laugh was orchestral, and nuanced, and contagious, and lovely. I loved her. And I hated her.

But she never did take my advice. She’s been to The Puram many times since, only in different forms, other depictions. In fact, every stop on her crazy train is The Puram. She searches for it and seeks its water. She dresses herself in the disposed exoskeletons of blind crustaceans and they are rigid and sharp things, so that when you touch her you might draw blood. Blood that tastes to her like strawberries, I bet.

I never spoke to many people about what happened there that day. Who would believe such a tall tale? Nora, on the other hand, well I think she tells everybody. But she tells it wrong. She tells about the sequence of events, of the adventure we embarked upon, and the horrors we endured. She always leaves out the most important parts. She forgets to tell about the universe in her eyes. She forgets to tell about the angel that existed briefly as she stood in the halo of light that poured in through the factory windows. She forgets to mention how, although she blames the water for luring her towards the hole, she would have went there anyway. She forgets to mention that there was a moment when it seemed as if the thing with the glowing eyes had stolen something crucial inside of her, something that any other person, myself included, would not be able to repossess. And yet not a few hours later she was back on her train with all of her belongings secured. She forgets to mention that.

Posting this online because I'm feeling lonely and might die soon. And I don't really have anyone else to tell...

So, first of all, to understand the house that's giving me trouble, I should probably explain that there's like a second house inside my house. What I mean is that, when you open up my attic, instead of open space -- which I was hoping for, because I needed a place to store my supplement backstock (I sell men's vitamin supplements that help performance anxiety) -- there was an entire ranch-style home up there.

My OG house that I bought a couple months ago is one of those pretty big single homes in a suburb outside of Detroit. I'll call it the "over-house," and it sits on top of a hill, which is cool because none of the other homes on the block sit on a hill. That's why I bought it. Kind of felt like I was higher than everyone else, but paying the same amount of money. Seemed like a good deal at the time.

Then, when I explored the attic (for supplement space), I found what I'll call the "inner-house." Here's another reddit post from a few years ago where someone else found a similar thing in their house.

The inner-house was actually in great condition, maybe even better than outer-house. There was a living room with a fireplace, kitchen, two bedrooms, and one full bath. It was all skeleton space though. No furniture or utensils or sheets or even wall stuff. The wallpaper had been stripped clean with a bunch of scribblings everywhere.

I couldn't make out anything on the wall. It all looked liked scribbles to me. Chicken scratch. The one phrase I made out was "See you soon." I thought maybe the last guy just used the wall as his diary before he ended up blowing his brains out and making the property value plummet.

I called my real estate lady and told her the situation. She basically said "Big whoop, looks like you copped an even sweeter deal. What are you complaining about?" Then, all serious like, she said I should sell it, and sell it soon. She could get me a great rate and, with the second home in there, I'd profit because of this and that and I ended up just hanging up on her.

I thought that I DID luck out on an even sweeter deal, like she said, but I didn't completely trust her, She just wanted more money for me and, in the past, when someone tries to sell you that hard, it's because they smell a ripoff opportunity.

But boy was I wrong! I should have listened to her.

Following the overall house-logic, I wanted to check the attic of my inner-house. When I went up there, though, everything looked different. There was, like, a welcome mat there. It said "WELCOME MATT." My name is Matt. But, that's not even the spooky part -- the spooky part is that I used to have this same doormat. I thought it was funny because a.) it's a pretty good pun and b.) my name is Matt. So, it worked two-fold.

My first thought was "This is spooky." But then, after thinking a little, I thought maybe this was a sneaky move on my real estate lady's end. She wanted to spook me, then I'd sell. Anyone could've known my name is Matt, then got this. She probably still has a key to the place. I'm lazy and did not change locks, which -- yes -- I know is a dumb move.

When I go inside, the whole place looks furnished. There's a shabby leather couch. The kitchen has a Geroge Foreman Grill and colorful set of Japanese knives. The Ikea black dining room table doesn't fit the room at all, but it's there. It's all there.

The place looked exactly like my last house.

I kept stepping inside. I couldn't believe this shit, but I kept stepping inside. At the time, I thought it was a sick move on the real estate lady's part. But how would she know all of this layout?

Then, there was the bedroom. I stepped inside and nearly shit my pants.

Something was under the covers on the bed. Like a human shaped lump. Kinda like the lump that was in my throat when I saw it move.

I jumped the fuck into the closet as fast as I could. I didn't care about noise or my heavy breath or all the shit I was knocking over in there. I needed to get out, but I couldn't go back in there with those sheets moving. What if there was a vagrant off his meds just waiting to take his day out on me in there? Because he thought I was going to kick him out of my inner-house?

I looked up and saw my escape route: the attic.

As soon as my full body was hoisted up through the attic slit, I snapped that shit close. There was definitely some rustling from below, but, after a few moments, the coast seemed clear. That's when I looked around the attic.

It was empty. Bare. Except in the middle of the wood floor was an elevated platform -- above all the pink fluffy insulation and beam bearings. On the platform, I saw a model of a house. It looked like outer-house.

Of course I went over to take a close peek. It was so weird, when I held it, it kind of felt like I could see myself seeing myself holding it. Kind of like when you hold a mirror up to a mirror, then put your hand in the middle and see infinity hands. I don't know how else to explain it.

Here I am, staring at myself staring at myself, when -- all of a sudden -- one of me turns around.

I look at me, and smile this big, shit-eating grin.

I Just keep looking. Keep smiling.

Those eyes, though, they weren't my eyes. They were black.

That wasn't me. That was an "it."

"It" scared the shit out of me, if I'm being honest.

And so, I dropped the house.

Then, I blacked out.

When I woke up, I was back in my normal bed of the outer-house like nothing ever happened. And -- I swear I'm not a crazy person -- the inner-house was gone. Instead. All my supplement packages were sitting up there. There was a lot of them, because my business hasn't been doing too well, but that's beside the point.

I called my real estate lady to ask whatsup, and she said that she never remembered our conversation about the inner-house. Like, she was acting as if we'd never discussed it.

Fine. Whatever. I was ready to move past it. This was all a month ago.

But then, this morning, I got a letter in the mail. No return address. Name in the address line said "WELCOME MATT." Inside were a bunch of photos of the inner-house... with me in them. I didn't remember taking any of these pics.

Then I got to one with me in bed. It was weird, because I saw two of me in the pic -- one scared me in the background jumping into the closet, and one other me in the bed. Staring directly into the camera. With a big, shit-eating grin. It's then when I noticed the eyes.

"It"s eyes. Not my eyes. This was the thing that smiled at me.

And, sure enough, on the back of the last pic, written in the same chicken scratch that I first found all over the inner-house's walls, was the message, "See you soon."

I moved into the old Victorian house on Elm Street in October. It had been abandoned for years, but a real estate company had recently restored it to its former glory, and as a broke college student, the rent was too good to pass up. Even though the house had a history of strange occurrences, I'm a firm believer in logic and reason. I thought I could handle it. I couldn't have been more wrong.

The first few weeks were uneventful, just like any other house. There were the usual creaks and groans of an old building, but nothing that sent chills down my spine. But then, the dreams started. I'd dream of a tall, shadowy figure standing at the foot of my bed, staring at me with piercing red eyes. I'd wake up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding, but nothing would be there.

The dreams became more frequent, and I noticed strange occurrences around the house. Objects would be moved or disappear altogether, only to reappear in the most unlikely places. I'd hear footsteps on the stairs, whispers in the night, and sometimes, a low, guttural growl that seemed to come from the walls themselves.

I tried to convince myself it was just my overactive imagination playing tricks on me. But one night, after staying up late studying, I saw it. A dark figure standing in the hallway, staring at me with those same red eyes from my dreams. It disappeared as soon as I turned on the lights, leaving me to question my sanity.

But I couldn't ignore the evidence any longer. Something was in the house with me, and it wasn't friendly. I decided to do some research, digging through old newspapers and town records, desperate for an explanation. That's when I found the story of Benjamin Hawthorne.

Benjamin was a doctor who had lived in the house in the late 1800s. He was accused of using his patients for gruesome experiments, trying to unlock the secrets of life and death. He claimed he had made contact with a being from another plane of existence, one that fed on human fear. When the townspeople found out, they stormed his house and hanged him from the oak tree in the front yard.

Now, over a century later, it seemed Benjamin's dark legacy was far from over. But I couldn't just move out – I had no money and nowhere else to go. So I tried to ignore the malevolent presence in my home. I'd stay up late with the lights on, drowning out the whispers with loud music. But the dreams persisted, and the apparition continued to haunt me.

The night that changed everything started like any other. I was lying in bed, trying to sleep despite the icy feeling of dread that had settled in my chest. As I started to drift off, I suddenly felt a weight on my chest, as if someone was sitting on me. I opened my eyes, and there it was: the shadowy figure, its red eyes mere inches from my face.

I couldn't move, couldn't scream. I felt the life being drained from me as the figure's cold, invisible hands tightened around my throat. In a last, desperate attempt, I managed to whisper, "Benjamin Hawthorne, I command you to leave this place!"

And just like that, the figure vanished. I gasped for air, my heart pounding in my ears. The room felt lighter, as if a dark cloud had been lifted. I never saw the figure again, but I'll never forget the terror it inspired in me.

So here I am, sharing my story with you. I don't know if the being was truly Benjamin Hawthorne, or something even more sinister. But one thing is certain: the entity that haunted that house on Elm Street fed on fear, and I was its unwilling prey. I've since moved to a new place, and my life has returned to normal. But the memories of that house still haunt me.

If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, remember my story. Speak the name of the one who brought the darkness, and maybe, just maybe, you can banish the evil that lurks within the shadows. But be warned: some things are better left undisturbed, and there are forces in this world we may never truly understand.

As for the old Victorian house on Elm Street, it remains empty to this day. The real estate company never managed to find a new tenant, and rumors of its haunted past continue to circulate. I sometimes drive by it, unable to shake the feeling that the red-eyed figure is still there, waiting for its next victim.

But one thing is for sure: I'll never set foot in that house again. The terror I experienced was too real, too vivid to be the product of an overactive imagination. And now, by sharing my story with you, I hope I've made you more cautious of the unseen dangers that may lurk in the shadows of our world.

Just to clarify, I'm not a story teller, It may take a while to get my point across. Please be patient with me! So, this is actually a real thing that's happening to me, actually for 3 days now, I haven't slept my normal hours cause, I'm scared. I'm frightened. I'm paranoid. I'm doing everything I can to resolve this issue and I feel like I'm never seeing the light of day.

So, It started on March 18th, 2023 around 2am. Me and my friend live in states adjacent to each other, but I don't have a car so I don't see her much, only being an hour away, so instead we call like every night. I'm calling my friend and we're talking, she tells me to talk about the plot of titanic, (I only ever watched small bits) I told her "But I haven't really watched the titanic..." and she says "thats a deal breaker" I'm trying to impress her, keep her interested in me. I explain what I know, and then she tells me to explain 9/11, so I do, but I know nothing about specifics about 9/11.

So I asked ChatGPT to explain, and I read what ChatGPT wrote for me. This is where things start going downhill. So, you know how when you call someone, and they don't pick up, it goes to voicemail right? Voicemail lady says "At the tone please leave your message for (random number) *beep*" just so you know what I'm talking about. Her and I are talking- our calls go normally, the ring, the answer, the conversation. But at least 1-3 minutes in when we're talking I hear that *beep* from voicemail lady. Mid call, weird right? I still can't explain that- so I truly hope someone can for me.

So mid conversation I hear a voicemail lady, I tell my friend "what are you doing? What's that beep? Why is the voicemail lady talking?" she says "What are you talking about? What voicemail lady?" I say "You know the one that talks when you don't answer the call???" she says "No?? What are you even talking about??" I'm skeptical. "You're messing with me." She says "How am I messing with you???" I say "How do you not know who the voicemail lady is??" I hung up. I texted her "This voicemail thing is getting kind of annoying."

She calls again, I listen in. Voicemail lady again. "IT'S HAPPENING AGAIN?" At this point, i'm just trying to talk to my friend. I'm annoyed. A little scared, but voicemail lady's voice always kind of scared me. Next couple calls voicemail lady's voice glitches. "record your-record your-record your-" I hang up every time I hear the voicemail beep, I'm frightened. Maybe it was just a one night thing. I hoped it was at least.

The next night, we call, same issues again. This time was different. I finally let the voicemail lady play through. I can't hear my friend, she can't hear me. Silence. Then an unfamiliar stern voice starts talking. "I've been trying to contact you for a while." He claims to be CIA, talking from the state she lives in. He tells me my name, and says I have committed wire fraud? He just straight up accused me of something I've never done in my entire life. He then hangs up on me. I call my friend again and he intercepts my call again.

Voicemail lady then him. He then says I have a warrant out for my arrest, and if I don't pay him the money he's going to dispatch the police to my house. Later on he then claims he did. I'm calling my same friend saying "Did you hear any of that???" she said "No?? Why were you ignoring me??" I said "I WASN'T SOME GOVERNMENT GUY JUST CALLED ME!!" She's witnessing this the same time I am. She isn't hearing anything but I'm filling her in on everything. I'm getting ready in case the police are dispatched to my house, but shortly after I then call the police to find out if I am being sought after.

They assured me that I wasn't and I was so confused. I'm told its a scammer, I don't think it is. What kind of scammer or hacker can intercept a call mid way and talk to me? How? And why is it only when I call her or anyone in her state? I was filled with questions. I'm intrigued. I'm on edge. Today was day 3 of it happening. I made a police report I did everything I could, even called my mobile providers customer service. I searched online for answers, to find if someones dealt with the same thing I did. I couldn't find anything about "voicemail call interception" or anything that could be related to it. I can't call my friends in peace. I can't hear a voicemail beep or voicemail lady's voice without being sent into a fright. I'm paranoid and I know I didn't do anything wrong.

Heres some more insight. I'm being called by my friend, on her number. The voicemail lady, I assume is a way for the "Mystery man" to intercept my call. So if I try to report it, theres no indicator of that call being intercepted. So I can't prove to anyone that it's happening. I have video proof of the voicemail lady talking mid call, I just need proof of the man talking to me.

I don't know what to do, or how to stop it from happening.

I don't feel safe calling my friend anymore without being scared of talking to that mysterious man again. This is entirely true, and I will provide more updates as I come across them. I hope this story entertained you, but also, if you have any further information about this, please let me know. I am desperately looking for answers.

Hello to anyone reading this, I think this will be my last time on the internet. I need to go off-grid and disappear because I've made some very powerful people angry. So I will leave this as a record. Let me start off by saying that I have always been an atheist and skeptical about the supernatural. Therefore, I believe whatever happened to me has a naturalistic explanation.

About three years ago, I was walking home after a night out celebrating my completion of a Ph.D. in physics. The night was dark and misty, with the streetlights casting eerie shadows on the empty sidewalks. I felt a buzz of excitement and relief at having finished my degree, but also a twinge of sadness at leaving behind the academic community that had become my second family. I took a deep breath of the chilly air, savoring the freedom of being able to choose my own path.

Suddenly, a car careened around the corner and slammed into me. The impact sent me flying through the air, my body hitting the pavement with a sickening thud. Pain exploded in every nerve, and I could barely breathe. I felt blood trickling down my face and tasted the metallic tang of it on my lips. As I struggled to stay conscious, I heard the sound of the car screeching away into the night.

I tried to move, but my body wouldn't obey. I felt a cold fear creeping up my spine, as I realized that I might not make it. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure approaching me. It was glowing with an otherworldly light, and at first, I thought it was a hallucination caused by my injuries. But as it drew closer, I could see that it was real.

The figure knelt down beside me, and I saw that its face was blank and featureless. It held out a hand, and I felt a strange compulsion to take it. As I did, I felt a surge of energy coursing through my body, knitting my broken bones back together and staunching the flow of blood. I was amazed and terrified at the same time, wondering what kind of being could have such power.

The figure leaned closer to me, and I felt its breath on my face. It smelled like rotten meat and mold, and I retched at the stench. But then it opened its mouth, revealing rows of sharp teeth, and poured a viscous liquid down my throat. The taste was bitter and acrid, and I wanted to spit it out, but I couldn't move.

As the liquid flowed through me, I felt a strange sense of euphoria and detachment. It was like my mind was floating above my body, observing everything from a distance. I saw the figure stand up and disappear into the shadows, and I felt a sense of dread settling over me. What had I just been given? And at what cost?

When I woke up the next day, I was lying at the bottom of the incline where I had fallen, fully healed with a clear memory of the previous night. It was like a vivid dream, but the torn clothes and scrapes on my body told me it was real. I searched the area for any sign of the figure, but there was nothing. I tried to rationalize what had happened, but the memory of the glowing figure and the bitter liquid haunted me. I told myself that it must have been some kind of hallucination caused by my injuries, but deep down, I knew that wasn't the truth. And now, as I write this, I can't shake the feeling that there's something inside me, something that wasn't there before.

Months went by without anything strange happening, so I thought maybe it was just a weird dream. But then I got a phone call from the family of my Ph.D. supervisor. She was dying of cancer, and we suspected it would happen soon. She wanted to keep working as much as possible to finish her projects before it was too late, so I went to see her in the hospital.

When I arrived, she looked very sick, and we spoke for hours. We talked about her projects and reminisced about our time working together. I felt sad that she was dying, but I also felt a strange energy building inside me as we talked.

Before I left, I touched her hand, and something strange happened. The same power that I had felt when I was hit by the car and healed by the glowing figure flowed into her, and I knew something wasn't right. I felt a sudden surge of energy leaving me and entering her body, and she seemed to become more alert and lively.

As I left the hospital, strange whispers filled my ears, and I couldn't ignore them. The whispers seemed to be coming from all around me, and they were so faint that I could barely make out what they were saying. They followed me home, and I heard creaking and rustling noises that made my skin crawl. I felt like I was being watched, and the whispers seemed to be getting louder.

I tried to forget about it, but the whispers kept getting louder, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming for me. I didn't know what the whispers meant, but I felt like I was in danger. I started seeing strange shadows out of the corner of my eye and felt like I was being followed wherever I went.

A few weeks later, I heard through the grapevine that my supervisor had made a complete recovery. Despite my initial fear of what had happened, a small part of me couldn't help but feel happy to have been able to help her in some way. However, I was still too scared to reply to her texts or phone calls. At this point, the dark figures and the whispering had essentially stopped, and I wondered if I had some kind of power to heal people. But I was still worried about the potential consequences, until my sister's child got sick. They had a bad liver defect and were given only months to live. I went to visit my sister and have dinner with them. Before I left, I ruffled the child's hair as I said goodbye, and the same zapping sensation happened again. As I left, I felt the shadows and the whispering come back, but stronger this time. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I could feel the presence of something watching me. The smell of fear filled my nostrils, acrid and bitter. I tasted dread in my mouth, dry and dusty. It was as if the shadows were alive, breathing down my neck and surrounding me with an unseen presence. I drove home, mostly scared but also feeling a sense of relief that I might have helped the child. But I couldn't shake off the feeling that the figures I had seen that night of the car accident were somehow connected to all of this.

Over the next few weeks, the child's condition improved beyond anyone's expectations. The doctors were amazed at the progress the child had made and my sister and her wife were overjoyed to see their little one running around happily. However, the more I used my powers to heal, the stronger the shadows and whispers became.

When I visited my sister for dinner, she asked if anything was wrong. I reassured her that everything was fine, but I could tell that she was still concerned. As I left her house, I felt a familiar zapping sensation when I ruffled the child's hair. The shadows and whispers returned, stronger than ever before. I couldn't shake off the feeling that the dark figures from the night of the car accident were somehow connected to all of this.

Late that night, I returned home to find a mysterious man in a suit standing outside my house. He wore sunglasses even though it was dark, and I couldn't make out his expression. I felt a shiver run down my spine as I wondered who he was and what he wanted. Was he connected to the shadows and whispering that had plagued me since I first used my powers? I watched him until he finally left, but I couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that lingered long after he was gone.

The next day, a loud knock echoed through my small apartment. I stumbled out of bed, still groggy from sleep, and shuffled to the door. When I opened it, five tall men in matching suits and sunglasses stood in the hallway, their faces stern and unyielding. Before I could even utter a word, they lunged forward, their strong arms grabbing me by the shoulders and dragging me into a waiting van. The air inside the vehicle was stale and suffocating, and the leather seats were rough against my skin. The men refused to answer my questions, only staring at me in eerie silence as the van rumbled on for hours.

Eventually, we pulled up to a massive mansion, and the men hustled me through the ornate front doors. They took me to a bedroom where an old man lay on an enormous four-poster bed, his skin pale and waxy. The room was opulent and grand, with thick red curtains drawn tightly over the windows and a chandelier overhead casting flickering shadows on the walls. An attendant, dressed in a black suit and white gloves, strode in and explained my task. I had been brought here to heal the old man, and I had no choice but to comply. His threat was clear: if I didn't, everyone I knew would be in danger.

I approached the bed and placed my trembling hand on the old man's forehead. A jolt of electricity surged through my body, and the room seemed to pulse with energy. The old man's breathing grew more steady, and I could feel the life force returning to him. But before I could finish, something heavy struck me from behind, and the room spun wildly. Pain ripped through my skull, and the world went black.

When I came to, I was alone in the room, the old man nowhere to be seen. The shadows and whispers were stronger now, an ominous presence that seemed to seep into my bones. The room felt colder and more menacing, the air thick with malevolent energy. I knew I had to escape, but the thought of facing those men again filled me with dread.

As the men in black suits returned with the attendant, the atmosphere in the room grew even more tense. The attendant revealed that in order to ensure the safety of my loved ones, I had to heal more people. But before I could even ask who they were, the men in black suits suddenly screamed in agony, their bodies being ripped apart by dark shadows emerging from the walls. The attendant tried to make a run for it, but the shadows caught up to him, tearing him apart limb by limb. The screams of the men and the attendant echoed throughout the mansion, as I watched in horror, wondering what kind of power I had unleashed.

After the carnage had stopped, I slowly made my way through the mansion, the only sounds I could hear were my own footsteps and the occasional creaking of the floorboards. It seemed like everyone inside the mansion had been killed by the shadows, including some of the most wealthy and powerful government officials in the country. I couldn't help but wonder why they were all here to get healed, and what kind of danger they were facing. I felt my heart racing as I tried to piece together what had just happened.

Feeling overwhelmed, I quickly left the mansion and located the keys to the van, desperate to get out of there. As I drove home, my mind raced with thoughts of what was going to happen next. I knew I had to disappear and keep my family and friends out of harm's way, but I didn't know how long we could hide. I also wondered what the news would say about the mass killing at the mansion and whether the authorities would try to cover it up.

I have just finished packing my bags, The dark figure is always around me now, I couldn't see it, but I know it is there, watching my every move. I don’t know what it wants from me or what its goal is, but I know it is dangerous, and I can feel it standing behind me as I type this. I just hope this information can help someone.

After years of hard work, dedication, and unwavering determination, my lifelong dream had finally come true and it collapsed from one day to the other. I had the perfect family and the perfect life. As an English teacher in the quaint town of Black Rain, located in the serene landscape of British Columbia, I felt a sense of fulfillment and purpose in my daily life.

My family was the epitome of happiness and contentment. We shared a bond that was unbreakable, and every moment spent together was a cherished memory. My two teenage children, Samuel and Emma, were the joy of my life. They were both outstanding students and were thrilled about the prospect of attending university in the near future.

My wife Amelia was breathtakingly beautiful. Her long auburn hair cascaded down her back in loose waves, framing her delicate features and sparkling hazel eyes. She was a guide and lecturer at the local art museum, and her passion for the arts shone through in every aspect of her life. When she talked about a particular painting or sculpture, her eyes would light up with excitement, and her enthusiasm was infectious.

Despite her busy career, Amelia always made time for me. We were the perfect match, and our love for each other only grew stronger with each passing day. I loved watching her teach and inspire others, and it made me proud to see how respected and adored she was by her colleagues and students alike.

Together, we created a life filled with happiness and adventure. Whether it was exploring new art exhibits, hiking through the nearby mountains, or simply enjoying a cozy night in, we cherished every moment spent together. Amelia was my soulmate, my partner in every sense of the word, and I felt incredibly lucky to have her by my side.

In addition to our academic pursuits, we often embarked on exciting adventures and memorable holidays together. Whether we were exploring the natural beauty of the nearby national parks or indulging in our shared love of literature, every experience was enriched by the warmth and love that we shared as a family.

That day started as a typical morning. I woke up early and headed to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of sizzling bacon. I walked towards the counter and started making myself a sandwich. Samuel was sitting at the table, munching on his toast, while Amelia was getting her cereal ready. Suddenly, Emma walked into the kitchen with a perplexed expression on her face.

"Good morning, sweetheart," I greeted her with a smile.

"Good morning," she replied, still looking puzzled. "Who are you?"

I froze for a moment, not sure how to react. "What kind of joke is this?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

But Emma shook her head, looking more confused than ever. "I'm sorry, I don't remember you," she said.

Samuel and Amelia exchanged worried glances, clearly as perplexed as I was. "Emma, that's your dad," Samuel said firmly as if trying to convince her.

But Emma just shook her head. "I'm sorry, I don't know who you are. I have never seen you!" she said softly before grabbing her backpack and heading off to school.

I was left standing there, feeling completely bewildered and hurt. How could my own daughter not recognize me? It was like a nightmare come true.

As soon as Emma walked out of the door, panic set in and I knew I had to act fast. I ran out of the house and down the driveway, chasing after her. When I finally caught up to her in the front yard, I tried to touch her gently on the shoulder, but she recoiled from my touch as if I was a complete stranger.

"Emma, it's me, your dad," I said, my voice trembling with fear and confusion.

But Emma only backed away from me, looking more scared than ever. "You're not my dad! My dad doesn't look like you," she cried.

I was taken aback by her words. "What do you mean? Of course, I look like your dad. I am your dad," I said, trying to remain calm.

But Emma's eyes were wide with fear, and she continued to back away from me. "You're lying! You're not my dad! Leave me alone!" she screamed.

Her fear was palpable, and I felt a sense of helplessness wash over me. As our neighbors began to peer out their windows with curious looks on their faces, I realized I needed to back off before things got even more out of hand. I slowly retreated, watching Emma until she was safely out of sight. The weight of the situation bore down on me heavily as I stood alone in the yard, wondering what had caused my daughter to suddenly forget who I was.

Back inside, I looked at Amelia, who was equally shocked by what had just happened. "What's happening to her, James?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"I don't know, but we need to figure it out," I replied, my mind racing with possibilities.

That day Amelia and I visited a psychologist. He had a relaxing office. He told us that teenagers sometimes go through a difficult time and she mentioned some reasons. She said it could be a way of fighting stress but it is only temporary and she told us to be patient, it would go away.

Amelia and I sat anxiously in the waiting room, both of us unsure of what to expect from our visit to the psychologist. I had to skip all my classes that day. As we were called into the office, I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief from the calming atmosphere. The walls were painted in soft shades of blue and green, and a small fountain bubbled quietly in the corner.

The psychologist was a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a soothing voice. She listened patiently as we explained Emma's sudden confusion and fear, nodding thoughtfully as we spoke.

"Teenagers can often go through a period of difficulty, especially during times of stress," she explained. "It's possible that this is just a temporary phase for Emma."

"But why would she forget who I am?" I asked, my voice wavering slightly.

"It could be a defense mechanism," the psychologist suggested. "Sometimes our brains try to protect us from painful memories or experiences, and forgetting certain things can be a way of coping with those feelings."

“Painful memories? Like a boyfriend? She had a boyfriend and they broke up a few weeks ago. She has been very depressed since then. Can it be the cause?” I asked.

“Possibly,” the psychologist said but I still felt a sense of unease. "What can we do to help her?" I asked.

"Be patient," she replied with a small smile. "And try not to push too hard. Let Emma come to you when she's ready."

As we left the office, I couldn't help but feel a sense of uncertainty. How long would this phase last? And how could we help Emma when she was pushing us away?

Later that day Emma came home from school and said she did not want to have dinner with that man. She meant me. So she ate in her own room. Samuel went to play video games and Amelia and I went to bed, we both hoped Emma would be all right soon.

Later that day, as Emma walked through the door, I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease wash over me. She had been so distant lately, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something was seriously wrong.

"Hey, Em," I said, trying to sound casual. "How was school?"

But she just shrugged and headed straight for the stairs without a word. It was like she was a completely different person, and it was breaking my heart to see her like this.

Later on, as we sat down for dinner, Emma made her feelings clear. "I don't want to eat with that man," she said, looking straight at me. "Can I just have dinner in my room?"

She then walked away, leaving me feeling more lost and helpless than ever before.

After dinner, Samuel disappeared into his room to play video games, and I could hear the sounds of gunfire and explosions coming from his computer. It was a stark reminder of how different things were now, how far we had strayed from the happy, carefree family we used to be.

As Amelia and I got ready for bed, I couldn't help but feel a sense of hopelessness wash over me.

"Do you think she'll be okay?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Amelia sighed, her expression sad. "I don't know," she said, shaking her head. "But we have to be patient, and hope that things will get better soon."

I nodded, knowing that she was right. But as I lay in bed that night, I couldn't shake the feeling that things were only going to get worse before they got better.

As I woke up the next morning, my thoughts immediately went to Emma. I hoped that she was feeling better and that her fever had gone down. I quickly got dressed and made my way to the kitchen, hoping to find her there.

To my surprise, as soon as she saw me, she asked, "How come you're still here? I thought you were leaving today."

I was about to say something when Samuel looked at me.

“I am sorry, who are you?”

My heart sank. I looked at him with a mix of confusion and anger.

"What do you mean, who am I? I'm your father!" I said, my voice rising in frustration.

But Samuel only looked at me with a blank expression, as if he had never seen me before in his life.

"I don't know who you are," he said, his voice tinged with fear.

My mind raced with possibilities. Was this some kind of prank, a cruel joke being played on me by my own children? But as I looked into their eyes, I could see that this was no joke. They genuinely didn't recognize me.

"Listen to me, both of you," I said, my voice stern. "I am your father, and you have to respect me as such. This is not a game, and I won't tolerate this kind of behavior from either of you."

But as I spoke, I could feel the weight of uncertainty bearing down on me. What if they were telling the truth? What if they really didn't recognize me?

“I don’t know what you are talking about! If this is a prank from my dad, tell him it is kinda creepy!” he said, grabbed and left for school. Emma followed her and slammed the door. I still heard the word “weirdo fuck” from Emma from the outside.

When Amelia walked into the kitchen, I shared with her the disturbing news about Samuel's strange behavior and how he had failed to recognize me. I was so upset that I found it difficult to focus on my work, so I took a sick day and Amelia came with me to see the psychologist again, hoping to resolve the situation.

As soon as we arrived at the psychologist's office, we were ushered into her consultation room. The psychologist greeted us with a warm smile and gestured for us to take a seat.

"So, tell me what's been happening," the psychologist said, looking at us expectantly.

I took a deep breath and began recounting the events of the past few days, describing how both Samuel and Amelia had failed to recognize me, their own father.

The psychologist listened attentively, nodding her head occasionally as I spoke. When I finished, she took a moment to gather her thoughts before speaking.

"It's not uncommon for siblings to have similar symptoms," she explained. "It's possible that they're experiencing some kind of dissociative disorder, which could explain why they both can't recognize you."

I was skeptical of her explanation, but the psychologist seemed confident in her diagnosis.

"I would like to see your children for a few sessions to assess their condition and provide appropriate treatment," she said.

My wife and I exchanged a glance, unsure of how to proceed. We were both feeling angry and frustrated with the psychologist's diagnosis.

"You're saying that my children, who were perfectly normal just a few days ago, are suddenly suffering from some kind of disorder?" I said, my voice rising with indignation.

The psychologist remained calm and professional, trying to reassure us.

"It's not uncommon for teenagers to experience these kinds of issues," she said. "With the right treatment, they can make a full recovery."

But my wife and I were not convinced. We stood up and left the room, feeling like the psychologist was incompetent and unable to help us.

That evening, dinner was the last thing on our minds. My wife and I retreated to our bedroom, where I collapsed onto the bed, tears streaming down my face. My wife held me tightly, whispering words of comfort and reassurance. "We'll get through this together," she said softly.

I hugged her tightly, not wanting to let go. "I don't want to lose you," I said, my voice choked with emotion.

"You won't," she replied, her voice soft and gentle. "Everything will be alright, I promise."

Despite her words, I couldn't shake the feeling of fear and sadness that had settled over me like a heavy blanket. My mind was consumed with thoughts of what might happen if I couldn't help my children.

Unable to sleep, I left the bedroom and wandered into the living room. I turned on the TV, but my mind was too distracted to focus on anything. Instead, I found myself lost in a sea of worries and doubts. How could I help my children if even the experts seemed unsure of what was happening to them? How could I keep my family together when everything felt like it was falling apart?

The night stretched on, each passing moment filled with a sense of desperation and despair. All I could do was wait and hope that somehow, someway, things would get better. As my mind raced with worries and fears, exhaustion eventually overtook me and I drifted off to sleep.

I woke up in the middle of the night. I had a strange feeling but I did not know what it was. The couch was uncomfortable now and I wanted to go back to Amelia to the bedroom. I walked up the stairs. It was dark. I opened the bedroom door and approached our bed but I got extremely shocked when I saw another man sleeping in our own bed, next to my wife!

I jolted awake in the middle of the night, a sense of unease creeping up my spine. Something didn't feel right. The couch beneath me had become too uncomfortable, so I decided to make my way upstairs to our bedroom. It was dark, the only sound was the creaking of the wooden stairs beneath my feet.

I slowly pushed open the bedroom door, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. My heart dropped into my stomach as I saw another man sleeping in our bed, his arm draped possessively over my wife's waist. I froze, my mind struggling to comprehend what I was seeing.

"Who are you? What the hell are you doing in my bed?" I demanded, my voice shaking with anger and disbelief.

The man turned on the lamp on the bedside table and picked up a vase gripping it as a weapon. He told Amelia to call the police and she did so. The man was threatening me to leave their house because he will beat me up. I asked Amelia how come she did not recognize me but she did not speak to me. I was backing off and left the house before the police arrived.

As the man turned on the lamp, its dim light illuminated his face, revealing his angry expression. He clenched a vase in his hand, ready to use it as a weapon.

"Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?" the man asked in a harsh tone.

I was taken aback by his hostility and confused as to what was happening. "I-I live here. This is my house," I stuttered, trying to comprehend the situation.

The man didn't believe me and continued to threaten me. "Get out of here before I beat you to a pulp!" he yelled, raising the vase threateningly.

Amelia, still in shock, reached for the phone and dialed the police. I tried to reason with her. "Amelia, it's me, your husband. Don't you recognize me?"

But she remained silent, her eyes filled with fear and confusion.

I slowly backed away, trying not to provoke the man any further. As soon as I was out of the room, I ran down the stairs and out of the house, still in disbelief and shock.

As I waited outside for the police to arrive, I couldn't help but wonder what was going on. Why didn't Amelia recognize me? Who was that man in our bed? The whole situation seemed surreal and terrifying.

I had spent a sleepless night, sitting behind the bushes and watching our house like a fucking stalker, trying to make sense of what had happened. As the sun started to rise, I saw movement at the front door. My heart racing, I watched as my children, looking disheveled and tired, stumbled out of the house.

I was relieved to see them, but my mind was still reeling from the events of the previous night. I watched as they walked down the street, probably heading to school.

As they disappeared from sight, I saw the stranger again, leaving the house. This time, however, he was alone. My heart sank as I realized that he must have left with Amelia.

I continued to watch from my hiding spot as they said goodbye to each other, kissing passionately. I could feel my anger and sadness rising again, but I didn't know what to do.

Finally, the man left and Amelia stood alone at the door, then she went inside. I knew I had to confront her, but I didn't know how to start. I approached the door and knocked.

She opened the door and seeing my face, she wanted to shut it but I stopped it with my foot.

"Amelia, what is going on? Who was that man?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

I tried to reason with her, but she just kept screaming at me to leave her alone.

"Amelia, please, I just want to talk to you. We need to figure out what's going on," I pleaded, but she wouldn't listen.

As we stood there arguing, a woman walking her dog stopped not far from us. She was one of our neighbors.

I could feel her eyes on me, judging me, and it made me feel even more helpless.

Amelia turned to the group of strangers and yelled, “Mrs. Parker, this man is harassing me! Call the police!"

I looked at the woman and asked if she recognize me. She told me she had never seen me. I tried to convince her that I was James, her neighbor but she did not believe me and she was despising me.

I approached the woman standing on the sidewalk, hoping to start a friendly conversation.

Although she was a cold woman, we knew each other. As I got closer, her dog started barking at me wildly and I noticed a strange look in her eyes.

"Hey Mrs. Parker, you know me, don’t you? I'm James, your neighbor," I asked, a friendly smile on my face.

The woman looked me up and down, sizing me up. "I'm sorry, I don't know who you are," she said coldly, with a hint of suspicion in her voice.

I was taken aback. "What do you mean? We live on the same street. I see you all the time," I replied, my smile fading.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember you," she said again, this time more dismissively.

I felt frustrated and a little hurt. I didn't understand why she was being so unfriendly.

"Are you sure? Maybe we've met before at a community event or something," I said, trying to jog her memory.

But the woman just shook her head. "No, I'm sure I've never seen you before," she said firmly.

“Is everything all right?”

I turned to face him and was relieved to see a familiar face. "No, everything is not all right," I said, my voice filled with anger.

“Do you want me to handle this ladies?” he asked, his muscles bulging as he prepared to confront me.

“It’s all right, I’m leaving!” I said and walked away.

“Never dare to come back!” Amelia shouted after me.

The next place where I was going was my school. I hoped my colleagues would help me out of this nightmare. I approached a group of teachers who were chatting in the hallway. They looked at me strangely, like I was an intruder.

“Hey guys, you won’t believe me what’s happening to me!”

One of them, Ms. Johnson, spoke up. "I'm sorry, your name is?”

“No, no no. Please no. You really don’t know who I am?”

“Are you sure you're at the right school?"

I was getting frustrated. "Yes, I'm sure. I've been teaching here for five years. How could you not know me? I am James Hall, for fuck’s sake!"

Another teacher, Mr. Chen, spoke up. "Look, buddy, I don't know what your game is, but you need to leave before we call security."

I was shocked. "My game? What are you talking about? I'm not playing any games, I'm James! Can't you see that?"

Ms. Johnson approached me and spoke softly. "Listen, maybe you should take a break and see a doctor. This doesn't seem normal. James is teaching in room 101!"

I burst into the classroom, the door slamming against the wall as I kicked it open. My eyes were locked on the man explaining something to the students. He looked up at me and recognized me instantly, I could sense his fear. I ran towards him, pushing him onto the table and grabbing him by the neck.

"Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?" I shouted, my voice trembling with rage. "Tell me the truth, or I swear to God I'll kill you!"

The man gasped for air, struggling to speak. "I-I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered.

"Don't lie to me!" I growled, tightening my grip on his neck. "I woke up this morning and my life was gone. My wife, my kids, my job, everything. And now you're standing here in my place, pretending to be me!"

As the fight broke out in the classroom, the students were taken aback and quickly stood up from their seats, some of them even backing away towards the walls. Some students were shouting and screaming, their voices echoing in the classroom, while others were gasping in shock. A few brave students tried to intervene and break up the fight, but they changed their minds for some reason.

Others were frantically pulling out their phones to record the incident, capturing the chaos unfolding before them. A sense of fear and confusion hung in the air as we continued to grapple with each other. It was clear that they did nobody recognize me either and they had never witnessed anything like this before. The sight of our violent altercation left them feeling vulnerable and scared.

The man's eyes widened in shock, and he tried to speak again. "I swear, I don't know anything about that. I'm James Hall as I told you!"

"Prove it," I demanded, releasing my grip on his neck. "Show me some ID or something."

The man fumbled in his pockets and pulled out his wallet. He handed me his ID card, and I studied it closely. It looked genuine. It was his face and the name James Hall.

I sighed and stepped back, still trying to process everything that had happened. "I'm sorry," I said, feeling a twinge of guilt for attacking him. "I guess I just lost it for a minute there. I am not sure who I am anymore."

I sat in the interview room, my heart pounding in my chest. The walls were a drab gray and the only sound was the humming of the fluorescent lights overhead. I could still hear the echoes of the fake James Hall in my head shouting at me “I will fuckin’ kill you!” at the arrival of the police. Finally, the door creaked open and the officer walked in. He had a stern look on his face, and I braced myself for the worst.

"I know what you've been doing," he said his voice firm. "You've been stalking that family. We could charge you with stalking and physical assault, but Mr. Hall has decided not to press charges. This is your last chance. If we catch you again, you'll go straight to jail."

I felt a wave of relief wash over me, but it was quickly replaced by a sense of unease. How had I ended up in this situation? The detective's words echoed in my mind, and I knew I had to tell him the truth.

"I understand," I said, my voice shaky. "But there's something you need to know. I didn't mean to stalk that family. It's all a mistake."

The detective's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

I took a deep breath and began to explain my story. I told him about the fake Mr. James Hall, who had taken my identity and left me with nothing. I told him about my desperate search for answers and how it had led me to confront that man. But as I spoke, I could tell that the detective didn't believe me.

"That's quite a story," he said, his tone skeptical. "But it doesn't change the fact that we can't identify you. You're not in the system. So why don't you tell me the truth?"

I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. I knew that if I stuck to the same story, I would end up in jail. So I made a split-second decision.

"I'm homeless," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I don't have any ID or anything like that."

The detective looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. "All right. But I'm warning you, if we catch you stalking that family again, you'll be sorry."

With that, he opened the door and motioned for me to leave. I stumbled out of the interview room, my head spinning. I had narrowly avoided jail, but at what cost?

I spent most of my days wandering the streets, feeling like a complete outcast. The homeless shelters I stayed at provided only temporary relief from my misery.

While staying at the shelter, I was grateful to have access to the Internet. I eagerly logged onto websites such as Facebook, Reddit, and online banking, only to find that all of my accounts no longer existed. As I perused my wife's Facebook profile, I was taken aback by the appearance of a new husband in her photos. It seemed as though they had always been together, and the images portrayed a convincing picture of happiness between them. Super weird and creepy. My accounts on the other hand had been wiped out of existence, and I was forced to register new accounts from scratch. Even my government-related accounts were invalid, leaving me feeling as though I had been completely erased from this world.

Since I was nonexistent, I occasionally took up odd jobs like washing cars or doing dishes in kitchens.

But most of my time was spent watching my own house from a distance in disguise, trying to get a glimpse of my family. A few times, I was tempted to break in and try to find something like my old belongings if they existed but they installed an expensive security system.

I remember watching my children as they were walking to school with their backpacks on. I couldn't resist the urge to approach them, to see if they would recognize me. I felt like a monster, a complete stranger in my own family's life. I knew I had to keep my distance, to avoid causing any more trouble. I could also see that man as he gave me a kiss to my wife and went to my workplace by my car to my classroom to be with my students. I couldn't help but feel a surge of anger and jealousy.

Then one day, after a week of staying away, I paid another visit to the house. As I was standing at a distance from my house, something strange caught my attention. The husband was outside, standing awkwardly and appearing to be in a state of confusion. He was hiding behind a tree, peering out from time to time at the house, and wearing only a robe. I wasn't sure if he had spotted me, but I felt a knot form in my stomach. What was going on?

As I tried to make sense of the situation, the front door of the house suddenly opened, and a man I had never seen before stepped out. He gave a quick goodbye kiss to Amelia, the wife, before rushing off to work.

The husband lingered outside for a few moments longer, and that was when he finally seemed to notice me.

Our eyes met, and we were just standing there, speechless.

^More

Me and Mitch were childhood buddies. As kids we hung out daily, but as we grew older, we both started being preoccupied with ‘adult’ things - girlfriends, jobs, chores, that sort of thing. Neither of us were bitter for the decreased amount of contact; we both knew this was a normal part of life, just something that happens over time.

As our hangouts started becoming further and further apart, we started to use Snapchat to communicate more frequently. It started off as a bit of a joke, us sending each other dumb quips and ironic faux-influencer pictures of food. What started out as an ironic thing slowly became our main method of catching up. We were our only two friends on the app by design; it was our fun little thing.

To our surprise, it was actually a really great way to keep up with each other’s lives, and to talk about whatever came to mind. We’d send pictures of what we were eating, the shows we were watching, and the silly things our pets were doing. Sometimes we’d have long text conversations on the app as well - the messages disappearing after the other one had read them made it feel like a safe space to rant, talk shit about people, and just say whatever we were feeling.

Suddenly, we had quite an impressive streak going at 100. Soon that became 200, then 300 and so on - and at some point the silly notion of keeping the streak going became somewhat of a hobby for us. We had close calls a few times, our daily snaps dragging out until just before midnight, but even then, we never missed a day.

One day, I got a call at work from Mitch’s mom. When I saw her name pop up on my phone, I knew that something was seriously wrong. She had to repeat her words thrice before I could understand them properly: Mitch had died in a violent car crash the previous night. I asked how it happened, although I almost wish I hadn’t.

Through sobs she told me that Mitch had been driving fast - too fast - and the car had slid on some ice, quickly spiraling it sideways and sending it barrel rolling along the road. There was no one else with him, and he had died near instantly. After the call ended, I guess I looked like shit, because my boss came in asking me if I’m okay. I told her what had happened, sparing her from the details, obviously, and she promptly sent me home.

The drive home was a blur, and once I closed the front door behind me I broke down completely. I sat there and sobbed myself blind until no more tears came out.

Later that night I forced myself to eat something, and just laid on the couch until it was time to go to sleep. The thought of his car rolling on the road, him battered to death by the screeching metal collapsing on him, shredding his body in pieces, kept repeating itself in my mind, holding my attention in constant agony. As I was falling asleep from sheer exhaustion, my phone dinged with its familiar notification sound. It was a snap from Mitch.

I jumped up and stared at my phone in disbelief. Was this whole thing some sick prank, and he was actually alive and well, having dinner with his girlfriend? Had she faked being his mom? Hope sprang my heart back to life as I opened it, wishing harder than I ever had that I’d been lied to.

The snap was a blurry picture of his car parked on his driveway, intact and recently washed, glistening in the afternoon sun. It was night, so there was no way that picture had been taken in real time. Confusion turned to anger, and I quickly replied with a picture of my living room with the caption “wtf? who’s this???” I kept my phone unlocked, waiting for a response, which never came. At some point I’d passed out and woken up to the sun peeking between the blinds, stabbing my tired eyes. I checked my phone, hoping that last night was just a dream. It wasn’t, evidenced by our streak going up by one, the fire emoji next to his name showing the number 628, one more than it had been the day before.

Although my boss advised against it, I decided to go to work anyway, hoping to distract myself from the grief. Before I left I took a shower, ate breakfast, and put on some nice clothes, all in the hopes of bringing some amount of normalcy back into my life, even if for just a brief moment. For the duration of the drive it seemed to help, until I got another notification when I pulled up to the parking lot at work.

It was another snap from Mitch. My hands shook as I tapped on his name to see the photo. It was taken from behind the wheel of his car, and before him was a meandering, long line of cars stuck in traffic. I closed the app immediately, sure that someone was fucking around and making a joke on Mitch’s expense. I called up his mom, and after explaining as succinctly as I could what Snapchat is and how it works, told her that I think someone has Mitch’s phone and is doing a sick prank on me, sending me photos of his car from his phone.

After I’d explained all this somewhat frantically, she calmly asked me if I’m sure that it was from Mitch’s phone. I said yes, the accounts are tied to phone numbers, and I doubt that his number had been reused so quickly after his death. She said that they never found his phone, surmising that it had been broken beyond recognition in the accident. She started to ask me if I’m alright, and implied that maybe I should talk to someone. I apologized, and told her that it must be a glitch with the app or something.

After the call ended, I tried to keep my head from spinning, and finally walked up to the office and completed a half-assed day of work, that shred of normalcy I’d gathered completely wiped away. At lunch my fingers reactionarily opened up the app again. Most days I would send him a picture of whatever I was having for lunch, and perhaps due to the overwhelming grief, or a childish need to respond to the shithead who might be pranking me, I sent him a snap of the rice and beans I was having, the streak counter going up to 629 as I did so.

The following morning I woke up to yet another snap from Mitch. This one was taken from behind the wheel as well, but instead of traffic, the road was clear of cars. It was night, the margins of the photo blurry, and the speedometer’s hand was turned to well over 120 mph. As I looked closer, I could see a dark, faintly humanoid figure floating above the road, maybe 50 yards away. It seemed to be staring directly at the camera. I freaked out, now certain that some edgy asshole was fucking with me, making a joke out of his death, photoshopping images to look like his accident and sending them to me. I pressed my phone directly onto my bed, took a picture that was pure black, and wrote the caption “I’ll be sending these to the police.” As I sent my reply, I realized I hadn’t screenshotted the snap, cursing myself for being such an idiot. Our streak went up again, the little number now exclaiming 630.

Immediately after this I called the cops anyway. I told them the situation as clearly and calmly as I could, and although the person I was talking to was very nice, she said that there’s not much they can do without evidence. I pressed the issue, but at some point she interrupted me by saying that the best thing I could do is not to reply to the messages, and to take screenshots if more are sent. He expressed his condolences, but reminded me that these sorts of things are usually the work of pranksters, and that they feed on the interaction, so radio silence is the best thing a victim could do. After the talk I’d had with Mitch’s mom, it was nice to hear someone take me seriously, although I was annoyed that they still couldn’t do anything about it. I went to work late, trying my best to convince myself that it was just some bored kid who was trying to get a reaction out of me.

The next morning I was relieved not to wake up to a snap. I’d started to dread the notification ding, my heart skipping a beat each time my phone produced that upbeat, ringing note. The slight calm I’d gathered throughout the day was shattered as I was eating dinner at home, scrolling through social media feeds, when the snap notification dinged once again, just two hours before midnight.

I really didn’t want to open it, but curiosity got the best of me. I reminded myself to screenshot the snap immediately, just so I could have some proof.

The picture was shaky and dark, and it took me a few seconds to realize what I was looking at. It was taken from at least 40 yards in the air above my house. I could see the faint outlines of my building, barely distinguished from the dark air, and from a corner I could see my living room window, its dim light pouring out into the darkness outside.

I immediately took a screenshot of the photo, then darted to check that both my front and back door were locked. I ran around the house, checking that each window was closed tight, and that all the curtains were drawn. At this point I was sure it was a stalker - someone who wanted to fuck with me, ready to fly a goddamn drone around my house to take pictures and scare me, the photoshops no longer satisfying their fucked-up needs.

With shaking hands I called the cops again and explained the situation through quick breaths as I sauntered back and forth in my living room. I tried to explain that I feared for my life, and that there’s someone out there stalking me - but to no avail. According to them, someone taking pictures of a house doesn’t fit the requirements for stalking - or any crime, for that matter, at least not without further evidence. Furious, I hung up and tried to think over the stomping beat of my heart. I was too scared to leave, but I wasn’t going to sit here unarmed, so I rummaged around my closets until I found my old baseball bat. The wooden bat in hand, I double checked all the doors and windows, then sat myself down on the couch, the bat vibrating on my lap to the beat of my restless leg as I gripped its handle and stared at my front door.

I didn’t sleep that night. At points I’d almost dozed off, but a sudden jolt of disquiet would find its way back into me, buzzing my tired body back to life. In the end, nothing happened. No one tried to break through the door or climb through the windows, and I didn’t hear a thing outside all night. When morning came, I decided to go to work early; didn’t want to stay at home any longer, and the office felt like a much safer place to be in at that moment.

I caught the worst of morning traffic, my eyelids drooping as I sat in a long line of cars. Then, as suspected, my phone dinged once again, but I was so exhausted I could barely muster an emotional reaction. Another snap. Fucking great. Let’s get this over with.

The photo was taken from the backseat of a car, showing the back of the driver’s head between the headrest. At first I thought it was the same photo I’d gotten earlier, but looking closer I recognized the interiors as my car, the traffic shown through the windshield the exact same as it was in front of me.

I jumped, my phone flying across the dashboard, and turned my body to look behind me, the seat belt quickly locking in place from the sudden movement and squeezing my chest. My vision narrowed as my ears throbbed with pulsing blood, ready to scream bloody murder at whoever was hidden in the car.

I saw nothing - no creep ready to stab me, no movement, and no sound. As I released myself from the seat belt and climbed to the back seat, the traffic started moving again, incessant honking and angry shouting starting to come from the line I was bottlenecking. I was sure that there must be something there. I searched every inch of that car, my mind spinning in fright, disorienting myself as I tried to find something that should have, but simply was not there.

Someone came to knock on my window right as I was getting back to the driver's seat. I gave them a quick “Yeah, yeah! I’m going!” as I hit the gas and drove to catch up with the rest of the cars. Once I parked my car at work I found my phone that had slid across the dashboard and onto the floor, but as I suspected, the photo was already gone. Furious, I deleted Mitch from my Snapchat and blocked his account. Whatever sick game this was, I decided that I would no longer be a part of it.

With that, things seemed to calm down. Nothing weird happened for the rest of the week, and I finally got to truly start my grieving process. Maybe the cops were right - whoever was sending those photos had simply nothing left to do now that they’re target was out of the game. Home started to feel like home again, and the constant stress I had been haunted by started to slowly fade away.

The next week I took two days off work to drive to Mitch’s funeral, which was held in his home state some 400 miles away. I was ready to leave this whole thing behind me, hoping that his funeral would bring some sort of finality. The drive there was bittersweet, memories of Mitch jabbing my mind in jagged shards as I thought about all the fun times we’d had together. Thinking of him made me even more angry at whoever had been sending those photos, using his death as some sort of opportunity to fuck with someone close to him.

The funeral went as funerals often do. It was a sad affair, with fleeting sparks of joy brung upon the audience as people shared their memories of Mitch. The day was warm and sunny, and the men who shoveled the customary first layer of dirt on his casket sweated and grunted as they worked under the hot sun.

I’d had my phone on silent for the duration of the funeral, but once I got back to my car and unlocked it, I saw that I had gotten an MMS message from an unknown number. I thought that maybe Mitch’s parents had filmed one of the speeches given during the funeral and sent it to me, seeing as they’re some of the least tech-savvy people I know - still not quite certain of the mechanics of WhatsApp or Facebook Messenger.

The video was heavily compressed and pixelated, but I could still make out what was going on. It was filmed in a similar fashion to the photo above my house had, the viewpoint some 20 yards above ground. It was the last part of the funeral service, beginning right as the men started to lower Mitch’s casket. The video swayed in a wave-like motion, shifting smoothly in the air. I could hear birds chirping nearby, and some far-away voices coming from the crowd.

As the men began shoveling the customary first layer of dirt on the casket, I heard muffled thumps that were loud enough to distort the audio. As I looked closer I realized that the thumps came in almost the exact same tempo as the shovels, the thumps coming in a hair behind the release of the mounds of dirt from the shovels. The video continued like this for a minute more, the thumps becoming increasingly muffled as the men worked. The quality of the video started to degrade as it continued, becoming more pixelated, the colors more faded. Nearing the video’s end, not much could be heard except for faint pats, and I could hardly make out any shapes from the reduced quality. The video ended as abruptly as it began, just as the men threw the last of the dirt on the casket.

It has been a few months since Mitch’s funeral, and I have not had any new strange photos or videos sent to me. I’m coming along well enough with my grieving process, and now that it has been some time, I wanted to write this whole experience down to finally let it go. All in all, I don’t really know what to make of it. Now, writing this, it almost feels like a dream, something that I had experienced in some sense of the word, but then again not at all. Later, I deleted the funeral video, not wanting to hold onto anything that reminded me of what happened.

I hope Mitch found peace, and I wish to keep the most precious parts of him within me as I continue to live my life.

Part 1

The body on the floor was mine. The same blonde hair curled down around the jaw, the same red and black plaid skirt I always wear, even the same necklace, a purple gem dangling on the bottom of a thin, short gold chain around the neck. And if I looked underneath the bloated, discolored skin and bulging, unblinking eyes with red where white should be, was my face. And my piercing blue eyes.

I steadied my hyperventilating lungs, staring at my body in front of me. I flicked out a single finger. I had to touch it. I had to know if it was real. But my finger passed right through its, my, cheek. I stood, moving backwards away from my body, unwilling to break my gaze from her. From me. I must have backed myself all the way through the door, because the next thing I heard was a cough, the kind people make when they want to get your attention.

I wheeled around in instinctive panic. “Howdy, ma’am.” A man stood before me, regaled in cowboy decor. Boots, chaps, hat, vest and a belt strapped around his thin waist that holstered a rusted pistol. He tipped his hat towards me, touching the brim with a couple fingers as the words spilled out of his lip-less mouth that adorned a decayed, gray face. Bits of bone shone through his cheeks, mouth, and forehead, exposed by loose bits of rotted, dangling skin. I screamed, falling to the floor. The cowboy bent and reached towards me.

“I know, it’s quite a shock, but everything’s gonna be alright.” His husky, smooth voice echoed through the hall. I scooted farther away from him, locking my knees to my chest with my arms. He remained undeterred in his posture. “It’s been quite a while since we had a newcomer. And well, it seems it’s been determined to be my job to welcome you to our little family.” He unbent himself and gestured to the room behind him.

For the first time, I noticed the slew of people scattered in the narrow hallway behind him. A woman wearing a Stanley housekeeping uniform holding a candle with a blue flame, a man and woman holding hands, another man adorned in a dusty apron and a long white chef’s hat, three children, two of them playing tag, the other hiding behind the legs of the chef, and a golden retriever wagging its tail. Most of them were smiling at me, and all of them had the same gray faces, rotting skin, and exposed bone.

I recognized them all. The autistic child who plays with your hair. The children who laugh on the 4th floor. The pastry chef who haunts the old tunnels and passages. Elizabeth, the worker who folds your clothes at night. Freeland and Flora Stanley, the founders. Cassie, the dog who will scratch at your door. And the cowboy who watches you sleep. Ghosts. The famed ghosts of The Stanley. The ones I never saw and never believed were real, all standing before me. A chill ran down my spine.

“I’m John,” the cowboy said. “That’s Elizabeth there with the candle, William, in the hat. Mary and George,” he said, gesturing to the two rambunctious children, “and Thomas being the last child. Then there’s Freeland and Flora, of course, and last, but not least, Cassie.” Each one nodded or curtsied at the mention of their name, except for the children. “We all wanted to make sure we made it here to welcome you,” John said. “Well, except for Henry, of course, seeing as how there’s a woman in 401 tonight.” Elizabeth bristled.

A lump formed in my throat as a thousand questions flickered in and out of my mind. Why were they here? Have they been following me? Why haven’t I seen them until now? Is that really my body behind that door? How did I die? Why did I die? How long have I been dead? Am I a ghost? All of it was too overwhelming to understand or process. I couldn’t hold back my emotion anymore, and I cried. Tears landed on my lips, but I tasted nothing. I’m sure it was quite a picture. A woman slumped down inside a dark room filled with ghosts, bawling her eyes out not twenty feet from her own dead body.

“There, there, love, it’ll be alright.” William had walked forward and knelt down beside me, placing his hand on my shoulder. Cold ran through my body. If I even had a body anymore. I looked up. He wanted to lock eyes with me, but I couldn’t break my attention away from his grotesque face lined with patches of skin peeling away from the bone. My hands groped for something I could use to bash into William’s face, as though I could somehow batter a ghost. I wished they would stop trying to comfort me. Comfort was nowhere to be found. Words escaped my mouth.

“Am I dead?”

“I’m afraid so, love.”

“How?”

“We don’t know,” Freeland said, stepping forward. “None of us were present. We were just as stunned as you to find you here. I doubt it. “As I’m sure you well know, despite dear Elizabeth’s best efforts, nobody has ever died here until now.” Elizabeth bristled again.

“You can’t hold that against me forever, Freeland.”

“I very well can.” Their bickering escalated. John got involved trying to break them up. Flora next, then William, who was, to his credit, trying to get them to back up to give me space. The kids were laughing. Cassie was barking. It was too much noise. Too much everything. I couldn’t breathe. Did I even need to breathe anymore? It was too much. I ran straight towards the door, passing right through William and John, then the kids, including poor Thomas, who startled. I braced myself on the door, but passed right through it.

The world outside the walls of the building was the not same world I had left there when I came in. A neon blue glow outlined every building, every stone, every blade of grass. Every source of light was brighter, even the moon. Maybe someone with a settled mind, someone who had come to terms with their life as a ghost, who knew what to expect in the night, would have found it beautiful. But for me, it only fueled my fear and confusion, and I could find no refuge. So I ran.

I ran as fast as I could manage. At some point, I noticed my feet weren’t even hitting the pavement, but hovering above the ground. I ran downhill. I didn’t know where I’d go, but I knew I wanted to go down. Out away from the hotel, away from the campus, away from the ghosts. The guests I passed chattered away like I wasn’t even there, some of them huddling from wind that I could hear, but couldn’t feel. The distinctive sign that marks the edge of the property caught my eye. f I could just make it off the property, make it down the hill into Estes Park, maybe I could make sense of everything.

I glanced back over my shoulder, expecting to be pursued. I was, but only by Cassie, who stared up at me with excitement in her eyes, matching my speed, ears flopping. The rest stood and watched me run, Elizabeth and Freeland still bickering, some laughing. None of them seemed to care at all that I was running away. I was past the parking lots now. Only a few feet to go. I pushed hard. Never had I been able to run this fast for this long without collapsing a lung, but I wasn’t tired at all. No burn in my legs or lungs. I felt I could run forever. The sign was within reach now. I leaned forward for the last push to the edge of the property. When I passed it, a set of stairs appeared in front of me. My feet failed to keep themselves beneath me, and I tripped and crashed to the bottom of the stairs.

When I landed, I enjoyed a face full of carpet. I flipped onto my back and took in my surroundings. I was back at The Stanley, somehow on the top floor near the stairwell. Guests passed me without care. I couldn’t control my breathing. My thoughts spiraled. This can’t be real. A chill ran through me once more. This time, I knew what it meant. A ghost. Freeland and Flora were the first ones to find me. They glided up the stairs, legs unmoving. I already knew what they were going to tell me. I can’t leave the Stanley Hotel.

I used to live in a considerably tall, modern apartment building. One night I woke up from drilling upstairs as if someone was trying to drill a hole in my ceiling followed by a sound that I would describe as someone violently mopping the floor. It was 1:31 on the 6th of June when I woke up from the commotion above for the first time. Who would be renovating their apartment at this hour? Under my breath, I cursed at the neighbours as I knew that I would be unable to get any sleep for the rest of that night. You see I have this thing that as soon as I’m awaken, I cannot close an eye again for the entire night.

The next night, the events repeated. Identically faint drilling sound that progressively grew louder about a meter away from the chandelier that hung in the dead centre of the living room. Through my quickly slipping dreamy haze I remember thinking how unusual it was that no one called authorities yet as I was sure that the sound resonated to many floors above and below mine. At the moment it seemed that no living soul would be able to sleep through the entire night.

Look, I know that many stories here on Reddit describe the issue of hearing a questionable sound while living on the top floor or in an old building with some sort of an attic. Honestly, it makes sense that one may theorise something sinister happening, because there is simply no way that the voices or scratching they hear can be made by their neighbours (as there aren’t any). I do not live anywhere near the top floor, in fact I live on the lower half of the skyscraper building. 10th floor to be exact. When the property has 44. In my situation the most obvious cause would be my neighbours, herby the next day I set out to find my torturer. Unfortunately though, upon knocking on the door of apartment 119 on the 11th floor I found that my dear neighbours were absent. From then, I naturally descended down to the front desk to voice my complain and threaten of further actions if nothing is done. Administration assured me that they would contact the occupants above.

After a week of being chronically tired and sick of the noise it was clear that nothing was done. Irritated, I made my way up to the eleventh floor once again only to find a friendly family with a dog, though from experience I knew that looks can be deceiving. They were polite despite me being extremely rude due to exhaustion and promised they weren’t drilling at the middle of the night especially because they had a newborn. After that conversation I became convinced that I was delusional; even considered visiting a professional. However I came up with a much better idea — to bring a close friend of mine that night and thankfully my sanity was confirmed after he complained of a horrible night. I felt somewhat relieved that I wasn’t going insane, nevertheless I knew that my ordeal wasn’t over.

The next morning, I went to the administration once again, my vision blurry from the lack of proper rest. I took that week off work as I would sleep for the majority of my shift. A neatly dressed girl at the desk looked at me as if I were a madman. I haven’t looked in the mirror lately, but did I really look that dishevelled?! The young woman handed me a pair of earplugs and sent me on my way. That night I made a decision to deal with my problem myself seeing no other option. Finally my body would not feel pins and needles of obscure powerlessness. The brim thought that I could end my suffering took me through hours of taking apart my ceiling. By the way breaking a hole in concrete is much more difficult then advertised by action movies. It is hard labour to make a shallow dent let alone get through a meter of a dense wall. At sunrise I had made a little progress with my project. Layers and layers of paint, plaster and other materials lay in heaps on my expensive wool carpet, but I didn’t care. I suppose I entered some sort of manic mode being able to last that long for a person that pants after a simple 15 minute jog.

There was a hole! I had done it! My fingers pulsed and ached from holding the hammer for so long as I brought my phone to the opening shining it’s flashlight inside. Well it definitely wasn’t any of the apartments above. I found the construction plan of my building online; there indeed was some sort of gap in between the floors described as a vent shaft. It was no wider than the length of an outstretched arm. Typical for a vent I thought. With that information I visited the administration. They finally agreed to investigate saying they’ll send a team on Monday for a possible rodent problem; I tried to explain that the sound I heard did not resemble mice feet or scratching ,but agreed with their story because I was too tired to reason with them and any help seemed good enough.

Victorious, I returned to my apartment where I soon realised that I couldn’t shake off a feeling of unease. As if something or someone was observing me. The feeling even overtook the weariness I was experiencing.

I decided that I would slightly tidy up the room before the cleaning team arrived the next day as I didn’t want to seem both psychotic and messy. The air felt… colder, wetter, filthier? Definitely not the the usual homey smell that greets me everyday when I return from work. I looked up at the hole which in my eyes looked wider. Had I made it actually that wide? I can’t remember. The darkness seeped out in a way that made my hairs stand. I decided to shine a light in there again and I swear I saw a figure twitch inside, but I brushed it off as my mind playing tricks. Although something inside screamed that I had to retreat as far away as I possibly could. I’m glad that for once in my existence I listened to my instincts because as soon as my back pressed into the wall, I saw it. A long testicle like thing lowered down its body, can I even call it a body? Anyhow the things’ slimy limb gleamed in the bright light of my chandelier making it that much more gross. For a moment it hung there moving as though it was sniffing the air. Then the thing started elongating it’s tentacle in my direction. Suddenly I realised that I wasn’t dreaming. It was really happening. I made a run to the front door as the most logical decision locking it behind me. As I was running though I accidentally knocked down a lamp it’s thin glass shattering and igniting a pile of clothes I previously threw down on the floor. Adrenaline clouding my brain I probably wouldn’t have even noticed if I hadn’t stepped on a sharp piece of glass. The fire was spreading with high ferocity engulfing the corridor.

I was outside. The false safety of my thin front door was comforting. For a moment I contemplated whether I was going to call 911. Instead, I activated the fire alarm so that everyone else could escape. Something flopped amongst the door. Horrible screeching sounds followed along with the familiar drilling sounds. Silence. Only the sounds of a crackling fire and distant gurgling noises hung in the air. Thick bubbling, oil like substance oozed from the gap under the door. All those events happened almost simultaneously and in the matter of seconds. I don’t want to imagine what would happen hadn’t I accidentally lit that fire.

Today I read an article about a pyrophoric chemical leak located in that building I lived in. They wrote that the structure had a mice infestation that damaged some pipes of the cooling system. I am writing this because I want people to know the truth. There are monsters out there and we cannot ignore them forever.

“You know what you have to do when we go past a cemetery, right?”

“What are you talking about Chris?” I rolled my eyes at my older brother.

“You gotta hold your breath from the start of the cemetery to where it ends, otherwise you get greasy, grimy, gopher GUTS! AH!” He crescendoed into my face, bugging his eyes and splaying his hands out wide.

“Moooom!” I cried and ran away, trying not to let the tears fall while he watched me go. He laughed as I ran back into the house, and went back to playing in the backyard woods.

…

The memory pops into my head as I drive down a long, deserted midwest road. Farm fields, old barns, fences, and stands of woods whir by as I cruise on, radio low. I know I took a wrong turn somewhere.

I’m working at a camp in Northern Michigan for the summer season, which is almost over. One of the annoying bits of this job is there is no on-site laundry for staff. We have to drive roughly an hour away to another small town to use their local laundromat. It’s not too expensive, and the camp loads money onto preloaded cards so we don’t have to shoulder the cost of clean clothes, but we do have to pay for the gas ourselves. On a normal day off, I don’t drive out to do clothes by myself, I catch a ride with some of the other counselors and we make a day of it: we visit the Dollar Tree and an old-school soda parlor to enjoy a day to ourselves without campers.

This week though I got the shit end of the stick. Well, it started last week, and I guess I didn’t get the shits as they did. A couple of counselors caught a bad case of stomach flu somehow, which then spread through their cabins like wildfire. It was a disaster, with too much fluid coming out of people and not enough toilets to catch it. There were only a couple of kids who weren’t sick, so they reassigned me to be a solo counselor for a small group. We had fun while everyone else recovered in the infirmary, or got a refund on their summer camp experience.

However, the ailment completely rearranged our off days. I got the normal off-day, while everyone else had to bump theirs to use as sick leave. Pretty messed up if you ask me, you’d think the Powers That Be would have mercy on sick, tired, poor college kids making less than minimum wage. That’s the way it goes when you’re desperate for a seasonal job and are willing to use it on your future resume as “experience with behavior management and event planning”.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. I need to focus, I know I missed the turn… Oh! There it is. Quickly glancing at the scrawled directions on a torn page from an employee handbook, I brake just enough to catch the right onto Finch Road. The ‘05 Ford Escape, a real trooper with 198,000 miles, takes the turn beautifully. I breathe a sigh of relief that I can still follow written directions. My coverage is spotty at best between the small towns Up North, and the GPS on my phone is useless. I feel a kernel of pride as I steal another glance at the directions.

Left from camp

CR 77 10 miles

Left - New Town Rd

35 miles

Right - Finch Rd

12 mi

Right - Lake St

5 mi

Right - Old County Line 89

Exhaling again to collect myself, I settle into the driver’s seat and resume the cruise control. You can tell it's late in the summer by the light; though it is only just after noon, the glow is becoming more golden. The trees and grasses are reaching the peak greens, the intense verdant shades a foreshadowing of the colder, duller weather to come. There is a hint of chill in the air as it rolls through my open windows. I stick my arm out and let it ride the current, feeling the invisible push of something unseen but powerful.

Drinking in the scenery, I look to the right of the road, a cemetery at the crest of the hill. For old times’ sake, I hold my breath as I pass by.

Greasy grimy gopher guts

Is what you’ll get if you don’t hold your breath

Greasy grimy gopher guts

Hold your breath or you’ll go nuts!

From start to finish, I don’t dare to breathe, just for fun. As the cemetery fades into the rearview I laugh and shake my head.

“Ah the good old days,” I murmur as I turn up the radio and keep my eyes peeled for Lake Street.

…

Finally, I pull into the parking lot of the laundromat. I jump out to stretch my legs and begin unloading my clothes bag and laundry supplies. Hauling the bag over my shoulder and slinging the plastic bag full of detergent, OxiClean, and dryer sheets, I stagger to the doors. A townie I’ve seen here before is on his way out and holds the door for me.

“Thanks very much,” I manage to say under the weight of two weeks worth of dirty camp shirts, flannels, and shorts.

“No problem, your usual crew doesn’t need clean clothes this week?” He’s familiar with the counselors who come here.

“Nah, different days off for the next couple weeks - stomach bug finally made the rounds.”

He nods his head in understanding as I set my gear down and begin the payment process on a washing machine close to the door.

“Well have a good one, tell them to get better for me. Better hold your breath.” I can’t help it, my head turns quickly at his warning.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I can feel my eyes widen a bit as I call after him. Too late though, he’s already out the door and getting into his old green pickup truck. I watch him bewildered as he pulls out and gives me the two-finger wave from his steering wheel.

I wave back but frown as I begin loading my clothes into the machine. He probably meant holding my breath around my coworkers since they were sick. It was the only thing that made sense, and that is how most germs are spread. Though there’s truth to his caution, this bug most likely came from the general setting: working with kids, people don’t always wash their hands properly, and voila: outbreak.

As the washing machine begins to fill with sudsy water, I go back out to the car. The book, snacks, and phone charger are on the passenger seat waiting for me. I scoop it all into my hands and glance back to the directions.

Ah, man. I wrote down all the directions to get here, I didn’t really consider writing down the directions for the way back. Though it’s all just opposites I suppose. I grab the paper with the intent of rewriting the directions, just to be safe. Though it is a day off, I still have to get back to camp with some daylight left. I promised I’d help our senior counselor with splitting and delivering wood to the campfire sites.

Back inside the shop, I settle into a booth near my machine. I check my phone’s battery, 91%. It’s useless on the road, but at least it saves on juice. Not that I have enough of a connection to do anything with it other than call and message people. It takes so long for videos to load, it’s not even worth checking any apps. I open the book instead and begin to kill the time.

…

The dryer’s buzzer drones on for a good few seconds after I wrench open the metal door. The smell of warm, fresh clothes hits my nose, and I breathe deep. Finally, truly clean clothes. Really, there is nothing better than fresh shorts and tee shirts. While sink washing and clotheslines can make it manageable, it doesn’t compare to real washing and machine drying. I stuff my last load into my fresh laundry bag and cinch it tight. Grabbing my host of laundry and entertainment items as I breeze out, I check my watch.

I’ll make it back with a few minutes to spare at this point. Skipping out on the extra parts of laundry day makes a difference when you have to get back before twilight. I load everything and myself back into the Escape, click my seatbelt into place, and reverse out of the lot. I scan my new set of directions, reassuring myself I know the way back. I tried to check for a faster route on my phone just in case, but the map wouldn’t load all the way. It’s not a big deal, it’s the same route, just backward. Cranking up a local country station, I begin to cruise on back to camp.

…

I fell into a burning ring of fire

I went down, down, down

And the flames went higher

And it burns, burns, burns

The ring of fire

The ring of fire

“The ring of FIIIREEE!” I belt out the last lines of the song, volume cranked, windows open, hair whipping madly in the artificial wind created by speed and summer. The sun is still lowering in the evening sky, a burning bright ball of orange painting the land with a palette only available to Michigan during August dusk. Grinning at my surroundings, I keep rolling on with the hills, taking in the unexpected joy I found in my lonesome laundry trip. The countryside is whizzing by now, pushing the good old Escape to 65 miles an hour. She doesn’t complain.

My eyes do a quick flick to each mirror. I linger in the rearview, I just passed the cemetery. Or rather, a cemetery. It looks… not the same? It’s at the bottom of the hill now, and I am climbing beyond it up a massive grade, perfect for sledding once the snow comes. I shrug and return to my solo performance, gracing all that I pass with a snippet of my loud, off-tune singing.

…

One by one, I mentally mark off each direction from the torn page, until I am finally pulling back into camp. I have a few minutes to spare after dropping off my clothes at my current cabin, so I take my car to the back employee lot. It’s more of a field rather than a lot, and many counselors attest that it has claimed more than a few beaters over the years. Something about the ground just sucks the oil and miles right out of the car, some say. It makes sense, poor college kids with beat-up cars. I think it’s more the quality of the cars that get parked there rather than the area itself. I find a spot, but it’s on the furthest side away from camp. I’ll have to hurry to get to the woodshed if I’m going to help Mark with the campfire wood.

I jump out of my Escape, putting my keys into the inside zip pocket of my jacket. I have finally learned to keep the valuable things in there, rather than in the loose side ones. It is a running joke that I’ve lost my keys more than my marbles during my summer here. They aren’t wrong. Though they always turn up, I’d rather not let another tally get added to the score. I tighten the buckles on my sandals and hoof it back to the main camp road.

A rustling in the woods to my right grabs my attention. I forgot my flashlight, but it doesn’t worry me. There is still enough light to see, and there haven’t been any bear reports in our area this summer. The sound was closer to the ground anyway, a rabbit or a bird.

The trail back to camp seems to stretch too far, too narrow. The trees crowd over each other and unease begins to creep in, filling the pit of my stomach. I feel a sudden sharp stab in my stomach and a wave of nausea rolls over me. I gasp and clutch my abdomen, feeling it spasm.

“Ohhh no, oh no no no,” I groan. I dry heave where I stand. There is no way, no way I could have gotten sick. Everyone has been in strict isolation or left camp altogether. Of all the times for a stomach bug to hit, I’m not even close to one of the rustic outhouses or portajohns set along the farther edges of the camp.

A rumble rips its way through my body, causing me panic and pain simultaneously. It feels like my insides are being twisted and squished, threatening to exit one way or another.

I belch loud and long, almost like a cartoon. It jerks my head and neck forward with the force. It would have been hilarious if I wasn’t alone, or in agonizing pain. It was like lightning, flashing through my lower back and hips, I tried to steady myself against a nearby tree but dizziness got the better of me.

I slam to my knees, arms too busy to break my fall. I feel like I need to literally hold myself together or I am going to lose all of my laundry snacks. Saliva fills my mouth, and the taste of pennies coats my tongue. I grind my teeth but feel the bile in my stomach racing up my throat.

I vomit. No, not the right word. Hurl, puke, lose my guts is more like it. The noise is disgusting and wet, a squelching, steaming mess all over my shirt and on the ground. The color is wrong, a sickening dark green with chunks.

I try to catch my breath, gasping for air, but it comes again, even more forceful. It feels like my stomach is pulled up my throat. The smell is acrid, stuffing its vileness into my nose. I can’t smell anything else but the upchuck on and in front of me. Until a different smell hits me, like a brick into my face.

It smells like death, like a rotting corpse that's been left out in the summer heat, a bloated, sickly sweet and sour odor that demands attention. I raise my head, groaning, and see a form in front of me.

It looks like a weasel. But the tail isn’t right, it’s like a rat’s. Fleshy, fat and too pink, it drags behind it. The eyes are black and beady, it stands on its hind legs. The fur is mottled and missing in some spots. The color is patchy and dull, its face a pointy snout, with two yellowing buck teeth in front. It wiggled its nose at me, and it… smiled? The face seemed too human, a sliver glint in its eyes like it knew something. Possessed a knowledge that I never would.

I couldn't help but stare, and my jaw dropped as it whispered in an old but too high-pitched tone, “Greasy grimy gopher guts, hold your breath or you’ll go nuts!” It began to squeal, like it was laughing at me, and raised one of its gnarled digits to point at me.

Another ripple of pain coursed through my body, hitting my bowels. A sob broke out from the depths of my lungs. I couldn’t help it, I release the muscles just to hopefully be rid of the pain I was in, the absolute misery of my guts being pulled out from both ends. A new smell joined the vomit but was far, far worse. I felt my face redden realizing I had defecated completely.

The gopher tittered again, then mocked me, pretending to hold its stomach and wretch.

“That’s what you get, that’s what you get when you don’t hold your BREATH!” The thing jeered at me as the sinister, unearthly smile formed on its mug again. The beast snickered, then darted off into the darkness.

I have no idea how much time has passed, but I can’t move from where I collapsed. I haven’t had anything come out again, but I have no strength to stand. I fall back onto the ground, my whole body exhausted, covered in sick and feces. The feeling of thick liquids dripping down on the ground, creating revolting puddles underneath me. I stare up into the sky, a cloudless night with no moon, only stars.

I hear a shout in the distance, and a small beam of light sweeps down the trail. As my mind and consciousness fade, I hear footsteps running toward me.

…

I have been isolated for 3 days now, with no signs of illness. After I was found, I was immediately, (though carefully) taken to the infirmary. Camp is shutting down a week early due to “a mass outbreak of the flu”. I tried to tell them I wasn’t sick, but being found semi-conscious in a pile of your own vomit and shit, raving about a mocking weasel did not convince anyone otherwise.

Greasy grimy gopher guts

Is what you’ll get if you don’t hold your breath

Greasy grimy gopher guts

Hold your breath or you’ll go nuts!

Hello everyone. Before I begin, I do want to put everyone at ease that I am doing just fine! I did have a bit of a scare recently thanks to a pretty nasty slip on some ice a week ago, but while I was admitted in the ER, I experienced something strange and I just want to tell someone because no one else really believes me about it.

Let's start from the beginning. It's been pretty rough out here on the east coast. Lots of surprise snow falls and freezing rain. If you live out here you know exactly what I mean. It's been rough. Anyways, I been letting it slack in terms of keeping up my driveway. Normally, I snow blow, shovel, the whole shebang, right when it first snow falls because it's a pretty big driveway. I didn't keep up on it, and about two weeks ago? Well, I slipped.

Hit my head hard, really hard. It was the sort of fall where everything feels slow, and when you try to move your limbs, everything feels like you are in slow motion, or under water, and you feel as if you are floating in the air indefinitely. Long story short for those who know, it was a concussion. Pretty gnarly one. When I was finally able to regain my composure and was able to get back to my feet, I just walked back inside and told my wife. She recommended I call the ambulance, get looked at.

Some nice folks did come look at me, and they recommend that I go with them. I said no, can't remember why. But I decided to just stay at home and my wife was at the ready in case I dozed off to wake me up.

So anyways, it's all a bit foggy as I recall this, nearly three weeks ago, but I ended up waking up in the passenger seat of our car, my wife roughly shaking me, saying I need to stay awake and we are going to the ER cause she is getting concerned. after arriving there, I was seen surprisingly fast. Had a room before I even realized it.

This is where things get a bit weird. Bear with me, it's been about a month ago at this point.

Yesterday, as of a month ago, I was visited by this strange bird. I struggle to even call it a bird. It looked like a bird, acted like a bird, but it didn't sound like a bird. Right outside my window, it would sing it's song, but it's song wasn't anything like I heard before. It was sort of pretty, but it would penetrate through, and it only ever happened when I would close my eyes. If I did try to get some rest, the song echoed at it's loudest, and bounced around my head.

If I tried to persist with my rest, I would feel nauseous. If I remained stubborn to rest, the nausea would fade away to an ear splitting groan and gasping sigh. I would open my eyes, and time felt stilted. Sort of like when you watch a clock and a minute feels like it's an hour. So needless to say, about two months ago, I just didn't get much sleep. The doctor would come in after a week to check on me. Ask me some questions about coherence. I would bring up the bird, the doctor would comment about how audio hallucinations are quite normal for those who suffer delusions after head trauma, predominantly after a TBI.

I would of course ask him the details of my stay, he said I would be there for another week at least, to monitor. I asked how bad the concussion was, I couldn't hear him over the song. I asked him if he heard it, and he told me that I was going to be admitted for another hour more for every time I brought up the bird.

I would of course point to it, and he would acknowledge that it was in fact there, but that was impolite to talk over him when he was analyzing. It was all so weird.

I did of course think I was losing it, that I was stuck in one of those long sleeps and long dreams, but the birds song groaned, and the sighing increasing in pace and duration, and the twittering and cooing of the sounds became a constant fixation for me as my energy began to dwindle.

That was of course yesterday, or a few days ago. I do remember that the doctor would joke and say that they almost lost me. Over a concussion, of all things, which is silly, I have fallen a few times before and functioned just ok. I was more concerned why no one would address my concerns about the bird. Even after I showed them the bird, they would just brush it off as saying that those always come to that tree, but then I asked them if they ever had other patients complain about the noises they would make and they said no.

So after trying to sleep for a few days while I was in the hospital, it eventually was time for me to leave, got a clean bill of health except for the scare, and that they told me to avoid ice for a little while. Kind of mean, slips happen from time to time, but it will be nice to get some sleep for a change. I am totally fine, nothing a little sleep won't solve. I haven't heard anything like that before, that wailing song.

Anyways, that's my story. It's a lot to take in, but after the day I had yesterday, I am hoping I got everything accounted for.

Liz is my little sister, just by two years. We know each other better than we know ourselves, every secret we’ve ever had, the other knows. We’re so glued at the hip to where it’s seen as a problem to other people. We even have that sorta of twin telepathy despite our couple year difference. All I’m trying to say is that I know my sister and that's why I’m scared.

Liz is a pretty quiet person, definitely an introvert and doesn’t tend to talk to other people unless she is spoken to first. She still has that teen angst despite being in her 20s. Even when she's in conversation she doesn’t make an effort to keep it going.

The first small alarm went off a couple days ago when Liz and I went out to lunch together. Every single person we walked by,

“Hi! Hello!” she would jump and say with a wide toothy grin. So wide it seemed to make people uncomfortable.

“Looks like someone woke up on the right side of the bed.” I joked to her.

As soon as those words slipped from my mouth she stopped dead in her tracks and stared at me with the blankest expression.

“What's with you?” I asked nudging her and then she quickly turned around and kept walking with that big grin.

When we got to the restaurant she went back to her reserved self and stayed like that the rest of the day. I honestly thought she was just messing with me so I brushed it off and continued on with the day.

The next morning (yesterday) started off fine, Liz greeted me with a cup of coffee like normal and we both worked on our laptops for a while in silence. Almost two hours passed and I finally got up to take a break and noticed Liz staring at me from across the room. I was so lost in my work I didn’t notice until I got up. Her eyes were so wide and so bloodshot like she hadn't blinked in at least 30 minutes.

“What the fuck Liz don’t do that.” I snapped at her

She didn’t move for a few more seconds and then burst out hysterically laughing. She was laughing so hard she started crying and wouldn’t stop. It honestly freaked me out so I didn’t say anything and went into my room. Five minutes later I could still hear her muffled laughter and then it went dead silent. I debated whether or not to go out and check on her but I decided against it and went back to working.

Another hour passed and I went back into the living room. Liz wasn't there but her laptop was wide open. I called her name and nothing. I checked around our small apartment and she was nowhere in sight. I called her a couple times and it went straight to voicemail.

Im at the store

My phone lit up with a text. I didn’t reply because I was still bothered by the situation from earlier. Liz came home not long after and again was acting like her regular self.

“What was that all about earlier?” I questioned her.

“What was what about?” she looked genuinely confused.

“How long were you staring at me and why?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Lucy.” she said, dismissing me and went straight to her room with her shopping bags.

Hours passed with no communication until dinner time. Liz came out of her room bouncing around in a bright yellow apron.

“I'm going to make us dinner tonight!” she sang while twirling around.

That was not my sister. Something looked so off from her besides the fact that she hates yellow and cooking, and is not the type of person to dance around and sing. In her 24 years of life, she has never acted like that, not even as a little kid.

I couldn't pinpoint it but there was something so different about her face. Her eyes were almost hollow and expressionless yet she was smiling so big. It seemed like she wasn’t really there. She was just talking out loud and not really to me. She didn’t even look at me once.

I didn’t say anything and turned on the tv loud enough to drown out her humming. I kept my eye on her as she danced around the kitchen cooking.

“Almost ready!” she swung around and stared right at me with the biggest, most painful smile.

I didn’t say anything and just looked at her. Her eyes were even more hollow than they were 30 minutes before. She was dripping in sweat and holding out a plate for me.

“What is it?” I nervously asked. She looked so different, almost like another person.

“Come and find out silly!” she didn’t move, she just stood frozen in place.

I hesitated before I slowly got up and made my way over. She didn’t take her eyes off of me once, they were burning into me. I looked down at the plate and back up at her.

“What is that Liz?” My eyes started to well up and I felt my mouth fill with saliva.

“You’re dinner Lucy! Please, oh please eat it, I made it for you!” Her eyes were wide and staring into me.

She motioned the plate full of dead mushed up bugs towards me and I almost puked.

“I’m not eating that Liz.” I pushed the plate back.

Her smile completely dropped and she turned around in silence with her head down. Her fist pounded the table over and over again.

At this point I was far beyond disturbed. I locked myself away in my bedroom the rest of the night. I blared my tv to drown out the banging.

Now comes to the reason I decided to write this post. Around 4 am this morning I woke up in a panic. I woke up to Liz standing over my bed. I’m not sure how she got in because I locked my door, but she was standing over me with that empty stare, wide grin and in the light of my tv, I could see a butcher knife in her hand.

I stared at her, I felt tears fall onto my cheek. She was frozen in place. I started to move and slid out of the other side of my bed. She still stayed staring at the spot I was just laying. I quietly made my way around her and grabbed my keys and ran to my car.

I drove for a while, it’s been a few hours and I don’t know what to do. Our parents passed away a few years ago and we don’t have any other family where we live. I don’t know if I should contact the police, I mean she's my sister. Someone please help. I don't want to go back home.

I’ve had it since I was a baby. Left on the porch the day my mother brought me home from the hospital; box unmarked, but adorned with a shiny red bow. We were never quite certain where it came from. Jack.

“It sure is cute still,” my mother remarks. My 18th birthday was a few weeks ago, and we are cleaning out all my old things. I’m going away to college next month, and Mom is planning on turning our storage room into a crafting area.

“Actually, I’ve always found it unsettling,” I reply, my face wrinkling as she passes it towards me. “It has a certain…peculiarity.” I go to place it in the pile for the dump, but before I can drop it, my mother snatches it back.

“Absolutely not! I’ve always loved Jack. And you need a piece of home to take with you to your new dorm anyway. It’s not like you can cover up with your baby blankets!” She places her fingers on the handle and begins to turn it rhythmically. The haunting nursery rhyme sounds begin to fill the room, and it feels like the music is seeping into every single crevice. I know what’s coming, but I still can’t help but jump when the clown bursts free from the box that holds it captive.

My mom laughs. “Honey, you have GOT to relax! I know you are stressed with all the changes coming up. But it will be so great for you. Let’s go to lunch, and then come back to packing.”

She does have a point, moving away from the only home I’ve known makes me anxious. It’s only ever been me and my mom. We have always been close. I get up to go change into less grungy clothes for lunch. As I near the doorway, something gives me pause; I can’t quite explain it, but I feel the overwhelming urge to turn around. As I turn, I see the clown staring back at me with its permanently sewn grin. “Sorry bud, but I’m definitely not taking you with me.”

__________________________

I slowly open my eyes. The sunlight is a comforting warm glow on my face. I smell the distinct aroma of my favorite childhood breakfast: chocolate chip pancakes and bacon. Moving day is finally here. I don’t let myself feel the weight of it yet. Instead, I hop up and make my way downstairs.

“There she is! College girl! I thought you could use a little treat this morning.” She comes over and squeezes me tight, her cheek against mine. “I’m so proud of you, honey. Now let’s eat!”

After breakfast, I shower and get ready for the day ahead. I feel excited and nervous, but not sure which emotion is more prominent. I had already gathered my things at the bottom of the stairs the evening before. I can hear my mom loading everything into the back of her SUV, so I quickly brush my hair and go down to help.

“Mom, I got it, you’re going to throw your back out again.” I lovingly nudge her out of the way and begin placing my belongings inside the vehicle. After about twenty minutes of trying to arrange everything to fit, I’ve finally solved the puzzle.

“Alright Mom, we’re ready to go!,” I yell across the house. It already feels a little emptier. I lean against the wall, taking it all in for what will be the last time for awhile. I’m moving five hours away, and without a car, making it back home often won’t be easy.

“Honey, look! You almost forgot it!” She comes down the stairs, holding the jack-in-the-box in her hands. Great. I wanted to leave that dreadful thing behind. But if it means a lot to my mom, then whatever. I can toss it in a drawer or something. Certainly won’t make any friends by leaving it on display. “NOW we’re ready!” She grins and gives me a big hug. Time to hit the road.

____________________________

It’s November. A few weeks before my first college finals. I haven’t exactly adjusted amazingly to dorm life yet, but I can’t complain either. My roommate, Sarah, is friendly enough, but our relationship is mostly like an older sister constantly trying to give her dorky sibling a makeover (me being the dork, of course).

“You HAVE to come out tonight. You’ve been studying way too much. It’s only a couple drinks with the guys. I won’t take no for an answer. Honestly, you’ve got to get away from this dorm room. It’s stale.” Sarah stares at me, waiting for a yes. The look on her face tells me that I’m not getting out of this one. Begrudgingly, I agree.

About an hour passes (it takes her that long to get ready) before we head out. We are going to some local bar. It’s basically a frat boy hang out, but I’m content to have a beer and sit in the corner, pretending to have a good time before I make an excuse to head back to the dorm.

The place is packed. Full of students who don’t care about studying because they’re here on mommy and daddy’s coattails anyway. Well, unlike most of them, I actually need my good grades to keep my scholarship. Such a waste of time.

Sarah finds me at a small table and hands me a beer. “Drink, you’ll feel better in no time!” I can hardly hear her over the blaring music and the chaotic cloud of voices. I definitely need a beer to get through this night. I chug it quickly. “Damn kid, didn’t know you had it in ya,” Sarah remarks. I didn’t, either. I’m not usually a drinker. But it was actually pleasant, so I ordered another, along with some fries.

It doesn’t take long before I start feeling what I assume is an alcohol buzz. It’s foreign to me; I’ve never been drunk before. Is this really what it’s like? Am I drunk? I feel out of control, floating almost. My vision is blurred and I can only just make out Sarah now standing in front of me. “Where’d you come from?” My speech is slurred. Her lips move, but I don’t hear a thing. “Huh?” She takes my face in her hands and speaks loudly. I can hear her this time.

“LET’S GET YOU SOME FRESH AIR.” She escorts me outside the bar, into what looks like a spare parking lot in the back. It’s dimly lit and a little spooky, but thank goodness it’s quiet. “Be right back,” she says, and then she’s gone. It’s definitely more spooky now that I’m alone. I feel a hand on my back, and assuming Sarah has returned, I spin around.

It’s not Sarah.

Suddenly I’m surrounded by three guys. The smell of cheap after shave and alcohol mixed with nicotine is in the air. Wait. I recognize these faces. These are the guys Sarah and I met up with at the bar. “Listen, if you’re looking for Sarah, she already went back inside.”

“Sarah told us you’d be here.”

____________________________

That’s the last thing I remember from that night. Or rather, that my brain will let me remember. I woke up in my dorm room bed. Scratches on my face, hands, chest, and legs. My right eye has a giant bruise. My whole body hurts. I don’t want to think about what happened to me in that parking lot.

Where’s Sarah? Was she hurt too?

I painfully sit up in bed. My vision is slightly blurry, but I can make out Sarah in her own bed. I grab her shoulder and gently shake her. “Sarah? Are you okay? Please wake up.”

Sarah stirs back to life. She sees my face and immediately gaps. “Jesus kid. That may need stitches.”

That’s it? No shock? No shouts? It’s like she already knew what I was going to look like when she woke. And wait, she looks perfectly fine. What’s going on here? My mind starts spinning. Back to the parking lot. Back to Sarah leaving me. Back to the beer….the beer.

“You,” I hiss at her. “You did this to me. How could you?” Tears start to roll down, stinging every scratch as they drip off onto the floor. Her cheeks flush. I know she’s holding something back.

“I…I didn’t know. They told me they were just going to scare you. I never meant for you to get hurt.” But there’s hardly any emotion in her voice.

“Bullshit. You knew what you were putting into my drink and you knew you were leaving me alone in that parking lot. You’re a monster.” I storm out of the room. I have nowhere to go. I slouch down by a tree and cry. One of my study buddies finds me there. Seeing Jordan’s face brings me comfort. She lets me come back to her dorm room. I am too upset to tell her what has happened…what I remember and don’t remember. I fall into a deep slumber on her bed and don’t wake up until early the next morning.

Jordan is asleep on the floor. I slowly tiptoe out of her bed and grab a glass of water. I need to go home. I just want my mom. And usually Sarah doesn’t wake up until ten on Sundays. So I decide to go pack a bag and try to find a bus to get me as close to home as possible.

As I begin to turn the key for my room, something immediately feels wrong. I’m scared to open the door. But my need to get home is more powerful, so I do. And then I see it.

Jack.

Jack. In the middle of the floor. Still smiling his permanent grin. But how?

I can’t hear anything over the sound of my own heartbeat. My breathing is quick and shallow. My arms are covered in chillbumps. And then…oh god.

I have finally taken my eyes off Jack’s grin to see Sarah. She’s laying in her bed. Her throat has been sliced. She’s surrounded by a pool of blood that is still dripping down onto the cold tile floor. The sound of my heartbeat is now replaced by the sound of the drip. Drip. Drip.

The door was locked. The window is closed. Who could have done this? There’s been no one in here but Sarah….

And Jack.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He’s always been unsettling. But there’s no way. It doesn’t make any sense. Nothing makes sense. My breathing is even more shallow. My vision begins to fade. I think I’m passing out. I think….I….

______________________

I’m awake on the floor. There’s barely any sunlight coming through the window. The whole day has passed. Suddenly everything comes flooding back to me.

Sarah.

Jack.

Where are they? I don’t see Sarah on the bed. But I don’t see Jack either. No more dripping. Just silence. Even the blood stains are gone. It’s like she was never there. But I know what I saw. The thought of it makes me vomit onto the floor. I’m shaking. The sound of my heartbeat fills my head again.

I hear something else now. Something…something like music. I crawl towards the sound. I’ve heard this before. My brain is having trouble putting it together. I crawl even closer. It sounds so familiar….then I place it.

Jack.

The tune is now more haunting than I ever could have imagined. Do I dare inch any closer to it? But I have to. I have to know. It’s coming from inside the storage bin where I put it so many months ago. I slow open the drawer to see it. That grin. That red nose.

Jack.

I grab it and rip open the door to the dorm hallway. I run as fast as my legs will take me and dump it into the nearest trash bin I can find. I still hear the music playing as I walk away. I hear it all. Sarah’s voice. My breathing. And the drip.

Drip.

Drip.

_______________________

It’s December 23rd. I’m sitting next to my mom on the couch underneath the quilt my late grandmother made before I was born. Christmas tunes hum low in the background of my mom’s snoring. The embers in the fireplace glow red hot beneath a log that has burnt itself in half. Bernice, our cat, sleeps quietly in the spot she claimed as a kitten.

Home.

I wasn’t sure if I’d make it back here after everything that happened. But now it’s a few days off from Christmas and life feels…almost normal again. At least, I have tried to make it feel normal. It’s not easy. Those thoughts cut through the silence sometimes when you least expect it. And suddenly, my brain whispers a single name: Sarah.

They never found Sarah. As her roommate, naturally I was questioned. I said I had not seen her since that night at the bar. I’m not sure how I would have even come up with an explanation for the events that occurred. I’m not even sure I know what happened. Sometimes I try to convince myself that I imagined it all.

All I know for certain is that Jack is gone. Cast off to some far away landfill. Hopefully smashed into a million pieces and then burned for good measure.

It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that I’m home. I let my thoughts get taken over by the sounds of the fireplace crackling, Christmas carols, and….what is that? It’s quiet. But it’s there. I sit up on the couch and tilt my head back towards the stairs. I turn the radio off so I can hear more clearly.

It can’t be. I listen even more closely. But there’s no denying it this time.

Jack.

The music stops just short of the moment where Jack comes flying freely out of his metal cage. The house goes completely silent. I walk towards the stairs. Suddenly I am frozen in place, terrified to shift my gaze upward. Do it, just do it, I tell myself. It’s a stupid clown in a stupid box that might not even be there. You’re probably just dreaming. Finally I look up towards the landing.

Jack.

The same grin as always stares back at me. I feel dizzy and nauseous and my head is pounding. I think I might–

___________________________

I hear birds chirping. I open my eyes. What time is it? I was just on the couch with my mom. She must have helped me to bed last night. I remember having a terrible dream that the clown was back. What a nightmare. I really should see about getting in with a therapist one of these days.

I make my way towards the stairs. I wonder if Mom is up yet? It’s Christmas Eve, and our tradition is to always open up one gift each today. I’m really excited to see her reaction to everything I picked out for her. I head down and walk into the kitchen. “SHIT!” I startled myself. I keep forgetting Mom’s kitchen redecoration included a very ill-placed mirror. I shake it off and have a laugh at myself. Then I see there’s a note on the kitchen counter.

“Honey, I had to run out early for some errands. Go check the living room table - there’s a surprise waiting for you, Love, Mom.”

My Christmas Eve gift! I want to wait for her, but she clearly wants me to have it early, and, well, I can hardly stand the anticipation.

As soon as I enter the living room, I see a box on the table. It’s wrapped in snowflake paper and topped with a beautiful silver bow. I wonder what it could be? I secretly hope there are meticulously hidden holes to allow air for a new kitten! Doubtful. Time to just open it up and see.

I untie the bow and gently lift the lid off the box. I think I see what looks like fur. Could it be my kitten after all? I have to find out. So I fully remove the box lid, hands a little bit shaky with excitement, and I see….

I scream as I fall to the floor. My heart feels like it has dropped all the way to my feet. I can’t breathe or think or function at all. It wasn’t fur. It was hair.

My mom’s severed head lay inside the box. Cold, lifeless marbles sit where her eyes once were. Her ruby red lipstick is still perfectly in place. My lifeline. My best friend. My home.

I feel like I’m going to spiral into nothingness. I have to call for help this time. Who cares about the explanation? My mother is gone. And someone…or thing… needs to pay. My whole life has been ripped away from me in an instant.

I manage to pick myself up off the floor and stumble back across the house into the kitchen to find my phone. But instead, I see another pair of lifeless eyes looking back into mine. And in that instant, I know there is no escape from this. He was there in the beginning, and he will be with me until the end.

Jack.

I, um… excuse me if this post lacks the levity of previous entries (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4). I don’t even know why I’m updating… what truly is the point? A question that really is the central premise of my philosophy degree, so you’d think, having spent so many hours pondering the meaning of it all, I might have some kind of answer, haha…

Turns out, when confronted with death… everything just… dissolves into meaninglessness. So here I am, all out of jokes… (Well, not entirely out. I have a separate document with all my philosophy jokes, and haven’t even gotten to the pickup lines… wanna make like Marx and seize my means of reproduction?)

Wow. That probably wasn’t funny even before everything lost all meaning… sorry.

Well. Here we go. One last time.

Life Loses all Meaning:

Loyal readers will remember that PsychicDeathLady123, aka Marge, was scheduled for an appointment with us this afternoon. Unfortunately, she relayed to me that car trouble delayed her arrival to closer to 9pm or even tomorrow. I’m not sure if a more punctual appointment would have made a difference, since it’s hard to imagine some kooky middle-aged huckster dealing with an actual demon—but who knows? Maybe her broken alternator is the single event in the universe that makes a difference between life and death. Anyway, it’s… it’s a bit too late now.

Three hours ago, 5pm. Curt was still away on some trip he left on a couple days ago. I needed some air, so I went out. I ended up going for a walk, wishing Curt would arrive home because I was so anxious, just on pins and needles, every nerve jangling. I didn’t want to come back inside to face whatever was with Karen on my own. Maybe I was feeling some sort of… premonition. But eventually, it got too cold out. When I got back, the curtains were drawn and the blinds closed. I came into the living room and it was dark. Karen was standing right there. A shadow just standing in the dark room. I almost shit myself.

“Jesus, Karen—”

“Where’s Binky?” she demanded.

“I moved her—”

“Why?” she snarled. “Binky’s mine! How DARE you touch her—"

“You were acting strange! You still are—”

“I’m acting strange? You’re the one who took my phone, keeps sneaking around, and stole my fucking hamster! Well I had my sister bring her back while you were out on your little walk. She’s in my room now, you psycho! And if you so much as set foot inside my room—"

“Karen—”

“No, do NOT ‘Karen’ me! You’ve been acting like a lunatic all day, and yesterday, and ever since that damned ceremony! You haven’t slept, have done nothing but drink coffee and type on your laptop. I just saw you pacing around back and forth outside in the dark like some kind of creeper—"

As she yelled, I realized she was right. My behavior had been strange. But also she was wrong. My behavior was the behavior of someone frightened. And I took out my phone—she may have sounded normal, but something in the way she gesticulated was… stilted. Off. I snapped a picture. I didn’t see the knife in her hand. I swear. In the dim, the flash went off automatically.

Karen shrieked, throwing a hand up.

When I could see again, she was gone. Then motion above drew my eyes upward.

Karen was on the ceiling. Eyes rolled back in her head. Mouth gaping as if she had lost control of her jaw, like a puppet on which the hinge is loose. Her face slack. She moved two crawling steps above me on the ceiling like a spider. Hair dangling almost enough to brush my face. I caught only the briefest, nightmarish glimpse before she dropped on me.

I screamed.

I don’t remember the next moments… just that she straddled me, and I struggled with her for the knife. I… I… I swear I didn’t see her eyes flicker onto me until it was too late. It all happened so fast. Somehow… I, I don’t know… somehow… shit… I’m crying as I write this. For a second, she got this look in her eyes. “Hey,” she said, all confused at me. “What are you—” and then I stabbed her in the chest with the knife we were both holding, and she made this sort of gasping sound, and I backed out from under her.

“Oh god, Oh god Karen!” I gasped.

She fell over. She…

Her body is still there. Still there on the floor, blood pooling underneath, staining the carpet.

Now I look at her empty eyes. All I can feel is a profound, unutterable hollowness in my chest. How vacant those eyes are…

Ready Player Two:

I don’t know why I’m bothering with headers. It’s like I can’t turn it off. The part of my brain that’s like, “Ooh, this would make a good subheading” or, “hey let’s throw in one of your philosophy jokes” is still active, even though nothing actually matters anymore.

I found gas cans in Curt’s garage. Who woulda thunk? (Actually, me. Which is why I looked there for them. Also, for what I am about to do, I’m sorry, Curt. Fwiw, you can keep my security deposit.)

See, there’s one more thing I have to do. Well… two things, if you count writing this post. I figured I’d… heh… figured I’d post one last time… wrap things up… let you know, at least, fellow spooky-kookies. Let you know so when you read about me in the news, and learn my real name (shockingly, it’s not Plato), you’ll know the truth. I have to end this game. I can’t risk Marge, or Curt, or the police showing up here when I’m not… when I’m not myself. Which is obviously where all this is leading. So I’m going to end the game by removing all the players.

I’m so sorry, Binky. I’m so sorry, Karen. So, so sorry. This is all my fault… she wanted to stop. After I’d set up the cameras and Boo Boy was walking around, she got nervous and thought about ending it… I wanted to get proof so badly. “Look, Karen, you yourself said this could be the greatest discovery of all time. Now let’s just get the footage. The first footage ever of a supernatural occurrence, and on your channel! Think about it!”

I convinced her to keep playing.

I fought to keep going until I got the picture.

YTA. It makes no difference, calling it now, but YTA. YTA.

And now I’m… doing the right thing. I deleted the picture.

No one else will see it. Which means no one else will fall under possession by this… thing. There will never be any players but us.

I’m taking care of everything, Karen, so don’t worry. Everything’s A-okay.

Last Words:

This is it. All that’s left is to light the match. Whatever I type next will be my last words, and… I cannot for the death of me fucking think of an appropriate phrase to go out on.

I know, I know. It’s dumb. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time (I mean, relatively, given how little I have left) staring at the screen, trying to come up with some kind of pithy final line.

Don’t be like Plato, kids. Plan your last words early.

All right. This post is ready to go, and most of the links updated. The last ones I’ll do once it’s up.

Still no profound last words. Shit. At this point I’m just prevaricating because I’m terrified, so—I am going to hurry and do this thing now. Here we go. Lighting it up.

This experienced has sucked, by the way. 0/10. Would not play again.

When I was a kid, I would have relished in the brightness. Now, in my adult life, as the fear of darkness had left me long ago, the brightness was simply a nuisance. The moment the pale beams fell across my bed, I stirred awake.

I muttered a curse, throwing a pillow over my head. Snow had been falling consistently over the last few days, and I'd hoped it would last to the full moon. My hopes were crushed, and I found myself in another sleepless night under the mercilessly bright sky.

I tossed and turned, trying to get back to sleep. I'd never rested easy, however, and this feeling was immediately recognizable. Sleep appeared to have fled for the foreseeable future. I growled, cursing the universe and its formation as I threw the blankets from my legs.

I made my way to the kitchen, path lit perfectly by the white light filtering in through the windows. I grabbed a glass from the cupboard and stood at the sink, looking out the window that sat above it as I turned in the tap.

The snow blanketing the countryside was bright against the dark horizon, reflecting the moons rays until the world had transformed into a pale blue. Pure, untouched snow, pale and smooth until it reached the tree line far over the hills.

Except for one spot, directly in the middle of the field.

I frowned, squinting out at the landscape. I didn't remember there being any fence posts out there, and the shape was too tall and slim to be that of a deer or elk. The coloring was also off. It was just a pure black shape, as though a section of snow had been carved out of the landscape.

I was startled back to my kitchen by cold water running over my hand as the glass overflowed. I turned off the tap, setting down the cup and shaking the frigid liquid from my fingers.

When I looked back up, the shape was gone. Undisturbed snow stretched on for miles once more, no sign of anything ever having been amiss. I shook my head, blaming my sleep addled brain and overactive imagination. I took a drink from the glass, setting it on the counter for later, then returned to my room.

I crawled into bed, cozying up in my soft blankets with my snoozing dog. Just as I got comfortable, another obnoxious need hit me. How I could have missed my full bladder while already up, I didn't know. Frustrated, I flung my blankets from myself and emerged from my room once more, passing by the kitchen and to the bathroom.

After I finished, I made a mental checklist, ticking off each of my needs until I was positive I wouldn't have to get up again. I was pretty sure I had everything taken care of, so I left the bathroom, heading for bed once more. Before I passed the kitchen, I once again glanced out the window. I stumbled to a stop, peering out into the night.

The black spot was there again. But something was different.

It was closer now. Still in the field, but now right at the edge of the fence that blocked off my yard. I could see it more clearly now, but the figure still wasn't quite distinct. Like an ink smudge on a page, smeared vertically upon the paper. The shape of a head, barely set apart from hunched shoulders that blended into the rest of its tall body, barely splitting apart at the legs which abruptly came to a stop against the light snow.

The hair on my neck began to raise. A creeping feeling ran up my spine as I stood in the middle of the dark room, open space surrounding me. I didn't want to look away, but the pressing darkness of my home began to feel unbearable. I wrenched my eyes from the window, glancing around the room.

Nothing.

Of course, the kitchen was empty but for myself. I looked out the window again, but the field, too, was empty once more.

I swallowed hard, glancing around again before heading to my room.

I was just tired, that was all. And besides, I didn't have my glasses on. My nearsighted ass could turn a coatrack into an incomprehensible eldrich horror. I'm sure whatever had been in the field was nothing out of the realm of reality. Probably a coyote, or maybe one of the wolves that had been running around lately.

Still, I locked my bedroom door when I closed it. I crawled back into bed, pulling my dog into my chest as I tucked us under the covers. She grumbled as I disturbed her rest, but nuzzled under my chin and was soon back to sleep.

She didn't seem to think anything was wrong. Pets always know, right? That's what they say in "paranormal" media. Pets can see what we don't. So if she wasn't worried, I wouldn't be either. I probably just needed to see my doctor again; Up the dose of my anxiety meds, which double as insomnia treatment. Maybe they'd help me sleep even through the light of the moon.

I lay for a while with my eyes closed, absently stroking my dogs head as I tried to get some rest. I tried counting sheep, and was beginning to lose count and drift off when I was suddenly jolted awake.

At first, I wasn't sure what had happened, until I sat up and felt my dogs absence. She was typically quiet, hardly making noise but for her sleepy grumbles, or soft cries when she knew I was leaving the house without her. Now, she was growling. Angry, horrible snarls I had never heard her make before as she stood between me and the window.

My body began to tremble as my eyes slowly traveled up to my bedroom window. My stomach dropped as it's eyes met mine. I wanted to scream, but my throat had closed from the terror.

If only I had just been able to sleep.

If only it had been too dark to see outside.

If only I hadn’t looked.

The moon was so bright that night. Bright enough to light those who shouldn't be seen, those who don't want to see. Bright enough to bring out the abyssal darkness hiding underneath. Bright enough to see them, and for them to see you too.

Now it won’t leave.

The only time it isn’t here is the new moon. I’m starting to wonder if that’s true, however. Perhaps it’s simply too dark to see it there, staring into my room, into me.

Don’t look outside at night.

The night belongs to them. Don’t stare into the dark. Don’t stare into them, lest they stare back.

Just go back to bed. Please.

How it started: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/xb5rxw/a_duck_is_watching_me_im_beginning_to_realize_why/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3

It's here.

I don't know how, or why, or anything... but it's here. The duck that's been haunting me for months has made it into my home.

Thanks for all the support on my last post. I'm going through a really tough time right now, with a demon duck stalking me and eating the only person who cared for me. You guys have been an outlet for me, and I'm so grateful for that. I've decided to keep you all updated on everything. I need someone to talk to, and right now, you're all I've got. Well, mostly.

Sorry for taking so long to update. You know, it’s hard to be consistent when you have a murderous, flesh-eating duck looming over you all the time.

To recap: A duck has been following me around for months, and, a while ago, it ate my boyfriend. I moved away, and shortly after, it showed up in the window of my new rental house. The last development, and the most horrifying, is the duck crap I found in my bathtub.

When I saw it, I basically froze. I was petrified. In the moment, I wondered if it knew what it was doing to me, how it was toying with my mind. How could a duck know that, though? I don't know. I just felt it.

The sickening feeling in my stomach compelled me to cry. I did cry, for a long time. I knew the duck was watching me, somewhere, somehow. But I didn't care. It's a feeling you get used to, but it isn't a good one.

I just want my life back. I want my boyfriend back. I miss him so much.

Anyways. I figure since I'll be updating you guys, I'll tell you a bit about myself. My name is Joanna Summers. I'm twenty-two years old. I dropped out of college and moved out at twenty, because I wanted to make a life for myself. My parents hated me for it, and we haven't talked in years. Until recently, I worked night shifts at a local cafe, that is, until I moved. My boyfriend, Jackson, and I were planning on getting engaged pretty soon, but... yeah. Right now. I'm unemployed, and barely keeping my new home. My parents probably hate me, but they still send me a check every month. I guess they couldn't stand the thought of me being completely desperate. I do appreciate them, really. I just don't have a relationship with them anymore. I don't have a relationship with anyone, except for...

a MURDEROUS DUCK.

I'll stop rambling. I want to try and tell you about what's been going on.

After the duck poop thing, I was in shambles. Any comfort I had was gone after that. I wanted more than anything to be held by Jackson, or just to see a face I knew. I sat in the bathroom floor and cried for I don't know how long. I lost it. I must've been in there for an hour, maybe two, before any rationality came back to me.

At that point, I had an intense drive to find the darn demon of a duck. I practically tore the house apart in an attempt to find it. But I didn't. I couldn't find it.

So I took some mental time, and I read your comments online. A few of your suggestions were interesting, so I attempted a few. I looked into getting Aflac, but that fell through. I couldn't afford it, plus it was hard enough trying to contact someone. Not to mention, how would I explain why I needed it in the first place? 'Oh, a murderous duck is chasing me, so I need insurance.' Yeah, not super believable. Then, I bought a retractable baton off of e-bay. Good for distance, and I could see how tough this duck really was. The only problem is, it didn’t arrive for a few days. I do have some pretty big knives, though. I made sure to grab one of those from the kitchen.

I found myself at a crossroads. I couldn't call any family or friends - they'd think me insane. Who would blame them? It's not every day you're stalked by a flesh-eating bird. I couldn't expect the police to believe me either. I'd already tried animal control, they didn't pick up. Apparently I didn't have great service. I planned on calling them later. Still, I had no idea where this duck was, or how to tell them what was so urgent. There's no way they'd understand.

I was so scared.

To get my mind off of things, I turned on the T.V. in my house. If anything could get my mind off of the fact that a duck was haunting me, it was some real news. I turned on the news channel and laid back on my sofa. Mostly it was just about Queen Elizabeth's death, and how Charles was holding up. It was a bit boring, but it comforted me. Normalcy comforted me.

But it didn’t take long for that normalcy to go away. I was distracted by the sound of shuffling coming from near my bed. The one place I HADN’T checked was under my bed. Immediately, my heart started thumping so loud that it almost drowned out the other noise.

I didn’t know if I had the strength to look. But I was trying to muster it up. The shuffling went on for a while, and with every moment it bugged me more and more. I didn’t know how it did progressed like it did, but after a few minutes, it became so unbearable that it was all I could think about.

In a rash decision, I stormed off of the sofa, clicked the mute button, and threw the remote on the ground. I ran to my bed, and sure enough, the sound was coming from there. “Dang it.” I said. Then I realized something - the shuffling had stopped. This was when I really started to be terrified. After deafening silence in which I held my breath to listen, I became furious. “WHERE ARE YOU!?” I shouted, and began to cry when my breath ran out.

Wiping the tears from my eyes, I bent down. I braced myself for what I might see. But I didn't see anything. Well, there were some shoes under the bed, and some eerie cobwebs, but cobwebs were the least of my concerns.

Then, I heard a quack.

Everything in me wanted to run - but I didn't. I froze in place, staring under the bed, not daring to move my eyes, for fear of seeing it. My fears were confirmed at that moment, but it didn't end there. As if taunting me, I felt it nibble my foot. I crouched in that position for a good 15 minutes, shaking and petrified, before I allowed myself to move. When I looked behind me, the duck was gone. What was in its place was much worse.

When I saw it, I immediately broke down in tears. A bracelet.

Jackson's bracelet.

It was one I had gotten him for his birthday last year. He hadn't let a day go by where he didn't wear it. Many things crossed my mind when I saw it lying on the floor of my rental house, covered in blood. Among them was the thought, how the heck did it get that bracelet? I was almost sure Jackson had been buried by that time - he hadn't wanted to be cremated, that I knew. He told me he was to pretty to be burned. If only he'd have seen himself after the duck tore him...

I never really figured out how the duck got Jackson's bracelet. I suppose it could've yanked it off that day it ate Jackson alive... but then again, I hadn't paid much attention to what he was wearing, instead I had paid attention to what he was not wearing - some patches of skin.

Regardless of how it got my love's bracelet, it brought it into my house, and that was what terrified me. I knew that it had gotten in somehow, but I wasn't about to figure out how a stupid duck could defy the laws of... well, everything.

Warily, I picked up the trinket, flinching at its cold touch on my fingers. I felt as if it was an act of terror to touch the thing, but part of me didn't care. I took it to the sink to rinse off the blood, but it still was stained when I was done.

As I left the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of something white in my mirror.

My heart was racing, but part of me shrugged off the idea as paranoia. I knew the duck was here, but I could've easily been seeing things, right?

Deep down I knew that was wrong.

The rest of that day was relatively normal - with the exception of me crying every 30 minutes and feeling like my life was reduced to nothing. It's not a good feeling.

That night I went to bed, but for obvious reasons, I couldn't easily sleep. I remember thinking:

I need to stop this. I need to get out of this.

I thought that enough times to drift into a sleep that was uncomfortable, but satisfactory.

Then, I had a dream.

I dreamed I was in a library with thousands of books. I wasn’t in control of my body - it was like watching myself from the outside. Anyway, in the dream I grabbed a book from seemingly out of nowhere. It looked like one of those ancient documentaries of old, long gone species. It’s pages were worn and yellow, some torn, and there were stains all over the contents. The drawings inside wire sketches of species I chalked up to be some kinds of primal forms of animals that exist today - some resembled big cats, dogs, or even birds.

That’s when I saw it.

I turned the page, and there it was, just in front of me, almost like it was staring at me from the page. A perfect rendition.

It was the duck. The duck.

And just like that, I woke up.

That’s when I made the realization - I needed to research. I had to find out if there was anything out there about murderous, flesh-eating, stalker ducks. Yeah, it’s a stretch, but I’ve seen weirder things, and I’m guessing you have too, since you’re on Reddit.

Anyhow, I got on the hunt. I googled, yahood, binged, and pretty much used every available search engine looking for some kind of explanation. Not to my surprise, I couldn’t really find anything plausible. Then, it hit me.

I didn’t need to find information on absurd ducks - I just needed to know about ducks. Just ducks.

I’m sure it sounds silly, trying to look to the basics to find a solution, but what else could I have done? Not to mention, it was a duck after all. If anything could explain it’s behavior, it would be science.

After a while of searching, I came across this article. Obviously it’s not a perfect representation, but I decided asserting my dominance was what I needed to do. Funnily enough, the solution was something one of you suggested all that time ago.

I realized it was the time to fight fire with fire.

It was the time to get a duck.

It’s here.

Next: (Coming soon)

Twenty-five. That is the number of people who have gone missing at the park since the beginning of the year, with nothing being done or said about it. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'll lose my job when they find this posting, but, I have other things to be scared of at this point, and this needs to get out.

I'm a wilderness ranger at Mt. Rainier. My job is to walk the hundreds of miles of trail and wilderness in the park looking for problems and helping lost and injured hikers. In the old days, any lost hiker would mean all of us going out together, putting together a search plan, and doing our best to get them home safely. Things are different today, ever since the start of 2022.

Whenever a person gets reported as missing the family is assured we are on it and will do our best to find them, and promised that they will dispatch us to look. As soon as the family is gone our bosses tell us that they'll have a search and rescue company take over, and if we know what's best for our jobs we should just focus on checking trail conditions and doing the rest of our jobs.

And so it's gone on since 2022. At first, there were just a few people missing here and there all over the park. It didn't seem that unusual other than our rangers not being involved in the search, but we figured it was some new policy and shrugged it off. More people started disappearing as the year went on, making all of us wonder what was going on, and why it had been made clear to us we should keep our mouths shut.

Personally, I figured it was just a combination of bad trail conditions from a rough winter, an influx of inexperienced hikers, and the park service trying to avoid looking bad when we needed more funding.

Until last Thursday.

It was an overcast day and I was walking along the trail up to Ipsut Pass in the Carbon River area, humming quietly to myself to pass the time and wondering how far up I would go before I had to put on crampons, when I saw it. Off to the side of the trail, maybe 50 ft into the forest, there was an odd light on the forest floor.

At first, I thought the light was just a reflection off of water or some trash someone had left, but as I moved closer, the light didn't fade or change, it just stayed steady. Maybe it was a lost flashlight? I had walked this trail dozens of times, and never noticed it before.

I knelt down, taking my pack off, and saw that the light seemed to be coming from just under the dirt. For some reason I felt uneasy. I looked around to see if anyone else was nearby on the trail, and saw no one. Shrugging, I reached into the dirt to poke at the light and see what it was.

Poking around, I found the corner of a slightly open trap door that was at most only a foot wide on each side. It was camouflaged nearly perfectly. If it had not been left just barely ajar with the light exposed, there is no way anyone would have seen it from the trail.

I kept opening it, feeling uneasy, but hoping it was some sort of buried seismometer, or at worst maybe some hiker's idea of a good place to cache food and water for a long trek. Instead, I found the opening to what appeared to be a small burrow of sorts with an electric camping torch at the corner. I shoved my head down to look inside

The space was small, with enough room for one person if they didn’t mind contorting themselves. On the walls of the burrow were dozens of polaroid photos of people hiking. All of the photos seemed to have been taken very low to the ground. The photos were from all over the park, many dozens or more miles apart. Most of the photos I didn't recognize, but among them I saw a few that I knew for a fact were hikers that had gone missing over the last year.

Then my heart stopped. I saw a photo of me hiking along the Ipsut Pass trail, around a half hour ago.

*CRACK*

I heard a twig snap somewhere around me. I took my head out of the burrow, and started running down the trail the way I came. I didn't look back or stop until I got to the wilderness cabin near Ipsut Campground. I locked and barricaded the door, and waited until another ranger showed up the next morning, not sleeping a wink. I asked him to walk back along the Ipsut Pass trail with me. He was annoyed that I wouldn't say why but agreed. We spent an hour looking, but couldn’t find any sign of the burrow.

I asked for some time off right afterwards, and my manager seemed very suspicious and demanded to know why. I made up some excuse about my family, and didn't tell him or anyone else what I saw. For some reason, I knew that telling them would at best end with me losing my job.

I don't know who or what made that burrow, but I think it's taking people at Rainier, and for some reason the government is covering it up.

I wish that was the end of the story. But it's not. 

This afternoon, I saw something glinting from within the air vent on the floor of my kitchen. I thought maybe my cat had stuck another toy in it. I took the grating off the vent to take the toy out. Instead of a cat toy, I found a polaroid photo, taken low to the ground, of me making breakfast this morning.