CreepCast - The Man In My Basement Takes One Step Closer | CreepCast

Episode Date: July 19, 2026

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That doesn't feel as satisfying as our normal one, doesn't. You're in a good mood today. You're just like happy, ready to go. Bubbly. I can fucking take it down if you want. No, I like, I like it. I've never seen you optimistic before. Welcome back to Creepcast.

Today we're going to be doing a story called The Man, the Basement takes one step closer every week. Buckling, this is a long one. Even Isaiah was trying to scorn his way out of this one. But I said, no, no, no. Well, it's just funny. No. funny on the day, I'm like, well, I've got like a couple things to record after. As long as we're knowledgeable of that.

And Hunter's like, cool. So this story's five hours long. Sacrifices must be made. Let's just keep in mind that I've tried to get you to read this for like three months now. That's not true. I'm not true. I brought up the man in the basement every time and you're like, it's kind of a long one. Kind of a long one.

I've never said that. When I'm like, yes, you have. And then when I'm like, oh, you know, I need to be. mindful of time today. You're like, remember that long one you mentioned? No, no, no. I said, no, no, no. I've never said that. I always say, can we do, let's do the longest way you do. Oh, I don't know. I can't. I can't. Let's do a smaller one. I say, okay. Hey, baby gets what baby wants is what I always say. Anyone who looks at my YouTube channel knows that the idea of me always wanted to do something shorter is last. You bust you bust your load with all of your other content.

and then you like to come here and you like to take it easy. You like to do smaller, shorter things. I get it. I feel you, but I today. The idea of a luckily multi-hour podcast. The idea of a multi-hour weekly podcast being a smaller thing. It's crazy.

Smaller thing. You know what? I luckily guys, I wrangled them in. We're doing the man in the basement, which I will say the banner at the top Isaiah says, scariest story of 2021. Which was a.

Yeah, so the man in my basement takes one step closer every week has been recommended to us a ton and it seems with a good reason. I've never read it before, but the story's reputation exceeds it. There are, or succeeds it, whatever the word is. There are a ton of other stories and like no sleep authors we've talked to who will reference this story or talk about like, oh, well, it's one of the best ones posted no sleep. As a matter of fact, the author of this story, Marcus Cleaver, in 2024, adapted it into a novel called We Used to Live Here, which to my understanding, the rights to a film adaptation were bought by Netflix. And since Marcus has published another book, I saw a second ago, The Caretaker. So this, like kicked off seems very lucrative writing career for Marcus between now having two books and a Netflix deal. Um, so, like, and like Hunter said, this got the scariest story of 2021.

So it is a pretty big deal and I've wanted to read it for a while. And it's a long one, but I'm excited to start it today. Where are we getting your book, dude? When can I expect Isaiah's book? That's what I want to know. I probably, I don't know if I'm going to do a book per se. I am writing stuff right now. And hopefully some, there will be some announcements about that sooner than later.

Well, all right. There it is. There's your. There's your. No, no. I, I booed you because I was, I want the book. All right. You're giving us a little, you're giving us a little Texas sidestep, Susan.

By being like, well, they got something, but I'm not going to tell you. Well, this, this current thing I'm writing was originally a book. but then I liked the format of like a screenplay better for it but when's this episode going to come out is this coming out like next week or like a month from now I don't know okay well if it comes out cut this if it's like next week but if it's like later

July August or whatever I will say that I am currently working on a short film that may or may not have some interesting people attached we'll see who's the interesting people attached do what who's the interesting people attached

uh I don't know if this can go into the video yet but uh has offered to fund it and get me like VFX crews and stuff like that for it look at you Mr.

Hollywood wow that wow who's starring at it De Niro? Okay. I hate how sometimes

you'll seem a little bit legitimate. No. Look at you. Holy hell. Are you filming it? Are you filming it by the Hollywood sign? My God. That's cool.

Where are you going to? Where's the filming at? Lot B and Warner Brothers? Where are you going to film it? Are you filming it in your neck of the woods? I'm not talking to you about it. All right. Well,

we can look forward to the $21. Funded. I say it's short of them. I legitimately, that's insane. That's fucking incredible. How much they're giving you? Give us actual specifics of the amount of money they're giving you.

Do it, man. Come on. We want to be. We obviously want to know. You are mad at today. We are, we want to know. We want to know.

I want to know. How much are they giving you? There is a script. It's a lot. They are giving. It's there's a small fortune, aren't they in the case? Why are you being this way? So constant.

I'm not kind of sad. I'm wondering. You're such a jerk. I, there's this longer like screen. play I've worked on for a while that they're interested in and the short film or a series of short films I have in mine relate to the larger screenplay. So they've expressed interest in funding those for YouTube as a sort of proof of concept. Oh, are you doing an anthology then?

For the YouTube, yes. Oh, that's fun. Well, this all, well, what channels this can exist on? It'll go up on Windegoon when it doesn't get done. Yeah. Yeah, it'll go up. there um i have some i'm i'm kind of in like the pre-production phase of getting all like the cast and crew that are needed uh the scripts mostly done uh we're going to start table reads and stuff like that before too long for the youtube stuff uh and then maybe it'll go somewhere maybe maybe it won't but honestly seeing people like you just go and make things and then just post them to your youtube was very inspiring to be like yeah i should just i need to make something make something i mean i Why not?

Fuck it. No. Throw it out there. Well, that's exciting. I still think I still want the selfishly want the book. I'm waiting one day for the book. Okay. So you'll make the book just for you.

You give me, well, I would like that. I want a book. What do you? You're quizzing me on all these things. What do you got going on? What's your? Nothing. Nothing.

Not a, not a single thing. I'm not going to, I'm not going to follow up. after someone says. $21. Funding their, I have nothing. They might be. They might be.

That's not, we may have to cut that or at least cut the name of those. You know, editor, you leave that in. Okay, okay. Give me,

give me this. Just censor the name of the company. Also, also, I was joking around. I was joking around. It is Jason Blum attached. You'd be honest with.

No. He's not attached. Because every time I ever joke about Jason Bloom, I can, I can tell that your, your big lips. smile fades. No, no, no, no. You be honest.

The only reason, the only reason I don't like jump on the dog pile with you is because, like, with backrooms, right? Like, that's technically bloomed through atomic monster, but it wasn't a Bloom film or anything like that, right? So, gives a shit. I mean, it's, it's Kane's day. I, fucking, you know what, Jason, Jason, Jason Bloom can. I was, I was, I'm not, I'm not saying that I'm not.

And I say, and I say, And censor that, I have nothing to do with that. No. No. Actually, Isaiah's the one who told me, I was like, who is this? And he's like, yeah, this guy fucking hate him. I will say, I will say he's a great businessman. But any of my, any of my proclivities about mentioning him or jumping on like the hate train with you is because I just don't like doing that to people who I have no legitimate beef with.

A hundred percent. A million. You know what? Honestly, that's so true. And I, uh, and I agree. And I risk, actually, I, I, I assume what I said. I said what I said. And I think that we were all a little better for it.

Uh, well, editor just censor the name of the company. You can leave his other ramblings. I guess. Uh, no, we can. And I think that'll probably be okay. Uh, whatever. I, who, who fucking care? I don't care.

Yeah, make sure, make sure it's, it's on me, not on him. Let's see here. Oh, yeah. Hey, we're on audio platforms like Spotify, have a podcast, Fave. Feel free to go listen to it there and give us a nice rating. Also, if you want some extras, we have a Patreon. We have extra uploads where you can go there and listen to some extra content.

If you'd like to, to support the channel. If not, no biggie, but it's there if you want it. All right. Thank you to our patrons. We appreciate you putting up with whatever this podcast is. Okay. So, Hunter, with that, again, Marcus Cleaver, his stuff's going to be linked in the description. Be sure to show him some support.

We're going to see if this story lives up to the hype as the scariest story of 2021. Do we know any other stories that came out in 2021 so we can compare? Um, that's a great question. How about this? How about this? Editor, throw up some titles. There you go. Well, we'll see. We will see. Now that we have that context. Yeah, now that we, us, have that context. Yes. All right. Well, with that, are you ready to begin? Oh, I am. Part one, baby. Part one. Number one, he will begin in the furthest corner of your basement.

If you see him, do not overreact. Hold on my dog's freaking out. Let me shut the door. Benny! He will begin in the furthest corner of your basement. If you see him, do not overreact. He may decide to move on. Number two, if the intruder decides to stay,

he will take one step closer each week. Can you hear that? Yeah, is Benny freaking out? Yeah, can you hear him? Yeah, I can. But I mean, I'd whatever. Oh, just look. He's getting closer. He's fighting you.

What is your problem? Okay. If the intruder decides to stay, you will take one step closer each week. Number three, do not attempt to speak with him, hurt him, or get third parties involved. Number four, any violation of Rule 3 generally results in several quick steps forward, depending on severity of transgression. Number 5. Barricading the doors is acceptable. This will slow him down, but the process will be very loud, difficult to sleep.

Number six, to others, the intruder. will appear as a mannequin or a rubber dummy or a coat hanger, etc. Do not let guests near him. Number seven, the intruder will not move so long as you have guests in the house. Guess you actually want to be there. Once I had an old friend sleep on the couch for three months and the intruder didn't move a step. Number eight, you can leave the house but never sleep anywhere else. Never make plans to move.

even browsing for houses online. The importance of this rule cannot be overstated. General notes. None of these rules are set in stone. The intruder seems to evolve and react depending on your actions. Personally, I recommend measuring the distance from him to the furthest corner of the house, calculate how long it will take him to reach you, set up your bedroom as far away as possible. Once established, do not move your bed.

You must sleep there from now on. Please note that sometimes he will leave his station and wander up into the house. Do your best to ignore him. He will always return to the last place he left off. A lot to process. I had to laugh as I read the typo-ridden list of stupid rules left on my doorstep, likely conjured up by some neighborhood kid with too much free time. Props for the greatest activity, though.

Stepping back inside, I folded it up and tucked it away. Because it was preferable to getting toilet papered. So let me back on. to the living room couch, I resumed watching the game. I just moved into the neighborhood. Owning a house of my own had been a live skull since 18. Now, after 15 years of working, saving, and taking on crippling debt, I finally had a place of my own.

A Wray! A killer deal on a modest 1982 story with a basement and a backyard swimming pool. The main floor was an open design, kitchen, living room, and an entrance hallway that led to the stairs. Upstairs was a short alcove with three doors, master bedroom, guest room, and washroom. This house was the only thing in my lonely life I felt proud of. Something caught the corner of my eye. Across the living room in the front entrance hallway, the basement door was cracked open.

A slit of pitch dark. Okay, I turned back to the TV. Probably forgot to close it earlier. Shaking it off, I focused on the game as much as I could. but the cracked open door lurked in my peripheral all the while. It almost felt like someone was watching me. Fuck. I got up from the couch, marched across the room, pulled the door shut and marched back.

Embarrassed, I plopped into the couch and swung my feet up on the coffee table. Maybe that stupid list of rules was getting to me after all. Maybe whoever wrote it wasn't done messing with me yet. I jumped at the pounding on the front door. muting the TV I begrudgingly got up hauled over and yanked open the door a smiling man greeted me

barely five foot tall round and wearing a bright green Hawaiian t-shirt with matching cargo shorts vaguely reminded me of the Batman's penguin sir he said before a smile plastered on his face

hello I'm so sorry to bother you no I was going to say real quick The, the rules are very, uh, it's a lot to take in. It's a lot to take in with, uh, the amount of shit you can do. It's so weird that there's a, it kind of like, it follows monster, right? That's just kind of like always after you. But what's weird is that it still is like it has, it has the ability to be like,

okay, well, I'm starting here, but I'm just going to freely walk through your house and then go back down to my starting position. that's a very interesting take on or like I've never seen that kind of take of like yeah I'm coming I'm walking towards you each day and also I'm guessing that if you go near it it's going to rip you apart right yeah that's my guess yeah

but then it's like I guess like if he's walking through you have to avoid him but there's I'm curious to see how that rule like that was really odd to me of something that's like can freely walk through your house and you just have to ignore it like I wonder. I'm curious

to see how that plays in. I don't know. I think it's, I think it's supposed to be like an information overload and the idea is that that was written by someone at the end of the journey this character's about to go on, you know? So you think,

okay, so you think that's the person who wrote the rules isn't the same person that we're following right now? No, no, no. Because he said he just found it on the house he just bought. Right,

right. So it's like whoever the last tenant was wrote all that for the next guy. So of course he thinks it's ridiculous now, but that's going to be, these are all things he's going to learn over the, the course of the story. Also the, the bright green Hawaiian shirt did not help the visualization of it

being you. Whatever, whatever I was sitting there. Also, I was going to say, so we have the thing where he says, sir, what do you think this guy sounds like? He's rotund. He's kind of, he's barely five feet tall. He's kind of a short guy. The image that immediately

came to my mind was Stavros, Halkius. That's, that's so true to you. Yeah. Yeah, that's good too. I don't know if I could do a stavi impression, but I can at least I'm just gonna keep him in this... I'm gonna keep him in this register because he's kind of small.

We're up time. Yeah. Okay. So, I'm sorry to bother you. You look down to my shoes, studying. Someone's been leaving notes on the doorstep out here and since you're new.

He looked up, clans back over his shoulder, then back to me. I just wanted to warn you. Skye had more nervous energy than a cold turkey truck addict. It warned me about what? A smile on his face turned grim.

The notes. He said, pausing for effect. There's a... He searched for words. There's a mentally unstable young man in the neighborhood. Okay. His father... Glanced back over his shoulder again.

His father lived in the house across the street from you. An overgrown, one-story box of a house. Almost looked abandoned. When his father... Father passed, the son. He looks back to me. Started writing notes, leaving them on doorsteps around the neighborhood. I set my hand on the pocket where I tucked away the note.

The son, if you see him, he's harmless in the notes. Of course, they're nonsense. Pulled the note from my pocket. Yeah, I was wondering. I said, carefully unfolding the paper. The man's eyes filled with concern. Rule one, he will... Please!

I raised an eyebrow. I've seen enough of those for a while. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb. They're harmless, but also kind of... He looked around again, searching for words. Creepy? I said. His eyes lit up.

Yes, creepy. What a great word. Creepy. He marveled with just this character. So creepy. What a great word. Creepy. What a great word.

Definitely not me. I'm pretending around. I'm cute. It kind of makes you think of like, if me and you had a show to be called creepy cast, huh? What? Nothing.

Yeah. I'm not the little man. I'm the little rotun man on the doorstep. You're like, so you want to do what? I'm like, creepy stories. And we talk about it. Mike,

does that sound fun? Right? Yeah, I'm like a, I'm like a manager at, GMC down the down the road so I don't think I'd really have time for that

kind of thing but I pass you a I pass you a note it's just the cool S that everyone used to draw in middle school Does that change your mind? Yeah exactly what do you think about that freak? It is pretty cool pretty badass actually yeah I guess we'll give

a shot he marveled weirdly impressed I almost laughed. Anyways, I just want to let you know. Don't worry about the notes. They're ridiculous, of course. Of course. Well, I best, uh, hmm.

Third time, you search for words. Leaving? Yeah. You laughed, wagging a finger at me. I'm gonna say, you're, you're really good with words. He should. I found this guy so quick. I feel,

I feel so comfortable. I feel so comfortable by this guy. Hunter, a, Hunter doing, uh, an interview years later about the creepcast reading. Yeah,

exactly. The man in my basement. Yeah, I really feel like I, uh, I caught my stride when it came to the man in the basement. I think that's where I really found, uh,

my voice as it was. You're wearing like a beret kind of off the side of your head. Oh, a barret in the tidesst turtleneck. All the fat pushing up my cheeks. I'm just like, I just think that that's when I really realized that I was more of a performer than I was in content creators as it were. I found the stride with the fat roton man and the short Roton man in the Hawaiian shirt.

I think that character's really when the story clicked for me. That's when I really found the connection, the eclipse if you were. And from there, the ethos of the story just made itself known. It revealed itself to me through the performance. it's like have he's have he seen that clip of like on the set of the Superman movie where like David comes over and is having that

conversation with James Gunn about the character he's like see that's exactly what the emotion the emotion is exactly that's how he feels it's like it's like it's like it's like Spider-Man like it's like Superman like quefing and his like pants or whatever like that's emotion it's raw motion it's that's so

that scene is you coming to me about the short. You're like, Hunter Warren, part one of 14. It's like Stavro's Halkius. He's short. He's short. And you're like, he's, he's short and fat.

Okay, got it. Got it. Got it. That's why I'm getting the emotion from, I say, the emotion. He shook his head like I just pulled off a magic trick. I,

I try. I said skeptically, though he seems sincere. Howie, by the way. Oh, what a perfect name for this character. Howie's such an unfortunate name. It is. Have you ever met anyone named Howie?

I've never met anyone named Howie. No, I mean, you've got to go by Howard, right? Yeah, I think Howard's a fine name. But Howie, I don't know. He shot out his hand for a handshake and recoiled. Pandemic was still in full swing. Oh, of course. He said reading the room.

He shook his head again. Still not used to it. It's all good. I'm Brandon, by the way. Brandon. He smiled again and turned away. I stood there in the doorway, watching him leave,

dumbfounded by the strange, almost comical conversation. As he stepped onto the road, I stepped back into my house, and went to pull the door shut. I stopped short. Something caught the corner of my eye. About seven houses down

set a white hatchback car with tinted windows, idling. I can't say why it grabbed my attention, but it did. For some unknown reason, it felt out of place. Sinister even. Shrugging, I stepped back inside and pulled the door shut behind me. I collapsed back onto the couch.

Damn. My team was losing. I want to know that Howie, I don't think the thing in the basement is going to remotely come close to the horror that was Howie. Just even that kind of like that kind of social interaction, no thank you. I would that, yeah, no. It was all so awkward and like all the all the I obviously how he has something to do with what's going on or at least knows. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. So that may be the explanation for why he was so weird.

But yeah, that was just a very uncomfortable social situation. I hate the solicitor kind of vibes. Someone knocking on your door. Yeah. And then like forcing that kind of uncomfortable conversation. The first day you're there too. Yeah, day one. Day one.

And also being like, yeah, there's all these notes. I mean, I wouldn't worry about it. Big deal. Like, cool. So I'm definitely going to worry about these notes, by the way, moving forward. I told you about, uh, I told you about how at, um, the house I got, how there's like riding all over the walls of the basement, right? Yeah, from the old dude that lived there, right?

Yeah, from the dude that lived there before. So now I'm imagining like that house in this scenario. We'll see, that would be way horse. That'd be fucking creepy. Like imagine the old man that wrote on the messages on the walls, you know, in your house. Imagine like his relative comes over and they're like, oh yeah, I mean, I would just ignore it. I mean, he was just kind of like, you know, his mind wasn't there. Like that would, that would just make it 10 times more horrorful.

Oh, of course. Absolutely. Absolutely. The way you respond to that made me think that that's exactly what happened. And you and kill him have been struggling with like, like, like some. kind of like weird entity that's been like a poltergeist in my house. Literally the old man.

Every time he says the whispers and then the words burn off the wall or something like that. The only thing we got close to that because we didn't speak to the family but the realtor was like yeah it seems he was living here by himself for a while and just kind

of like they used a word like retracted or something like that and started riding. I'm like Well, that's why even bring it? Like, why would you say that? What a weird thing. Yeah. Yeah.

So that's the only. Why to me? I've thought about contacting the family because of some other stuff. Um, with the house that they may be interested in or whatever, but I'm kind of scared to a little bit. Well, you, because you know why when you do that, Isaiah, you know, what's going to happen? Is there going to your, because when did that guy pass away? Did they say? I want to say like 2020, 21, maybe.

Let's say 2021. Right. You come in. They're like, oh, yeah, we haven't been here in a while, blah, blah, blah. They obviously, you know, they're happy to be there to see it. It's been a while.

You're going to be like, yeah, I mean, I don't know. I mean, some of these are dated like 2021. It seems like he was riding all the way up to the end. And they're like, they would say, that's where he, he passed in 2014. Yeah, I would just sell it.

And it would be, they would say that. That would be, that would be the reality. Yeah. Okay, cool. And then that it's immediate. It's just you looking at them stone face.

And then it's you, Kayla. and sitting outside your house and the house is burning, like whatever, like it's just your silhouettes looking at that fire and you guys just have your luggage and you just like walk up your driveway. Bye. Yep.

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Thank you to Ridge for sponsoring the show. Their link will be in the description and we are now back to the episode. It was dark out when the game finished. Three to one against me, of course. I turned off the TV, stretched up my arms, pushed off the couch, and froze. The basement door was open again, wide open this time. A few long seconds crept by until I finally stepped forward. I know I shut that door. I stopped at the top of the stairs. Below me, everything faded into uninviting darkness.

I flicked on the light and an orange glow stuttered to life. Bage cream walls and scratchy carpet. Stairs went down. Is it the back rooms in the basement? I was to say beige cream walls. I mean, that's like a yellow. I mean, that's got to be like a banana. That's like a yellow.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. The stairs went down about 20 steps and took a hard right turn to the left. I'd only been in the basement three times since moving. Nothing but unopened cardboard boxes down there. Pulled the door shut and went up to my room. Crawling into bed, I flicked off the light and closed my eyes. Maybe the door was broken. A bump in the night startled me away.

awake. I checked the time. 258 a.m. Faint moonlight cast in through the bedroom window. Stacks of unopened moving boxes crowded my room like a cardboard metropolis. The night was silent. Still half asleep, I set up onto the edge of my bed, staring at the closet door. A door that reminded me of my childhood bedroom. A door that reminded me of an old friend. Sliding door with fake cherry wood vinyl covering it. Something downstairs moved. Seven quick thumps creaking across hardwood floor. Clicking almost like dog feet only heavier. Don't like that.

I don't like that either. I cursed under my breath, fully awake now. The reasonable part of my mind wondered if a raccoon snuck inside. The less reasonable part of my mind wondered if it was Satan himself. I stood up from the bed and marched over to a stack of boxes in the corner. No way I was going down there without a weapon. Sliding a box off the top of a precarious tower, I turned back and placed it on the bed. Rifling through it until my hand grasped a familiar cold metal object.

I pulled out a chrome-plated switchblade. Same one I had bought off my weed dealer back in high school. I flicked the knife in and out a couple times. That'll do. Knife in my back pocket, I stepped towards the doorway. I wrapped my grip around the smooth brass door knob and pushed it open. It was darker out here. No windows upstairs.

I flicked on the light, cold, waiting room glow cast over everything. At the bottom of the steps, the basement door was still closed. Thank God, I crept silently down the stairs, one step at a time. A faint smell hung in the air, almost like burnt hair and gasoline. Almost. Moonlight cast in through the living room window. Everything down here was quiet, and still. Too still. Like the world was on pause. I scanned the living room. Empty. I stepped into the kitchen.

Empty. Shaking my head, I pulled open the fridge. Old houses make strange sounds. I reminded myself pouring a glass of milk. I took a swig at the taste of foul rot filled my mouth. I spewed and spat back into the cup. What the hell? Rinsing out my mouth with tap water, I gurgled and sped. out until the bitter taste was gone. There's no way that expired already. I checked the date. Six dates till expiry. Weird. Set it down and wandered over to the living room window. Across the street, neighbor's house was dark. I should have asked Howie if the no leaving son still live there. Based on what he said, it sounded like this kid needed professional help. Suddenly, a light snapped on across the street. Exterior. Left side of the house. Motion detector. Blue is

Glow revealed, cluttered, and neglected backyard. Even more unkempt than the front. Moths flapped in desperate circles over the unnatural light, and then it went dark. I turned back to head upstairs, but stopped. My eyes caught the basement door again. Still closed. But something stirred within me this time. Morbid curiosity, perhaps. Drudged over and pulled open the door. I flicked on the light and stepped down. Scratchy carpet clawed at the soles of my socks. I reached the a stairwell corner, more darkness. A 15-foot hallway with doors on either side led to an open rec room. I flicked the next light switch. Nothing, of course. I stood there for a good 10 seconds, staring into the dark. Strange pull of curiosity only getting stronger. But gargingly, pulled out my

phone, turned the light on, and move forward. Stepping over boxes and clutter as I went, the strange smell from upstairs was even stronger down here, like gasoline and burnt hair. Maybe there was a leak? I'd get that check tomorrow. Regardless, I pushed forward and stepped into the garage-sized wreck room. Cold concrete against my feet. I scanned the phone light from left to right until I froze. Stood in the back right corner was a coat rack post.

For a second, it almost looked like a person. I don't own any coat racks. Somebody put it there. I felt sick, angry. Somebody broke into my house and put it. coat rack in my basement corner? Indignant, I marched forward, yanked it off the ground, and stormed back upstairs. I knew exactly who did it, too.

Same person who left the note, had to be. That was disturbing enough in its own right. Supernatural bullshit or not. Of course, back then, the possibility of the note being a sincere warning never crossed my mind. I didn't even consider the chance that something unknown and terrible was about to enter my life and never leave. At this point, I was convinced that a malicious trickster was trying to break my sanity.

I'm not the most stable of individuals, but it'd take more than a coat rack and a creepy note to do that, a lot more. I snapped the coat rack in half, tossed it in the garbage, and set up in the living room till morning. That week, I installed new security and logs. If anything else happened, I'd get the police involved. Stupid rules be damned. Either way, I've been through worse. In hindsight, dismissing the note might be the biggest regret of my entire life. end of part one so obviously the coat rack so the code right the rule said that it'll appear as

like coat hangers or coat racks or like that kind of thing at first is that just the first initiating stage or I thought it was two people who are like I thought it was two people who don't see him like I thought it was like if your guest came over if they wouldn't see him they would just see the coat rack or did I miss or did I misinterpret that rule or that It sounds like guests seeing him as a mannequin. Maybe where he just moved in, he does see it as a guest, right? Because he's not like the homeowner yet or whatever. Or he's not like, you know, whatever.

The entity doesn't consider him to be the one who owns a house because he's new there. Yeah. So maybe that's what it is. Or maybe it does stuff like leave coat racks. Who knows? I don't know. Yeah. I mean, also, too, they did make a note that like the rules aren't set in stone.

So maybe it's just a thing where. Until it, yeah, like what you're saying is like until it acknowledges you as the homeowner or like the person that lives there. It's just like it'll maybe like feel you out or something. I don't know. Yeah. Yeah. Part two. Yeah.

Part two. Also, there is Morse code at the end of the story. Can you read Morse code Isaiah? Uh, no, but other than like, I know that like the, the four lower dots. I know the four dots is H. So I see an H in there. Um, okay, so this spells out the T-H-E and then scrolling to the bottom of the next story, there's more Morse code.

So I guess we get Morse code at the end of each one. Interesting. What do you think that has to do with any of the taps of the footsteps, maybe? Uh, it could be. You know, what is they seven? He said seven quick dots. Yeah. Or seven quick, yeah, like seven quick taps or whatever.

That wouldn't be anything I don't think. Yeah. Oh, okay. Well, I like. At least without, without. spaces in the midst. I like the, uh,

the description of the clattering of like a heavy footed dog is like a very creepy way to describe someone walking across. Yeah. Just the nails. Whatever. Well, it sounds to me like it's, uh,

it's either mannequin feet or, uh, it is like hooved like clove and feet. Oh yeah. The mannequin feet's kind of interesting. Take like almost like a hard plastic or something. You like up. Yeah.

Yeah. Yeah. Part two. Though, you know, I like to you about the part one is that they didn't, didn't show the guy right away. I feel like a lot of other stories that we've read that kind of do this. It's like you get introduced to it right away. I'm curious. Like, we still don't know exactly what this thing is.

Well, there's also a lot of, I mean, there's clearly set up with like it's the biggest mistake of my whole life and the notes and stuff. But it's not just like I see the demon man in the corner. It's more. Yeah. Like I, you know, I almost expected that the Howie-esque character would be that guy. Like, oh, it's a normal guy. which I mean it could be still but it's kind of fun that it's uh I have a feeling that we're gonna we're gonna get involved into like a shape shifting kind of yeah my deal with how we is like

maybe maybe someone has to live there this thing will go somewhere else so so he's trying to keep there maybe yeah yeah how he's there to be like hey anything weird happens I wouldn't worry about it kind of thing yeah like oh yeah that happens here too it's just weird I don't know yeah he's a trickster yeah Oh, you heard something? That's the, that's the raccoons. Yeah. It's like the, it's like in a story when it's like a community or a town or something,

some kind of group of people like, yeah, community or town realize that like there's a threat and they like offer. They like basically like are offering sacrifices. Yeah. Of like new people coming into town or something, you know, like keep their way of life or whatever. So none of the other like original people get hurt. Yeah.

Yeah. Part two. I stood to the living room window, waiting. Finally, the garbage truck pulled up to the curb. A heavyset man in a bright orange vis vest stepped off the side and spat dryly onto the pavement. He wasted my garbage, coat rack included, into the back compactor. Choi, climbing onto the truck, he unceremoniously tossed the aluminum bucket back onto the road. My relief vanished.

Inside the bucket was a left behind, foot-long splinter. A lingering remnant of the coat rack. bursting through the front door, I yelled after the garbage truck and it lurched to a grudging stop. I forced a smile, strode across the yard, bent over, and reached into the can, grab the splinter of wood and tossed it into the truck. The Vith Vest Man blinked disinterest towards me as they drove off towards the next house. The truck's compactor pressed down with a satisfying crunch. Goodbye, coat rack. There's a strange comfort in it, as though the coat rack itself held some special power over me,

the power which upon its destruction had lifted. Strolling back toward the house, I caught myself smiling, almost feeling happy. I wrapped my hand around the front doorknob and a sharp pain shot up my wrist. My arm swung back like electric shock. Gritting my teeth, I turned my palm over. A splinter about the size of a blood test needle was lodged in between my thumb and pointer finger. Hmm. Ow.

Breatzed in, pinched the splitter, yanked it out, and tossed it back. over my shoulder. I stepped inside. As I pulled the door shut, red smeared across the brass door knob. Turned my hand over again. A thin line of blood trailed out from the puncture hole, snaking down towards the tip of my thumb, wrapping my other hand around the wound, I marched back towards the kitchen. Bandages were in a tray on top of the fridge. After I finished wrapping my hand up, I turned around and leaned back against the fridge, marveling at how quickly my good mood and soured. All it took was a wooden splinter. But then another thought crept in my head. Part of me, the paranoid, irrational part, wanted to go back and find the splinter, take it out past city

limits and burn it, just in case. I actually had to fight the urge to go back and do this. It's just a coat rack, I reminded myself. Nothing more, nothing less. Either way, I took comfort in the new security setup. Alarms on every door and window, big stickers advertising the system to any would-be intruders. I haven't checked every corner of the house, just to make sure nobody was hiding inside. Can't be too careful. Despite everything, I still hadn't fully processed the fact that somebody had taken the time and effort to break into my house and set a coat rack in the basement corner. Not steal anything, not even move anything, just set a coat rack in the basement corner. This simple fact stuck in the back of my head like a stubborn popcorn shell stuck between

teeth, the worst. Hushed over my laptop at the kitchen table, I took a sip of bitter black coffee. Thanks to the pandemic, all work was homework now. But that was fine by me. I preferred staying home to just about everything else anyways. Typing away, I was finally falling into the ever-elusive Zen state of work. Coding line after line until a phone buzzed against the plastic final tabletop. Unknown caller.

reached over and froze. Something told me not to answer it. Something told me to block the number. But I shook it off and answered regardless. Brandon? Said the voice on the other end. Can it tell if it was a question or a statement? Speaking.

On your doorstep? He sounded young, early 20s perhaps. Okay. I was the one who left it there. I didn't respond. I didn't know how to respond. Look, I, I don't know how to respond. I know it's weird. Trust me, I know better than most. The thing is, the thing here is to make

sure you understand what's going on. To make sure you take it seriously. Does that make sense? I did an answer. He sighed, anxious. I know you think I'm crazy. Shit, I might be. I just, I need to talk with you in person. I don't call this number again. I said plainly and ended the call. Setting the phone down, I leaned back in my chair across my arms. Looking back, I regret my coldness here. But in my defense, I'd seen enough real life forward by then. I was pushing 40 and well acquainted with the crushing mundanity of real life suffering. I no desire to indulge and made up nonsense.

Knock, knock, knock. My heart skipped a beat. Yeah, it's going to be Howie. Oh, goddammit, yeah, you know it is. My heart skipped a beat as the pounding at the front door continued. I slid back on my chair and stood up, bishclinch. I marched across the room and yanked open the door. There stood a young man, tall and dressed in a white shirt with black denim pants.

Look, I'm really sorry to be this persistent, but... Was he standing outside of his house when he made the phone call? I think so. Well, have you noticed that too that with even Howie, people don't want to go inside? Like, I don't think that people want to go up to the door. Like, Howie kept peeking over his shoulder like, okay, like, as if he was looking for something. I think people are like very nervous to go near that house. The house, yeah.

Well, if there's a demon that lives in the case. Listen, and I want to say too, while we're stopping, the idea, I love the idea of like, I'm throwing away the, the coat rack, right? Okay, well, there's a splinter and the thing. Okay, well, hey, just so it's all gone and then you look down and there's a little splinter. It's just that thing of like it is not letting go. Like, that's such a fun, like little hook of like the persistence of that. And even then it's like, it could just be a coat rack.

Who knows? Yeah. Right? But it's still just that idea of something lingering as far. fun. Yeah. It's like, and by the end of the story, he probably should have thrown that splinter away. Well, yeah, him just, him disregarding that even, I was like, eh, I don't know. Yeah. Yeah, I'm not taking any chances. Um, yeah, this guy called from right outside. Interesting. Yeah, he's just standing outside his house, calling him. Immediately, I recognized his voice from the phone call,

but I had to admit, his appearance was surprising. Until now, I imagined a weasily looking basement dwelling internet troll, but this guy almost looked like a low-key movie star. Young Marlon Brando vibes. Regardless, I didn't know what to say. He looked down, kicking his feet awkwardly as a ground. He looked up. I just need five minutes. I'll explain everything and never come back. His eyes were filled with sincerity. Years of suffering hit him beneath a desperate smile. I looked around. Other neighbors were milling about. Few glanced over, concerned. looked back to him fine

my voice draped with skepticism he looked back over his shoulder then back to me we can't talk here let's go for a walk if that's all right I consider myself

a pretty good judge of character and he didn't seem dangerous he seemed worried if anything my curiosity was driving now so I think what they're doing when they're looking over is they're looking at the house

across the street the abandoned one yeah the one that that was his dad's right his dad's was the one across the street. That's what Howie said. True, true, true. Well, for the information we have so far.

And if this is, yeah, and because he did admit that he was the kid guy who wrote the note. So. Yeah. Yeah. But yes, yeah. His dad would be the one across the street. That he is not an abandoned house.

It just looks abandoned. So maybe they're looking in the window to see if he's watching. Yeah. I mean, obviously there is a, uh, people have a like a very pre- preconceived idea of this kid. It seems like, like, even like the neighbors and stuff are looking over, concerned, nervous.

Like people, there's obviously some story about this kid we don't know about yet. Yeah, yeah. Overcast gray fell over the suburbs. You walked down the street side by side, six feet apart, silent. Her shoes scraped against concrete and the smell of outdoor barbecues lingered in the air. It looked back over his shoulder. We were about four houses down from mine. First off, I want to apologize.

Slid his hands into his pockets as he walked. I don't really know the best way to approach something like this, and I'm sorry for being so cryptic. I grunted noncommittally. Second, I really don't expect you to believe me unless I saw something firsthand. I wouldn't believe me either. He looked up with the clouds,

squinted as to fuse sunlight cast against his face. Sky was spinning rain now. Invisible drops, she only felt. Spratic, icy pinpricks against the skin. Maybe I am crazy. I don't know. My dad was, at least. That's what we all thought until he finally... Trailed into silence. Anyways, I'm getting off track.

He said, running a hand through his jet black hair. Just take it seriously for the first couple weeks and see where it goes. If it's bullshit, then it's bullshit. Still wasn't quite sure what to say. At this point, I believe that he believed, but that wasn't enough to change my entire worldview. I wasn't enough to start believing in sentient coat racks. All you can do is search for ways to slow him down. Invite people over as much as possible.

Try to figure out if there's a way to stop him without breaking the established rules. I know there's the pandemic, but hell, invite a stranger over if you have to. Writp free. You should at least buy you some time. Who's living in your father's house? I asked with the directness that surprised even me. I don't know. You don't know.

You shrugged. I haven't been there since. Again, he trailed off into silence. Grimmising, he looked around as if the words might be somewhere close. I grew up here, he said, changing the topic once again. My sister and I used to collect pine cones on the park. Pointed across the street. Park was a generous word for an empty lot with a couple of trees and a bench.

We'd sell them to neighbors and pine cones with googly eyes glued on five cents apiece. Shook his head like a chill went down his spine. Look. You've got to take the rule seriously. I still wasn't convinced. You don't know who's living in your own dad's house. Did you sell it? Stopped walking and turned to face me.

Don't try to understand this. Trust me. Rips forehead with the back of his thumb. The more you try to make sense of it, the more to try to rationalize it. It only gets worse. Sounds like a death cult mantra. Sure. You have my number, right?

I nodded. If anything happens, if you have any more questions, Just call me anytime, seriously, any time. Four in the morning if you have to. I don't care. Okay. It's Mitchell, by the way. Just Mitch is fine too.

Gave a little wave turned away and strolled off down the street, leaving me even more confusing before. Worse than that, part of me was beginning to consider the possibility that this might actually be real. A possibility made all the more disturbing due to the fact I'd already broken nearly every single rule, classic horror movie mistake. way. His sincerity was unsettling. By the time I got back home, it was already dark out. I stood at my front door, rifling from my keys when...

Brandon? A familiar voice called out from behind. I turned back to see Howie, standing on the curb. Almost didn't recognize him at first. He wore a blue track suit with a blue pencil tucked behind his ear and blue headphones wrapped around his neck. This guy really liked blue. Howie Neighbys kid spoke with you, huh? He rested his hands on his hips What did he say? Same stuff as the note

Howie shook his head as if to say I expect it as much Poor kid At least he'll stop bugging now Yeah Just then, beside the house across the street The outdoor motion light snapped on Odd

Howie looked back to see what I was looking at Through the cracks in the fence, a line silhouettes stood up against the boards. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it almost looked like somebody was standing there, watching us, peering through the fence cracks. Motionless. But the yard was filled with junk, so it could have been anything. How he turned back to me. Anyways.

He started pulling up his headphones and turned away. Who's living there now? How he froze over the headphones and turned away. turn back. I've... Not sure. They never sold it? Nope.

Not to my knowledge. So it's empty. I've seen someone, maybe a few someone's milling about inside. Never seen them outside? Now he tilted his head, thinking. He clearly never paid much attention to it. I don't think so, but I got goldfish memories these days. Chuckled, shrugged, reached.

to put his headphones back on and... Oh! I've been stuck on this! He pulled a crumbled piece of paper from his jumpsuit pocket in red. A thin piece of metal which closed brightly when a current passes through. He looked up at me, eyes filled with hope. Eight words across, first letter F, third letter L? The light across the street snapped off, and a light inside snapped on. Window blind shadows cast from inside,

someone moved across the living room, a drifting silhouette. Brandon? Filament. I said, I still locked on the house across the street. Howie scribbled away. That's it. My God, that's it. He sounded like just won a thousand bucks.

Looked up with me. You're brilliant. I looked back to Howie. Glad to help. Anyways. Said Howie. Enthusiasm suddenly gone. See around.

Pulled his headphones up and jogged away. I stood there, watching the house across the street. The light inside was still on, but no more movement. Turned back to my door and stepped inside. Pulling the door shut behind me, I strode into the living room and stood at the window. The house across the street was dark again. Okay. Pulled the curtain shut and turned back for the kitchen.

I sniffed. The strange smell of gasoline and burnt hair lingered in the air still. Subtle, but unmistakable. I flicked on the kitchen light and sat down at the table, stared blankly at the wall. Harsh fluorescent glow vibrated against white stucco. I should get warmer light bulbs. Then another thought crawled into my head. Thought that was slithering around to my subconscious for the past few minutes.

Mitchell, the dead neighbor's son, did not put the coat rack in your basement. Of course, it's possible he did. But after talking with him, it seemed highly unlikely. And this raised another even worse question. Who put the coat rack in the basement? Howie? Doubtful. Another neighbor?

Possibly. Person or persons living across the... Click. The sound of a door popping open interrupted my thoughts. I looked back over my shoulder. Across the living room. In the front entrance hallway, the basement door. was open. Just a crack. A thin line of darkness. Screw it. I marched upstairs, grab my switchblade

from the bedside table, and storm back down. Each footstep heavier than the last. Knife clenched in my left fist. I swung open the basement door and flicked on the light. I'm armed! I said trying and failing to sound like a threat. If anyone's down there, make yourself known now. Silence. Nothing but the hum of a buzz light bulb. Take a deep breath and exiled. Okay. I whispered taking a slow step forward.

Oh, you stupid son of a bitch. I used to mock people in horror movies for always going down in the basement. But in the moment, it weirdly felt like my best option. It was that or leave the house or try to sleep. Try to sleep while knowing that someone might be hiding in the basement. Called the cops. Tell them I found a coat rack that didn't. to belong to me?

Most cops don't even have the time to worry about stolen cars, let alone misplaced furniture. None of these choices were appealing. I reached the first stairwell and stopped at the first corner. Somehow, the hallway seemed darker than before. I flicked the light switch, warm glow cast overall. The light wasn't working last time. I stepped forward. The familiar smell of burnt hair and gasoline was getting stronger.

A short walk down the hallway, feeling like eternity. Finally, I stepped into the rec room. Both corners were empty. Breathe in relief, I felt blood rush into my face. Once again, embarrassed by my own paranoia. Embarrassed by my fear. I pocketed the switchblade and turned back when something caught my eye. In the far right corner behind a stack of cardboard boxes, water, a thin layer of

surface tension, slowly spreading across the shiny concrete floor. Damn it. They never said anything about leaks when I bought the place. Across the room and squatted down. There were scattered clumps of wet dirt, too. No obvious source for the leak. Strange. Circle of water slowly expanded outward.

I stared into it. My crystal clear reflection stared back. I needed a haircut. Drift. My face rippling. as a single drop fell from above. Of course I looked up. Drip.

Nothing but pink insulation and two by four beams up there. Could be a faulty pipe, I thought. Might explain the weird smells to... Bang! A door slammed shut. Upstairs around the corner, the basement door slammed shut. I jumped to my feet and whipped out the switchblade. Then, before I could process what happened,

Everything went dark. Pitch dark. The kind of dark that makes everything sound like it's right next to your ear. The kind of dark that makes your thoughts visible. I fumbled for my phone, but it clattered onto the floor. Damn it. I dropped to my knees, flailing in the dark, sliding my hands across the cold, smooth concrete, desperately searching, searching for the light.

All the while, the smell of burnt hair growing stronger. No phone. Only concrete. Concrete and cardboard boxes. God damn it, damn it. Panic rose inside my chest like a swelling balloon, threatening to burst right through my rib cage. I froze.

I breathed in, I breathed out. I breathed in. I breathed out. The panic stopped growing. It didn't get worse. It didn't get better. It merely held in a state of pure survival mode.

I can work with that. Plenching my eyes shut, I rose back to standing. I didn't even know which. direction to go anymore. Following my gut, I took a step forward. Another step. Another, up ahead, seven quick thumbs staggered down the staircase, slammed against the corner wall. Silence. Defeiting silence. A sliding sound scraped against the drywall as if something rose to standing. A sickening chill went down my spine. My hand clinched tied around the switchblade.

You have about three fucking seconds. I said, once again, failing to sound like a threat, three seconds went by, five seconds, ten, only silence. The sound of my own panicked breath and silence. Damn it, knife pointing forward, I rushed ahead, screaming my best attempt at war cry as I flew through the dark, running faster and faster until my ankles caught against the first step. And I sailed forward, slammed chin first into the corner stairwell.

swiping and flailing the blade like a madman all the while the light snapped on i squinted as my eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness flat on my ass backed into the corner of the stairwell there was nobody here looked up the stairs nothing i looked down the hallway i froze stood in the wreck room center shattered splinters held together with nails and wire the coat rack ha ha ha ha ha that's fun that was fun that's good that's good i like that i like the the the coat rack being like the entity something so ominous you know what's weird that what's weird is what the fuck put it back together you know i mean did it put it so like it's it's like crudely put back together and splinters yeah wrap back together that's really fun i like uh i like the premise thus far yeah it's great i mean both now now that we have the perspective of uh we have two different perspectives you know the young kid still an unanswering like people aren't answering the question of who lives in the house there now.

There's so much left open. You know, it's just like, I really don't trust anybody. I want to trust the kid more than Howie just because Howie seems like a creep, but I have no idea. Yeah. Yeah.

I mean, who's to say maybe the kid's in on it? Maybe it's something to do with his dad or whatever. Who knows? I don't know. The way that, Howie just seems weird. The way that everybody's shifting around their houses,

though, makes you think of like the fucking villagers in Resident Evil 4. No, no, no one seems normal. It's all just, it's all extremely creepy. Also, the Morse code at the end of part two says first. So first two parts are the first.

Yeah. Interesting. And I imagine it'll spell out a 14 word sentence by the end. I'm curious to see what the Morse code of like, I wonder, do you think it's in hindsight of him going back and trying to leave a message or is something that will try to leave a message through him? It's kind of just a weird way of doing one one word per part, you know. could be. I mean, sometimes

there's just like fun Easter eggs put in by creators. Like, what's true. Did you ever play the, uh, the dead space game? The first one? The first one I did. Yeah. So you remember how, uh, the whole thing is like he's trying to find Nicole through. Yeah.

His wife. Uh, the first letter of each chapter spells out, Nicole is dead. So, oh, if you were keeping up, if you, like, saw that puzzle as it was coming together,

before the ending, you would find out that Nicole's been dead the whole time. that's that's fun yeah i mean maybe there's maybe there's something there then to where like it would be nice that if it is spelling one word at a time that by the end of it it has a sentence that is obviously if you would have known if you would have been able to read the you know the sentence beforehand does it give you some kind of uh answer like the dead space game like that'd be kind of fun yeah yeah yeah so we'll we'll keep track of that and see where that goes but currently we have the first so now are you ready for part

Three. Part three. Never had a coat rack. Scare me so much. I like the idea. There's some, I love the like, bum,

bump, bump, like down the stairs and then you hear it's sliding up, like standing itself upright. That's great. Thus far, I'd broken nearly every single

so-called rule. Number one, he will begin in the furthest corner of your basement. If you see him do not overreact, he may decide to move on. Which also, pause,

snapping the intro. What does it mean by he might decide to move on? You know what I mean? like please, please move on. I would love for you to move on. Maybe if it's like a polter guys kind of thing, if you just ignore it and don't give it the reaction at once,

it just leaves. Oh, I, sorry, the way that I was reading that was like, do not overreact. He may decide to move on as if like if you overreact, he might leave. But yeah, if it's like, if you don't,

if you don't overreact, then yeah, maybe he's just like, I'll leave you alone. But yeah, him flailing around with a switch blade, I think has solidified that he's here to stay. Well, keep in mind the first,

well, the next sentence he says is, I'm guessing, that snapping the intruder in half and throwing him into a trash compactor counts as an overreaction. Yeah, probably a bit. Yeah, that's probably a bit of a year. Instead, maybe if someone walked down there

and it was like, oh, a coat rack and they just ignored it. It's like, well, if this is an entity that preys on fear or something like that, it's not getting what it wants. Yeah. But this guy saw a coat rack and went, whoa.

And they went, what the hell? It took extreme measures to get rid of it. And then like, he's not even, He saw the coat rack one time. And then when the intruder gets back home after walking back from the dump, he's already in the basement swinging a knife. He's filling a knife around.

I don't out a coat rack. Yeah, just freaking out. Yeah. Yeah, the demon's like, well, this may be another one for the books, boys. We have a keeper. Yeah. Yeah.

Number two, if the intruder decides to stay, he will take one step closer each week. based on my math, I had about 264 days to go until he reached my bedroom, probably sooner since he seemed to be moving faster now. Number three, do not attempt to speak with him, hurt him or get third parties involved. I snapped him in half and threw him in a trash compact.

I love brevity like that in these stories that don't ruin the tension, but it is kind of like, I'm once again reiterating. I threw him into a trash. I think it just reads the amount of disappointment. Immediately like, well, it's just so blunt,

like, and that's where we're at. Yeah, cats out of the bag on that one. Number four, any violation of Rolfi generally results in several quick steps forward depending on the severity of transgression.

That would explain why he's already in the center of the rec room. As once, Again, throwing him in a trash compactor. Pretty severe level of aggression. Number five. Barricading the door is acceptable. This will slow him down, but the process will be very loud, difficult to sleep. Might do this when the time comes.

Earplugs and white noise to sleep over the sound. Number six. To others, the intruder will appear as a mannequin or a rubber dummy or coat hanger, etc. Do not let guests near him. I don't even want to think about this one right now. Yeah, could you imagine like the coat rack you think's haunted, but then you're like, it could look like a coat rack to me and something completely different to other people. Yeah, I mean, it's fucking horrifying.

Well, what's interesting to so far is that if other people get near it, it's going to kill other people, right? It's like maybe it considers it an interference or something. But we've established in the story that the guy can go up to it. I just think like the guy can go up and he can move it. It's just going to go back to the spot. The real question is when it. gets to its supposed end of its like walking destination what happens you know like it seems like you can interact what's it want with you at the end of it yeah i mean like

you would assume that it's going to like kill you or something but i wonder if it's if there's some other end goal that it has yeah it's probably whatever happened to mitch's dad you would assume so yeah or like maybe Mitch's dad is still there that's i'm like wondering because he's like who lives there now oh i don't know you know my dad died is he just saying that i don't know There's also the, a fun moment you could have is like if someone else comes over and sees the coat rack and immediately starts flipping out. They're like, what is that? What is that? Like we have no idea what they see it as.

Number seven. The intruder will not move forward so long as you have guests in the house. Guess who actually want to be there. Once I had an old friend sleep on the couch for three months and the intruder didn't move a step. I have no friends. Not anymore. Number eight, you can leave the house but never sleep anywhere else. Never make plans to move, even browsing for houses online.

The importance of this rule cannot be understated. Okay, from there on out, follow the rules until I thought of something better. Two sleepless nights crawled by until I finally built up the courage to go back downstairs. I needed my phone. Down the basement hallway in the center of the rec room stood the coat wreck. Just behind it, my phone lay face down against the concrete floor. creeping forward i averted my eyes it's only a coat rack reminded myself nothing more nothing less at this point though like i i don't think i could lie to myself you know it is not a co-wrack

yeah i mean i i definitely think he's like speaking levels of delusion but i mean how else would you i mean how else would you even be able to exist i mean like the thing that's yeah how do you go on you can't even go and fucking zillow and do depressed zillow searches now you have you have to just like literally be like well he's here also count calculating that it's like I basically am going to have to live with this thing for almost a year or about a year whatever pretty crazy the idea of like uh to taking away the depressed zillo searches for a man it's rough spot to put them in oh yeah depressed zillow is that that that's that's real the real treat in life that's a rough spot looking at a 15 looking at a 15 million dollar

house like like for no reason and just being like fuck i'll never fucking get it i mean i it's and so many times the uh you what i was thinking about too actually i was do you think that i have there's nothing there hasn't been anything that says that there's clothes on it but i keep thinking of like how i would almost judge the coat rack if there's like a tweed jacket and like an old like like a british bobby's hat you're like basically george r martin's outfit if it was like hung up on it you're like god and he does have stopped like i feel like that would also give it its own layer of uh horror wouldn't it's like oh god yeah there's a tweed jacket and like a st louis car little ball cap on like, who the fuck is this guy?

You're making fun of it out loud and just starts sliding towards you really quickly. Okay, okay, I'm joking. I'm joking. That would be, that would be a menacing note if like one day he goes down there and there's like a hat on it. I think so. We're just like, what the fuck are we doing?

He's accessorizing or you would assume that. No, I think to me the idea would be like the coat rack belongs to someone or some entity. that's in the house, you know? Like, if it's a hatman sort of figure that's haunting him, like it just leaves its hat on it one time. Oh, yeah. Yeah, that'd be creepy. You'd also be creepy as if it was wearing your shirt.

Almost like that. Almost like, almost like after a hookup or something. You have like a big like, I have a big like 4XL fucking Tasmanian devil shirt. It's wearing him like, oh boy. It's wearing. No, it's where it's wearing her like, uh, Betty Boop pink pajama pants.

Oh, back to the back to the pajamas Yikes, uh-oh. It has the Homer Simpson Uh, Homer Simpson like slippers where you like put your feet in his mouth.

It has those like on top of its notches on top of its head. Wouldn't like that. Correct. What are you doing? Yeah. Well, I'm just

Okay. And we and that's a cut. And cut that. And that's a cut. And that's a cut. Yeah. I mean, the joke's too good.

It's right. I just, It's so good. Yeah, big gold. Big Gold cup filled with Mountain Dew and twizzing. Yeah. They're showing all the Marvel movies in chronological order on HBO. Yeah, it's pretty funny.

I got that Disney Plus. I got a big movie. Like, what? Yeah. Sliding into the record. Do what? Do what? What are we going to say?

Well, say, what would be the most haunting? piece of uh most haunting piece of clothing that could be on the coat rack that would give it a even more like it would give it it would make it even more haunting either children's clothes or like something that no one wears anymore you know yeah what would that be also it has to make sense that it's like a also like a practical use of a of a coat jack basically you guys asking like what is the what's a single coat or hat that could be on it?

Because I can tell you mine. Mine would be if it was like a steampunk, if it was a steampunk top hat that had the goggles on it still. And it was a steampunk goggles on a top hat already. That's making me shiver with like a long, basically just steampunk attire. If it was all just on a coat rack, that would freak me out.

A long leather duster. Why would that freak you out? I just, Steampunk to me is just, it's a, it's, well, I guess it's a cutting room floor again here, but it's mostly just the people that wear it. Creeps me out. Oh, well, yeah, yeah, yeah, sure. I thought you were asking, like, what piece of clothing could be on it that implies it's some, like,

entity. No, no, no, no. I'm just doing a little meme. Okay, all right, all right. Well, I'm glad we opened the door for that. You know what mine would be? Mine would be a Taylor Swift tour t-shirt. That would actually be.

Yeah. In various sizes where you're like, who the, who the fuck even are you? Like a 4x and it's in a small. You're like, what's happening? 4X in a small. Oh. This episode is sponsored by Tushy. Same people who want to put men on the moon, created the internet, and made medical discoveries are still stuck in the dark ages with their bathroom practices.

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Thanks, Tushy for sponsor to the episode. Now back to the episode. Sliding into the wreck room, I pushed my back up against the wall, glanced towards the coat rack. The immediate regret followed. Nails and wires were snaked around mangled shards of wood. If the coat rack was a substitute, then what did the actual intruder look like now? An image flashed through my mind, the image of a gaunt man with a carnival smile held together with nails and wire.

Creepy. I shook it off and leapt forward, snatching my phone. I scrambled away and hauled up the stairs. I could almost feel the hands of nothing chasing me from behind. I'm for stretching arms desperate to pull me back into the dark, reaching closer and closer for my ankles as I bolted up the stairs. I slammed the door shut, pressed my back up against it. Breathing heavy, I slid down to the floor.

It's just a coat rack, I told myself again. But the words ring empty now. Like a parent telling a frightened child there's nothing to be afraid of. There's nothing hiding under the bed. When really, they both know, there is. There's always something hiding under the bed. But it's not the long-tooth monster you imagine as a child. It's not the boogeyman.

It's a feeling. A hidden feeling that you can't accept because you don't even know what it is. So instead, you pretend it doesn't exist. Vague and vestry and obligation. You keep pushing back and back and back. Always lurking just out of sight, hiding in your peripherals. Sometimes you even catch a glimpse of it. Lurking in the corners, only to look and find nothing.

So you shrug it off. Turned back to your phone, your booze, your knock, knock, pounding at the front door. Whatever happened to doorbells? Got up, slinked over, and pulled it open. There on my doorstep, just as I expected, stood Howie. Brandon! He said, wearing an oversized smile and an oversized white hoodie with blue baggy sweatpants.

Howie. He said, fighting back the ever-growing pool of sleep deprivation. Sorry to bother you so early. It's just... He paused, looked over his shoulder, they're back at me. There's been a few break-ins around the neighborhood last night. Were you hit or... No.

I shook my head. Fortunate. Behind him, in the driveway across the street, he set a red Kawasaki motorcycle. First time I've ever seen a vehicle over there. Anyways. See you around. He turned to leave and...

Howie? Stopped. Turned back. Did you know them? I asked. Still watching the house across the... the street. Mr. Carver? Little. He ran a restoration thing. Fixed up our basement after a flood once. A nice man, but quiet. He didn't even want a funeral. I nodded. Howie smiled sadly and turned away. Anyways, be safe out there. Strolled off, humming to himself as he went, pulling the door shut,

turned back inside. I took my phone out and the screen was cracked. Spider-webbed. Should have bought a case, stupid idiot i dialed the tone rang out a couple times until hello mitch carver and i met in a diner at the edge of town a 2010's diner trying way too hard to look like a 50s diner seriously every single greasy spoon cliche in the book movie posters plastered the walls all the waitresses were those blue dress uniforms and the grill of a turquoise catalac hung over the bar classy red leather boots were lined up against the windows i sat there staring blankly outside. Out across the highway,

said abandoned middle-class suburbs foreclosed 12 years back. Graveyards of the 08 market crash, the ever-present drone of highway traffic reverberated in the air. Mitch said across from me. He wore a leather jacket and a ball cap. His eyes distant, quiet.

You don't count as a third party? Mitch eyed me, confused. The rules. No third parties. He shook his head. No. Why not? Already a believer.

Studying him, I took a sip of bitter black coffee. He still seems sincere, but trustworthy? I wasn't sure. Why does belief matter? I don't really know yet. He said, leaning back in his seat, glanced back around the diner. It was like he was expecting someone. He turned back to me, suddenly serious.

You need to tell me what happened. Excuse me? You said on the phone something happened that changed your mind. I raised an eyebrow. I didn't told Mitchell about my rule breaking for several reasons. Mainly I didn't want to set him off. For all his sincerity, Mitch did not seem like the most stable of individuals. Not that I blamed him, especially considering his life circumstance.

Why are you helping me? He looked out the window. His eyes flicking back and forth as traffic sped by. Turned back to me. I killed my dad. I mean, not really, but to my fault he died. He weighed over his next words carefully. Traffic outside slowly troned and ever louder.

A rising tide. Mitch continued. The last few years of his life, nobody believed him. We all thought he was crazy. But never talked about it straight up. He just left notes. Sometimes you'd go home after a visit and find one tucked away in your shoe. The notes were always about this person, hiding in his house, how they were literally trying to scare him to death.

The front door chimed open. Mitch tinsed up and glanced back over his shoulder. Family four shuffled inside. He relaxed and turned back to me. I just want to make sure what happened to him doesn't happen to anybody else. He leaned back in his seat again. He had to add around a cup of untouched coffee. Fair enough.

Look, if you broke the rules once, even... twice, that's fine, but you need to tell me what happened. I nodded slowly, took a deep breath, and I snatched the coat rack and half threw in the trash compactor. His eyes filled with shock. Shock he immediately repressed.

Like a doctor trying to act cool in front of a patient with horrific test results. And it came back the next day? Yeah. Filled together by nails and wire. Mitch nodded. How much further ahead was it? The front door chimed open again.

This time he didn't look back. about ten steps in the corner. Mitch nodded, again, trying to act like it was all good when it clearly wasn't. Another question dawned on me. Why does it look like a coat rack? Am I a guest in my own house? Mitchell shrugged. None of the rules are set in stone.

Did you buy the place with your own money? Yeah, well, sort of. It's a mortgage. Yeah, that shouldn't. Mitch? A voice from behind us cut into the conversation. An older man wearing a brown leather jacket and carrying a round leather jacket and carrying a red bike helmet tall, wiry, and in need of a shave. Pliny's wood vibes.

Mitch, where have you been? He said. His voice strained with sadness. Mitch looked away, acting like the man wasn't even there. Mitch. He said again. Voice almost shaking now. Turned back. Mitch stared down at the coffee in his hands. His reflection rippled in waves of highway traffic rumble. His eyes were wet. Mitch, Please. And leaned forward slightly. I've been looking everywhere from. The stranger trailed off into silence and stepped back and looked at me.

His eyes were filled with years of suffering. He reached into his coat pocket, produced a card, placed it face down on the table. He looked back at Mitch one last time. What was he a kid? He smiled grimly and turned away and wandered back towards the exit. Hands on the door. He stopped and looked towards. towards us. He opened his mouth to say something, but turned away, pushed outside, stepped into

the gravel parking lot. He crossed the lot and climbed onto a red Kawasaki motorcycle. Then he looked back in me through the window, smiling sadly. Suddenly, his eyes lit up, darted back forth for a couple seconds, then snapped back to vacant apathy. It was like someone had crawled into his mind, taking a quick look around, and jumped back out. Eyes back to sadness. rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb, pulled on his helmet, grabbed up the engine, and sped off. Mitch? I said, still staring out the window.

The realization of what that might have been was slowly dawning on me. It's not him. Not anymore. I turned back. Mitch, hands shaking, took a sit from his coffee and set it down. You want to know what happens when it reaches you? Throw up his hand as if to say, wish granted. I didn't fully understand what he meant by that, but right now wasn't the time to push.

Mitch looked on the verge of tears. Reaching across the table, grabbed the card, the man left behind and handed it to me. Turned it over and read Carver Restoration and Renovation. Owner, PT Carver, Mitch's father. Oh. Weird. So it doesn't even fucking, it just, that's so, what a weird thing. It almost strikes me as like the obsession thing.

you know, like, you've seen an obsession, right? Oh, yeah. So with like how she's still in there a little bit, how Nikki's still in there, but whatever this new form is is like driving the wheel, you know, taking control. Maybe that's kind of what it does to you. Yeah, almost like, so you're saying that the entity

almost becomes like a host, like it's almost possessing you and now it lives through. like it's uh it basically inhabits your body or are you saying that it's uh yeah like right you're saying like it's almost a possession is what you're saying yeah it's like a possession uh perhaps or it kills you and whatever this thing is like just takes your form kind of like a skin walker you know yeah that's interesting i don't know the idea too of like when mitch said that he's like oh i killed my dad well you know at least i kind of did i was responsible because i didn't stop it yeah Yeah, it seems like maybe the thing got to it.

Wait, so do you think that Mitchell's dad, does he still live at the house? Or is it someone else now? Across the street? Because it seems like it. The thing that used to be his dad lives in the house. Yeah. Oh, so yeah. So that, but what I'm saying is that entity still lives there, though?

Yes. Yeah. Okay. That's the thing that's peeking around. That's why he's like, did you sell it? And he's like, no, I just don't know what lives there now. So like, whatever his dad is. dad is what's living there. And that's the thing peeking at him through like the slats and the fence.

Yeah. So that's wonder that's him. It's weird that they just wouldn't say, oh, geez, dad still lives there. It's interesting that it seems like even other people acknowledge that that's not really him, you know? Yeah. Well, it sounds like there was a, it's that other people think he died, like with, you know, how he's saying he didn't want a funeral. Right. Um, so maybe like publicly like his dad died. And then this thing showed up a year later that just looks like his dad, maybe. A bunch of goddamn psychopaths walking around the town is what it sounds like. Yeah.

Part four. So it's an interesting concept. I've always said, you know, I think it's more interesting when the creature does something besides just kill you, right? Yeah, way more.

So I think this is interesting. Yeah. Yeah. This is every, every little clue we get kind of leads to more. More speculation. You think you're going one way. Oh,

left turn. You know, it's, it's, it's very nice. Part four. Also. So the Morse code at the end of part three says time.

So the first time. The first time. First time. All right. Part four. Rule six, to others, the intruder will appear as a mannequin or a rubber dummy or a coat hanger, etc. Do not let guests near him. What exactly does others mean?

Mitch left the diner shortly after his dad showed up. But before he left, I asked him about being the so-called other about why the intruder, about why the intruder appeared as a coat rack. He just shrugged. Rules aren't set in stone. Just keep your distance. Said Mitch in regards to his father. He's not what he seems.

Meeting with Mitch revealed almost nothing, save for more unsettling questions. Which I understand Mitch doesn't want to see like his ghost like Skin Walker Dad walking around. I get that. But he should also get over that and explain to Brandon what is going on. Well, once again, I'm wondering how much, well, exactly.

You'd be like fucking, why don't you just tell the guy? It's still, I'm still kind of under the setup of what we were talking about earlier, where is Mitch trying to set even Brandon up to save his dad or get his dad bag? Like, what, what are we not, what are we not being revealed that is leaving Brandon to be at harm's way is what I want to know? Yeah. Yeah. Because obviously there's selfish intentions to why, like, this exposition or like why we're not getting. that information.

I would assume. I would think, yeah, the shoe's going to drop somewhere. Maybe you would think, but who knows? No. Why was his dad still alive? Why was his dad's bike parked in the driveway across the street?

Is that even his dad? Was this bitch messing with me? Was the entity messing with both of us? Questions over questions over questions. Rising dread lurked beneath the surface of everything. Like reality itself was nothing but a blanket draped over some unspeakable tear. Vail that might be torn away at any minute, any second.

Highway 7 was emptier than usual. My blue 1993 Toyota hatchback. Hey, this guy's got, this guy gets it. This guy's cool. For a second, I thought I was going to say, my 1993 Toyota, uh, was it high flux or whatever? I was going to be like, holy shit. The guy's sitting on a gym.

The high lugs? Yeah. Yeah. Oh, gosh. Dude, those high looks is just so cool. I've got a buddy who has one of the, I think they call them the server. or the cruiser models that has an enclosed cab. So it's like an early 90s highlux,

uh, totally enclosed cab like a four runner like the V8 engine. Oh. I just remember when I was younger I watched the, or not we have younger, but I remember back in the day I watched the top gear thing and they had the high lux that was like went through hell and still worked. Yep.

The entire time is so sick. There are stories of those trucks hitting their odometer hitting like 999,999,999, 999,000. 99 miles. Still going. Yeah, still going. Yeah. My blue 93 Toyota hatchback reverberated with the drones of rubber against road. A red sun crept down behind distant mountains.

Shadow stretched longer as the day crawled westward. Against pastel, pink skies, starling flocks move like a singular hive mind. Driving always calm me down. Before I owned a car, I used to go for these long, solitary hikes out in the mountain forest. There's something about constant motion. Outside, alone and peaceful. I was still committed to the rules, at least until I thought of something better. Regardless, my next priority would be to get somebody over, a guest who actually wanted to stay.

Maybe I'd rent out the spare bedroom, maybe I'd call up an old friend. Easier said than done, especially considering the pandemic. Either way, I needed to get a handle on this. Up ahead, parked at the side of the highway, red Kawasaki-Wesaki. motorcycle. I sped past before the image fully registered. Letting off the gas, I checked the rearview mirror. There it was. A red bike, about 200 feet back. I pulled over, looked back over my shoulder. Only the bike was there. Shifting into reverse, I froze. What was I doing? Mitch specifically told me to keep my distance, but my curiosity had other ideas. I breathed in,

I excelled. I shifted back into forward and stared out into the empty highway ahead, stretching straight to the horizon. Just go home, I thought. Go home, sleep, but I didn't listen. I shifted back into reverse and moved towards the red Kawasaki. Lurching to a stop about 10 feet away, I stepped outside, squinting as rising plumes of dust stung my eyes.

There set the bike. Kick stand out. Key stole the ignition. helmet set on the driver's seat. I'm no mechanic, but the air smelt like engine trouble. I glanced around, the highway's shoulder went out for about 20 feet, cut down into grassy fields. About 50 feet down, someone sat down on the edge of the shoulder.

Mitch's dad, PT Carver. At least, that's what I assumed from this distance. He sat with elbows resting on knees, steering off into the field, smoking. I stood there, weighing my options. wanting to leave, but letting my curiosity went out yet again. I walked over. I mean, you would have to say this is a bad idea, right?

Yes, but I, you know, I was thinking of that earlier too, but I would say that they've done a good job in this by being like, you just don't trust anyone. Everyone has been very, like very fucking weird to the point where now it's like, I mean, I wouldn't just immediately trust Mitch. I wouldn't immediately trust Howie. I would be, there would still be this level of curiosity. where I would feel like something wrong is happening and you need to piece it together. Like the only person you get trusted yourself. So I guess that. Yeah.

I mean, I agree. I think it's a bad idea. But at the same time, I don't, it's not like I really trust any party right now to, I guess, like, avoid. Like, I, the inquisitiveness of all of this I would still be on board with, I guess. I don't know. Even though once again, I don't, I mean, I don't know. If I heard of man was like dead or transformed, I don't know if I would want to go up and talk to him. But that's also from the mouths of people.

that do I trust them? I'm not sure. Yeah, we have to assume that Brandon's now bought into like the supernatural is real. 100% here that's happened. Yeah, you know, is beyond myself. So he has to know it's real to some degree, but like you said, Mitch is also being weird and not saying everything

up front. But if this guy told me that his dad's a ghost thing and I shouldn't go near, then I feel like I wouldn't, but I also, this isn't like a typical horror movie thing where I'm like, what are you doing? I understand. Yeah, yeah, yeah. There's so few things answered. That's what I mean. That's why I think it's cool is because I feel like a lot of times

you'd be like, what the fuck are you doing? Like it would feel stupid, but I don't know. I'm still, I'm still at this spot where everything is so up in the air and I trust no one. I don't trust a single person. Yeah. Yeah. The smell of gasoline getting stronger with every step. A red Jerry can said of that. Oh, oh, the gasoline and burnt hair thing. Is that implying that like Mitch's dad or whatever this entity is gives off that smell maybe possibly smell of gasoline getting stronger with every step a red jerry can't set on the hard packed dirt beside him stopped about 10 feet away glanced over made eye contact

nodded turned back to the view car troubles bike troubles anything I can help with shook his head took a drag off of brown cicarillo vanilla flavored judging by the smell all my questions backed away sympathy replaced curiosity apparition or not

this man looked broken down as though his life had been nothing but let down after let down after let down he studied something out in the distant fields adjourned to see what he was seen nothing only shimmering wind rippling through the floodgrass

the last trips of daylight soaking back into the ground he pointed off past the boardwalk about 200 feet My eyes followed his erections, still nothing. Down beside the water. Then I saw it.

Three bears, brown bears, mother and two cubs, drinking from the water. Never seen a bear outside of zoos. Didn't even know they lived around here. Probably came down from the ballry. Nothing but clear-cut suburbs up there now. He spat dryly, pressed his heel against the spit, turned his ankle like putting out of cigarette. Just then, Mother Bear looked up, glanced around as if she heard something. She held there a couple moments, then went back to drinking.

So, you're friends to my son? He said, watching the bears all the while. No. Not really. Boyfriend? No. Nothing wrong with that? I'm saying there was. I then saw the old man's face and realized this was Mr. Widemouth. Okay. Huh? What? Yeah. Come on seriously. He smiled sadly, clenched his eyes shut and took another long, slow drag of the Cigarillo. Acquaintances, I'd say.

What's that? Acquaintances? Sure. People who know each other tangentially. You moved across the street, yeah? Yeah. Ignore the crazies. Crazies.

Neighborhood's full of them. Crazy catching. Yeah, I meant to ask about. Raised a hand. Not right now. You come by tomorrow and I'll answer any questions you want about any of that. Just not right now. The motion towards the horizon as if it were the only moment of peace he'd seen in years.

I nodded. He smiled warmly, took one last drag and pressed a cigar down against the hard-packed dirt beside him, twisting it there until it went cold. Wiping ash-stained fingers onto his brown leather jacket. He took a deep breath, exhaled, pushed up to standing. Produced another cigarillo and offered it to me, and I shook my head. Just quit. Shrugged, lit up, took a track, and exhaled more vanilla-flavored smoke.

You know what to do when you run into Baloo? Ballou. Blaint, disappointed surprise. Grizzly, up close. Throw your hands up and make a lot of noise and yell? I said. half remembering something from grade school, he scoffed. That's a good way to end up with your head advice between bear jaw.

Pulling another drag, he exhaled the smoke through his nostrils. You run to one of those up close. Just talk to her like you're doing here. Pretend she's an old friend or something. Long time. Been a while. Tell about your day. Ask her how she's been.

His cold blue eyes filled with memories. drifting back and forth across the distant horizon as he spoke. All the while, you keep backing up. Slow like, slow as you can manage. Not slow like you're trying to leave, slow like we both happen to be going the same direction. How about that? Looked at me directly. Know the difference?

I nodded. He turned back. Nine times out of ten. If she has an outright mileage already, she'll fall. Curious? Just keep backing up. Keep talking. His jaw tinsed up and then relaxed.

When you got about 15, 20 feet between you. Take off your backpack, or your hat, whatever. He looked down at the dirt. Place that on the ground. Just stop and see what's that. Sniffing, prodding. You back up faster now, but not by a bunch. Again, he looked directly at me.

The trick is to accept the fact that you're scared shitless. Except your head's lying to you. Begging you to run. Whispering every song in the Bible. You can do this. You can fight. You can run. Waved his hand as if to say and so on.

But you let their fear take control. He snapped his fingers with surprising loudness. That's it. He looked away. Licked a cigarillo straight down, stomped it out and spat. Instead, you tell yourself, God damn, I'm really scared right now. You take that and whatever else is on your mind, and you set it aside. Don't push it away, don't forget it.

Just set it aside and focus on breathing. Instead, focus on backing up, one foot after another. No shortcuts. Soon enough, she'll lose interest and wander off. Met my eyes again. Usually, if Ballou wants to. a fight, you go through the eyes. At least you'll go down fighting.

A few long seconds passed until I realized he was finished. Thank you. That entire interaction, that whole thing, is an average conversation with my dad. That's your exact response to. Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Dad. Yeah, thanks, Dad.

Yeah. Now, let's talk about when a guard boy will fights you. You're like, Oh, damn. Yeah, it's like, hey, dad, how are you doing today? It's like, you know, one time on a night like this, that's when I found Bobby. Cut his arms off, and it's like, okay. Well, all right.

No, thank you. Yeah. Thanks, dad. That is, well, we're almost to the end of the soul section, I'll say. I said, not really sure what else to say. I turned back to the field. Family of Bears was gone now. He chuckled softly and stepped back. Look, you have any of this?

Haunting bullshit. Bet my eyes. You know where I live. Just come over. And nod. I'd still unsure if he was a puppet, apparition, real, or some combination of the three. I'll just tell you straight up. Don't take anything the neighbor say seriously.

Especially fucking howie. Sure. I said, turning back from my car. One more thing. He squat down. picked up the red jerry can and shook it, empty. The nearest gas pump was about three miles out. I brought the cherry can back full and we drove home in the same direction.

Despite my reservations, I liked PT. He reminded me of my old man, rest of peace. Still, I didn't know who to believe. I couldn't shake the way his eyes moved outside the diner. Like somebody had crawled into his mind and taken a quick look around. Maybe I was paranoid. Maybe I was seeing things, but no amount of paranoia explained the coat rack in the basement. First thing tomorrow morning is what I mean to ask him about.

Okay. So, okay. Interpretation that makes PT not a monster is once the thing got to him, it possessed him, but it only possesses him sometimes, right? Hmm. Like it's in there and it can take the reins when it. ever at once, but the rest of time, like that conversation, that was actually PT. Do you, well, how do you feel about that? Like from a narrative perspective or how do I feel about trusting him?

I guess from a narrative, like a narrative creative kind of perspective. Like my gut reaction hearing that is like, I think that's kind of, it's kind of silly. Or like what kind of like, I mean, losing control, losing control periodically and having no idea when it's going to happen is creepy, but it isn't like. Like, it's not so that like grips me in this. I think that can make sense as to why like Mitch is still mourning his father, but he can't be close to him because he knows at any time this thing can take control of his father. It would just depend on the execution of it. Like again, not to just keep bringing up obsession, but in obsession, it's a similar thing there where primarily the possessor is in the driver's seat.

But it is creepy that every now and then Nikki comes back, right? Yeah. So vice versa. So it's like, yeah, you can trust this guy sometimes, but what does he do the rest of the time? So it depends on its implementation, I think, but I think it could work. Or the whole time you can't trust a word he says.

Well, that's the thing is the creepiest thing so far as he is the first borderline level-headed person. I mean, granted, he did just give us a weird thing about like, you know, how to survive a bear attack and that parallels. Yeah, but that meant something. What's what I'm saying? It's paralleling with something. It feels like a warning. and that's and I guess that's what I mean is like he's the first person like he's the first I would say personally the first normal person that we've talked to so far in the story he's the most human out of all of them that is less well I mean I would even say less cryptic I would just say also just a guy too is like I mean you know where I live just fucking come over I mean all these people are fucking weird it's once again it's just a reestablishing I don't trust I don't trust a single fucking person in the story so far hardly even Brandon

yeah yeah yeah i don't know i don't know we'll see where it goes from here i don't know if i'd go to his house the next day though i feel hell no yeah yeah i feel like seeing seeing him out on the side of the road that's like okay there's like some vague notion of safety here but his house i don't think so i pulled up into my driveway and set there a good moment before stepping out orange street lights bounced over wet asphalt small gray dot of a cat or a raccoon shimmy down a neighbor's fence slaked across the fresh-cut lawn. The house across the street was dark, the driveway was empty.

No red bike. Maybe PG took a different route to back. I stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind me. I saw the basement door, the weight of everything suddenly came crashing back. The building's red of my bizarre predicament. The door was shut and almost pleading with me to open it. Suddenly begging me to check

and see if the coat rack was still there, see how much further along it was. was. Turning away, I went for the kitchen. But I stopped in the living room and looked back over my shoulder. Screw it. May as well get this over with. Spun around, marched over, yanked the door open, flicked on the line. Taking deep, slow breath. I stepped forward, one step at a time, and my foot slipped. I tripped forward seven quick steps and tumbled over headfirst into the corner. throbbing pain shot up my left leg my shin was snapped turned left at a sickening 90 degree angle jesus the bone inside pushed up against my skin like a swollen cyst almost puked at the sign fuck I hissed gritting my teeth and pushing back into the corners the long dark hallway stretched out before we couldn't stand couldn't even reach the second light couldn't think thankfully I was in too much shock to

to fully appreciate the rising pain for now. I clinched my eyes shut. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. adrenaline pushed me into a strange state of calm. I opened my eyes. Everything was slightly brighter now. My vision was adjusting, but the hallway was still clouded by shadow.

Pulled out my phone, turned up the screen to maximum brightness, shone it down into the hallway. The coat rack was still there, but closer now. about five feet closer, I guessed. And now, a heavy wool coat hung from its top. There it is. There it is. I knew it was coming. There it is.

A heavy wool coat hung from its top. So much for one step a week. Tucking my phone away, I looked up towards the exit. Time to go. Carefully shifting my body weight to avoid more pain. I turned over. It's a tedious process. I couldn't afford paramedics or any ambulance,

so I'd have to crawl up the stairs and call a taxi. Besides, no way I was waiting down here with the only coat rack to keep me company. Why is being poor so expensive? Trip. A solitary drop of water fell somewhere in the darkness. I slowly turned to look. Coat rack's dim silhouette stood motionless. Through this, I was about to turn away, but something moved.

Behind the coat rack, barely visible. Something rose to stings. Oh, God. I only saw the shadowed outline of a person, the faintest hint of pinkish red skin, like the skin of a dying pig. I froze, paralyzed. My eyes adjusting bit by bit,

second struck by like minutes. Suddenly, the wool coat shook. It was too gaunt and unnaturally large hands emerged from the dark and wrapped around the coat rack. Gripping tight, the hands lifted the coat rack noiselessly off the ground. Silence, a quick step forward, a stuttering excel, as though it took great effort. Then it set back down. More silence.

Then the coat rack hoisted upwards again and another quick step forward. The schlick sound of wet, bare feet pressed on and off the concrete floor. Another strait to excel, and they set it down. There was an almost hypnotizing, percussive rhythm to it, like a strange, dissonant song. Again, the coat rack hoisted up, and I'd seen more than enough. Twisting to my side, I clawed my hands onto the banister

and hoisted myself upward, wincing in pain as my snapped leg drugged uselessly behind me. More footsteps, more stuttering breaths. It was moving faster, now, getting closer. I pulled myself forward, one tedious thrust at a time, gritting my teeth through this ever-rising pain. Damn.

Whoever was holding the coat rack was on the stairs now. Oh shit. I didn't look back. I couldn't look back. I kept pulling forward, inching closer and closer to escape. All the while, a terrible image burning into my head. The image of long, ever-stretching arms with pig-colored skin sliding up the stairs, reaching for my shins, inching closer and closer

until I grabbed the doorframe with both hands and launched myself forward, lurching into the upstairs. I spun around and kicked the door with my good leg. Slam shut with satisfying finality. Foot on the door, catching my breath. I listened. Listen for the slightest movement below.

Seconds went by. Minutes. Nothing. My racing thoughts finally steadied. Close call. time to barricade the door. Ooh, end of part four. What does the bottom say?

It says you. The first time you. Do you think that also in a part four, part four was awesome? The first time we actually get a glimpse of this person, no identifiable qualities yet. I'm wondering, do you think it's mimicking him? Do you think it's going to like look like him? So the thing that makes me think you might be right is he took seven steps when he fell. And then he slid up the side of the wall, which is the exact same thing he heard happened on the staircase while he was looking for his phone.

Right. I think that's why I'm also wondering too is PT. Is he also just like a clone or a copy of some kind? Could be. Yeah. Yeah, it could be like that's what I was kind of get with the Skin Walker thing like a mimic is made of them of sort of. How many times? How many times?

The dine pig skin, the pinkish red skin. Oh, that's great. Well, that's what it makes me also just think of like a, not a newborn, but like almost like in flame, like it hasn't reached its final coloration yet or something. You know what I mean? It's like a transitional period. Yeah, like it's like a fleshy like a puppet that's trying to grow skin and mimic him or whatever.

Yeah. I was wondering too if the amount of time, which I probably didn't, but I'm wondering like, it was like picking up the coat rack and like hitting it back down. on the ground right. It sounds like it's clinging it across the floor to move it. Yeah. So is it using it? So was it doing that or I didn't know if it was also trying to do the Morse code kind of thing.

If it was doing some or I don't know. It just made me think of that with the ending, but certainly could be. Certainly could be. Interesting. That's our first look at the actual monster now at the end of part four. Yep. It's pretty good.

Part five. Yep, part five. I'm liking this story so far. I'm bought in. I'm bought in. Yep. Part 5. Leg in a blue cast, I hobbled across the street on crutches.

49 hours had passed since I fell down the stairs and saw the intruder in the basement, or at least saw his hands. Regardless, enough was enough. I need a concrete plan and concrete answers to deal with this. At this rate, the intruder would reach my room in weeks, maybe even days. I still didn't even know what would happen if he got to me, but I'm sure as hell didn't want to find out. Time was short. I pounded on the neighbor's door and something inside moved. Through frosted windows down the alley, the shadow of a door creaked open.

Someone peered out, a blurry silhouette. I waved politely. I stood there, watching me. Emotionless. Then I stepped back into the room and pulled the door shut. I raised my hand to knock again when the front door swung open. There stood PT Carver, some blue jeans and a brown shirt. shirt, look at even more Clinties would like them before.

Brandon. smiled warmly. Open my mouth to respond, but realized I didn't even know his name yet, just the initials. Paul's fine. He stepped back from the door and motioned me inside. Paul. Prop forward onto my crutches and... Wait.

You reach behind the door and produced a box of disposable light blue masks. You don't mind, do you? Put a mask on himself and handed another to me. Put the mask on. Getting too old risking, you know. Said Paul stepping back from the door and once again motioning me inside. As I stepped past him, his eyes dropped the blue cast around my leg. What happened there? Stairs.

Oh, ouch. Shut the door. Despite the sunny day outside, it was dark in here. All the blinds were pulled shut and everything was cast in shadow, save for a couple low-energy desk lights, thin beams of intruding sunlight. I looked around, my eyes adjusting.

The interior of Paul's house contradicted my expectations, to put it mildly. It felt like an old Wall Street corner office. Fancy stuff. Gold brass light fixtures in the ceiling, barnish oak walls with ornate patterns carved into the crowning.

Expensive looking. Moody Renaissance paintings up on the walls. Never judge a house by its cover, my guess. There's no upstairs. only the first floor, a couple bedrooms, the door that led to what I assumed was a basement. A long hallway led to the back of the house,

and I noticed the room which someone had peered out from. The door was still shut. The air smelled like tobacco and vanilla. Not a bad smell, at least not to me. Tobacco sin always reminded me in my dad's house, back when I was a kid, and still somewhat happy. I kicked off my shoes and pressed my sock-covered feet against the floor. The carpet was out of place, greenish brown, scratchy, worn down to the plywood in some areas.

Please. Paul motioned me towards the living room. I shuffled deeper into the house. Feel free to take a seat? Paul nodded towards the long green velvet couch. It slept down. Immediate relief. Hobley ran on crutches.

It was more tiring than it looked. Can I get you anything? Water and coffee? I'm good, thanks. You sure? Water? No. no thanks i'm fine paul sat down on a wooden stool across from me stool creaked with antique strained

unstable crossing his legs he leaned against the wall studying me like a therapist studying a client so took a deep breath and excelled last night i saw him paul's face remained neutral shifted his weight slightly saw who the intruder What I saw has no reasonable hands, barely human. I trailed off into silence. You take a photo? I shook my head. Good.

Keep it that way. Why? Studded me carefully before continuing. You seen a doctor? No. Glanced down at the cast on my leg, the back up to me. Rolled my eyes. Well, yes.

You tell him about? No. No, no. His face filled with strange relief. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. Do not tell anyone about this, okay? Not even Mitch. You understand?

Sure. Okay, so if Paul is this demon or part of the demon thing or whatever, he may just be telling him that because other people can help. So he's trying to isolate him. There's just so much deception. I have no idea who to trust in any of this. Oh, my God. I mean, the whole thing of just like, don't tell this person.

This person's dead. He's a clone. Yeah, you best not work. about this guy. I mean, it's like, it's just so much people, no one is, yeah, there's no allegiance or line up of anything. Yeah. Pauline back reaching into the chest pocket of a shirt produced a cigarette. Pulled his mask down to his chin, lifting the smoke up to his mouth. He pinched it between his thin lips to kind of pack of matches and a thump reverberated from somewhere deep inside the house. He froze, raising an eyebrow. Silence. He shrug.

struck the match and then another thump. Paul shook out the match and tossed it into an empty tin can set upon a yellow plastic crate to his shit left. He sighed, irritated. Excuse me. Steped up and marched deeper into the house. Watched he rounded the corner and disappeared into the four-year hallway. More silence. Don't like that.

Now, I was starting to wonder if coming over here was such a good idea to begin with. Things felt off. sure my initial meeting with paul was surprising to say the least he's long drawn-out bear safety monologue was odd but endearing in a weird sort of way but when paul showed up at the diner Mitch seemed truly disturbed like he'd seen a ghost or something even worse either way i just wanted answers and hopefully paul would give me that hopefully right then the sound of a door clicked open in the foyer hallway flick shut the faintest hint of smell wafted into the room, the recurring smell of gasoline and burnt hair. So subtle it might have been imagined. Around the corner, down the hallway, muffled voices, arguing. Tools of my head and strained to listen, but...

Sorry about that, said Paul, suddenly stepping into the room. No worries. With oddly pinned straight posture, Paul sat down on the couch across from me. a brown velvet couch with old-timey drawings of farms and ducks that reminded me of a sofa of my grandma's house it's probably the exact couch you're imagining right now same couch i slept on after dad's funeral only i didn't really sleep just lay in my back staring at the ceiling thinking so that's it huh stop existing now everybody gets together and it's coleslaw and left over turkey and that's it seems a little anticlimactic you want answers huh

Paul struck up another match, lit up the cigarette, and finally took a slow, satisfied drag. He excelled. Smoke lingered around for a moment, and slowly drifted back towards the dining room, passing through beams of derelict sunlight. Why doesn't much think you're dead? Paul nodded, expecting the question. Reaching over the side of the couch, he tapped the cigarette with his pointer finger. Small bits of glowing ash broke off in Tumble Town into the tin can. Back when Mitch and Evelyn and his sisters were kids,

some pretty serious health issues, still do. Full disclosure, but I'm medicated now and that helps. He lifted the cigarettes and take another drag, but stopped short, remembering something. He lowered it. After my parents passed away, I started to believe something was stalking me, toying with me. Shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Started with small things at first.

Bombs in the night. food gone bad before the ex-expert, before the expiry date. Things too small to talk about, but too big to just, you know, brush off. He met my eyes and looked away and took another short drag. I thought back to the expired milk in my fridge. One of many unanswered questions still festering in the back of my mind. It's practically buzzing past my ear like a persistent mosquito. Furiating.

Paul sighed. I'm a rashness at heart, so... The possibility of something unnatural. Waved his hand like a magician. The thing that never crossed my thoughts. Paused again, glancing over at me, judging my reactions as he spoke. Now bear with me, because all this leads to a point. One night...

Here we go. Here we go. This is what I wanted. I want some back story. I need some answers. Okay, perfect. One night, back in 94, maybe 93. The kids and their moms were fast to sleep.

It was a Thursday, so I went down to the basement for canned peaches and late-night beer. Pointed down to the floor. The light was out, so I came back up with the flashlight and... He trailed off into silence. His cold blue eyes still locked on the floor. This time somebody was down there. Just standing there. Stead down the basement hallway with the back turned to me.

I wanted to call out. yelled at him and run upstairs, get my nine millimeter, but instead I just froze, like road killing headlights. Paul looked directly at me. That's when it hit me. I realized that this intruder, over seven foot tall, by the way, he was halfway stuck into the concrete wall, like the mold was set around him and dried there. Paul shook his head like a chill went down his spine. The sight was so strange I couldn't even think straight. Leaned forward and rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb.

Weird tick that suddenly stood out to me. Mitch did the same thing. So did Howie. Why? Things got really bad after that. The more I tried to fight it, the worse it got. The more I tried to make sense of things and... He trailed off into a moment of silence.

Because no, of course, nobody else saw him. They just saw a stack of cardboard boxes He paused again Looking around the room One night Cold autumn night I've been Dealing with this ever

Encroaching nightmare for weeks At that point I'd down two bottles of cognac It brought my 9mmy downstairs March straight up to him He made a gun with his fingers And pointed at me Press the barrel between his dead eyes

And pulled the trigger Mimed the motion of gun kicked back and limply dropped his hand back to his thigh. But he didn't even flinch. Well, it went straight through him. Ricketed off the back corner and got me in the hand. Yoll of his left hand. The pinky finger was cut off short at the first knuckle.

I'd even noticed until now. How did I miss that? Gosh, there's so much here. This is interesting context and it's cool, but it's like that line about they all rub their head the same way. and him missing the finger. It's like, okay, but can I trust anything? That's what I'm saying.

I can't trust any of this. I don't know. I can't even trust Brandon. I don't trust anyone. Paul shook his hand like it went numb and leaned back into his seat again. After that, Paul he threatened to leave.

Take the kids with her. Reb the side of his palm against his left forearm, ruminating. I'd leave myself too if I couldn't. Then his eyes lit up, remembering. Let me show you something. Paul pushed up from the couch. Strolled towards the door, I assume, led to the basement.

I remained seated. After my last encounter with the intruder, I wasn't a big fan of stairs, or basements for that matter. You coming? After noticing my hesitation, Paul looked back at me the same way my dad used to, struggling a high disappointment,

silent judgment. Paul smiled a half smile, pulled his mask back up, and pulled a ring of keys out from his pocket, humming to himself. Don't like that. rifle through, unlatched a key, turned the lock. Don't like that.

No. No dice. Relatched the key and went back to rifling. Still humming all the while. Meanwhile, I stood back about 10 feet, head turned, eyes locked on the mysterious room at the end of the hallway. The door was shut. You live alone? Yes.

Well, is it no. Oh, God. He unlatched another key and gave that one a try. No dice. An old friend lives in the room down the hall. I'm the caretaker, sort of. That's good of you. Yeah, well, my own one.

I don't like that at all. No. An old friend lives down the hall. Everyone stop being so vague. Please, God! I'm going to have it hell! An old... I'm having an old friend for dinner.

Yeah, it ain't no big... I guess I just owe him one. Why? Yep. Just fucking... Please just tell me what's going. Love... Lovely weather today, isn't it?

It's raining outside. Oh, if you say so. Only rains when he gets up. What are you talking about? Tiptoe out the window. Considered asking more. Asking if they were a guess keeping the intruder at bay, but something told me to just keep it to myself.

Paul Hufft, a legend a third key from the ring, holding it up to his face. He said it like a jeweler, studies a suspect diamond. brought it down to the lock, pushed it in and turned. Finally, the door clicked open.

There are times the... Paul looked around searching for words, same way Howie did. Shaking his head, he tucked away the key and stepped down into the dark. Also, Howie hummed and shit too. Yeah, and I don't like him going, third times the...

Yeah, exactly. Charm. What the fuck are you talking about? It's so easy. What do you do? Yeah. It's like, if I was Brandon, I'd be like, okay, everyone get it together.

He's like a fucking little... He's like a fucking like Russian nesting doll of all these characters that are like living together and as one being or something. It's fucking creepy. Flick the line on. Cold fluorescent glow stammered alive. Concrete walls and wooden steps

smothered in layers of dust. Paul looked back over his shoulder. You good with stairs? No. He said looking down at my cast covered leg. I'll try. Oh my God, Brandon. You know what? Brandon fucking die.

Dude, honestly, fucking, fucking. You know what? Zero empathy for Brandon. Yeah, Brandon just needs to... He needs to grow up. He needs to grow up. This is not... Behavior is not indicative of a man who wants to live.

He nodded. Use the railing. Turn him back. He stepped deeper into the basement. I hobbled over to the top of the stairs. Flat of step seemed longer than expected. Like, it went down one and a half stories instead of just one.

Paul stood at the bottom. Another door in front of it. though maybe door wasn't quite the right word, more like a bunker hatch, italic, and held shut with an arm-sized lever instead of a dorm knob. I didn't want to go into the basement, but a weight of morbid curiosity compelled me yet again

every single time. Fuck you, Brandon. Do what? I said, fuck you, Brandon is what I said. God, I'm just so curious like a cat. Meow. It's like fucking whatever, dude, God. It's one of those things with storytelling

where you have to at some point. point, right, theatrics over authenticity. Of course, of course, yeah. Yeah, because I mean, Brandon being like, okay, bye, it's like, and I never found out what was in the bunker. Paul gripped his hands around the lever, braced himself against the wall and pulled. His wiry arms flexed and strained as the lever slowly moved towards him. Gritting his teeth, Paul yanked harder and harder until finally.

You're a little yawning boy today. ever gave way. Do what? So you're a little yawning boy today. A little yawning boy. Yeah. Did not get a lot of sleep last night. But you know what?

Was the, was the babe keeping you up? The babe was in fact keeping me up. It was party time and she did not want it to be sleeping time. You go on there's like a disco ball. She's just like spinning, doing break dancing all the way. Unironically,

I'll put her in the sleep sect where it's like a big sleeping bag that her arms and head stick out of. And I'll walk in there and be like, I'm going to check and see if she's sleeping. And I go in there and she's like throwing her legs side to side like she's dancing. And she's like, ah, but da-b-da-b-da-ma-da-it's like, all right. Party rock us in the house. The house, too-noy.

Yeah, please get some sleep. And if I go have a good time. She sees me come in and she looks over. And she's like, ah. And she does this thing whenever she wants to be picked up where she will hold her arms out in like a T-shaped. And she'll bow her back up and go. like she's trying to get you to lift her up. So she sees me come in and she smiles and immediately goes,

Oh! No! And even if I leave and like shut the door down the hall, I can hear going, uh, huh. Ha! So,

it's like, all right. Looks like we're walking around again. Sit in your sack and sleep. Yeah. Get over it. Betty by the lever gave way

lurching backward suddenly the metallic door itself shifted downward with an echoing clang clouds of dust particles burst out from the edges Paul wiped his forehead with the back of his arm squat down

grabbed the bottom of the door with both hands hoisting upward he pushed the door into a vertical swing it pressed flat up against the ceiling there was nothing but dark ahead pitch dark

Paul crept forward silence followed five long seconds ticked by until a light flicked on more cold stuttering glow too good Paul's voice echoed up the staircase yeah we I'm okay I said stepping forward going downstairs on crutches was even more tedious than expected the whole precarious journey took about three minutes until finally stepped into the basement a long narrow hallway led to a two-way fork in the path my god floors, plywood walls.

Got an engineering slash construction background. Sure. Sure, Paul. I built the pandemonium for the devil. My son's a minotaur.

He's down here. You're like, okay. Cool. Did I tell you my name's Minus? Yeah, he's like, I'm a king. Paul Minus. Just like turns around,

hobbles his ass back. upstairs. Where are you going? Yeah. Don't worry about it. Built this place from the ground up. I'm sure you did. He stopped at the fork in the hallway and looked both ways thinking. Do you believe in God? I don't like that.

And he's like, no. And he's like, got it. And he goes right. Exactly. Perfect. It's like, wait, wait. What is that? Yeah, what was the left?

What is that? He looked left. He looked right. He looked left again. He shrugged. Gotta be this way. Push forward. I followed.

What do you mean? Gotta be. You built it. What are you talking about? This, uh, this basin is bigger than you think. Yeah. He said around at the corner.

What? Yeah. So I guess what I think he's done is because this thing moves across the floor towards you. He's constructed a maze. He's constructed a huge thing. That's fucking awesome. Yeah. Literally minus and the Minotaur, right? Building the labyrinth so he can't escape. Another narrow hallway stretched about 20 feet until it reached another two-way fork.

Paul kept walking, and I kept following. I put up these walls. I tried to build a maze around him, slow him down. Chuckled, rounded another corner. Then I put up a bunker hatch and trailed off into silence, rounding yet another corner. Why not build a bunker directly around the intruder? Paul looked back to me, cracking a grim smile. Tried that and it didn't work. He said, I was filled with the dark story.

I didn't push any further. We entered a 10 by 10 foot room. Paul stepped into the middle and turned back to face me. This, my friend, is the construction of a former bad man. He looked around, taking it all in. Polly left me halfway into building it. shook his head and sped at the ground. I don't blame her.

Look directly at me. Look, kid. You want all this to go away? You want to stop having these encounters? Work on yourself. I'm playing. Are you kidding me? Half shrugging he continued.

I know it sounds, but... After Holly took the kids and left, it really kicked me into gear. I stopped drinking, got help, professional help. Started taking meds, the right meds. And sure enough, all this went away. went away. No more man in the basement. No more altered reality bullshit. I don't know it's the last thing you want to hear, but this, this thing, it's all in your head. Or at least, it's mostly in your head. You don't think it's a little odd that my hallucinations match yours? Paul nodded

understandedly. What do you think said all this off? I shook my head. The note, the note my son, well-meaning, though he was, left on your doorstep. I just wanted to leave now. I was tired. Everything was contradicting everything else. You ever heard of a Toppa?

Here we go. Here we go. There. Whoa. That was like getting ripped through the threshold for me. It's like, all right. Well, we're in it. Okay.

This guy's smoking cigarettes down in his basement. ever of a tulpa Clint Eastwood asking me in his basement what a tulpa is Clint Eastwood Grant Torino asking you what a tulpa is

Get off my lawn I imagine this guy PT is looking like Who's that chef That killed him Anthony Bourdain Imagine this looking like an old

Anthony Bourdain kind of guy Like strong jaw Very serious You ever heard of a Tulpa You reach forward and place his hand

on my shoulder. I didn't respond. I just stood there, staring at it blankly, leaning forward to my crutches. Topas are these things that don't exist until you believe they exist. The more you believe they exist, the more they exist, the more they can fuck with you. Wasn't so tired, I would have laughed. Okay. Look, I'm not saying that's what it is, but it might be what it is. Sure.

Mitch bless him He thinks it's all real Thinks it got me years back Thinks it's controlling me now Using me to trick others into worship it or something It's a different story every time All I can say is It's only as real as you let it be

And the only way to stop it is to figure out What's wrong with your life and fix that Okay, what I think Happened Is all the stuff about Paul constructing this maze to confuse it is real. Yeah. But it did eventually get to him, right?

And now this thing isn't Paul. This is something else. And it's like, yeah, you know, my son, he'll tell you all this crazy stuff. Like, oh, oh, look, I'm actually a monster that killed his dad. And now I'm trying to get people to worship me. But that's, that's crazy talk. Yeah. So, yeah, don't worry about it.

I would never even do something like this. I built this. Definitely not the guy whose skin I'm wearing now. So no mazes because those are lame and they definitely don't work. I promise. So what's with all the blood all over the staircase up there? That was completely unrelated. Pineapple.

Cool-Aid. Cool-aid pineapples. Wouldn't pineapple be kind of yellow? I met grape or cherry. It doesn't matter. It doesn't. Don't, just don't think about that right now. Something, or alternatively, whatever the thing upstairs is. Maybe this is Paul talking and the real Paul is the thing upstairs, you know,

probably crap, like a hermit or whatever. That or it's still the coat rack. Like, once again, who fucking knows? It could be anything. Yeah, there's so many different directions that are being off. And not, it is confusing, but it's like a good confusing. Yeah, yeah, I'm not annoyed. I'm not annoyed at all.

Yeah, exactly. Yeah, it's not an annoying confusing. something upstairs moved three quick staggering footsteps Paul glanced up at the ceiling the back down to me ignore the intruder and follow the rules until you fixed your life fine okay are you serious finally he pulled his hand off my shoulder you need help with anything I'm always here you got booze problems money problems life problems anything said his eyes filled with sincerity

really messes with your head. Makes it so hard to know who you can trust, you know? Sometimes it feels like it's almost jumping in and out of people and controlling them, but it's all in your head. All right, well, that just feels like, that feels like that's exactly what's happening. That feels like some gas sliding, you know.

His tone was shifting now, almost sounding excited. Part of me wondered if the intruder was controlling him right now, driving twisted pleasure out of messing with me. Shook off the thought, another thump upstairs. This time, Paul acted like he didn't hear it.

I... I should... I should go. Said, stepping backward. Sure, kid. Said Paul, again, almost talking to me like I was his son. Turned around and as fast as I could without tripping. I crouched my way out of the basement maze, up the stairs, and out the front door. Stepping out of Paul's house, he took a deep breath of fresh air.

felt like getting rescued from drowning. I excelled relief. At this point, I didn't trust Paul or Mitch or even Howie, for that matter. Nothing was stable and everything was getting worse. I hobbled back across the street and my phone buzzed to life. I stopped in the middle of the road, pulled it out, and flicked on the screen. Squinting, I held it up to my face. 27 missed calls.

Mitch Carver. Of course. End of Port 5. Ooh, what does this one say down here? This one says, see the first time you see. The first time you see. Interesting. Part six.

Maybe it's, yeah, part six. I'm into it. I will say I am bought in. I'm very curious to see where this goes. Yep. Part six. Maybe it's like the first time you see it and then, you know, from there. Okay.

Okay. Part six. Rule seven. The intruder will not move so long as you have guests in your house. Guess we actually want to be there. Coat wreck, said Mitch, sounding like he hadn't slept in days. Home. I said, rifling through a box of tools. My phone, such a speaker, said on the garage floor.

You didn't see my calls? Yeah, my bad. Service out here. Look, Brandon. 100% honest. Did you speak with my... With the neighbor? Yes.

A long, draining silence followed and then click. Mitch ended up the call. That can't be good. Shaking my head, I went back to searching for tools. Right now, I didn't have the time to worry about Mitch. First, I needed to barricade the basement door. Second, I needed to call every single person in my contact list and offered them a spare bedroom rent-free.

Digging through a tangled mess of tools, my hand finally gripped around a familiar, smooth, wouldn't handle. Out from the box, I pulled a hammer. Bingo. Resting on a single crutch, I stood at the basement door, pounding nail after nail and scraps of two-by-fours and whatever else I could find. Unlike Paul, I didn't have the knowledge or the resources to build any apocalyptic bunker door, so the Smakeshift zombie defense would have to do for now. Hammering away faster and faster, I once again fell into a strange calm. A meditative piece that filled every breath was purpose, and my hand slipped.

The hammer slammed into my pointer finger and throbbing pain, shone. shot up my arm. Cursing through my teeth, I clenched my hand tight. The hammer fell to the floor and dented headfirst into the hardwood. Idiot, stupid idiot. My thoughts exploded into a tirade of self-abuse of screaming. A few seconds went by and the pain numbed. My thoughts cleared.

I took in three slow breaths and squat down to pick up the hammer. I froze. Through the bottom crack of the door, the basement light was on. I honestly could remember if I'd, turned it off or not. But the light being on didn't bother me. Not anymore. Not after everything I'd seen.

What bothered me was the dark shadow stood on the other side of the door, flamed by orange glow. That and the sound of breathing. Dude. Nope. Yeah. What if it's fucking Paul? What if it's Paul?

Hey, kids. You're like, oh God. Did you find the cooling? Yeah. Did you fight the best? Like, fucking leave me alone, Paul. Yeah, he goes down into his basement and gets Mall to death by a grizzly bear.

Yeah. What I tell you, I should have been more kind with her. I told you to lost the backpack, yeah. Barely audible, but unmistakable. Blabored, strained, and rattling like an empty bottle of spray paint. Suddenly, the door strained forward slightly, as if hands pressed against the other side,

Breathing deep, I gripped my hand around the hammer and rose to standing. I turned my head and pressed my ear flat against the door, listening. The intruder was whispering. Fucking idiot. He gasped, quick and stuttering. Stupid fucking idiot. Labored breathing continued all the while, almost as if it were two separate voices. He was repeating my earlier thoughts aloud, right down to every random intrusion.

In the floor, didn't. In the floor, lights on. Turn them off. The whispering continued. Is that breathing? I think, I think, breathing. Basement. In the floor, didn't.

I heard enough. Steps back, shook my hand out, lined up another nail, and hammered away. It's not real, I told myself. It's all inside your head. Man. Sure, buddy. This thing.

Sure, buddy. It's like just mimicking the words you say and your thoughts. My thoughts, that's where I would fuck That's what I fuck me up, dude. Oh, my God, fuck that. So what do you think of the Tulpa theory? I don't even fucking really know what a Tulpa is. It's an old thing.

It's like, it comes from some European legend, I think. But it's the idea that there's like these entities, kind of like poltergeist that exist in the world. And if you imagine something enough, like if you invent an idea of something in your mind, this entity will fill that shape. Right. Oh, interesting. So it's the idea that like Sasquatch exists, windegos exist, stuff like that because enough people believe in them and think about them enough that it eventually gives them a shape these creatures can fill. So the idea is if you have

an imaginary friend, that imaginary friend can become real through a Tulpa. Interesting. So it is an entity that just takes shape of something that is believed enough. Yes, exactly. Yeah. So like if you spend enough time dwelling on a thing in the basement and you like think about it for weeks on end, something will come fill that space. It's almost like a philosophical kind of creature of some kind, isn't it? Like, you know, like an embodiment of fear itself that just gives shape to what we've already thought about. Like Shrardinier's cat with the cheese. No.

No, not like that at all. Oh. But if you've thought about the cat and cheese long enough, guess what? It'd become real. Thank God. Finally, the harassment of my lack of philosophical understanding will end. Finally, I slamed the last. Lassnell into the last board.

I took four steps back and marveled at the ramshackle creation. It wasn't pretty, but it got the job done. My eyes flicked involuntarily to the bottom of the door. The light was off. No more whispering. Thank God. Wiping my forehead, I turned back towards the living room and slumped onto the couch. I took out my phone and pulled open my contact list.

Time to find a willing guest. Two hours later, dialing number after number, straight to voicemail after straight to voicemail, not a single bite. Coat rack. Only one person actually answered a roommate from college. Why is it saying coat rack?

It's the second time that's happened. No single coat rack. Well, is he thinking it or is it a thing? I don't know. I mean, I feel like now, see, now we're getting to a thing now where it's said this thing coat rack where I'm like, okay, is it starting to say that we're, it's already starting to like change him or is, I don't know.

Yeah. Right? I don't I can't trust a soul in the story. The thing the thing behind the door even said coat rack before too, which is why. Yeah. That's why I don't know. I don't know, man. For college.

So it also did it at the beginning of the entry. First thing it said was coat rack. Oh, fuck. Well, I don't know. Only one person actually answered. Roommate from college. Of course. Maybe I'd have to put on that on Craigslist.

I tucked my phone away. Just about ready to give up when. three small knocks at the front door. I already knew who it was. I pushed you up from the couch, grabbed my crutches, marched across the room, and pulled open the door. Hey, Brandon.

There said Howie, dressed in a red sweater, red jeans, wearing a green backpack, looking a little less chipper than usual. Hey, Howie. I said, trying my best act normal, despite the fact that living nightmare stood behind the basement door and mere feet away.

Howie, despite all his quirks, was a sight for sore eyes. Sure, I didn't try. trust him, but at least he wasn't meant for Paul. Yeah, so this is kind of awkward, but I'm wondering if I could crash you for a couple days. I can keep, I can sleep on the couch, pay rent, whatever, no worries, if not. I looked back over my shoulder, the back to Howie.

Uh, sure. Why? Okay, is it, is the idea, my idea is that Howie knows what's going on and may actually be trying to help him, you know? Like, okay, is assuming the Tulpa thing's real, or at least partially real, then the more you think, even, okay, even in the initial note that Mitch left, it said maybe it'll just move on if you don't overreact. Right.

So not giving this thing attention seems like a good thing. So maybe Howie trying to help him shows up as soon as he moves in and he's like, hey, uh, that note's fake. So, uh, nothing weird is going on. Just don't worry about it, which is actually to help him out. and now when he needs someone to stay there, how he's like, hey,

can I crash here for a bit? See, I, God, I just feel like it's a fucking hive mind thing now where it's, these are multiple, I don't know. I am just throwing out potentials

I don't know either. For where this may go, because I don't trust anyone. Also, here's the thing, wouldn't let Howie stay there, even if I was like, yeah,

maybe he's trying to help. Nope. Also, he's already said he doesn't trust him. And he's like, oh, sure. I guess. Also, what an extremely convenient thing if the guy is already able to read your mind.

You just got off the phone with your buddy who's like, well, I mean, I would, but I'm in Canada. And then all of a sudden, knock, knock, knock, hey, I'll, I'll sleep on your couch. That's not suspicious. Well, I mean, it's suspicious. Don't get me wrong. I mean, I, that's why I'm saying, Brandon for a level of God, zero survival instinct skills. He definitely knows more than he's letting on, but I'm saying maybe he knows more and he's trying to help. Oh, maybe.

Maybe. Well, if that's the case, fucking tell me, dude. Stop humming and wearing... I agree. Yeah. I agree. Immediately, he pushed past me, strolled across the room, threw his backpack on the floor, plop down on the living room couch, and kicked up his feet. What's with the door? He said, pointing at the barricaded basement door. Pulling the front door shut, I stepped forward.

It's a... It's an art project. Placing the door frame soon anyway, so... Huh. Said, Howie, clearly not buying it. The Carver kid been bothering you still? No. No man in the basement corner yet.

Forced a half-hearted laugh. No. That's good. Is it Howie turning back to the TV? Where's a remote? Yeah, I feel like this is how he's trying to help him because he knows someone needs to be there, you know? I don't trust.

No, I don't. I don't. I don't like, I don't trust Howie. I mean, I don't trust. trust anyone. I'm just saying potential. I'm just saying I think Howie, I think Howie's the devil.

I don't, I do not trust Howie. He's a pawn. He's a pawn. You just, you just don't like him because he's short and fat. That's true. If he was,

if he was tall and fat, it'd be a different story, but he's short and rotan. I don't trust him. Pick a struggle. Howie said an arrival was suspiciously convenient at best and outright malicious at worst.

Right now, I didn't have time to think about that. If the rules held, his being here would at least buy me some time to figure out how to stop all this. Maybe I'd sell the house, maybe I'd defer ownership back to the bank, but judging by the no third party's rule, I doubted either of those would actually work. So far, the only people who knew about the intruder were Mitch and his father.

And according to Mitch, he didn't count as a third party because he already believed. But Paul, his father, that part was getting to me. Something was missing. Paul's whole fix your life, fix your problems spiel, bothered. me, but something else bothered me more. I didn't know what it was. Like that feeling you get when you're about to leave home and you know you've left something important behind, like an unscratchable itch. Offered Howie the spare room, but he preferred the couch. I didn't fight him on it. I wanted to keep him here as long as possible. Didn't even ask why he needed to stay. It was kind of nice to not be

alone in the house for once, even with Howie. At half past nine, Howie fell asleep watching Jeopardy reruns. I muted the television and went upstairs. I do appreciate how the brevity in this story doesn't take away from the tension at all. Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's kind of like tangential to it between that and like I threw it in a trash compactor. It's appropriately timed. There's no, there's none of the like, it's right behind me, isn't me? Yeah, yeah, yeah.

You know, I muted the television and went upstairs. Tomorrow I plan my next steps, but right now I needed to sleep. I climbed into bed and flicked the light off. The bump in the night snapped me awake. A heavy thud like somebody hit their fist against a wall. I checked the time. 258 a.m. Clined out of bed and, hopping on one leg,

pulled on a dirty t-shirt and a pair of jeans. I tucked my chrome switchblade into my back pocket. Another thud from downstairs, heavier than the last. What was how are we going to say about this? grabbed my crutches, carefully moved down the stairs, and peered into the living room. The blue glow of muted television cast over everything. Howie was still fast to sleep on the couch. Thumb.

Basement door shook this time. Like somebody had slammed their forehead against it. I back stepped away deeper into the living room. How he was still out like a rock, heavy sleeper. Thump. Okay. Told myself to breathe. Remember the rules. Barricaded the door will slow him down, but it'll be loud. That's all this was. I'll put in some mirror plugs and blast white noise and fall asleep. Turning back towards the kitchen, I stepped across the room as quiet as possible. Last thing I wanted was for Harry to wake up and start asking more question. Thumb. This time, the hardwood floors beneath my feet shook. I froze. My eyes drifted back to Howie. Still asleep. His face motionless. Serene almost.

I turned back for the kitchen. Either Howie was the world's heaviest sleeper or he couldn't hear the sounds at all. Stepping into the kitchen, I... Brandon? Also, Isaiah, if Howie really wanted to be there, the monster would not move.

Remember? That's right. Yeah. So, what does that mean? Brandon? Does that mean how he's one of these things, too? I'm fucking, I'm telling you, man.

I'm telling you. I think it's like a hive mine thing. Okay. Okay, it might be. We'll see. A small muffled voice called out from behind the door. I looked back over my shoulder towards the basement door. Brandon.

The voice repeated slightly deeper now. I turned around and faced it head on. Brandon. From behind the basement door, the voice strained sympathetic. Brandon. The voice repeated my name again and again. and each time sounding completely different, like a slot machine shuffling through different tones until it hit the right one. You in there?

It was getting familiar now. You okay? Suddenly, the voice shifted into a perfect mimic of my late father. Gently knocking, same way father did to my bedroom door after Zach, my best and only childhood friend, died. Remember that until now, he did my best to ignore. After Zach died, I biked home, sat on my bed and stared blankly at the vinyl closet door for six hours straight. I was tracing every path of the wood grain pattern again and again. The entire world outside dissolving into nothing.

The Starscape painted walls somehow pushing closer and closer. I'm here if you need to talk, kid. My father called out one last time. Oh, dude. Oh, the thing on the other side of the door is repeating his father's work. from then. Oh man. Also howie's fat ass just snoring upstairs. Yeah. For a second, I forgot it was the intruder speaking. For a second, I actually believed it was dad there. Chantly knocking on the basement door. Silence. Lingering

in silence stretched on for minutes while I just stood there, barely breathing, eyes locked on the basement door, paralyzed. Finally, my lungs forced me to gasp in air. oxygen flooded into my brain and awareness came rushing back. I looked around. On TV, I played a silent infomercial about some vegetable blender thing and Howie was still fast asleep. I shook out my hands, went back into the kitchen, opened the drawer beside the fridge,

and pulled out a pair of orange ear plugs. It's not real, I told myself again, trying to take Paul's advice. I slid the drawer shut. It's all inside of your head. But again, the words fell flat. like empty platitudes after her funeral. I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry for your loss.

I'm sorry for your loss. I turned back across the living room and crutched my way onto the stairs. Time to sleep. Brandon? I was halfway up the stairs when a different voice called out from behind the basement door. This time, a teenager's voice, strange yet familiar. Screwed this. I kept walking.

Brandon. The voice repeated. This time tinged with fear. This time entirely. familiar. I wanted to keep walking away. I wanted to leave, but my legs wouldn't move. Long-forgotten memories came rushing back. Memories of Zach. Memories I ignored and shuffed away because it was easier to pretend they never happened. It was easier to do everything in my power to ignore the dread and to face it head on. It was easier to pretend Zach never existed. Help. Zach's voice quivered, terrified.

Something spread. He pulled at the door handle. and the door shook. Zach whimpered, the fear in his voice growing each time he spoke. Brandon, open the door, please. He pulled at the handle again, harder this time. Brandon, please. Open the door. Banged his fist against it.

Brandon, I'm sorry, Brandon. His voice trailed off into sobbing whispers, and he slid down the door, muffled weeping. An image crawled into my thoughts, the image of Zach. gray hoodie pulled over his head, curled into a ball, weeping at the top of the basement stairs. Silence. A sudden and shrill scream of terror. Primal, almost inhuman, followed by the quick thumping sound of a body dragged over stairs, screaming and pleading all the while. Drugged downstairs, down the hallway, into the wreck room, kicking and screaming and begging,

up from the basement echoing through a vent in the wall next to my ear. I'm sorry. Another voice, not Zach's voice, not my father's voice, a voice I didn't recognize, panicked and remorseful. I can't. I can't. I don't. The sickening sound of bone cracked against concrete, like a tree branch snapping in the wind.

The percussive beat of skull against stone again and again and again. Zach's whimpering shrieks for help turned more unintelligible with every impact. Even worse, the person killing him was profusely and sincerely apologizing all the while. I'm sorry. Oh God, I'm sorry, Zach. Sudden silence. Five seconds or five minutes. I don't know.

Only silence. Silence and then sniffling whimpers. Not Zach's voice, not my father's voice. The voice of who I assumed was the intruder, crying, almost sobbing. crying, almost sobbing. It moaned, filled with unimaginable guilt. It wailed. Then I heard a drop to its knees, fall to its side, and maybe curl up into a ball,

a trail off into pitiful, whimpering sorrow, unimaginable grief. This went on for several minutes until finally more silence. Sniffling, the sound of somebody standing up, sound of somebody dragging a body against concrete, deeper and deeper into the basement, quieter and quieter as if the wreck room stretched on further than it should, further and further away until nothing. Dazed in a trance, I wandered up the stairs and into my bedroom. I pulled the door shut, stuck my earplugs in, and crawled into bed.

Shut my eyes and a sudden realization fled over me. Coat rack. Finally, I understood the nagging itch in the back of my head. A realization so obvious, I hated myself for not getting it sooner. I pursed into laughter. Not happy laughter, not funny laughter, insane, compulsive laughter. Curling into a ball on my bed, I turned onto my side and stared at the fake cherry wood vinyl closet doors.

The doors that reminded me of my childhood bedroom. My eyes traced along the paths of wood grain patterns and the words of Paul played through my head all the while. Take that coat rack out past city limits. Nelson gets leaning, burn it. I told Paul a lot of things, but I never told him about the coat rack. There it is.

There it is. There it is. Also, I'm going to say, did Brandon beat the shit out of Zach? Did he kill somebody when he was younger? That's what I want to know. Well, my idea, because he said it's a voice he didn't recognize. I think someone did do that to Zach.

Oh, so you think that's like a murder. He got murdered by someone that he doesn't know. Yes, yes. I think, yeah, yeah, yeah. I think Zach got murdered. It could have been by a parent. It could have been by like a mentally ill person, whatever. But the sound he heard was a recreation of Zach's murder.

Like the person slamming his head against the concrete and the, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. So it's playing out like, it's playing out his worst memory of something he didn't even witness. What was the, uh, what's the like to say? What does that sound like to you, you know? What is the Morseco, by the way, before I forget. Dreadingly, it is me. So that means it's the first time you see me.

Yeah. First time you see me. Also, that's what I'm saying though, man. Fucking Howie, uh, I think all these people, it's like a fucking hive mind thing. I think it's people that have been affected. I'm wondering how many people have been affected, but also he moved into this place, right, randomly. Like he's just, he's like, hey, I just moved in and there's like, this is what I found

on the, uh, basement floor. I'm wondering legitimately the, the, how sane Brandon is. and like all the shit's happening around. I don't know. Still, it's setting up all these different ideas, but I don't know. Now, I, I've never been more suspicious of Brandon, if I'm being honest.

I feel like I am now more so like this is all in this fucking heading is actually crazy. I have no idea, man. This is great. Like the setup and the terror and the tension and the other people, I think this is awesome. I'm hooked. I cannot,

it has been a while since we've covered a long story with intriguing characters and like... And that's what it is. Not to say we haven't read good stuff, but this is just like that kind of long flowing narrative that I think we've missed out on for a while. This is what gets me hooked on the show is like these longer episodes.

But also it's the thing too when there's a writer who knows how to write captivating well put together characters. Like a good character piece, that's all you need, baby. I'm, and I am so bought in. I also like, we have not, we've, we have seen and talked about the man in the basement once

you know the initial terror is just it's the concept driven out it's the concept it's been it's been stretched out and we're getting to expand on it just through characters deceptions and us trying to really piece it together through character you know like through understanding and trying to figure out more and more about the character versus like you know a lot of other stories a lot of things i think you'd be inclined to be like and then you know i was looking at it and it was smiling at me really none of the horror has come from any of the of that. All of the terror has come from Brandon. Like now, I mean, even this thing was Zach being played with.

But even the terror of that is just the idea of like him having to relive these horrible thoughts and these things. And now even that little thing at the end where you're like, okay, well, now Paul is definitely still one of them to where now even they're like, okay, so Mitch was telling the truth. But I don't, but I still don't even try. I don't trust Mitch either. I don't trust any of it.

I'm telling. In my mind, I feel like if this entity is a, is a real thing. and it's not just buried in Brandon's fucking head is I think that it I think it gets you and I think that it is like affecting this town and affecting these in the just affecting all of these people and they're all under its grasp in my opinion yeah yeah I think so I don't think you can't trust anyone even Brandon even the way it's written with coat rack showing up you can't even trust that's what I'm saying it's like the moors code showing up the end that now says me implying that the entity has something to do with the post when you first see me I'm

I'm telling, I'm like, I don't, I don't trust them. And also, the entity wouldn't have moved. I don't think it would have done anything if, if Howie wanted to actually be there. So it leads to the question too, why doesn't Howie actually want to be there? And is there something like as, I, there's just a lot of, a lot of unant, like things that just aren't answered. Yeah. We could speculate on a day, but I say we'd just jump into part seven. Yeah, let's go to part seven.

All right. Part seven. Part seven. Rule one, we will begin in the further. corner of your basement. If you see him, do not overreact. You may decide to move on. I woke to the sound of rain, rain tapping against the bedroom window, trailing downward, pointless race to the bottom, large drops consuming the smaller. I set up and stared at the shut closet doors. I sighed, still exhausted. The horrific sounds of last night echoing in my head.

Then. Zach's whimpering screams for help. Reaching for my crutches. I stopped short. Water. Small puddle on the window sill. I pushed up to standing, crutched over. Water dripped off the window sill and onto the floor.

Wiped my hand against it. Cloudy white droplets clung to my fingertips. I ran another hand along the edges of the window seam until it caught a snag. More water. The window seal was broken. another expense I didn't have the money for. Great. Why bit my hand off on my shirt? I turned back around when another memory entered my head. It's a dripping sound in the basement. A puddle of water and clumps of wet dirt basement corner. What exactly was that about?

I grabbed my other crutch and went downstairs. I didn't know for sure yet, but I had a theory. Howie's green backpack set in the middle of the living room floor. Howie? I said. No response. I shrugged, moved in the kitchen. Maybe he went out for the day. Either way, my curiosity was getting the better of me once again. The basement wasn't biting me down one last time. I stood there, thinking about puddles and coat racks, ruminating. I never specifically mentioned the coat rack to Paul.

Sure, there's a chance he could have overheard me talking with Mitch, but that seemed unlikely. Maybe he really was possessed by the man in the basement. maybe I really am completely insane. Maybe I'm trapped in a madness triggered by Mitch's note and a misplaced coat rack. But that almost seemed crazier than the actual situation. Regardless, I needed to investigate the basement one last time. Easier said than done. I couldn't go through the main door, thanks to the barricade and the intruder standing there.

But thankfully, one of the spare rooms had a window, small window and a cramped window well, but a window nonetheless. Hopefully, a few extra quarantine pounds would prevent me from squeezing through. Hopefully. I brought my trusty switchblade in a pencil-sized high-power flashlight. I'd be going in dark

because the light switch was on the stairs and as I mentioned before, so was the intruder. No way was I going anywhere near him. Sure, I wasn't thrilled at the prospect of going back down, but according to the rules, the intruder wouldn't hurt me.

Not yet. I crouched down into the gravel window well. moving around with one leg getting a little easier, but I still needed crutches. Through the window, I slid my crutches in first, and they clattered to the floor, a little louder than I'd have liked. I waited, listening for a reaction. Nothing. Feet first, I pulled myself through and stepped down into the room. Room no bigger than a walk-in closet, crowded with the unopened boxes.

Why did I have so much stuff? Squatting down, picked up my crutches. It's not real. I told myself once again, flicking the flashlight on and no light. Are you kidding me? I literally changed the batteries

five minutes ago. I shook the light, nothing. I smacked it with the palm of my hand and finally it flickered alive. Thank God. I started to feel like a Silent Hill video game character. Clunky, walking controls included.

Lovely. Flashlight between my teeth, I crouched across the room deeper into the basement. My hand crept across the doorknob and I froze. The stupidity of me being down here again suddenly hit me. Is this really such a good idea?

Clants back at the open window. Biting sunlight cast into the room. A peaceful sound of rain, patting against gravel. Screw it. I turned back for the door. I still don't know why, but something told me the water in the basement corner would answer my questions. Maybe everything. Filled with better resolve, I clenched my fist around the doorknob, turned it, and gently

pushed open the door with my knee. Okay. I stepped out into the hallway. I was quiet down here. And naturally quiet. Like the world behind me suddenly vanished into non-existence. Like the basement itself was now the entire universe. I turned leftward.

The light between my teeth cast into the distant stairwell corner. Empty, thank God. I turned rightward. The cold concrete wreck room greeted me. Univiting as always. Even before all this. The wreck room creeped me out. There was something about hallways that led to rooms with blind corners on either side.

Anything could be hiding there, waiting to jump out as you stepped in. The random stacks of cardboard boxes didn't help either. Crutched forward. Shadows on the wreck room's back wall lurched up and down with each forward step. My eyes started back and forth, searching for any possible movement, any sign of the intruder. I stepped into the rec room and swivel-checked the corners. Nothing. Everything motionless. So still, it almost felt like the room was on pause. Thin layer of dust covered all. Crutched forward again, and my cast-covered leg bumped into a

stack of precarious boxes. A stack of boxes that collapsed into another stack of boxes and then another. Stupid idiot. The tumbling crash of random objects slamming into the concrete floor. Fool of a took. What does that mean? Lord the Rings. Fool of a took. What? Like Gandalf says it to Mary took, right? Fool of a took is what he says. I think he's like,

because he, he hits his, he, it's like a tumbling crash, random object slamming on the car. I think he's saying like it caused a loud sound. Gandalf says that to Mary or Pippen or one of them. So in the midst of,

in the midst of this, he makes the Lord of the Rings reference. You know, it's, I'm going to forgive it. Okay. I tinsed up. bracing for the noise to end. Finally, the dominoe cacophony stopped. Silence returned.

Looked back over my shoulder, casting light into the stairwell corner. Still empty. Good. I've expected something terrible to be stood there, something incomprehensibly monstrous. I waited withheld breath, waited for the intruder to stagger down the steps, but nothing happened. Not even the sound of breathing. Not even the smell of burnt hair. Okay, he turned around and crept towards the back corner. I squatted down and studied. It was the same corner where the water had dripped a few nights back. Dry now.

I looked up. Pink insulation and pipes. Maybe it really was just oblique. Maybe I came all the way back down here for nothing. I was about to stand back up when something caught my eye. Dust, or rather, a lack of dust. A perfectly dustless square in the corner of the converse. concrete wall, about three feet by three feet.

I leaned in close and squinted. There was a hair thin line in the concrete, a crack only visible from the perfect angle. A thin line forming the shape of a square, like someone had cut into the concrete with a laser. Almost reflexively, I placed my hand against the dustless square and pushed. The panel shifted backward with a satisfying click. it shifted forward, slid to the side, revealing an entrance. Bruh. An entrance barely big enough to crawl through.

I looked back over my shoulder, shining the flashlight at the door to the rec room. Still nothing. I turned around and crouched down further. The entrance led to a tunnel, a long, straight tunnel with dirt walls, dirt floors, and strained beams holding it all together. Okay, I was asking myself, question as to how the thing got from Paul's house to his house. There it is.

I think this is how it got over. Yes, sir. Little tunnel is connecting everything. Also, who do you think built it? Fucking Paul. Bob the builder himself probably fucking did it. Okay. Okay.

So what if Paul is alive? That is Paul. And the way that he lived is he pushed this on to someone else. Possibly. Maybe that's how he knows about the coat rack. He's the one who. I still think he's potentially alive. I just think that like his brain is probably just fucking rotted.

That or what I mean is like Paul's story is real that he is. Oh yeah. And he survived it. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I think that's the fucking the crazy old fuck that's probably living with him. If he's not a clone, maybe Paul is alive and he's like in the, he's in the house with

him still. You know what I mean? Yeah. I have a roommate. Kind of. Yeah. Fuck off. I owe him.

I owe him one for killing you instead of me. Yeah. Bastard Paul. A long straight tunnel with dirt walls, dirt floors, and strained beams holding it all together. Unsafe to put it mildly. Went for about 20 feet that took a hard turn to the right. A hard turn directly towards Paul's house. A tunnel connecting our basements.

Barely even registered above seeing when the basement light flicked on. My eyes flinched shut as they reacted to the sudden light. I spun around, eyes opened, still nothing. time to leave. I pushed up to standing and crouched back towards the hallway. The basement light flicked off again. Darkness. Screw this.

I picked up speed, hauled down the hallway, shoulder pushed back into the spare room, slammed the door shut and locked it. Taking a deep breath, I stepped away from the door, spun around and shoved my crutches through the open window, hoisting myself through. Scramble out the window well. I crawled away and lay on my back on the wet lawn.

Freedom. Catching my breath, I stared up at gray skies, rain dotting against my face. Suddenly, my phone buzzed alive. I pulled it out. One miss call, unknown number. Voicemail. One message. I tapped into my voicemail and held it up to my ear. Hey, Brandon, it's Paul. I'd like to set things straight. Call me back when you get a chance. I haven't been fully transparent with you. No shit. God, dude. Fuck. Oh, God, this roller coaster! Good Lord!

I mean this in the best way. It feels like the creepy pasta soap opera. It really, I, dude, that is so true. I haven't, yeah, done, because every time an entry ends, don't you kind of expect, dun, dun, dun, done. Yeah.

Some kind of thing like that. Also, what is the Morse code here? So the first time you see me, Will? Yeah. The first time you see me will. First time you see me will. So beer last or some shit. Yeah, there's,

let's see, this is part eight. So there's one, two, three, four, five, six seven,

seven words left in the sentence. Hmm. So part eight. Throughout all this, kept thinking about my childhood friend, Zach. Oh boy, the guy Brandon definitely killed him.

That, that's my story. He's dead. Oh my gosh, he's dead. That's my story. That's my story. I'm sticking to it.

They never found his body. The only thing they found was a green bicycle, mangled, twisted, stane with blood and guts, hit and run, according to the police. Also, so this defeats my theory about him getting beat to death seemingly. Well, the police said it was a hit and run. Maybe he did actually get beat to death. So, I'm telling you, I don't, I do not trust Brandon at all.

I don't. Likely a semi-truck that didn't even know it first. Some driver, driving for miles, oblivious to the mess of gore stuck to the front of his truck, drove all the way to the next break stop. It's more common than you'd think. Driver probably got spooked, cleaned the gore off his truck, lied to himself and said it was just a deer or something. That's that. I never bought it. Back when I still cared, I was convinced something else was at play.

Something incomprehensibly terrible. But considering the lack of evidence, it was the most likely explanation. At least that's what they told me. Took me over 10 years to finally accept the given explanation. That was the first step to moving on. After that, I finally stopped thinking about Zach every day. Sometimes I didn't think about him for weeks, even months. Up until the intruders mocking theatrics, I barely thought about Zach for years.

And that was fine by me. Anything to get a good night's sleep. But now, memories of Zach played through my head like half-remembered dreams. Like the time he jumped from his second-story bedroom onto the trampoline and his mom screamed at us from the living room The time we stayed up all night playing Super Mario Brothers When my dog died And Zach came over and didn't say anything

Didn't try to make me feel better He just sat with me That's all I needed I didn't have a real friend before Zach I haven't had one since I agreed to meet with Paul in a public park I plan was simple Let him do all the talking

Hopefully learned something along the way. At this point, did it make much sense to confront Paul on anything? I'd only bring up the coat rack if needed. I still didn't even know if Paul was Paul, but that didn't matter right now. Gray skies above, Paul sat on a park bench overlooking a duck-filled pond. Reddish-orange autumn leaves carpeted over muddy grass. My approach from behind. Paul?

He looked back over his shoulder, breathing fog. Let's go for a walk. drudge down the path, boots crunching against the gravel. You know I struggled with drinking, right? I nodded. I told you the first time I saw the intruder was in the basement, yeah. Maybe that wasn't entirely accurate. I didn't, I did see him once before that.

Way back in 81. Holly and I, not married yet, were camping in Utah. We saw mountains. I don't like where this is going. No. He stopped talking and looked around as if to make sure nobody else was too close. satisfied. He continued. So there was this area, not far from the main campsite, a bunch of caves, not caves like tunnels

or whatever you think, more like a pile of giant boulders overgrown with trees and moss and tiny spaces between the boulders, crevices, some of them big enough to crawl through. Yellow signs up, no climbing. Paul suddenly stopped talking. A bed on the gravel path, a tall man with a scarf wrapped around his lower face strode toward us. We've said it straight for Paul, vaguely familiar. His boots crunched against the gravel, faster and faster until he strode right past us, as if we weren't even there.

Paul looked back over his shoulder, waiting for his safe distance before continuing. So we're out by these caves and we're drinking, more than I should have been, and Holly, we're jumping from boulder to boulder, having fun, you know, but some of those rocks must have been over 40 feet tall. So we reached this one crevice, a bit wider than the rest. A sheer drop about 20 feet down, getting thinner and thinner right up to the slit of darkness below. Holly jumps at first, no problem. I jump it next and my foot slips. Stop walking for a moment, thinking back, remembering.

Part of me wanted to cut him off. First in accusations, but another part just wanted to know what happened. Trudged onward. So I tumbled over backward. Head first into this crevice. My skull slams against the wall and I black out. Come to about 20, maybe 30 seconds later and I can barely breathe. My body's wedged between the boulders.

My chest squeezed down on either side. My neck twisted and viced between the walls. I was stuck. Upside down and looking straight into the darkness below. Stopped walking again. His eyes drifted towards a nearby bench. You might have I sit I didn't respond

Paul strolled over and slumped down onto the bench staring out over the pond His cold blue eyes snapped back and forth Over the water I squatted down on the path in front of him Mosted my elbows on my knees Shimmering breeze crept over the pond And a wet leaf stuck to the back of my head

Pulled it out and tossed it back into the wind So I'm stuck Upside down head first Wish between these two giant boulders blood rushing ears ringing out gasping in little sips of air As my vision blurs in and out Holly's above screaming down

As if I'm okay but I can't answer I could barely breathe I try speaking but Only muffled whimpers escaped You ever had a nightmare Where you scream for help but Your voice just falls back into your throat Again I didn't respond

So Holly She can see my feet twitching down there So She knows I'm alive and she yells down. She's going to get help. Tells me to try and stay awake. This is pre-cell phones, mind you, though. I doubt they had service there anyway.

Sniffed a little and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. So now I'm stuck out here, completely alone. Sun's still out, but it's getting dark. I'm in the shadows anyway and I can't really describe the terror of it. being stuck like that. I'm doing everything I can't. I'm doing everything I can to stay calm. Trying to focus on what little breath I had.

And there's this thing. There's this thing I learned back in Alcoholics Anonymous. It's called 4x3. It helps you calm down. And then three things you can see here, feeling smell. So I start making notes of my surroundings. Green Mars, gray rocks, shadowy crevice.

He paused again, then looked directly at me. And that's when I saw him, or at least the faintest outline. My eyes were still adjusting, but down below, about ten feet away, something was there. He went silent, his pupils dilating as if he was back in the dark. At first, I thought it was a shape in the rocks maybe. Optical illusion, no. All I could see was the face. faint shape of this body and the glint of what might be eyes, so maybe it was nothing, but as my

vision adjusted, the whole picture came into view. Still dark, still covered in shadow, but unmistakable now. A man was down there. This body contorted and twisted, wedged between the crevice, motionless, so fucking still, almost stiller than the rock, like a circus. contortionist hiding down there waiting for me. Paul shook his head like a chill went down his spine. His face was filled with absolutely nothing. Cold eyes. Dead eyes like, like shark eyes.

Again, Paul looked straight at me. Maybe it's a body. I thought trying to make sense of it. Maybe somebody fell down there before me. Not much of a comfort, but better than somebody hiding there. But then his face was changing, changing slow, it was almost imperceptible, like the sun moving. You can't see it actually move, but next day you know it's over there. His blade face shifting to a portrait of pure tear.

He was mirroring my inner emotion. I would be faster, thumping against the rock with every bump. My vision fading as all the blood in my body drained downward until I was, I was with to pass out. I welcomed it. And everything went dark. Paul grimaced regretfully. When I came to,

I wasn't stuck between the rocks anymore. I was biking. Green bicycle. Writing a green bike down the side of a highway at night. And I, and I wasn't myself. It was somebody else. Hmm.

Whoa. He paused. Looked over. at me. Try to maintain a neutral expression, but it was hard considering how crazy this story was getting. It's crazy, I know, but I was trapped by in somebody else's face. Almost like, almost like it was a mask. I could even feel their thoughts like the memories, that everything went dark again.

I appear behind the eyes as somebody else now. Some guy wandering around a shopping mall at night and some washed up stranger filled with bitter self-hatred. I could still feel the sadness sometimes. It's regret in the darkness. And this gets happening again and again and again and a cluster fuck of random visions seemingly connected, but always looking out through other people's eyes.

Some familiar, most strangers, past, present, future. I mean, I saw things. Incomprehensible contradictions. It could have been five minutes, but it felt like an eternity. Like I lived multiple lifetimes. Like this was always my existence and always would be. It's hard to explain how terrifying it was.

Maybe because it doesn't make any sense. I'll rub his jaw thinking. Everything before my life with Holly. Fishing on a summer weekend, playing with my kids. It was on nothing but a thin sheet that might be ripped away at any second. Paul shifted his weight. I can't explain why. But that strange message was so clear.

Like my entire life had been a dream. And I'd just woken up into the real world. A world where I didn't exist. There wasn't a shred of doubt in my mind. Then I woke up in an ambulance, back in my own head, hysterical. Screaming and wailing about the man tucked between the rocks like a spider. Ranting and raving about visions.

Howily the paramedics were doing, everything they could to calm me down to keep me from hurting myself. Finally, they ended up sedating me. I dosed off until the hospital. Concussion, minor cuts, bruises. All that for, all that for that. Doctor told me it's common for concussed people to hallucinate, especially of considering the lack of oxygen and being upside down for such a long time. He told me about a fellow who almost drowned once, thought he saw an Easter bunny in the water. I've always been scientifically minded, so... I mean, that made sense to me.

Brains play weird tricks. Hallucinations made more sense than some circus contortionists sneaking down there just to fuck with me and... Visions of other worlds, other people. Paul sighed, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. You looked at me as if that was all he had left to stay. It was about to speak when... I'm guessing you found the tunnel, huh? I didn't respond.

I didn't know what to say. Ball nodded, pushed up from the bench, walked down the path. I followed. Yeah. I meant to tell you about that. So... Yeah, no shit.

So, after I tried shooting the intruder all those years back... Rubbed the knuckle stub where his pinky finger used to be. Things got bad. Really bad. The fucker started taking steps forward every other day.

sometimes every single day. Try many things to slow them down, but the only things that worked with the maze in the bunker door. I had some friends with the army helped me with that. Told him I was building a doomsday bunker. I was a medic in the war.

Did I ever tell you that? Again, I didn't respond. It's doing everything in my power to stay calm. Of course. Holly and I were already on thin ice and I shot my own finger off. Building Apocalypse Maze bunker was the cherry on top.

She took the kids and left, which, honestly, I mean, was fine by me. I didn't want my family around the intruder anyways, or around me for that matter. I was still painfully aware of the fact that I might be completely insane. He stopped walking for a moment, looking around again, continued. With her leaving, that really kicked me into gear. I mean, I forced myself to stop drinking. I started getting help, professional help. started taking meds the right meds

and sure enough things actually got better the Bocador seemed to be keeping the intruder at bay sure he was loud as hell banging on it every night but I wore earplugs and blasted white noise and it was good enough

weirdly I was almost at peace I was almost at peace with his being there also I would say that was like identical to what he's told him before the other post yep it was like repaid drugs the right drugs yeah Paul side

breathing out fog as we walk along the path. Dead one night, maybe six, seven months after Holly left, I wake up and it's quiet, dead quiet. No banging on the door, no screaming and howling from the basement, just nothing. That sounds filled me with the fear worse than anything I'd felt before, getting stuck between those boulders included. It terrified me for a few reasons. First it made me wonder what was up to.

The second, I got so used to the sound I couldn't even sleep without it. A twisted way. It sure to give me a purpose. Something to reckon with. And now he's gone. Paul, I do like that idea that like, if this thing is a tulpa of sorts, if it comes from the mind,

then it becomes like another dependency for these people. Yeah, 100%. Especially like an addict. Yep. Paul looked up at the gray autumn skies, squinting as diffuse sunlight cast against his face. So a few of weeks of nothing go by and then on a Sunday afternoon, Holly calls me up out of nowhere.

I guess she had heard through the grapevine that I was doing better and getting help. She asked me how I was doing, asked me if I wanted to get a coffee, maybe see a movie. Can't believe that? Just how we, just like how we met. She asked me out. Back in those days. Smiling, Paul shook his head. I said that'd be nice and said next Tuesday, be all right.

Paul went silent as if considering his next words carefully. Then I set the phone down and turned around, and there, sat in the middle of the living room floor, a bottle of cognac, unopened. Paul rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb. I was sober for over a half a year at this point, but I drank the whole thing. He glanced over at me, catching the judgment in my eyes. I look back down the path. I drink it because it was there, and then I got the brilliant idea to go check. the only intruder, you know, just to see what he'd been up to.

I only ever tried to kill him once, and then that backfired. But my shit-faced bring got some ideas in it, and I, and I, drunk as hell, staggered downstairs, lurched to open the bunker door and tumbled inside, but there's nothing down there. No stack of boxes, no circuit contortioners, nothing. So I staggered further down through the maze all the way to the back corner, and there it is. a tunnel in the basement corner barely big enough

to crawl through at first I assumed he was setting to wrap back around into my house so I lost my mind and I scrambled back upstairs planning to come back down

with a nine millimeter again and try God knows what Paul started walking faster now and then I go upstairs and there he is standing in the dead center of the living room

right where the bottle of cognac was covering his face with his hands like a kid trying to hide. And that's when I finally fucking noticed it. On his left hand, the fifth finger was cut off short at the first knuckle. Paul held up his own hand. Everything suddenly clicked. He snapped his fingers with a surprising loudness. I didn't know why. I still didn't know why, but he's connected to me. And in my head, and the only way to stop it was to... Trelled off into Somer's silence. Still drunk as fucking not even thinking straight. I get into my old pickup

truck and peeled down the hill up to number seven I just drive I drove past old house up through merchant and kept going I knew exactly where I was headed the floor the whole way finally feeling finally feeling like everything made sense like every single little thing in my entire life was building towards this moment Paul went quiet as a family of four strolled past so I keep driving faster and faster up towards ballry cliffs whip around every corner like a high-speed chase until I screeched to his stop

nearly slammed my face against the steering wheel high beams casting over a long stretch of empty road everything pointing towards ballry point lookout stopped walking and stared straight ahead as if he was back in the truck looking down a long stretch of road I shifted back into gear slammed my foot into the pedal

and the tire spun out against the pavements a few seconds before the cot and the truck lurched forward, hurling faster now. Straight towards the cliff's edge. City lights below, casting up into the night above. I'd shut my eyes. 80 second now, I'd be sailing through the air.

Again, he snapped his fingers. Everything crumpled into a crashing stop. I had snapped forward and smothered into Laptek's airbag, the stitch of plastic and booze and gasoline. Pause for a moment. I was flicking back and forth.

Cross the path ahead. Turns out the city installed stopping post on the cliff edge. Yes, I wasn't the first. Front bumper fallen off. I drove all the way back home. It was nearly bright out by the time I got there and the intruder was gone. All started walking again. I latched up the bunker door and didn't go back down for years.

The whole time expecting any day now, he'd cut push it to the floor. But it never happened. Look, I know it's a lot. lot of talking, but all this to say, I could help you pass this off to somebody else. Shricked my head, tired of the games, tired of the workarounds. The same way they pass it off on me. I mean, it wasn't intentional, but yes, more or less. I mean, he might still be coming for me, though.

I don't know. Look, you don't need to decide right away. How far long is he? Top of the stairs, but still in the basement. Yeah. You ever guessed over? Yes. make sure you stay away from him.

You barricaded the door? Yes. Good. Take some time to think about it. Even if he gets out of the basement, there are other ways to pass him off. More in personal ways. Also, don't be freaked out if you see him upstairs.

Even with the door barricaded, he can do that. You'll always set back where he left off. All of Paul's meandering still didn't explain his inexplicable knowledge of the coat rack. I almost brought it up, But stop short. Maybe Mitch was right. Maybe the intruder really did get to Paul. Maybe Paul wasn't even aware.

End of part eight. What was the, uh, what's the Morse code here? It is. B. The first time you see me will be. So maybe the last or something. Probably says along those lines. Man, it's weird.

While reading through the deal, you kind of forget that he knew about the coat rack and stuff. You kind of get bought in. It really does feel like, well, it's an interesting concept too that like you are still who you are. But like you were saying like almost like a almost like a puppet master of like being able. It's almost like the thing is able to hop around people's different consciousness. And it's able to like spread its infection that way. So no one ever has like total free will of their body.

Yeah. Because at any time they can, they can just kind of like snap and be brought back in. Though there was a lot of even with the snapping like the way that even Brandon was writing about the snapping, it was all very. very familiar with how he said it before, which is like, I don't know, that kind of kept, that kept coming up to me of like,

just the amount of time, just the amount of repetition of even how, like, things were said during that section was pretty interesting. Mm-hmm. Yeah, that, man,

this is a great story. I have no idea where it's going or how it's going to end, but I'm really enjoying the ride. Yeah. Well, I mean, I feel like I keep part seven was a bit like, you know,

it's, it's fun with the, it was, quick and we got to find out with the hole or whatever, but I just love these like little character modes and stuff and you have that, yeah, that whole conversation with Paul was great talking about seeing the guy in the in the, the, the drag of the cliff, the rock face. Yeah.

Man, that's so good. Yeah. Part nine. Part nine. Part of me wanted to take up Paul's offer. Part of me wanted to bunker, barricade the basement door and pass off my problems to somebody else. Move away and pretend none of this ever happened.

but I didn't. I wish I could say it was out of some bedrock moral principle, but mainly I refused Paul because I didn't trust Paul. I doubt Paul even trusted Paul. So far, I was adding pieces to an ever-evolving cluster of a jigsaw puzzle. The more I learned, the less sense everything made. Part of me wondered if that was the point, if the chaos and confusion was part of the game.

Maybe the intruder thought it was funny. Still, the main question, remained. It's there a way to stop the intruder without passing it off to somebody else. My car rattled as it droned down the No. 7 highway. I was on my way back home from the meeting with Paul, and it was already dark out. I needed to get home and sleep. Then a strange feeling came over me, pressure in my forehead, not quite painful, but incredibly uncomfortable. Not a migraine either. It felt like a thin sheet of something suddenly appeared behind the skin of my forehead, pressing against my skull. Uh-oh. I could almost feel my face pulling tighter. I rubbed my forehead

with the back of my armament. Something big darted out onto the road in front of me. My foot slammed on the brakes and my car swerved into a screeching drift. Everything outside blurred into a hazy streak and came to a crashing stop. My car slammed into a roadside barrier post. I had whiplash sideways, cracked against the window. I blacked out and came to only seconds later. My headlights cast into an open field across the road. In the distance, a brown bear scrambled off into the dark. That's what I almost hit.

I moved my arm to feel the side of my head. I moved my arm. I couldn't move. I tried turning my head. Nothing. I tried breathing. Nothing. I tried moving my eyes with great effort.

I glanced to the left, then to the right. I know you're here. A strange but familiar voice echoed in the car. You fucker. It seems like he's, this is, this is him starting to get taken over. Because also him, I was just saying, the thing of him pushing his head. I thought he was going to go for his thumb there for a second. Mm-hmm.

Well, I think what it is is Paul just described the same scenario, hitting the post by Highway 7. Right. So I think now, which Paul's was an attempted death, but I feel like, similar to how Paul saw life through a bunch of people's eyes, he's now seen through Paul's eyes. Oh, I see. Concussion, I told myself. I hit my head and these are just the symptoms. I couldn't smell anything either or hear anything other than the voice. I forced my eyes down to the steering wheel.

It wasn't my steering will. and those weren't my hands gripping around it. This wasn't my body. I was trapped behind somebody else's eyes. A silent passenger, like that Malkovich movie. It felt like I was wearing somebody else's face like a mask. All the while, my sense is fading in. Sound first.

The sound of torrential rain beating down against the windshield, howling wind as it gusted through midnight fields. Then the sound of breath. breathing. Not my own breathing, the breathing of whoever I was trapped inside. Smell faded in next. Whiskey and vanilla-flavored smoke. One of the hands reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror. Cold blue eyes stared back at me. It was Paul. He looked younger, early 40s maybe. Welcome back. He said, slurring his words, staring at himself through dilated pupils. He was talking directly to me. Oh. Oh. Okay. Okay. So when Paul had that interaction at the

at the Boulder where he saw it, he saw life through a bunch of different people's eyes. So assuming that Paul, like he said at the, like Brandon said at the end of the last entry, maybe Paul doesn't even know that it got him. Now that he's interacted with Paul, it's the same as when Paul interacted with the guy in the boulder. So now he is being taken back. Well, yeah. So maybe that would imply that perhaps Brandon's childhood friend Zach

was the previous victim because maybe that was Zach's body he saw then he saw life through his eyes. Oh, true. And now Brandon sees life through Paul's eyes because Paul was the vector that got to him. Yeah, because Paul even made it abundantly clear

that it's like it can be past, present, or future how you interact with people. So, I mean, that's a big possibility. Well, that explains what Paul was doing on the motorcycle when he said it looked like someone else was looking around for a second. Then he snapped back. Yeah. So that must have been what that is. But it's weird that Paul back then when he was 40 would know that he was talking to the guy in the future. Well, I don't know how much. Do you think it's actually Paul here?

Do you think that it's this entity that is like... It could be. I'm not sure. It could be. I don't know how much of Paul is Paul. Yeah. Yeah. Paul coughed and rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb. pressure squeezed against me like a crushing vice.

He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand and a jolt of pain shot through me. He hit himself again and again and again. Each impact more painful than the last until finally he stopped. Paul readjusted the mirror, shifted back in a drive and pulled onto the road. Frantic window wipers struggled to keep the rain at bay.

Is that what the thumb thing is? It's like something is trying to take over and they're like pushing it down. I'm not sure. Well, it just seems like is that the tick that the intruder has. I think that that's what I keep reading it as. Because that's why I was like, oh, at first it's going to be that he lifts his, he puts his thumb across his forehead. But I can't tell if that's like also just supposed to be the physical tick when there is like,

almost like you have a headache and you like rub your temple with your fingers, you know? Yeah. I'm like wondering if it's something like that. Like it's just a tick of this intruder. I could see that. Yeah. Yeah. Brantic window wipers struggled to keep the road at bay. I could feel everything now. Rumble of the highway, taste of booze and tobacco, even blood. I was paralyzed.

With what little control I had, I forced Paul's vision downward. Tap the brakes and swerved into the opposite lane and swerved back. Don't. Don't fucking do that. And then another voice entered. Just keep driving. You're almost done. It was Paul's voice again, but different this time. Not slurred. Keep fucking driving. You're almost there.

I was hearing his thoughts. Maybe hearing wasn't the right word. I was feeling them, almost as if they were my own. But they stuttered in and out like a bad radio signal. Up ahead on the side of the road, something bright green. A bright green bike. Oh. Oh.

Paul was the one who hit Zach? It seems like it. Oh my gosh. A bright green bike. I forced Paul's eyes to look and he swerved. The car slipped into a tailspin and side swiped into something. Two sickening thumps and the car slammed bumper first into a roadside barrier post. Paul's head snapped forward into an exploding airbag and darkness drip.

I was trapped. Okay. Man, that's crazy. So yeah, Paul's the one he killed. And by cause and effect, Brandon is what caused Zach's death. Because him trying to take control is what caused the wreck. Wow. I was trapped behind somebody else's eyes now.

I could feel their thoughts, but this was no ordinary thought stream. It was a dripping fractal of swarming thoughts streams all battling for control, like a thousand tortured minds forcibly melted into one. Eternal anguish. Random memories jumped out from a subconscious mess like a bubbling swamp. Corack, one step, idiot Mason, stupid fucking idiot. This was a soul forever damned to an eternity of paralyzed chaos and suffering. This was the intruder.

I knew it. I could feel their feet now, pressed against scratchy carpet. They took one step forward, then another and another. Seven quick steps downward until they tumbled into the wall. Silence. Then, as if puppeteered from above, they slid up the wall and rose to standing. I snapped into another person, walking down my neighborhood street. Plus, we'd sell them to the neighbors.

Said a familiar voice. Pine cones, five cents apiece. It was Mitch. He looked to his side, and there, about six feet away, I stood. Mitch shook his head and a chill went down his spine. Ah, yeah, yeah, yeah, when he did the thing talking to him, that's a man. That's because Brandon in the future was inside of him. Like, from his perspective, yeah.

And suddenly, I stood in front of my own door, looking up at myself. I've seen enough of those for a while. Howie's voice echoed as he rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb. Darkness. I couldn't even think straight. Paul's voice echoed. Leaving Aiden, Coatrack, Sal, Charm, Bastion, Coatrack, filament, Rinshaw, Petroleum. The intruder's voice echoed.

Daylight. I stood outside the roadside diner, trapped behind Paul's eyes as he climbed onto a red Kawasaki motorcycle and looked back towards the diner. Through the window, I stared at me. I was sitting in a red booth sitting with Mitch. Darkness. Now I shuffled through random memories. Upside down, barely breathing, stuck between two boulders.

In the darkness below me, the faintest shape of a person, impossibly tugged. between the rocks like a coiled up viper, the glint of dead eyes. Darkness. A backyard shed cluttered with junk, bleeding hands frantically wrapping wire around the shattered remnants of a coat rack. Darkness. Crawling through a tunnel, a dirt ceiling scraped against my back, darkness. I'm sorry. Oh God. Paul's voice. I stepped out of the truck. Headlights cut through the night and freezing rain showered down, redding guts mixed with water on the pavement, and a bloody streak led up the road to a body, 50 feet away, crawling. Darkness.

The rhythmic thud of a hammer clinging against snails. I stood at the top of the basement steps, staring at a closed door. Paralyzed. Darkness. I stood in an apartment kitchen staring out through a window towards a brick wall view. Darkness. A hospital bed in a bedroom. Military medical equipment scattered everywhere.

Strained wheezing. Darkness. Smell of burnt hair and gasoline. Cold fluorescent light. That's fucking sack. Yeah. Yeah. Cold fluorescent light.

A charred corpse laying on a morgue table. Mouth wide open. Darkness. A blaring truck horn. Finally, I snapped back to the present. inches from the front of my car, a semi-truck sped by. I was parked on the highway shoulder at a 90-degree angle. The sun was rising.

I was back in the present. Or at least, that's what I assumed. I looked at my hands. My hands? I clenched them shut and opened them. Collecting my thoughts, I pulled onto the highway and drove. I had no idea what just happened. I rubbed my forehead with the back of my thumb.

Yep. Yep. Oh, man. That's great. That's so good. So it's like everyone, right? From like Zach to Mitch to also, Howie, Paul, they're all the same thing.

And none of them are really responsible because they're all constantly jumping in and out of each other's brain. Did that happen? Did he sleep outside of the house there? Um. do you sleep outside the house what you mean i i'm trying to think i'm trying to think if that if that triggered or if that happened because he uh slept somewhere outside of his house oh oh oh oh that's a good point yeah because he would have got

knocked out on the road yeah that's why yeah that's a smart connection i didn't even think of that that's why i think it got fucking that's why i think he got uh that's why it triggered you know yeah yeah that may like bring you into the fold the first time you do that. It's interesting that it seems like Paul was the first connection with whatever, like whatever this entity was in the cave, right? And then now it's like all of these things, however, the only thing that I don't know, which I think we're about to find out soon is how Howie is connected between all these people. But it is like in this small town, there are like links of people that are chained up together through this intruder. Yeah. Yeah. There could be in every

one's basement for all we know all the different people he flashed through what's i yeah that's definitely that's what i'm thinking man what a cool what a cool premise everyone's each other's poltergeist very uh you know i mean obviously it's it you know it's easy to say this now but very different than what you would expect from the story with this title you know like i yeah yeah in fucking interdimensional like uh time traveling possession kind of ideas or whatever. Yeah. Yeah.

John who, uh, being John Malkovich kind of meme is, uh, not where I expected this story to go. I think, uh, I'm certainly impressed.

Like on how much it's done with that concept. I'm very, I'm very bought in. Like you said. So monster hunter, huh? The, uh,

monster hunter, huh? The, what, so what is the Morse code? The Morse code is in. in. So now the sentence says the first time you see me will be

in. First time you see me will be in. And there's five words left. Yeah, five words. So we'll see. All right, well, part 10. Ten. You can leave the house, but never sleep anywhere else. Well, looks like you looks like you're a little head of the curb there.

On that, yes. Bear trap, so to speak. Countless theories buzzed through my head as I drove down the highway. Fragment's scattered visions. Did Paul kill Zach in a drunk driving accident? Did Paul wire up the shattered coat rack, crawl through the tunnel, and set it back in my house? Was Paul a servant of the intruder?

Was I becoming a servant of the intruder? After my screwed up vision, at least a few things made more sense, sort of. Not only was the intruder connected to its victims, the intruder's victims were seemingly connected to each other. Maybe it was some kind of hive mind. Maybe it was turning people into intruders themselves. At this point, it seemed like anything was possible. It felt like I was on the verge figuring this out, finally piecing everything together. But I've been feeling that way for a while now.

Then I thought back. Thought back to the way. Actually, hold on. The thing you said that's Zach on the table, burnt and stuff. We don't get a mention of Zach being burnt. So maybe that's someone else who hasn't died yet who's going to die in a fire. Maybe that's how the story ends. Brandon dies.

And that was him witnessing his own autopsy. That'd be pretty fucking crazy. Also, I have a feeling that Howie was the one who wired it back up and put it in the... That would connect him in to everyone else. I think so. Then I thought back. Thought back to the way Paul's eyes moved outside the diner all those days ago. Like, somebody had jumped into his head, taking a quick look around and then jump back out again.

Now I knew that it was me. I'm the one who jumped into Paul's head and looked towards myself. The nightmare logic of everything made me nauseous. a carnival ride with no exits. A paradox web of chaos and madness with answers, always hiding one step out of reach. Answers that only led to more questions. Questions that only led to more confusion. Above all this was yet another question.

Something I know you're wondering too. Exactly who was the supposed old friend in Paul's house? I completely forgot about that over the last revelation. It's like, oh yeah, that probably is important. the person he owed a favor the person he was supposedly taken care of was it my childhood friend Zach

I didn't suspect that did you suspect that that's like that's kind of I suspect I'm like wondering now if it's like I keep just trying I'm very suspicious of how he's involvement and stuff but to be fair

it's like I mean to be fair it is somebody that Paul did say I owe them so I don't know I mean maybe it is fucking Zach because they never found his body. Oh, did he say that? I'm pretty sure, right? They were like they, he went missing and they never found his body. I'm pretty sure as well. Oh, I thought they said, at least that at least that's what I thought, I remember. Oh, I think you might be right. I think

it said that they found blood in the bike. Yeah, like, yeah, someone probably hit up. That's right, because there's the whole thing about maybe they didn't realize until miles down the road, you know? Yeah. Yeah. Like in the trucker could, uh, basically a shocker. it off to like hitting a deer or something. And it's like stuck in the grill. Yeah, maybe the trucker panicked and like threw him away or something like that. Yeah, that's right. That's right.

Man, maybe it is Zach. Huh. Okay. That would explain how Zach showed up in the vision because that would be his, because it seems you have to be haunted by the intruder to be a part of like the cycle. But did, did Zach come up in the division? Yeah, because Paul said that his first vision was of being on a green bike and getting hit. Well, yeah.

Well, yeah. Well, I guess I should say. that we haven't confirmed that's 100% Zach, is it? Or are we just or are the assumption? Unless there's someone else on a green bike. Right, right, right. Yeah. Yeah. Which that would be a crazy turn.

If it's like this, this intruder, it makes you get on green bicycles and get hit by cars. You know it actually be crazy? You know how there's been a, this is a crazy reach, but you know how there's been acute attention given every time how he has a different outfit? bit yeah remember that yeah yeah he like a blue and then like the red with yeah blue red and green right what if those colors are representative of whoever is currently possessing him they're kind of fun

zacks on the green bike paul has blue eyes and we haven't heard anything with Mitch being red yet but maybe that's what it is because each time he comes the door he acts a little different you know the only that we've ever heard about Mitch is that he's just very handsome i haven't i don't remember anything red being mentioned for Mitch. No, that's what I mean. It's like usually, I think the only thing they ever said was he was wearing a varsity jacket and then he was like a good looking kid or something. They do mention with the bike that it's

red every time it comes up. So that may have something to do with it. But they also said Paul has blue eyes. So I would think blue would be him. I don't know. I'm, we'll see. We'll see. We'll see. Just a, just a crazy. There's a bear trap for you out in the wood. That and the corpse on the table are my two that I'm laying out. I like Brandon. I like, I like, I like, I like the theory of Brandon on the table. I agree with that one.

Yeah, yeah. If it ends with him in a fire, then I'm going to call that correct. And that would also be menacing because from the first time the intruder showed up, he was smelling gasoline and burnt hair, which meant he was smelling his own death from as soon as he got in the house. Insane to even consider, I know, but hear me out. During my sporadic visions, I saw a green bike through Paul's eyes. The exact same bike my friend Zach was riding when he was.

he supposedly died. Did Paul hit him all those years ago? Did he find Zach barely alive on the side of the road, bring him back home? Was he keeping him alive to this day with his medical equipment and military training? Was Zach Paul's so-called old friend? The guest keeping Paul's intruder at bay? Did the timelines even match up? It was possible but crazy to even consider. I mean, what are the chances? Paul happening to live across the street for me all these years later? How'd the police not have found out. Maybe this entity had been involved in my life far longer than the last few weeks. Maybe the intruder orchestrated everything from the start. A conductor leading a bizarre and dissonant symphony, void of purpose. Now that I thought about it, there was a vague familiarity

about everything, like constant deja vu. Like that feeling one gets around death. You'll know it if you've ever survived a bad car accident or face something potentially terminal or held to one's hand, while they lay on their deathbed, you see part of the abyss. You finally realize, maybe for the first time, that at some point you won't exist anymore. Maybe you never existed to begin with. In the words of Max Schumacher from Network, death becomes a perceptible thing, definable features. Before all this, I never really feared death. There were times I even welcomed it. But that's easy to say when death is sitting off in the distance, cage behind bars. But when the end of everything is standing just 10 feet away.

Look at you in the eyes. Breathing fog out of its nostrils. My phone started buzzing in a cup holder, slowly spinning around as a screen lit up. Somebody was calling me. I pulled into the lot of a nearby gas station. Busters better gas. Called them back. Said the voice on the other end.

It was Howie, of course. What's up, Howie? Not much. Just, uh, took it to see if you're okay. Have a seen you in a while Yeah, I'm fine Just been running some errands Oh, here last night No

What? Hard thing I'd already forgot about my excuse For the barricaded door Oh Yeah, I paid some guys to take it out Yeah, I guess so That's when they showed up

I went to bed and the door was there And I woke up and the door was gone I guess they were quiet I said the lie growing more absurd by the second. I'll say, I'm just calling to ask if it's cool if I crash for a few more weeks. I'll pay you rent once I get the money. Yeah, how I don't worry about it.

That's it? Yeah. See you, Brandon. Maybe could Howie be the intruder? I just feel, I, just given the fact that we have that it was still, the intruder downstairs was still moving,

right? Yeah. And they literally, we have been told that it will not move if the person wants to be there. I'm just still wondering why he is putting on the charade. So maybe he is,

I don't know. Well, he's at the very least one of the, one of the people under its influence because he saw it through how he's at eyes. The intruder, I feel like is the entity that is, it's almost like a blank canvas

that infects you and make, and like is cultivating the hive mind, you know? So I feel like even Paul, Howie, Mitch, or who, like all these people that are connected. I think that the thing has already gotten it. But now they're just a part of that control. And like kind of like what you were saying before where it's like they're, they're still here, but they're under it's like at any time they can be under its spell. It's almost just like a, it's like a festering.

It's like a like an egg. And like, or it's like a seed or an egg. or something that has like hatched or is like giving roots inside their body. You know, I don't know if that's like an actual physical thing, but I think like mentally they are not the same. Hmm. Yeah,

howie howie might be it because if you'll remember it says that other people will see it as like a you know, mannequin or whatever and it's like maybe he sees it as Howie. No? Oh yeah, maybe. Anyway.

I hung up. Fantastic. Now the basement door was gone. It's much for slowing him down. In all the chaos, I still hadn't realized my violation of Rule 8. You can leave the house but never sleep anywhere else. The importance of this rule cannot be overstated. Looking back, that would probably explain the missing basement door and a few other things to come. My thoughts drifted back to Mitch.

I knew he knew a lot more than he was letting on. I still didn't trust him, but I trusted it more than Paul. Low bar, I know. Pulled up my phone and dialed this number. Five tones rang out straight to voicemail. Mailbox full. Called again, same thing. I caught.

I called again, same thing. Called again, two tones rang out. Silence. Got the call short. Mitch was ignoring me. Dime for plan B. Inside the gas station, I bought a cheap burner phone and a pack of smokes. Sure, I quit a few months back, but I needed something to call my nerves.

Besides, I'd quit again after this pack. Stop judging me. Back in my car, I lit up a smoke and called Mitch on the burner phone. He wouldn't recognize the number this way. I hated being stalker-ish, but my life literally depended on it. Three tones rang out, and Mitch answered. Mitch, please don't hang up. Silence, and then...

I'm sorry I spoke with her... Stop myself from saying, Dad. With the neighbor, I just... What do you want? I just need to talk. One more time in person. I've already said too much. Just keep following the rules.

Ignore everything else. Ignore Paul. Mitch, please. I'm literally losing my mind here. Just one more talk. What'd you tell the neighbor? Barely anything. I just said.

You know what? Never mind. Three Baker Street. Rame when you get here. The end of the call. I'm pretty sure, by the way, just a clown on no sleep like we love doing it. I'm pretty sure he had to censor the address

because you can't put addresses. Even fictional ones on no sleep. Epic. Pedophile. Superhuman. Okay. Yeah. Can't put 24 strawberry street.

Yeah. You can put strawberry shortcake lane if there is an indestructible pedophile there. Yeah. Which, unfortunately, I don't think, I don't think Mitch is. I think he's just a normal boy. Yeah. At the end of the story, it's like, it's like I saw the intruder. He like had a child in his arm.

And they're like, okay. Okay. Go off, King. Throw Strawberry Street back in there for you. Okay, yeah. For your sake. Yeah, as soon as they start reading like, and then we shot him, but nothing happened.

They still just stood to lean up. And he was looking at my little brother, looking his lips, they like slowly start just smirk leaning in closer. Go on. At the end of the story, it's like, I'm right about the theory and it's Brandon dead on the table. And they're like, yeah.

So, the story kind of happens to everyone else, but not enough happened to this character. So we're deleting it. So we're deleting it. Also, what was that other thing that killed? Oh, yeah. Also, gosh, oh, yeah. Also, since the character's dead at the end of the story, he wouldn't really have been able to post this to Reddit. hosted so. Now, if you go in and edit a paragraph where Paul possesses him and types all this up,

then we can let it slide. And I'm not an artist. I'm not going to say it to, I'm not going to, I'm not going to be the one to say what makes your story better, but how do we know that Paul didn't dittle some kids and he can take a couple of gunshots to the chest? I don't know. Maybe throwing a few dead babies for good measure, you know? I can help. Yeah, Mr. Weimar. Don't be good. There was a reference to homosexuality, and they didn't, they didn't attack him for it. And band.

Exactly. And you are banned. And you are banned. I understand there was not a homosexual character in this story, but the fact that you thought there might be one for a second, band. editor you can keep or cut any of the stuff I think I keep all of it

we're pretty I think this is pretty consistent with our tone regarding no sleep I have a I was just saying I have a feeling that Jerry no sleep is really going to

is really going to be upset with us or they probably do not think kindly of us no I'm sure they don't but I mean it's that's fine ever since that we read that one story and he was like yeah The guy that posted a Tales from the Crebes

and he was like, it got banned because they said not enough happened to the main character. It's like, what? Yeah. Mitch lived about 40 minutes away in a small town off the interstate. One of those towns were main streets, nothing but a graveyard of pre-Walmart family shops.

Survival of the cheapest. I pulled up to an old and gray concrete apartment building that looked straight out of Soviet Russia. Check the address. This was the place. Lugging my crutches out of the back seat, I climbed out of the car and shut the door. Thanks to crashing into the roadside barrier, a heavy indent was scraped inside my car. Great. Double-checked my pockets.

Phone, check, switchblade, check. Now I brought my chrome switchblade everywhere, just in case. The interior of Mitch's place looked early 70s to me. Open design, cut down the middle, half kitchen, half living room. Between them, a bar with rickety stools. there was something strangely familiar about it. Deja vu. Mitch looked a little better than the last time I saw him.

Still tired, though. Hey, Mitch. I said, forcing to smile as I took off my coat. Silent. Mitch stood about six feet away. Strored back into the kitchen and started scrubbing dishes in the sink. I pulled the door shut behind me. Mitch scraped grime off a cast iron frying pan.

His back turned to me. I walked up to the edge of the kitchen and looked around. his place was tidy like a hotel room. What'd the neighbor tell you? Said Mitch referring to his father. A lot. You believe him? Mitch sighed, toss the dishes down, turned off the sink.

Shaking water off his hands, he spun around and leaned back against the countertop. So what do you want for me? I had a little bit of tension there, didn't it? Yeah. I also, I can't tell this. This could very quickly turn to gay sex is what I keep thinking. Mr. Wide Mouth leaned around the corner. what was that?

Bitch. What was that? Bitch, don't give it to your urges, bitch. Don't be good. Mr. Whitemouth, get out here.

We haven't got to get it a long time. He's like, what? Did you hear that? Did you hear something? Nothing. It's nothing. Just my roommate.

I owe him a couple of favors. That's a good, that's a good, uh, character dynamic. Mr. Widemouth has a homosexual roommate. Exactly.

I said, please don't give it to your urges. Like, yeah, like, They get along all the time, but any time he has a guy over, Mr. Whitebeth, I was like, I guess I'm,

I guess I'll step out again. Why do I even talk? Why do I even talk? Just a talking for me. A talking homophobic fur. No, no, Mitch. Yeah,

don't know, bitch. Don't, don't do this, Mitch. Leave us alone. God, we're on a date. Oh, my God. Oh, good God. I said, I said I'd be fine with it, just not in the house.

That's what we talked about. Not in the public locations of the apartment, bitch. You have your room. You have your room and your couch. Yeah, you have a room or a door. Close it. Now, now I have to go make a five-year-old try to jump out of a window. I'll be right back.

I'll be going to have a five-year-old kill themselves a quick. yeah he's like a kind of a weird guy but he's cool i like him he's a good he's a good roommate hey man i know he might be weird but he helped me through a really tough time okay so yeah i owe him everyone just owes each other every every roommate is just somebody you owe yeah like every other character it's like i owe that guy you know he's been it's done a lot for me there's it's like they're in an apartment building and like as he say that you see a child flashed by the window falling. How do we know Zach wasn't Mr.

Wide Mouse victim? Zat, Zach jumped down a window. Steering your bike in front of that car. You can jump your bike out of the second story of your house. I don't think I'm going to land that, Mr. White Mouth. You'll be fine. He'll be there.

He ramped directly onto the hood of Paul's car. Oh my God. I would ever believe me. in 30 years you're going to meet this kid's friend tell him don't be gay okay mr wide mouth you're my best friend you know sometimes I think like if you don't watch all the creepcast episodes homophobic

Furby is completely new information I was going to say depending on the edit we probably need to figure out how this comes in I think let them figure it out there's four hours into a story of like this. They're here. They're not clicking off. Yeah, punished for not listening to every other story.

Yeah. Yeah, that'll show you. He said crossing his arms. I have some questions. Some was an understatement. Okay. Um, last night, I almost ran into a bear on the number seven.

I'd swerved, hit my head on the window, and blacked out for a second. And then you snapped into another person's mind, saw things from the past. even the future? Yeah. That is what happened. What?

Yeah, I mean, more than that, but... Mitchick has said as if to say I expected as much. What does it mean? Look, what you're doing right now, you being here, this whole rabbit hole of trying to find the truth, it's not healthy. The more obsessed you get, the more crazy you become. The crazy you are, the easier it is to control you.

Control me. Mitch ignored the question. Stopped expecting some priest or meeting to come in and explain what's going on. Nobody's going to show up and tell you how the things spawned from an ancient curse or some other bullshit. The only way to kill is to sacrifice the firstborn or pray to Jesus. That's not what this is. You can't reason with something that doesn't think. The only thing you can do is keep following the rules and put off more time between now.

And if you think this is going to end, all tied up. All tied up with a neat little bow. You're going to end up severely fucking traumatized. As if I wasn't already. Mitch looked up at the ceiling, considering his next words carefully. There's a good reason I've been so vague about everything. The more involved you are, the more you know, the more you share. The more you search for answers, the more it slithers into your life, into your thoughts, into your dreams.

I mean, everything. Mitch rubbed his jaw. I barely escaped it myself. He looked across the room. stared at the door behind me. I glanced back over my shoulder. There's a floor-length mirror on the door, partially obscured by my coat.

After I took my dad, I almost got pulled in. Sort of researching and investigating. That's when the visitor started. Like what happened with you in the car. The intruder feeds you these little snippets of random moments. All of them like they might be connected, like they should have a reason. Maybe they do.

But just because something has a reason, doesn't mean it's a good one. What's going to happen to me? It's already happening. You're becoming a servant of the Tulpa or whatever it is. The worst part is you'll still feel in control, but you won't be. Soon enough, you'll start breaking into people's houses at night, leaving coat racks in the basements,

trying to tell other neighbors about it. Maybe you've already done it and forgot. Then you'll be telling neighbors not to worry about it, telling them to work on themselves and telling them it's all in their head, even telling them you got a life uh even telling them your life got better ever since the intruder showed up maybe there's well too how do you know all this i don't it's all a theory at the end of the day who the fuck knows anything about anything who knows what that thing is who knows what that thing wants maybe it wants to feed off the chaos maybe it's working towards something bigger i don't know i don't

want to know not anymore i wish too many years searching for answers believe in the key to all of this was always just around the corner. A satisfying revelation where everything would finally make sense. But it never came. Every answer only led to more questions, more confusion, more obsession, more suffering. How did Paul really die? Mitch grit his teeth. Then he just stared at me, shaking his head, eyes filled with,

screw it, you really want to know? When I was a kid, after mom took us and moved out, a few years went by, and dad started getting his life together. Stop drinking, stop leaving creepy notes in people's shoes, got on some good meds, etc So mom after some gentle pushing for my sister calls him up asked him out for coffee Mitch went silent I was flicking back and forth across the wall behind me That same night after the phone call that gets shit face for no reason drives up Barley Cliffs same lookout he and mom used to go stargazing at so he drives up full speed towards

the cliff edge and slams bumper first into a barrier post. And believe it or not, he wasn't the first person to try and drive a car off Ballard Cliffs. Siddy put a post a few months prior. Mitch pressed his tongue to the side of his cheek, thinking. So anyways, Dad's still drunk as hell, passed out facing the airbag. Mitch pushed off from the counter, stepped over to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. Gasly catches fire.

Dad burns alive. She tapped his knuckles against the table a few times. Police said he was out cold. Didn't feel a thing, but I knew enough to know that it wasn't true. I saw the corpse in one of those visions, mouth wide open. Mitch opened his own mouth to show. I'm no expert, but people generally don't scream when they're asleep. That's the first time that we can confirm that was Mitch looking at the table.

Or at least so he says. So he says, yeah. Mitch slapped the table and ran his hand back and forth a couple times. So we make arrangements to sell Dad's house since the weekend. We're moving stuff out and then... He paused. Looked directly at me. There comes Dad.

Running a brand new motorcycle. He's all confused too. What are we doing with this stuff? You know, I mean, said he was on a trip out of the county last few months. City just got back. Of course, Mom loses her mind. Hell, we all lose our minds. Dad's back from the gravenile.

Hitch looked away. His eyes watering slightly now. Stamped his foot against the laminated flooring. The coroner's report, the police, everything. It's like none of it even happened. Mom was hysterical, screaming at the police station, saying that they were trying to gaslight us, and they weren't, but I almost wish they were.

Documents never existed, at least not anymore. State almost took us away from her for insanity. She stopped talking about it. We all did. Tell you people you believe in ghosts lands you in awkward conversations. Telling people your dad his back to the dead lands you in psych wards. The thing that really fucked with me, aside from the obvious, was his hands. She held up his hands and spread his fingers.

Ten fingers, including the one he shot off in the basement. She looked at me again. This thing bent reality over us like a fucking wire. Like it bumped us into a parallel world or something. Which looked away again, staring at the kitchen cupboards as he spoke. Dad or whatever replaced him. Kept trying to reconnect with us. But we wouldn't have it.

We moved across the country, cut off all ties. Things got a little better after that. The distance helped, especially back then. What made you come back? My sister, Evelyn. She was convinced the intruder to fall. us after dad died. After we moved, she thought it was trying to possess her, take over her thoughts. Evelyn ended up taking her own life a few years back because of it. Overdose. Plastic bag over her head and

die. Trelled off as filled with painful memories. I just wanted to find a way to stop this. Make sure it didn't happen to anyone else. I'm sorry. It smiled sadly and gave a little shrug. So, I started asking around dad's neighborhood, low profile, asking if people had seen anything, heard anything about my dad. Everyone there was so fucking weird. Weird in similar ways, too. Ticks like... It's rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb to show. People forgetting random words.

Their eyes lighting up randomly and looking around as if somebody else was inside their head. Same stuff I noticed with my dad. Only... Only more extreme. Like the thing from his basement was spreading, taking over the whole neighborhood, like a virus. Shifted his weight. Uncomfortable. How did you figure out the rules?

I didn't. I mean, not fully. Those are just things that seemed to slow it down, at least in my dad's case. Before we left him, I found it all scribbled up on a napkin. Dad, for all of his flaws, he's really fucking smart, like logical. He would have tested things out, experimented. figured out exactly what the entity reacts to, doesn't react to. So the more you know, the more he controls you?

Maybe. It's only a theory. And I'm basically fucked no matter what I do. And stepped up from the table, strode over to the kitchen sink, stared out at a brick wall view. Look, Brandon, I should have been more honest with you before, but you want to know the truth, right? Yes. This has been over and done with from the start. I didn't respond. It was as you snapped the coat rack in half.

I mean, it was game over. I blinked. He looked back at me over his shoulder. I didn't tell you that because I didn't want you to panic. I mean, the calmer you are, the saner you are, the longer it takes for this thing to get a hold of you. Get a hold of me. You're becoming a part of it now. Just like my dad.

Just like the neighbors. And there's nothing I can do to stop it. Mitch shook his head and looked back out the window. You should leave. He said, resting his hands on the countertop. But I still don't leave! He snapped, his voice booming with surprising loudness. I shook my head, crouched back for the door, pulled on my coat,

wrapped my hand around the door knob. Thanks for the help. He said, a voice dripping with sarcasm. I turned the knob, but it was locked. Weird. Unlocked and tried again. Still stuck. Almost like somebody was pressing their weight against it from the other side.

Uh, Mitch. No response. I looked into the mirror on the door. Behind me. Mitch, this back turned, now stood in the center of the kitchen, pinned straight posture, hands covering his face like somebody playing peekaboo. Mitch? I said looking back over my shot.

older. Fuck that. Bro. You activated him. Well, it's like Mitch said, he's like, the more you talk about this thing, the more power it takes. So it's like explaining all this to him like is he's back. The intruders in the room with us now.

Suddenly, the room shifted darker, but the lights didn't go out. Everything dimmed in a slow motion nightmare. Mitch's left hand shot straight up into the air as if being pulled from above in his right hand. Both his hands straight up in the air, standing on his tiptoes now. I watched in wide-eyed horror, paralyzed. Suddenly, his arm swung to his sides like an invisible straight jacket wrapped around him. He stood there, motionless. Then he burst into coughing, hunched over, and staggered towards the sink, rubbing his forehead as he went. Are you okay? I said, taking a few careful steps forward. He threw a hand back, motioning me to

stay away. I did. But his desperate wheezing and coughs only grew worse. Was he choking? He thumped his chest until finally something flew out of his mouth and plopped into the dirty sink water. I'm okay. I'm okay. I clansed back towards the door. Mitch, Beck still turned to me, plunged a hand into the soapy water, fishing around for whatever came out of his throat. He froze, and his eyebrows raised. Slowly he lifted something out of the water. It was an object about the size of a chapstick, but couldn't tell what it was from this distance. What the fuck? Mitch whispered.

His hand suddenly swung to his sides again. The object flew to the floor, slid across the kitchen, and slowed to a stop in front of me. It was a dismembered finger. Oh boy, Paul's Paul's fucking finger. It's Paul. It's his dad's finger. Mitch staggered back from the sink. Seven quick steps.

It's always a seven steps. Seven quick steps. He straightened up into pinstreet posture again, tried to speak, but only gargled wimpers escaped like he was being suffocated. I stepped backwards to the door,

eyes darting around the room for another escape, no balcony. Too many floors up for that anyway. What the fuck? What did it? His voice cut off into choking mess.

His throat swelled up like something was pushing on it from the inside out. His head snapped back, first him to look straight up at the ceiling, and then something pushed out of his mouth, several somethings, long and wriggling like worms. Bingers. Bingers with extra joints, sliding out from his mouth and wrapping around his face,

gaunt hands, unnaturally large, squeezing together as they wriggled their way out of his mouth like a facehugger, pig-colored skin, scarred with burn marks. The same hands I saw wrapped around the coat rack all those nights ago, forcing Mitches' mouth wider and wider until the corners of his lips start to to tear, muffled, agonizing, screams. Enough was enough. I spun around and shouldered into the door, using all my weight to crash into it again and again,

all the while the horrific sight behind me reflecting in the door mirror. Hidden by shadows, something barely visible, tall and fetus-like, was forcibly climbing out of Mitch's body, dripping with blood and guts, pushing what was left of Mitch's skin down like somebody climbing out of an undersized wetsuit. Disgusting. horrific. Finally, the door broke open. I stumbled into the hallway and slammed into the opposite wall.

One of my crutches fell back into Mitch's apartment. Goodbye, crutch. I single crutched out of there, but the hallway was different now, stretching on for eternity in both directions, growing darker and darker. I didn't have the time to think about it. I just kept pushing forward, hobbling down the increasingly narrow passage. Behind me, the sound of staggering footsteps getting closer all the while. Brandon, wait. A small whimpering voice cried out. Brandon, please come back. No way.

It's when I realized the hallway's increased length was partially an illusion. A forced perspective miniature gradually getting smaller and smaller as it went. I kept pushing forward, the ever lower ceiling scraping against my head, forcing me into crouching, forcing me onto my hands and knees, crawling through this ever more miniature apartment hallway as the walls and whatever was chasing me, closer, the smell of burnt hair and gasoline growing stronger all the while. Darkness. The air changed.

From dry air conditioned cool to humid and dark, I didn't care. Just kept crawling, shuffling forward bit by bit. My back scraping against the now inexplicably dirt ceiling as it went. Up ahead, light suddenly appeared, less than 20 feet away. A room. Exhausted, I crawled faster. the sound of my own desperate breathing bouncing off the walls around me. Almost there.

Finally, I broke into the room and spun around. Tunnel was empty. As far as I could see, whatever had been chasing me was gone for now. Crutchless, I pulled myself to a nearby wall, slumped against it, caught my breath. Eyes locked in the dark tunnel all the while. Just in case. After a few minutes of catching my breath and calming myself down, I looked around. dirt floors, plywood walls,

this impossibly shifting tunnel that led me back into the back corner of a basement. But not just any basement. Paul's basement. Morse code at the end? Man, yeah, Morse code. Morse code comes to say, drum roll. Long.

The first time you see me will be in long. We'll be in long. Huh. No idea. Uh, wow. Uh, that was awesome. Like that. Pretty cool.

Also, Paul, I think is, I think Paul's the problem. I think Paul is, I think, Paul might be the problem. No, not gonna, not gonna cast too much judgment yet. Yeah, not going to do. Spidey senses are telling me that they are, they are quite tingly. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah. Uh, all right, part 11.

Part 11. None of these rules are set in stone. The intruder seems to evolve. react depending on your actions. How I ended up in Paul's basement didn't matter right now. I just wanted out. Easier said than done, especially considering I lost both crutches and the chase, but at least the light was on for now. Let's pray to God the bunker door wasn't locked. Leaning against the concrete wall for support, I shimmied up onto one foot. Hobbling forward, I maneuvered my way through the maze, one painful step at a time.

Tideous didn't even begin to describe it. Nearly three hours went by until, until I finally found footprints. Same footprints from when Paul and I were down here a few days back. Something to follow. Thank God. Encouraged, I shuffled my way forward bit by bit when a hollow thud from somewhere

deep within the maze. A fist thumping against plywood. My heartbeat quickened. I picked up pace, rounded another corner. We're thumping. Quicker now. Closer too. I hobbled faster. My limp cast leg, dragon uselessly,

behind me. More thumping. Two quick thumps each time now, like a heartbeat. The rhythm almost matching the pace of my own heart, getting quicker and quicker as the sound moved ever closer. I rounded another corner and finally the exit was inside. Somehow the bunker door was open, inexplicably opened, another suspiciously convenient blessing. With renewed vigor, I pushed forward. The thumping echoed in the hallway just behind me now, right on my heel. hills. The light snapped off, pitch dark. Only the faint glow of moonlight cast against the basement steps up ahead. I pulled closer, one painful lurch at a time. Finally, close enough, I pushed off the wall and staggered through the open door, falling chin first into the stairs. The thumping

sound right behind me. I pushed up, slammed the bunker door shut, and latched the lever down. Another close call. It stood motionless at the door. listening for minutes. Nothing. Dead silence. I looked back over my shoulder. The door at the top of the basement steps was open too. Wide open. Blueish moonlight revealed the four year above. Why were all the doors left open? I turned and used the railing to pull myself upward. Another painful and tedious slog. Try my best to be as quiet as possible. Not easy. Last thing I wanted was for Paul to wake up and find me crawling out of his basement with no good excuse. After 10 minutes of painstaking effort, I finally reached the main floor.

The familiar smell of vanilla-flavored cigarillos hung in the air. My hands and knees, I crawled towards the front door, going even slower than before, so as to not make a sound, inch by inch. When I finally reached the door, I grabbed sturdy umbrella from a bucket in the corner and used it to push up to standing. Make-shift cane. No match for a crutch, but it sure be crawling. I reached for the doorknob and froze.

A pressure suddenly pushed into my forehead, like a migraine. I rub my brow with the back of my thumb, stopped, lowered my hand. That was the weird tick. The thing Howie did, the thing Paul did, the thing Mitch did before he... When did I start doing it? Why did I start doing it? I shook it off and reached for the door, but again, stopped short. Another recurring question bubbled up from my subconscious.

Who is Paul's so-called old friend? Who was the person in the room down the hallway? Mm-hmm. What? I said, mm-hmm. I'm wondering it too. Yeah. I guess he's like, well, while I'm here, I may not have this opportunity again.

I peered back over my shoulder, trying to push the curiosity away, trying to just reach for the door and leave. But I couldn't. That strange, familiar, almost magnetic pull of needing to know the answer. grew stronger with each passing second. I glanced around the foyer. Where did Paul sleep? Safe for the basement. It wasn't a big house.

There were only three doors in that hallway, and one of them was probably a bathroom. I turned fully around, stepped forward into the foyer, and lurched to another stop. No. It's not safe here. My survival instinct screamed so profoundly.

I could almost hear it. Go home. Finally, listening to me. to my smarter self, I turned back for the door. Go home and sleep. I turned the knob and another question jumped in my head. What if Zach's in the room? There's no possible way.

Did the timelines even match up? How old would he be now? How would the police not have known? But if it was Zach, maybe I could get a photo, take it to the law? My feet were bringing me back down the hallway before my head even made up its mind. Thank God the floors weren't carpeted, where I'd woken up the whole neighborhood. Another painful hobble down the hallway until I reached the door to the mysterious room froze.

It took three deep, intentional breaths in and out, and reached for the handle, locked. I tried again, still locked. Not sure what I expected. I looked around. The house was quiet, motionless, almost like everything was on pause, frozen in time to an unnatural degree. A stillness that reminded me of the first night I found the coat rack. Same unsettling quiet in the air. Another weird thing I didn't have time to think about right now.

I pulled a switchblade out from my back pocket and shimmied it into the doorframe. I've got a lot of experience with discreetly unlocking doors. Don't ask. I told through the knife upwards, pushed forward over the latch, and four your light clicked on. Uh-oh. My view snapped down the hallway. Footsteps. Footsteps coming from the living room.

I staggered backward into the kitchen, just in time. Hello? Paul's voice echoed. How did he get out here? Was he asleep on the couch? I ducked down beneath a bar, separating the kitchen from the living room. This was not a good situation no matter how you spun it,

especially considering the fact Paul owned a gun. Gun, he wasn't afraid of use. Part of me wanted to come out of hiding, explain myself, but at this point felt like Paul was being influenced by the intruder, possessed even. Either way, I still needed to know who was in that room. Hello? Paul's voice echoed down the hallway this time.

I huddled further into the shadowy corner, waiting, listening. Paul strode back into the living room. He flicked another light on. A stretch of draining silence followed. He was listening to. He was waiting. Long, silent standoff crawled by. Five minutes at least.

Nothing but the sound of my own breathing. Then, Paul cleared his throat and moved towards the kitchen, towards me. His footsteps getting closer and closer until the floor beneath me jostled slightly. Paul was standing on the opposite side of the bar now. If he leaned forward and peaked down, that was it. I held my breath and I've still in hand. Shit, I should have tucked it away earlier. Now I really looked crazy.

Crazy and dangerous. Too late now. Paul was close enough to hear even the slightest movement. Another impossibly long silence tracked by. Seconds like minutes, minutes like hours, holding my breath all the while, growing denser and denser until... The switchblade flicked open. My tense grip must have bumped the switch. Idiot.

The floor creaked as Paul stepped back from the counter. My head raised a thousand thoughts a second. Paul huffed and stepped forward again. Suddenly, the tips of his fingers slipped into view, gripping over the side. the edge of the countertop above me. The bar top bent and strained as he leaned forward, pressing his weight down against it, inching closer and closer. Paul was going to peer underneath the counter and see me hiding there.

Crazy-eyed, sleep-deprived, armed with a switch-blade and... Somewhere in the house, a phone, my savior, vibrated against a wooden structure. Paul huffed again, his hands slipped out of view, and he strode back in the living room, away from the kitchen. Finally, I had held a breath of overwhelming relief, a relief that quickly faded when I realized my situation hadn't changed. He came back soon enough, and I needed to be somewhere else when he did. Mitch? Said Paul, his voice filled with bewilderment.

No, no, it's okay. It's okay. Silence. Paul was listening to Mitch now, or whatever it was, claiming to be Mitch on the other end, who knew at this point. You sure it was him? Listening. When? More listening.

Mm-hmm. Short pause. Did you call the police? Another pause. No. I understand. That makes sense. Yeah.

Mm-hmm. Okay. Mitch. Not right now. At some point, we should at least get some authorities involved, okay? He's clearly not well. Yeah. Yeah.

Okay. I'll meet you there. strode back into the living room and pulled a jacket on. What was going on here? Were they talking about me? Why was Mitch suddenly talking to his supposedly a strange father? Was that even Mitch? There's no way it was.

It had to be the intruder messing with Paul, but was that even Paul? My head was exploding with an influx of questions. If the intruder's goal was to make me go insane with confusion and paranoia, then mission accomplice. Congratulations. Paul strode down the hallway again. He was coming back towards the kitchen. Damn it, damn it. He stopped in front of the kitchen entrance, standing in the hallway.

His back was mostly turned to me. All he needed to do was to look slightly to his right, and the jig was up. Ten seconds dragged by until finally. Turned towards the mysterious guest room, went for the handle, and it was locked. Shaking his head, he reached up on the top of the door frame, slid his hand across, pulled down a key, and unlocked the door. Cracked it open and peered into the dark room. Mitch called

Something happened at his place Gonna see if he's all right Be back in a few hours Give or take Pulled the door mostly closed and froze Push it open again Open or closed No audible response

Paul locked the door from the inside Pulled it shut and tucked the key back On top of the doorframe March back towards the foyer Flicking off all the lights as he went Suddenly he froze Another long silence struck by and then foyer light flicked on again.

What was he doing? The answer hit me like a bag of bricks to the face. The door. I forgot to close the door at the top of the basement stairs. In my defense, it was open when I got here, but I doubted that was Paul's doing. I could hear him creep across the foyer and stop. Now I assumed he was at the top of the basement steps,

standing in front of an open door, never left open. Pulled the door shut, locked it, and wandered back into the foyer. Then he started pacing back and forth, pacing circles. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Clearly in the middle of a panic attack or something even worse,

this continued for three long minutes until finally, he stormed out the front door and slammed a shut behind him. Silence. Outside a bike engine turned on, peeled out of the driveway, and sped off. He was gone. Finally. Okay.

So, a couple points. Maybe he will. dismiss the door being open because, you know, the intruder works its way up the stairs and then you can hear it walking around your house, right? So maybe that was his explanation for the noise. Also, if he has a roommate in the back room and it's like if someone wants to be there, it won't, you know, the entity won't move. So clearly whoever there doesn't want to be there. Also, that whole segment played out like a Resident Evil game. Also, him, uh, locking the door and stuff. It makes you think that the roommate is somehow getting out at times and doing shit too.

Yeah, locking the door on him. Yeah. I don't know. I guess we're about to find out. My eyes drifted back towards the guest room door. Curiosity burning stronger than ever. But I decided to wait three minutes longer just in case Paul forgot something. It came back.

Three minutes went by. I crept out into the hallway. I hobbled to the door, reached up on the frame, slid my hand across and found the key. And shaking. and I unlocked the door and stopped. Breathe deep. What if it was Zach on the other side? What if it really was just an old friend of Paul's?

What I do with the knowledge? So my obsession for answers really pulling me deeper into the intruder's web? Turn my head sideways and place my ear against the door. The slow and muffled, beep, beep, beep, what sounded like a heart monitor. I leaned back, took a deep breath,

turned the knob, and pushed open the door. gut-wrenching stitch hit me like a wall like rotting food and burnt hair to smell so strong I could almost taste it turning away I clenched my eyes shut and buried my nose into my inner elbow I held there until the stench subsided somewhat turned back towards the room

most of it was hidden in shadows cluttered with military grade medical equipment just like the room in my vision art monitors IV bags even a table laid in with surgical tools. Near the window was a slightly inclined hospital bed. On the bed lay a man, or at least that's what I assumed.

He was wrapped in medical bandages. Medical tube stuck out of his arms, his wrists, even his legs. Bandages covered most of his face, save for his lower jaw, a small slip for the eyes. Almost wonder if it's fucking crap forward. You think it's the real Paul?

Maybe. That's just kind of what I was. I don't know. It could be. Yeah, especially. if he like burned supposedly medical tube stuck out of his arms his wrist even his legs

band had just covered most of his face save his lower jaw a small slip for the eyes I crept forward the slow rhythmic beep of the heart monitor remained steady whoever it was they weren't aware of my presence yet

but I didn't care either way I just needed to know I reached the side of the bed and stopped his eyes were clenched shut as if pretending to be asleep. His exposed jaw was scarred and mangled. Parts of his lips were peeled back, revealing teeth behind. I'm no medical expert, but it looked like a severe burn victim.

If this was Zach, I couldn't tell. He would have been so much older now anyway. But whoever it was, they looked fit for an intensive care unit, not a guest bedroom. Is Paul keeping them here as a guest to ward off the intruder? I couldn't imagine anyone their right mind agreeing to do this willingly. I was about to turn back when out of the hallway

the front door clicked open and a light flicked on. Paul was back. I cast my view around the room desperately searching for a place to hide when the man on the pad's eyes snapped open. Cold blue eyes, strikingly similar

to Paul's. Ah, uh, he was looking straight at me, wide and fearful, thudding footsteps getting closer. Without thinking, I clambered beneath the bed and pulled my cast leg in behind me. Cramp between tangled wires and green metal crates, I hid. The footstep stopped in the doorway.

The bedroom light flicked on. How did you open this? Paul's voice reverberated into the room. No response. What's wrong? Again, no audible response. Paul huffed, flick the light off, and pulled the door shut, leaving me alone with the burn victim.

The burn victim, I'm pretty sure was Paul. or at least some version of him. Morse code me. Morse code me, dog. Morse code me. Forgotten. The first time you see me will be in long forgotten. God damn.

Part 12, baby. It's been so long since I've been this hooked on something. My God. I just want to keep reading. I have no thoughts. Man, I love the, I love how it's like the Paul. all the fake pauls, the one strapped up in the room.

That's crazy. Doing God knows what to him. Do what? I, nothing. I recommended measuring the distance from him to the furthest corner of the house. Calculate how long it will take him to reach you. Set up your bedroom as far away as possible. Once established, do not move your bed.

I'm asleep there from now on. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor kept me from falling asleep. All the while, I could hear you. or Paul, mulling about around the house, doing God knows what it for in the morning. This went on for about an hour until finally, silence. Silence, an early morning birch chirping awake outside. It was still dark out, but the sun was rising. Another ten minutes went by until I decided it was safe to leave.

Climbing out from underneath the bed, I pushed up to standing. Relief poured through my sore, cramped body. I looked back. The man on the bed was asleep. Eyes closed Of course maybe it wasn't Paul but the resemblance even though the gruesome scars Even through the gruesome scars was striking that in the fact one version of Paul supposedly burned to death This point who else would it be? I needed a photo just in case

I pulled out my phone and battery dead of course Tugging my phone away I turned back and staggered across the room Place my ear against the door and listen The low hum at the fridge, the occasional drip of a leaky faucet, okay, pushed open the door and peered out. Somehow, the hallway was darker than before. Empty, as far as I could tell. I crept out, pulled the door shut behind me, shimmying against the wall, I made my way toward the entrance. Almost free, almost home.

Pushing off the wall, I stumbled into the foyer and thumped into the front door. A reverberating thud echoed through the house. God damn it. Dread hung in the air as I braced for a response, but nothing came. No more silence. Relieved, I reached, turned the knob, and locked. With the outside? Pulled my switchblade out and stuck into the frame.

Sliding forward, I, behind me, down the hallway, a door clicked open. I looked back over my shoulder. It was the door to the room of Paul's burnt-up doppelgame. I turned back to the door and... Brandon? The voice from the left. I snapped to look. Only at the dark and living room.

Struggling to pull the knife out from the door, I squinted into the shadows. In the far corner by a draped shut window, a silhouette, seated on a couch. Are you okay? Familiar voice from the darkness echoed. For a moment, almost sounding like my father. Someone rose to standing and stepped into a beam of pale moonlight. It was Paul. Cold blue eyes filled with confused disappointment.

His eyes glanced to the wedge knife gripped in my hand, back to me. Mitch called. He said, trying to stay calm, acting like nothing bad was happening, even though it clearly was. He's worried about you. He took a careful step forward. I flinched, pulled, and yanked. the knife out from the doorframe.

Paul gently raised a hand. We're okay. No need for that. Full disclosure. I've got a nine millimeter sitting on the table there. He glanced down to his left. A black finished handgun set on top of a stack

of books. But there's no, but there's no reason for any of that, right? He nodded slightly, as if to answer his own question. I lowered the knife, but I didn't put it away. Maybe seeing an incomprehend,

comprehensible monster crawl out through Mitch's mouth gave me a few trust issues. Mitch said you were really distressed last night. Said you broke down his door, ran away in a panic. I shook my head, painfully aware of how crazy I must have looked. It's okay, Brandon. We're not pressing charges or anything like that. We're worried about you. Have you been sleeping?

I chuckled bitterly. Turned back towards the door. It stuck the knife back in the doorframe. I was done playing this stupid game. I love the visual of that. It's like, are you sleeping? He's just like, but it starts taking into the door for me.

Because it is possible, like Mitch said, the more you learn about this, the more it gets in your head. From Mitch's perspective, he might have been fine. And Brandon just hallucinated Mitch going through all that.

Right. So for Mitch's point of view, he just tells him a story. Then Brandon's like, oh, he also looks fucking insane, to be fair, as well. And he has not slept. I don't think he's, I think we've said he's slept one night so far. Even though we saw all of that, I can't trust anyone.

No, oh, I got absolutely not. Yeah, like you said, maybe not sleeping gets it more in your mind. So the only reason he's having these intense hallucinations is because it's in his mind. If they are hallucinations or the ball he's talking to is a demon thing. Who knows? In my peripherals, Paul stepped over to the table, crouched down, picked up the gun and tucked it into the back of his waist loop. Brandon?

Said Paul, again, sounding oddly similar to my late father. Say my dad sounded, knocking on my bedroom door after Zach died. You're letting this get to you. I know what it's like. Trust me. I know better than most. I turned to look at him again. Why's your door unlocked from the outside?

Paul shook his head. It's not. I grabbed the handle and turned it to show. The door popped open. The comedic timing on this reads really reads very well. I grabbed the handle and turned it to show. The door popped open and the wedge knife clattered to the floor. I blinked confusion, shrugged, held the door frame and...

I'm not letting you go. Said Paul. It sounded more like pleading than a threat. Stopped, look back towards him down at the gun. You gonna shoot me? We're gonna wait here until help comes. Help isn't cops? You're gonna bring you to the hospital, get you some help. A psych ward.

They're not like the movies. Trust me. I've been in more than a few. I scoffed. A growing sense of bitter spite swelling up in my throat. All the confusion, all the questions, all the vagueness boiled into a twisting mass of rage. Who's in the fucking room? Paul glanced down the hallway. An old friend.

An old friend burned to shit that just happens to look exactly like you? He was injured in the wall. Brandon, I'm his caretaker. Shirk my head in disbelief. Paul had an answer for everything. You expect me to buy that? It's using you. I can see it in your eyes.

Then why am I helping you? I love, so I really do love the way this story's been woven because I don't, maybe, you know, at this point, maybe it is his friend from the war down the hall. But I also love how Brandon can just be

losing his mind. And that line reads so, like, oh, you've got an answer for everything. And Paul's like, yes, I live here. Yeah, you're in my house. We met two weeks ago. We met like a week ago. Oh, yeah.

Who's that down the hall? Oh, it's my buddy who's sick. Oh, I bet it is. Yes, it is actually. I opened my mouth to respond, stop short, as if the insanity of my own thoughts was too strange even to speak aloud. But I knew he was lying. I knew it.

Somehow, the version of Paul who burned alive in the car, car wreck was also the one in the room down the hallway. I didn't know how. I didn't know why, but I knew it was true. Look, Brandon, nothing I say right now is going to convince you of anything. And that's okay. I need you to understand. This thing is fucking with you right now. It's all in my head, right? No. Some of it's real. It has to be. I know. Some things happen to me that I can't explain, but that doesn't matter anymore. I put that aside and I pretended it wasn't real. Good for you.

I said, squatting down and picking the knife back up. I turned around for the door and Paul Drew's gun. He didn't aim at me, but he looked ready to fire. You're gonna shoot me? You're not gonna get far with that leg. He had a point there. Brandon, you've broken and ended with a deadly weapon. But I'm on your side here.

Even Mitch is on your side. I huffed, stepped back from the door and pulled it shut. Paul relast and tucked away his pistol. Long stretch of silence. Aside. Do you actually believe you're in control right now? What? It's using you.

I can see it in your eyes. Do you know it? Or do you think you're still you? Alternative world where like this is just an older man with a mental illness, who's been like working on himself. for years and he completely smiles because this guy's like it's in your eyes I see it, it's in your skin

you have to get it out. My head's full of jelly beans. Paul at a loss for words smiled sadly, turned around stuck back for the couch and I lurched forward pushing open the front door in one smooth motion scrambling onto the front lawn

red and blue light swept over the street ahead pushed up to my feet staggering uselessly across the yard. Brandon! Paul called after me, his voice filled with protective concern. Cop cruisers skid to a stop on the street in front of me.

Out from the passenger seat, a young cop whipped out, took cover behind the door and drew his weapon. Get on the ground! He screamed, a gun pointing directly at me. I just stood there, knife in hand, in shock, staring down the barrel of a gun.

Drop the weapon! I looked back over my shoulder at Paul. His face was filled with fear. Fear for my safety. I knew I could see it in his eyes. Something slammed into me from the side. A burly cop tackled me into the dirt. The knife sailed for my hand and flew through the air.

My head pushed into wet soil and grass. I was pinned down. Sudden realization flooded through me. Oh God, he's gonna be away from his home, dude. Yep. This meant I would be dragged away to a psych ward, forced to do their test, forced to take medication, sleeping away from home, breaking the car,

Rinal rule again and again. The intruder gaining more and more influence with every passing night I spent away from home. A sense of overwhelming dread swarmed through me. With a burst of surprising strength, I kicked and swiped and flailed, somehow shoving the heavyset cop off me. I scrambled, half crawling, half running, a useless attempt. The second cop hauled off the street towards me and sidewalled me back into the ground.

Both of them pinning me down now. Dead grass and clumps of dirt filling my mouth, but I didn't give up. I kept fighting. This was life or death I needed to escape. I kept pushing, struggling. Be careful with him! Paul's voice muffled, voice cried out, heavy blow cracked against the back of my head and darkness.

Oh, shit. I woke in the head of something not human, but not the intruder either. An animal. Strange and bizarre sensory experience, to say the least. Four legs. A perspective on the world nearly impossible to explain, was it a mountain lion? Was it a bear?

Didn't know. But I was in a familiar forest staring down a straight hiking trail. Even sunlight cut down through the trees above, speckling the snow-covered path with pockets of swaying light. Then I saw myself. A head on the path. I was dressed for hiking, looking slightly older now. Like fully healed.

Oblivious to the creature in front of me. This version of me suddenly froze, staring directly towards me now. His eyes filled with tear. He turned to run. Darkness. Oh, that's so good. Oh, that's so good. Seeing yourself and you're the bear, the monster that's coming for you.

Fuck, that's great. I woke up in a room with greenish walls, cold fluorescent light cast overall. My arm was handcuffed to a bed railing. The room was unfamiliar, but I knew exactly where I was. Emergency room. psych ward damn it fucking end of part 12

what's the morse give me the morse the morse the morse the first time you see me will the first time you see me will be in long forgotten memories oh first time you see me will be in long forgotten memories and we have

what three words left two left 13 14 oh yeah it doesn't have 14 two left what if the last two words are you heard long forgotten memories you heard what if it was a slur that would I'd say well I'd say well polterkites that's a

pretty that's a crazy crazy bull at the end pretty ball at the end there buddy but part 13 baby what if the last two words are don't be gay but be gay is one word don't be gray yeah yeah the last word is actually straights four paragraphs all

all no breaks in the word at all thank you mr wide mouth all right part 13 let it be known that mr wide mouse opinions are not respective of the opinions of creepcast mr wide mouse opinions are surely his own you will begin in the furthest corner

of your basement paul was right about one thing psych wards aren't like the movies at least this one wasn't if anything it felt more like a nursing home boring assisted living with cameras and security guards, no electroshock therapy, no drawn out talks with stoic shrinks, no evil head nurse.

The movie's got one thing right, though. Isolation, especially for the first few days. I was in hysterics, strapped to a bed, screaming about the man in the basement, screaming about how sleeping away from home would only make him stronger, give him more influence. Of course, I knew this behavior didn't exactly help my case for appearing sane, but when you're staring down the barrel of a gun, none of that really matters. Regardless, I calmed myself down after a few days. A steady cocktail of Sarah Quill and Benzos might have helped too.

Now, I had only one goal. A peer sane enough to get discharged. Get back home and hopefully salvage this disastrous transgression. Maybe the intruder would give me some leeway since my being here was involuntary. Wishful thinking. I guess there's one other thing the movies get right. The more you try to appear sane, the more insane, you appear. It's not easy to pretend things are normal when you believe an ever more powerful

hive mind tulpa, whatever it is, trying to absorb you into itself. But I put up a decent show. To be honest, getting stuck in a psych ward is the last place I expected to be. For this, it seemed like everything was leading up to some past and terrible revelation, like I finally get the answers to all my questions. Final horrific revelation connecting all the pieces together. But now, I was stuck in a borderline nursing home, putting together cat puzzles and playing who know with strangers. Not exactly the finale I had in mind. The anticlimax, if it all, was suspect, to say the least.

I was still waiting for the hammer to drop, to wake up in my room and see a coat rack in the corner. Getting forced into a psych war changed my view on a lot of things. There's one guy in here. He had OCD so bad, he needed seven cups of water on his bedside table at all times. Each cup needed to be slightly fullered than me. the last, but he also needed to drink from the third, fourth, and seventh cups every 14 minutes, then pace around the psych ward three times. If he broke the ritual, he was convinced a man

made out of paper would climb in through the vents and cut him in half. Shit like that might have seemed funny to me before in a morbid kind of way, but after seeing it firsthand, after living through it myself, let's just say I don't look at homeless people rambling to themselves on the street the same way I did before. It's easy to make fun of things that make you uncomfortable. It's not a so easy when you're the one going through hell. Paul came to visit too, or at least he tried. I did sign off the first few times. As far as I was concerned, Paul wasn't Paul. The real Paul was trapped back in the house, barely alive, strapped to a hospital bed and burn up almost beyond recognition, a prisoner in his own home. Mitch even showed up once too, but I refused him as well.

Mitch wasn't Mitch either. Mitch was dead, a mangled heap of skin on his kitchen floor. Worst of all, I don't think either of them was even aware of it, but I believe that they believed they were actually themselves unwitting duplicates. Paul kept trying, showing up every other day. He even covered all my hospital bills out of his own pocket. I was borderline broke, so that was appreciated. Out of curiosity more than anything else, I finally gave in. Finally signed off on Paul's visit. We sat down in the common area, imagine a low-income high school lunchroom,

round tables covered in half-finished puzzles, cold vinyl floors with flecks of milky gray, an older woman stood by the window. Rosa was her name. Every ten minutes or so, Rosa would call out for the nurse. When the nurse showed up, she'd asked them for the time. They'd tell her the time, and she'd thank them. Rentson repeat that for the last three hours straight. After a while, you start to tune out stuff like that.

Everything becomes background noise eventually. Finally, the door's pushed up. open and in walked Paul. Our eyes met, he smiled sadly, strode across the room, pulled out a rickety chair, sat down across from me. How have you been? I shrugged. He nodded and pulled a brown envelope out from his jacket.

Place it flat down on the table and slid it towards me. That's not going to answer everything, but it might help some. Skeptical, I reached into the envelope and pulled out a stack of documents. Papers, photos, ID cards. Paul cleared his throat. That's everything I could find to my friend in the guest room. Forewarning, some of it's a little graphic. I scanned the first paper.

Hospital records, he telling a man named Lawrence Weiser. A photo. A man lying on a gurney in the Vietnam jungle covered in full-body chemical burns. I flipped to the next page. Military legal papers, giving Paul the right to shelter and look after Lawrence. Clearance to monitor and treat complications sustained due to long-term effects of a wartime injury. Flip the next page. photo of Paul, much younger, was paper-clipped at the corner.

His arm wrapped over another man's shoulder, about the same age. Both of them looked so much alike. They could have been brothers. I kept flipping more documents, more photos, IDs, birth certificates. If they were fake, Paul would have spent a lot of time and money-making them. Maybe the intruder created them out of thin air. Turned the page. More photos of Paul.

He was setting up a hospital bed. in his house's spare bedroom. Military personnel helping out. Put the papers down and looked at him. And? Paul scratched his neck. I know it barely answers anything, but at least it clears up one thing.

Set the documents on top of the envelope and slid it back across to Paul. I drove to Mitch's apartment for 40 minutes out of town. Saw a fucking fetus monster climb out of his mouth. Then I ran down the hallway and ended up in your basement. Hell, I'm pretty sure my car still parked out at Mitch's. And you're saying it's in my house. head. Paul nodded understandingly.

The best. Yes, yes, the fetus monster from the throat. We've all seen it. I guess that kind of did happen. Uh, yeah, well, you know that when you phrase it like that, it makes a lot more sense. Oh, good mother of God, you shouldn't be here. We have to do something. The nodding to like the fetus monster crawling out of his throat. It's like, yep, yep, understood. Looks back over his shoulder making sure nobody was in your shot. It's not in your head. He said, turning back to face me. It's only partially in your head.

The thing's got a foot in the door between reality and nothing. And if you let it, it'll push that door all the way open and never come back. Why all the runarounds? Why the stupid fucking rules? Paul leaned back into his chair. Mitch and I have different ideas on how to fix it. I figured accepting it's there and living life regardless is the best route. Mitch thinks that's what it wants you to do.

Truth is probably somewhere in the middle. Why'd you say I could pass it off then? Paul looked at me, genuinely confused. In the park? You said I could build a bunker door, pass it off to somebody else. In the park? I looked at him in disbelief. Did he forget?

I honestly don't know what you're talking about. Seems sincere, but I've been fooled more than enough by now. In the park, he told me this long, dry-knout fucking story about how you fell in between those boulders, saw a man down between the rocks, told me the intruder dug a tunnel between the houses. A tunnel? You're serious? Look, Brandon, I don't know who you've talked to, but it wasn't me. But that doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is you focus on moving past all this. Focus on getting better. The stronger you are, the healthier mind is, the less power this has over you. Like I said before, once I stopped drinking, started caring

for people close to me. All the crazy shits started going away. Things still happen. Don't get me wrong, but I could deal with it now. You learn to cope. How do I know you're even you? You don't. Shit, I don't. That doesn't matter either. I'm here. I exist. You exist. Work with what you know. I didn't respond. How long have you been away from home now? Two, three weeks. Has anything happened? Has the intruder showed up here. Have you died? I didn't answer, but I caught the point. This doesn't make any sense.

I said, leaning forward, rest of my arms on the table. That's the point. This thing prays off confusion, addiction, fear, repression, trauma. The more fucked up you are, the better time it has. I'm molded over, still not convinced. Has the doctor helped? The meds?

I gave a reluctant nod. As much as I hate it. to admit it, things didn't feel as crazy as they used to. I felt calmer, more stable, but like I said before, this was all too easy, uncomfortably anticlimactic. The night before I went to your house, I swerved, almost hit a bear. I smashed it to the roadside post and cracked my head on the driver's side window. I saw things, experienced things. I saw you driving, looking out through your eyes. Paul nodded, as if expecting the point to raised.

I'm not gonna say it wasn't real. But it's only the snippets, but it's only little snippets of moments. Crumbs of conspiracy. Just enough to create a narrative in your head that may or may not be real. Enough to keep it. Enough to keep obsessed. Enough to, I saw you. Driving drunk.

You swerved into somebody on a green bike, hit and run. It seemed like you're trying to cover it up. Paul looked at me with deadly serious eyes. I'd kill myself before trying to try to. to cover up something like that. Now, I'm not saying it didn't happen, but it didn't happen in this world, and it didn't happen to me. Whatever that's worth.

Sure. Sure. Yeah, sure, man. Whatever you say. Yeah, no shit. Sure. I said, still not fully satisfied. Nurse?

Rosa by the window, called out again. Staff was ignoring her now. Nurse! Paul looked around, expecting someone to help. She just keeps asses. asking the time. Paul pulled up his sleeve and checked the time on his watch. Five, fifty-eight in the afternoon.

He said, smiley warmly towards her. I was looked at Paul like he was an angel sent from above. Ah, thank you. Paul nodded and turned back to me, more silence. Cleared my throat. You and Mitch talking again? Paul shook his head. No. He was just worried about you as all.

Still thinks you're possessed? Something like that. Paul rubbed his jaw. I mean, it's not just that, though. I was a shit father, too. You remind me of my old man sometimes. Shit father too, huh? He's all right.

Where's he now? Dead. No. Sorry. It's okay. What got him? Lung cancer. Same thing that got my dad.

In the liver, though. That's just like Mitch, he did the jaw thing. thing this time instead of the head thing. Yeah. Yeah. A strange column came over me, something I hadn't felt since before this nightmare began. A feeling that maybe, despite all its misery, life was worth sticking around for, at least a little while longer, if for nothing else, just to see what happens.

We talked about Howie, too. Paul said how he always struck him as weird, even before the intruder. Maybe he was a servant of the intruder. Maybe he was an unwitting vessel, controlled by the intruder to spy on the intruder. new recruits. Maybe he was just a weird guy who really liked the color green and crossword puzzles. Maybe some things were better left alone. Bell rang out through the PA system. Dinner will now be served in the cafeteria. Please line up on the marks, maintaining a six-foot distance from another, for one another. Paul hit the table gently with his fist.

Well, I'll stop bugging you now. Forced to smile. Paul stood up. I'm not asking to trust me blindly here. But if he got the paper, he. Haitians. I love to swing by and visit every so often. Don't got much else going on anyways. Sure. I said, still skeptical. Even though I didn't trust Paul or anyone else for that matter, I had to admit his presence made me feel a little less crazy, at least a little less alone. Besides, any visitor, even a potential vessel of the intruder was preferable to no visitors at all. Take it easy, kid. Smiled again, then strode back for the exit and pushed through the doors. Paul stopped by every single day

for the next two weeks. We played cards, talked about hockey, politics. Sometimes we talked about the intruder too, but less and less every day. Paul eventually brought me somewhat around, convinced me to work with the doctors. What did we got to lose anyways? Fair point. Paul told me to tell the doctors what they needed to hear, tell them I acknowledged it was all in my head, even if we both knew that it wasn't entirely true. Say what I needed to say to get out, but don't rush things, only leave when I felt ready to. Reality is a spectrum. Things in the realm of thought and emotion don't exist or not exist in a binary state.

Belief leads to real actions, terrible and beautiful. Just look at religion. Not a believer myself, but it's pretty staggering the simultaneous beauty and horror created by mythic ideologies. True or not, sometimes it feels like belief itself has more effect on the real world than anything else. I don't know. Maybe the intruder worked in a similar way. molding itself out of belief, obsession, trauma, forcing itself out of the abstract, into the concrete, like a virus of the mind. Who knows? Paul was there the day before my discharge. The doctors had determined I was stable enough to return to public life. Still felt like shit, but now in a normal

constant haze of vague depression and anxiety kind of way as opposed to a supernatural entity is trying to kill me kind of way. Paul and I played crib in the common area, best out of three. He won, as usual. Stretching at his arms, Paul checked the time. Well, I should head out. Said, partially yawning. Oh, sweet by tomorrow. Give you a right home.

Sure. Thanks, Paul. No worries, kid. Paul drove me home the next day. Pulled into my driveway, and sure enough, there set my car. Inexplicably, back in its spot, no longer in front of Mitch's apartment. I opened my mouth to ask about it, but stop myself short. Better leave well enough alone.

So, what's next for Brandon? Just to the rear few mirrors he spoke. Yeah, probably gonna move upstate to be honest. Yeah? I don't blame you. I haven't checked my email in a while, but pretty sure I'm jobless by now. That kind of just fell off the map. Fair enough. Is that a bad thing, though? I mean, not really.

It wasn't really my favorite job anyway. So what are you gonna do now? I don't know. Maybe I'll go back to... school. We'll start writing it again. You write? I used to. And you enjoyed that?

Yeah. Why'd you stop? No money. Well, if you move, sell the place. That might give you a bit of cushion, huh? Sure. I'm not saying what you should do, Brandon, but if you like writing, then at least try for it.

If you like something else, shoot for that. It's better than not trying. Trust me. I learned that the hard way. Yeah, maybe. He said, bawling it over. Looking back, this conversation, like many others, was a little strange, but I didn't think much of it at the time. Anyways, I'll get over your hair now. That was the most normal conversation they've had thus far, and him highlighting it a strange worries me.

Silence, I reached for the door and stopped. Thanks, Paul. I said, looking back at him, it's hard to know what to say to someone who might have saved your life. You owe me one. He said, cracking a smile. I smiled back, turned away, and unlatched the door. I stepped out, went to close it, and... Oh, one other thing.

Uh-oh. I froze, pulled the door back open, hunched down to meet his eyes. I know you're planning to move anyways, but... Paul shifted in his seat slightly. It's probably better we keep minimal contact from here on out. Same goes for Mitch. I'm not sure why, but... This thing seems to feed off us at being around each other.

I nodded, stepped away, pushed the door shut and turned back from my house. Paul pulled into reverse, backed across the street, pulled into his garage. To this day, I don't know if that was even Paul, the intruder or something in between. All I know is he helped me get back on my feet, so I'm grateful for that. Rifled for my keys and something caught the corner of my eye. down the street parked about seven houses away a white hatchback with tinted windows

the same car I'd seen all those weeks ago I had completely forgotten about that well I don't know why it grabbed my attention but it did it felt out of place sinister almost exact same word in two also I just want to say how he's been on his couch for like a month yeah well you know it's crazy

how he was on his couch, like sleeping on his couch, when the police tackled him in the front yard arrested him. So he's like, he's in their story while outside's like, get out the ground. He better not get involved. Drop the knife. Yeah, how he walks out. That's him officer. Yeah, that's him. Eat a big bowl like cereal or something. I shrugged it off, turned away and open the door. Smell of cooking at me. Chicken soup, gravy and mashed potatoes. Hmm. How he humming to himself. I pulled the door shut behind me and was greeted with a bright green, brand new basement door. You like it? Howie's voice shot down the hallway.

I turned. Spalled head peeked out from the kitchen. Yeah, Howie, it's great. Howie smiled. The note at the end, I lied is so funny. Howie smiled brightly and stepped out in the hallway. Works picking up again, so it's from my own pocket. At least I can do for letting you stay.

Let me stay here. Thanks, Howie. How have you been? His dad sort of filled me in a little, and he's apparently not dead. His kid told me otherwise. Some people are so weird, huh? Crazy catching. Huh?

Nothing. Oh, I got something. How he slipped back into the kitchen and appeared on the other side, this time with a crosswork book in hand. Nine words. Third letter T, last letter, M. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. when he was in the intruder's mind, the intruder randomly said filament.

Yeah. Which was the crossword that how he had earlier. Howie's got to be the intruder, right? I'm telling you. I just feel like how he's got to be because he's so out of place otherwise, but I feel like they are setting up a punch like that.

Nine words. Third letter T, last letter M. A naturally occurring yellow blackish liquid found in geological formations below the earth's surface. I furrowed my brow. The word was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn't quite place it. How he looked at me, eyes filling with anticipation, shrugged again. Beats me.

His eyes filled with disappointment. I'll let you know if it comes to me. Sure. Here, no problem. I slump back into the kitchen and placed down the booklet. It looked like I just told him his dog died or something. Okay, so he, so he's got to be like the intruder, and this wordplay thing is like a way to establish like control or connection.

Yeah, something like that. Yeah. Moved out the next week. How he'd offered to stay, pay rent with his newfound income. I agreed. Never did find out exactly what made him leave his old place, but he never brought it up, so I didn't ask. I moved upstate, rented a small studio apartment in a mountain town.

Still can't sleep in places with basements, but can't really blame me on that one. Got back into writing hard too. Started taking online courses, watching YouTube tutorials. stuff like that. Got my craft to a place where I'm not entirely embarrassed to share it. Weirdly, all these events actually inspired me to start writing again. Of course, all the loosens, all the unanswered questions still bothered me. Something just felt too convenient about the last few weeks,

like I'd gotten out of my woods too easy. Like the hand of an invisible and benevolent god stepped in and waved away all my problems, Dave's ex-Moggina. But sometimes, I wondered if the intruder was still using me. working towards some unknown and terrifying endgame, an endgame that would reveal itself at any moment. Vague anxiety once again lingered beneath everything, like a constant rising, shepherd tone.

Sometimes barely audible, sometimes unbearably loud. I did what I could to put it out of my mind to focus on other things, not pushing it away, just being aware that it's there and gently choosing to focus elsewhere. I'm learning to live with it, learning to accept the unknowable. I'll admit one thing though, coat rack still freak me out. Despite all my progress, there was something else I couldn't shake. One question that kept me up nights.

What happened to Zach? Was it really what the police said? Some long haul semi-truck driver in the night. Terrible accident. But what about the visions of Paul drunk driving hitting somebody on a green bike? What about the intruder's mimicry murder of Zach? pleading and apologizing. Okay, so that was the murder of Zach.

Okay, yeah, yeah. What about the... I stopped myself from spiraling. These questions stuck in the back of my head like splinters of wood stuck between fingers, but even here, I'm learning to live with it. About six weeks ago, I decided to look up Zach's mother.

Just to call her and see how she was doing. See if she was even still alive. Took a bit of work, but I found her. She lived in a care home down in Georgia. Called her on a Wednesday night. Hello? She said, her voice sounding almost how I remembered, despite all the years between. Mrs. Serrano?

Speaking. Hi, I'm not sure if you remember me or not, but this is Brandon Miller. Brandon? Yeah, that's me. Oh, it's, you've been, it's been so long. I'm doing all right. We made small talk for a while, talked about the town I grew up in, talked about the pandemic, craziness of the upcoming election.

Then the conversation took an unexpected turn. How's your father doing? Oh, he passed away quite a few years back now. I'm so sorry. It's okay, I've accepted it now. I've mostly done the same with Zach, but it still hurts. That never goes away, but you learn to live with it. I didn't say anything.

I was lost for words. Silence hung in the air until... You know, Zach always had trouble making friends before you. I didn't know that. Zach always struck me as effortlessly charismatic. He was a bit of enough of kids ever really clicked with them. But with you. Inseparable.

Yeah. It was the same way. How's that? Not making good... Not good at making friends. Hmm. More silence. I remember his passing hate you really hard.

I shouldn't speak for months. Your father was terribly worried about you. Yeah. I'm doing better now, thankfully. That's good to hear. Closure? What? What?

closure. Hear what? A driver, long-hauled teamster, came forward a couple years back. All those years back, he was asleep deprived, running across state, shipment, when... Trolled off, the tragedy spoke from the silence. She took a breath and continued. This driver, he grew. Overwhelmed with guilt and came forward two years back to confess.

I met with him, too. A kind soul, really. A sensitive soul. Wrong person, wrong place. Terrible mistake. now. He took his own life a few months back. Poor soul. Neighbors found him in a basement corner. Oh boy. Oh boy. Don't like that. Oh boy. There it is. Like all all this progress he's made all this distance away. Just zing. The words.

basement corner hit me like a concrete wall. Was this connected to the intruder? Was this connected to Paul? Nightmarish thoughts and incomprehensible images raced through my mind. The image of a naked body. Pale and decomposing slumped into a basement corner. A plastic bag wrapped over its head.

Do you there? Said Mrs. Serrano. Wait a minute. Where was it mentioned about a plastic bag over someone's head? That was mentioned before. That was really early on. I thought that it was,

um hi i forgot that someone said somebody died but they had the plastic of i think paul said that at some point it was a while back though it was like pretty early on but i do remember that yeah it was somewhere in there also like the way this intruder works um all none of this could be real too this whole phone oh 100% yeah a million percent i stopped myself took a deep breath set it aside don't worry about it it's coincidence I hope his family is okay. Me as well. Threads of conspiracy dangled in front of me like fishing lures.

This had to be connected to the intruder somehow. I mean, it had to be connected to the rules. What's his name? I asked, almost involuntarily. Hmm? The driver. Oh, um, Mason, Mason Parker, I believe. Huh.

They didn't recognize it. Awkward silence. Well, it's been a lovely hearing from you, Brandon, but... Game's night is about to start. and I can't be late. Of course. You as well, Mrs. Serrano. Take care of yourself.

Call any time, okay? Okay. She ended up the call. Wait a minute. Okay. Mason's, Mason Parker. What's Paul and Mitch's last name?

I can't remember. It's not Parker. He is a Mason by trade, right? So, or at least he does Masonry somewhat. What was his, what was the guy's name that he's helping? That his, like, friend Lawrence Lawrence.

Oh, but it was like Lawrence W something. I can't remember his, it wasn't the same. Wiser, Loiswis Wiser. Yeah, wiser, yeah. Yeah. I said at my work desk, glow of car lights beamed in through the window and swiped across the darken walls. Rain drop shadows stretched across the room and returned into darkness.

Took another deep breath, exhaled, doing my best to stay grounded, using a trick I learned from Paul. Three by four. Name three things you can see. Bookshelf. white wall, brown desk. Named three things you can hear. Rain against the window, tires against the road outside, neighbors footsteps up above. Three things you can feel. Back in my legs against the seat, warmth of the heater against my shins, brush of my shirt as I breathe in and out. Name three

things you can smell. Uh, coffee, gasoline, burnt hair. Oh shit. Oh, baby. Oh, Oh, yeah. That's the stuff. Oh, that's so good. Overwhelming tear pushed up from the floor into my toes, through my legs, my spine, into my head, a sickening upward swell of chemical dread, a feeling that something truly heinous, something truly evil yet emotionless beyond human understanding was standing behind me. I imagined arms impossibly long, stretching from the shadows across the room,

unnaturally large hands, fingers with extra joints, reaching for the scruff of my neck, eager to pull me down through the floor, down through the ground, down through the dirt beneath the surface of reality itself, trapping me below an invisible barrier, suffocating me under water with impenetrable surface tension, forcing me to watch, gasping for air as the world above moved on without me. The world above acted as if I never even existed to begin with. Eternal suffering. I spun around, expecting to see something incomprehensible, but there was nothing.

No intruder, no coat rack, no man held together with nails and wire, just an empty studio apartment. The orange glow of more headlights wiped across, slow and yawning light crawling over the kitchen, over the front door, over me, like the beams of a deep water submarine scanning the ocean floor. Everything returned to moonlit darkness. against the window drapes of faint, greenish and flickering glow from a neon bar sign across the street. I sniffed the air. The smell of gasoline and burnt hair was gone. Maybe it was never there to begin with.

I took another deep breath and exhaled. It's all in my head. Or at the very least, it's mostly in my head. But still, words only rank partially true. If I'd learned anything over the past few months, it was this. Nothing good comes easy. At least, not this easy. As much as I try to repress it, as much as I tried to ignore it,

I knew something was missing. There was some piece of the puzzle that may or may not ever be found. I knew this wasn't finished. I took a deep breath, exhaled. I turned back to my desk, popped open my laptop, started writing. Holy shit. End of part 13. What is the, uh, what's the, uh,

What's the... Morse code coming up is the first time you see me will be in long-forgotten memories remembered. Mason was the name. Mason was the dude, Mason was the name when he was in a hive mind. It was one of the names he said.

Is it? Yeah. When he was like when he was popping back through, Mason was that I, I just, I mean, it just immediately solidifies that the motherfucker is lost. I mean,

He is, I mean, he's still wrapped up in it. I'm curious to know. Oh, yeah. He didn't get away. Yeah. All right. I mean, I'm, listen, I want to just hop into the last part. Long forgotten memories remembered.

All right. Well, it's been a ride, Hunter. It's been like five hours of reading this thing. I'm hooked. Are you ready for part 14? I am. And I got to say, uh, I know that we, it's been a long recording, but man, what a pleasure. This is, I mean, like, this has been such a fun story.

I'm, I'm sad. You know. Yeah. It's one of those stories that like, man, I'm, I'm glad I was here for it, you know? But I mean, you know what? This is the ultimate test, so Isaiah. How does it end? That's, does it stick to landing? So the endings define stories. So how does it end? Let's see. All right. If you see him, do not overreact. He may decide to move on. Oh, what a great. What a great rule to open with. That's such a great one.

That's awesome. She's been fucking manic for how long? It's like, just, just, just, just, just, to play it cool. Don't do anything too extreme. A bump in the night startled me awake. I checked the time. 258 a.m. Neon green light flickered in through the studio apartment window.

I set up onto the edge of my bed staring at the closet door. A white closet door was zigzag patterns etched across it. Another thump above me. I looked up. It was the upstairs neighbor again. I'm all in about at 3 a.m. on a Wednesday night.

rubbing my eyes, I pushed off the bed and strolled up to the window. I was snowing outside. For snowfall of the year, drifting dots of white dissolving against the asphalt below. I was about to turn back when something caught my eye. Across the street, down in the plaza parking lot, a white hatchback with tint of windows. Engine idling. Was it the same car from before? I shrugged it off, pulled the blind shut, and crawled back in a bed.

But now I couldn't sleep. The bumps and scrapes of the upstairs neighbors felt louder. The flickering glow of the neon bar light across the street felt brighter. Everything felt heightened, like on fast forward. I rolled out of bed, marched across the room, and yanked open the closet door. A bunch of propped up junk toppled out onto the floor. Old records, unread books, unopened boxes. I pushed it all away and dug into the back of the closet, throwing junk over my shoulder,

until I found what I was looking for. An old box fan and a red pleaded quilt. I stuffed the quilt into the window frame, walking the outside light. I set the fan up on a chair and blasted it towards my bed. White noise, darkness. I dug through a few more boxes until I found a pair of orange disposable earplugs.

Let's try this again. I climbed into bed and shut my eyes. Gentle gust of the box fan against my face as I drifted off to sleep. There was something about that feeling. It felt like movement, and movement calms me down. But that's why I enjoy aimless driving so much. I shut my eyes and finally fell asleep.

I had a dream with Zach in it, but it was more like a memory than a dream. A vivid flashback playing out in darkness of sleep like a strange and ethereal film. A memory from the week before Zach died. We had found an old car, rested up and stuck down to the riverbeds by the cauldron cliffs. an old 1950s car likely pushed off the cliff from above by some drunk college kids Zach wanted to jump across the rocks over the Russian torrents and stand on top of the old car I did share his enthusiasm risking death to stand on a car wasn't my idea of a good time Zach bugged me about it but didn't push

We went back home after that up the winding trails through the dried woods up past old house and the rental shams. We rounded a corner and stepped on to the final stretch of the trail. Zach froze, pointed straight ahead. Down the trail, about 50 feet or less, a man dressed in white, with pinned straight posture, stood with his back to us. But this part never actually happened.

It was a false memory, a creation of the strange dream. Or if it did happen, I'd forgotten it. Zach cupped his hands to his mouth and screamed. Hey! But the man didn't move. We both tensed up as a long silence ticked by. A growing sense of an ease in the air.

Summer breeze crawled through the woods behind us and kicked up dry dust from the trail. Sunlight caught through the plumes and the wind faded back to quiet. Then Zach looked back to me. We should go. Brandon? I looked at him. Zach's eyes were filled with the same. uncharacteristic fear.

I snapped away. Cold sweat running down my forehead. The Morse code, the first time you see me will be in long-forgotten memories remembered. I wonder then, because that's what I said earlier. I'm like, well, how did Zach interact with the creature? Because you have to be plagued by it to become a part of the memory loop. And Paul said he saw that memory of getting hit by the car. So it must have been Zach and Brandon who ran into it that day.

interesting. The story's not going to do it. I feel like it's too crazy of a pull, especially at this stage, but what if it was like Brandon realizes he's Zach? That would suck. I'd be like, dude, don't do that.

I snapped awake, cold sweat running down my forehead. Thanks to the blacked out window, my room was pitch dark now, but something was wrong. I could no longer feel the brush of the fan against my face. Pulled out my earplug.

The fan was still on, a worrying hum. I squinted through the dark as a slow and terrible realization crawled over me. Something was stood between me and the fan. Oh, God. Something was stood in the middle of the room. I gripped my teeth, reach for my phone, turned on the screen, and shone it into the room. Empty. The brush of the fan against my face returned.

The sense of a presence vanished. I stared into the empty room, waiting for something to happen, almost willing something to happen. almost willing something to happen, but nothing happened. For five long minutes, nothing changed. I rechecked the time, 3.58 a.m. Climmed out of bed, trudged across the room, flicked on the light, and strode back towards the window. Pulled the blackout quilt back and peered outside.

The snow was falling faster now. Parking lot across the street was empty. The white hatchback was gone. I looked back over my shoulder on a hook beside the door. Car keys. I drove up the number seven highway, a winding mountain road. Headlights cut through falling snow like warp speed stars. Window wipers wiped back and forth with percussive rhythm.

My Toyota reverberated with the drones of rubber against wet asphalt. No other vehicles in sight. Like I said before, movement always calmed me down. Before I owned a car, I used to go for these long, solitary hikes out in the mountains. There's something about constant motion. outside, alone, peaceful. I drove for over an hour without stopping, feeling calmer with each passing mile, reminded myself that I'd been away from that house with the basement for months now.

Months of completely disregarding the rules and nothing happened. No terrible revelations, no intruder from the basement, no evil doppelgangers, only paranoid and fleeting moments of fear. Maybe, after all that, the rules really did mean nothing. Maybe Paul was right. Snow was falling faster now. Getting dangerous. I turned off on the 62 exit and wound back for home.

The orange swipe of streetlights against the windshield, the drone of my car, the wiping of the wiper. Up ahead, red lights. Yellow hazards blinking on the side of the road. I sped past. It was the white hatchback with tinted windows. Front hood was popped open and a man stood on the shoulder, trying to wave me down, but I didn't stop.

Something felt wrong. Before even reaching the next exit, my heart changed. Horror stories ran through my head, stories about broken down cars on lonely winter mountain roads, people freezing to death before the sun even came up. Grudgingly, I signaled off at the next exit and hauled back around. I pulled a U-turn and parked up behind the white car. Yet my hazard lights, the driver wasn't standing outside anymore. the back door of the car swung open and he stepped out.

Bundled in winter clothes. Oh, this is the guy he saw when he was walking with Paul, remember? In the park, the guy that had a scarf pulled up to his nose. Oh, yeah, very quickly. And he walked past and then, yeah, Paul was looking at him. And he said he looked vaguely familiar then. Yeah. The back door of his car swung open and he stepped out.

Bundled in winter clothes with a scarf pulled up around his face. Vagely familiar. He waved, stepped up to the front of his car. and pulled the hood shut. He stepped around to the passenger side and pulled the door open. Hunching over, he reached into his glove box, took out a brown paper envelope, and tucked it into his winter coat. I studied him as he pushed the door shut and strode back towards me.

Leaning over, I unlocked the passenger side door. The stranger latched the door open, hunched over, and looked at me. His eyes filled with immediate recognition. He pulled a scarf down and... It was Mitch. A knot. Interesting. Okay. So the dude in the winter clothes who's been driving this car everywhere is Mitch.

But why? A knot twisted in my stomach. I hadn't seen him since I saw something crawl out of his mouth and leave his body in a mangled heap on the kitchen floor. Brandon? He said, not sure if it was actually me. It was dark. The interior light of my car was broken. Mitch?

I said back, even though I already knew it was him. Wow. Looks back over his shoulder. Small world. I nodded. Part of me actually considered just flooring it, getting out of there, but I didn't. Maybe this was Mitch after all.

Maybe his death was nothing but another nightmarish vision. But more than anything, I think I stayed out of curiosity. Always curiosity. What are the chances, huh? Okay, now I immediately don't trust Mitch. Said Mitch, turning back to me, I huffed.

He was right about that. I'm a little stranded out here. You might have noticed. He ran a hand through snow speckled jet black hair. Tried calling a tow truck, but the service out here. Threw up his hands. You need a lift? I said immediately regretting the offer.

You don't mind? Shook my head. Exit 25 on your way. I'll take the bus from there. So, yeah, Mitch is definitely something that you don't want around. also Mitch has never acted like this before he's been very like dulcent he's not like the service out here am I right well I wonder how much of how much of Brandon's story have we seen that is actually reality like I'm really wondering has it just been a like yeah I don't know

Mitch at least knows who he is but beyond that yeah oh yeah but I'm just saying from Brandon's perception and all this different stuff of like has he just been under a spell the entire time and now it's just been like vignettes and vignettes and vignettes. of like him thinking that he's living a normal life and then slowly trying to like find his way out of like this like fucking labyrinth that he's in. Yeah, very well could have been. We drove in silence for the first five minutes, all the while the elephant of the past set between us.

Finally, Mitch spoke up. So, have you been? I knew exactly what he was talking about. He wanted to know what happened after I said, screw it and threw his list of rules to the curb, but that was the last thing I wanted to talk about. All more ruminating and more obsessing over answers. Ever since I moved away from that godforsaken house, my life had improved significantly, and that's all that mattered.

I've been good. Another awkward silence followed as Mitch expected me to ask him the same. I reached for the radio and turned the knob. Static blared. Every channel was nothing but white noise. Yeah, no signal out here. Set Mitch rubbing his hands together from the cold, turned off the radio, and grip the steering will.

How have you been? Up and down. No more work thanks to COVID, so I had to move in with Paul. I raised an eyebrow. Mitch caught my look and shrugged. I thought maybe I was wrong about it, you know? Wrong about what? Some of my theories.

Hmm. Mitch turned away and looked out the window. His breath fogged against the glassed. White lines of falling snow streaked past. What brings you upstate? I asked. curiosity slowly building again. Just needed to get out of town.

Fair enough. Mitch opened his mouth like he was about to say something else, but he stopped. Shug his head a little and turned back to look out the window. More silence. Obviously, okay, so the entity has clearly arranged this. He appeared in his bedroom to make him wake up and decide to go on a drive, right? Yeah. But it's like, to what end?

He glanced down and his eyes caught something. Chrome switchplate sitting in the cup holder. He reached down and lifted it up, steadying it. Where'd you get this? Weed dealer. Back in high school. Mitch turned the blade, flicked it open, and flicked it shut. Huh.

Tossed it back into the cup holder and leaned back in his seat. I'm going to get some sleep. Shifting his weight, he nestled his head against his seat belt and shut his eyes. Despite my paranoia, I felt calmer now. It felt like the real Mitch, but even if it wasn't, I'd be dropping him off in a few exits anyway. About 30 minutes later, I pulled off. on exit 25. The car bumped over snagging the road and Mitch stirred awake. Hmm. Next left up there. He turned down a narrow road, balls of dark forest on either side,

about 100 feet ahead, a lonely bus stop, lit only by the cold bluish glow of a solitary street light, pulled to a stop in front of it. Thanks, Brandon. Said Mitch, reaching for the door. I could tell he still wanted to say something else but was holding back. Of course, Mitch. Be safe. He nodded, pulled open the door and paused. Pulled the door shut. Turned back to me inside. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out the brown paper envelope.

I studied him. If I was branded in this situation, when he like sighed and shut the door, I'd be like, no, no, no, no. Drive off. Yeah. It's like, no, I'm pretty sure this is a bus stop. And if not, someone else will take you the rest of the way. You'll be fine, buddy. Bye-bye.

You have a jacket. Bye-bye. Yep. And goodbye. It's okay if you don't want to talk about this, but... Rubbed his forehead with his palm. I've been digging a little. Doing some research again and well...

It's aster deadly serious. I think I've almost figured things out. You reached into the envelope and pulled out an inch thick stack of papers, photos, and documents. I think I know what it wants. What's trying to do? My curiosity was screaming at me, begging me to listen, but... Thanks, Mitch. I'm good. Yep, yep.

Thank God, Brandon. Good for you. good Lord. Thank you. Yep. Thanks, but no, thanks. I'm trying to quit. He looked at me, confused.

I cleared my throat. Try to keep it all in the past now. It stared at me for a long five seconds, then nodded slowly. Sled the stack of papers back into the envelope and reach for the door handle. You change your mind, just call me. He said, almost indignant.

He pushed the door open and stepped back out into the cold. Snow had turned into a sludgy mix of slush and rain now. I slammed the door shut, wandered up to the bus stop, sat down at the pitch. Is this just like in the middle of like a pitch black road at night alone bus stop? Did you ever watch that Charlie Coffin movie?

I'm thinking of ending things. Oh yeah, yeah. It kind of reminds me of that, like a very like cold, snowy, surreal, almost like empty, vacant like Midwest Road or something. But yeah, it's just like,

what a great movie. Oh, love it. Just Charlie Coffin is just one of the most miserable people that end talking to the pig going through the school uh man sit down clenching my jaw i shifted into drive and pulled away like to say i kept driving yep there it is i knew it i knew it i mean it's like i said at the beginning it's like you know at some point you have to sacrifice authenticity for theatrics and stories so what are we going to do not find out what's in the envelope yeah so i shifted

into drive and pulled away i'd like to say i kept driving like to say i left mitch at the bus stop and that was the end of it that I finally won out against my obsession for answers, but I didn't. Barely made it 50 feet before I pulled into reverse and drove back. I leaned over and pushed open the passenger side door. He looked at me, not surprised that

I had returned. Pushed up from the bench. That could have been his moment, I think, to like create distance between it and the intruder, you know what I mean? That was his moment to actually prove that he's better than it and it can't hurt him anymore. And he proved the intruder right.

He pushed up from the bench, strode over to the car, sat down to the passenger seat, and pulled the door shut. God damn it. He ended up slush and rain beat down from above. The lukewarm gust of ventilation against my face. Window wipers uselessly wiping the same mess of icy mush back and forth. Mitch reached into his jacket, pulled out the envelope, placed it on the dashboard. You sure about this? I wasn't, but I nodded anyway.

Fuck you, Brandon. Mitch smiled grimly, reached into the envelope and pulled out a stack of papers. So after he left my apartment. He slowly flipped through the papers as he spoke. I called up Paul, told him what happened, told him you're hysterical. They broke the door to get, that they broke the door to get you. I still don't know why I called him, but I did. I think some part of me still believes that he's my dad.

I still do. Mitch stopped on a photograph, paper clipped onto a page scrawled with manic notes and scribbled coat rack sketches. It was a photo of him as a kid with the rest of his family. Mother Holly, his dad, Paul, and even his late sister Evelyn. All of them stood outside a blue tent dressed for camping, smiling, happy. Mitch smiled sadly as he flipped to the next page. A month or so after you left, a work fell apart, as I told you. Couldn't afford to pay rent, buy food, so I asked Paul if I could move in. At first, it was out of necessity, but also, I started wondering again.

After our last meeting, maybe there's a way to figure this all out. Maybe even put a stop to it. I guess something told me the answer was at Paul's house. He placed the stack of papers on to the dashboard and glanced down. His eye caught the ashtray full of cigarette butts, evidence for my temporary smoking relapse. You mind if I... Mitch reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes.

Go for it. Mitch nodded, squeezed a cigarette between his lips, pulled out a lighter. flicked, but no flame. Ficked again, still nothing. Reached it in my own pocket, pulled out my lighter, reached across and flicked it on. Mitch leaned forward, inhaled the tip of his cigarette into the flame

and leaned back. Thanks. Also, I wonder if it's more of a Paul thing. I don't know. Have we ever seen Mitch smoke? I mean, whatever. Doesn't matter. No, no, Mitch hasn't smoked. Paul was the one who smoked.

So the idea, I think it's like the thumb tick, like they're all developing the same hat. habits. Yeah. Yeah. I tucked the lighter away. Mitch scratched his eyebrow with his thumb. His eyes darting back and forwards as he watched the window wipers he saw.

The blue glow of the street light cast shadows of trailing raindrops onto his face, almost like sad clown makeup. He cleared his throat. So I moved in with Paul, took the guest room. What about his old army friend? Mitch nodded. Lawrence, apparently his condition worsened. He had to go back down south full-time care in real hospital.

At least that's what Paul told me. You saw him right. Lawrence. I nodded. Covered in bandages. I nodded again. There's no reason to have decade old burned injuries bandaged like that. That simple fact wedged into my head like a needle.

Turned back and stared out through the windshield. Headlights cast into the darkness ahead. The road seemed to stretch on for eternity now. On either side, motionless tree stood like an audience of silent watchers. Ancient, apathetic. Mitch shuffled through the stack of papers and pulled out another photograph. Look. I looked.

The inside of a shed filled with dozens upon dozens of coat racks. This was in Paul's backyard. He took the photo away and pulled out an aerial blueprint of the neighborhood. Lines of blue ink led away from Paul's house and branching web-like pattern. He's got tunnels, leading to every house in the neighborhood. I think he's the one breaking in leaving coat racks in the corners. Why? Mitch put his cigarette out in the ashtray.

I haven't figured everything out yet, but I'm getting there. Rubbed his nose and continued. Your friend Zachary Serrano. I think Paul was drunk driving one night all those years and hit it and hit this kid on the interstate. Took his body and buried it up by Ballroy Cliffs. Did he ever tell him his last name? Oh, the next question is, how did he know about Zach? Okay.

So, so, yeah, Brandon's asking the same thing. I shook my head. I talked with Zach's mother in. She said a guy confessed to it. Mason Parker, right? Long haul trucker? I didn't respond. Mitch held the print out of a news article. Parker came forward about two years back, right? Again, I didn't respond. Mitch, increasingly frantic, pulled out another photo and tossed it on the dashboard. A dead body in a basement corner, naked and decomposing. A plastic bag wrapped over its head. It was the same image that flashed through my mind when I talked with Zach's mom.

Where did you get this? That's not important. This guy, Mason Parker, he lost his mind of the months leading up to his suicide. Which made finger quotes on the word suicide. Same method of my sister used, by the way. His eyes looked slightly crazier with each passing minute. Mason was on the house arrest when he started telling his supervisors that he had never really actually confessed, that he never even hit anybody.

He told them some guy, a drunk driver from a parallel timeline or something, hit and run this kid, Zach, that switched places with Mason. He told him this guy could hide people's faces, look out through their eyes. and of course they wrote off as insane. Shook my head. Brandon, I do this sense crazy, but trust me, I almost had this figured out. What about Howie?

I don't know why Brandon would shake his head given all the stuff he's seen. Unless he's convinced himself that it was all part of a delusion. I think he's trying to set him up. I think that he is becoming more and more suspicious of Mitch. And I think he's just, I think he's just kind of like it's all hitting him,

but also I have a feeling he's trying. to like weed him out or he's trying to like verify that Mitch is uh the intruder right now yeah i said finding it hard to hear about Zach i'm not 100% on him but i think he's a vessel for the for the intruder a channel to spy on new recruits so to speak i didn't respond uh do you i know this is a super lame moment but can i pee real quick be right back boo before we get to the finale just because i don't want to during like the i don't want to pee the man pulled out another image, shards of glass on the road, police caution tape, a wreck of a blue Toyota hatchback upside down in a ditch, totaled.

That's your car, right? This car? The car we're in right now? Again, I didn't respond. When you visited my apartment, you told me you almost hit a bear on the way over, right? I squinted at the image. This car had my license plate. If it was a fake, it was a convincing fake. So the next day, I went out to investigate, and I found this accident scene. Police were already there. Apparently the driver did. died on impact. I did some more digging and it turned out the driver's name was Brandon Miller. I didn't know what to say. My head was starting to spiral. Brandon, listen to me. I have more proof.

Pulled out a copy of a police report detailing the nature of the crash. This wasn't easy to get a hold of. He said holding it towards me. I waved it away, starting to feel my sanity slipping again. Brandon, this is important. I think I know how to stop it too. I think I can get you and maybe even my dad back to normal. Rolled my eyes. So I was dead the whole time or something? Said trying to stay grounded.

No, but this version of you died. Felt up another image. Close up of the driver's seat and total car. Body hunched over the steering wheel. Face hidden. It's just like what happened with my dad when he tried to drive me his truck off barley cliffs. I think he'd create another version of you.

And I'm that version? No, well, I don't know, maybe. Why? Why? Why? What does it want? I'm still figuring that part out What does Zach have to do? What does Zach have to do with this? I think my dad killing Zach is maybe what started all this.

Like, he hit this kid and somehow the intruder showed up and helped him escape the consequences. Like he made a deal with the devil. I mean, I have other theories too. This is just one, but we can put it together with what we know and actually figure this out. Think about it. He said his eyes filled with manic energy.

I'm thinking about it. It sounds fucking crazy, Mitch. Mitch ignored the slight. When I was a kid, like, really young, I went out to the garage late one night and my dad was there. Power washing blood off his truck. Tell me he hit a coyote. And I believed him, but now... He pulled out another photo.

Look. The image was of a severed finger laying atop of bloodstreet asphalt. A yellow evidence number eight sign beside it. That's from your friend. Zach, where he died? That's his finger. I thought he lost it shooting the wall. Well?

I went and looked at it. way didn't need to see that think about it Brandon you just left town ignored the rules and now your life is fucking better do you think you could get away from it that easy like the rules didn't mean anything do you really think that do you really think this was over I was doing a pretty good job getting away from it thank you Mitch until someone no shit so down Brandon you should just drove away dude you fucked up he looked at me expecting an answer but I just stared at him seeing the same crazed obsession in his eyes the same obsession that almost killed me Mitch turned away

So I'm at to Paul's house About a week ago and he's not even there Place is bordered up overgrown like abandoned for years I even asked the neighbors about it It's like he just stopped existing Mitch There's too many connections here Too much evidence

You can't just move on with this Brandon We need to figure this thing out We can't make sure this thing happens to anyone else Mitch We can't even figure out why your friend Zach had to die We can figure out how to save you from this Save Paul Maybe even if I'm saved by

sister, Mitch, I'm heading upstate to speak with Mason's Park's cousin, ask her about what he said in the days leading up. Enough! Mitch looked at me, his eyes wide and sad like a scolded dog. Brandon, are you listening to me? Did you not see the photos? I've moved on. Fighting every instinct in my body to keep listening, keep searching for answers, but now I knew enough to know all this searching led nowhere good. True or not, this only led to misery.

which stared at me in disbelief, lifted the stack of papers. This is... There's... shook my head, and he trailed off into silent defeat. I stared straight ahead. I was locked on the road. Mitch sighed and reached for the door.

Froze. Hand on the latch. I found your story online. Words hung in the silent air. Midge's hand slid off the door latch, down to his thigh. You know it's using you, right? Again, I waited for my...

response, but I remained quiet. You need to take that story down. Shut my eyes, trying to stay calm, trying to focus. Did you seriously forget about no third parties? Brandon. Open my eyes. You need to take that story down.

The more people read it, the more influence he gains. It's using you. Why do you think my dad randomly encouraged you to pick up writing again? Does that really make sense to you? Thanks, Mitch. I'll think about it. Mitch his eyes shot down to the switchblade in the cup older than back to me

I thought he's flicked back and forth considering terrible options Mitch Not saying I don't believe you You might even have some you might even have some of this figured out I'm sure you do but But you told me yourself All this obsession searching for answers It's not leading anywhere good

For a moment his eyes filled with half understanding And understanding that faded as he turned away and stared out the window This is all I caught now He said placing the brown envelope onto his lap Pushed open the door and stepped outside Turning back he hunched down and met my eyes Take that story down He said but this time it sounded like a threat

Genuine threat Considering he likely knew where I lived Looked back over his shoulder into the dark forest It's when I noticed something I had him before All night Mitch's face had been mostly concealed in the dark But now in the dim glow of the street light, I could see something strange. Scarring at the corners of his lips.

Pink and blotchy, like it was cut with a knife and healed over. Settled but unmistakable. An image flashed through my mind. Mitch standing in the middle of his apartment kitchen, head snapped back as gaunt hands pushed out of his throat and the corners of his lips started tearing. See you around, Brandon. said Mitch, tucking the envelope away and pushing the door shut.

I wandered back towards the bus stop. He sat down. I looked straight ahead. Took another deep breath. I exiled. I shifted in forward, pulled a U-turn, and drove away. At the four-way stop, about 100 feet down the road,

I reached up to just the rear view mirror, and the bus stop was empty. Mitch was gone. God. I did think about him, posting the story. I'm like if this thing, you know, thrives off of influence and confusion, him posting has to be a bad idea, right? You would think so. Yeah. Or I mean, yeah, I mean, yeah, it's weird that the intruder wants it down off the internet. Yeah. Yeah. Maybe it knows. I mean,

he's posting his 14th part. Maybe the intruder knows he won't actually take it down because he's in his head. Yeah. I looked back over my shoulder. Crawling chills slid down my spine. He was standing in the road now. Standing with pinch straight pot. posture beneath the streetlight, his back turned to me. I see rain and slush beat down from above. He stood motionless, unaffected. The light flickered, and I almost expected him to disappear, move closer, but he didn't. He just stood in the exact same spot, staring out into the endless dark, rigid. I floored it out of there, spent all the way home and never looked back. That was the last time I saw Mitch, or at least that version of him. Something tells me he'll show up again.

be in a month, maybe in a year, maybe on my deathbed. I know the intruder isn't finished with me yet. I don't think he's finished with any of us, you included, and I'm okay with that. I'm glad you're okay with me becoming a part of this. Thanks, dude. Appreciate it. So what do you make of the whole like, he's dead, the police report that he died? I don't know.

I mean, like, this is, well, I'm curious, I want to save all my thoughts and tell the, I'd be lying if I said Mitch's theories don't bother me. Despite all his insanity, some of it actually made sense. Disturbing amount of sense. For three weeks straight, I fought the urge to investigate further. About the urge to start Googling Mason Parker, Paul Carver, Zachary Serrano. Told myself it was all part of the intruder's game, the photos, the threads, all of it was just bait. Tantalizing crumbs of half-truths, all designed to pull me back into his messed up and convoluted

conspiracy. It wasn't easy, but I resisted. I'm not proud of much, but I'm proud of that. I went for a hike last week. Needed to clear my head. So I drove downstate. Went to the same trail Zach and I used to explore his kids. I dressed for winter and brought a pack of vanilla-flavored cigarrillos. Figured I'd earned a one-time relapse after pushing through all this. I brought my switchblade along too, just in case. Everything felt different out here now. Smaller. Covered in patches of melting snow. I wandered down the winding trails, down past old houses, past the Rindleshamms, down towards the base of the cauldron cliffs. The old rusted car was still there too. Same one Zach wanted to stand on, I've stuck in the frozen riverbed. Is he going to be,

is he going to be the guy he saw as a kid, and that's how it's going to end, I swear. The air was crisp. General Breeze swept up from downriver and pushed through me like a spirit. I stepped up to the edge of the bank. I breathed in. I stepped out. Setting a foot onto the ice. It was solid like concrete. I exiled.

I set both feet out. It felt safe. I shuffled across the river towards the abandoned car, slipping as I went. I stood on top of the rusted car in the middle of the icy river bed at the bottom of the cauldron cliffs. I pulled a smoke out, lit up, inhaled. The warm rush of nicotine poured through me like an old, but toxic friend. I'd like to say I had some profound inside here,

some meaningful revelation, but I didn't. If anything, it just felt sadder about Zach than I ever felt before. I sat there for about an hour, maybe two. It's hard to know. Another breeze pushed up from downriver and chilled through me. It was getting colder.

Time to go. I tucked the now empty pack of smokes back into my pocket. I pushed up from the dead car and hobbled my way back across the icy riverbed, stepped up onto the riverbank. time to go home i made my way back up the winding trails up past old house past the rindle shams over planters creek i turned the corner and stepped on to the last stretch of long straight path through the sparse winter woods same path for my last memory with zach i kept walking and branch snapped behind me uh-huh

uh-huh really interesting really interesting too that the thing the first interaction actually with Paul was talking about, like, if you come across a bear. Yeah. Uh-huh. And also the perspective of when he saw himself in the... Yep. He was the bear. He was the bear that would one day find him.

I spun around. About 20 feet down the path. A grizzly. Malnourished and gone lumbered onto the trail. I froze. I didn't even know grizzlies lived here. But even if they did, shouldn't it be hibernating? Bear froze.

stared at me and hushed. Hot fog pushed out through its nostrils. Fear rushed through me like a knife. I stepped backward, started to run away, started to think about running, but I stopped. Turned back. I stared into the old creature's silent eyes. I took a deep breath. I excelled. Bear raised its head, studying me, judging me. Hey, I said, as calm as I could manage. How have you been? The bear's head tilted slightly and it took a bit. took a quick step forward.

I didn't move. I kept talking. I told her about how I used to go hiking up here with my friend Zach. I told her about my year, about the coat rack in the basement corner, all the while, slowly backing up. Bear matched my pace. The gap between us shrinking with each step. I stopped moving, reached back, pulled off my pack of smokes, an empty cart now. I placed it gently on the ground.

Then I took another careful step backward. The bear matched me, pushed forward as I stepped back. I stopped. I grated my teeth and this time took a step forward. Step towards the bear. Looked at me. Confused. Primal fear shuffling through my body like a deck of manic cards, but I didn't have time to worry about that right now. I set it aside. Bear sniffed the air again, took another, more cautious step forward and another one. Everything in my body screamed at me to run, screamed at me, turned heel and bolt. but I didn't

I stood motionless eyes locked with the bear she reached the carton on the ground and bent forward sniffing it turning it over with her nose curious I excelled slowly

took another step back she looked up at me almost annoyed at my being there now she went back to biting and pine at the pack I took another step and another one one step after another until I was 50 feet away

until I was 100 feet away, 200 feet. I stepped backward until I reached the bin, round to the corner, walked to the parking lot, got in my car, drove back home. Again, no profound insights or realizations came over me. I just felt sad. I missed my dad, Miss Zach. Of course, I know this isn't done.

I don't think it'll ever be. I know I haven't seen the last of Mitch, how we, maybe even Paul. I know Mitch isn't going to stop until the story's taken down, and something tells me the intruder will follow me until the day I die. I've learned to live with that. Whatever happens, I'm okay with it. I'm not happy about it, but I'll accept it. Honestly, though, Mitch might be right.

I haven't considered deleting this story. It seems possible that the intruder, if he's real, might be using me. Might be using me to spread its influence to whoever reads this, but I don't care anymore. more. Why would I? For the first time in my life, I'm okay with waking up in the morning. I'm okay with existing. And as much as I hate to admit it, ever since the intruder showed up, ever since I stopped following those stupid rules, ever since I stopped searching for answers, ever since I accepted things and moved on. My life's only gotten better. Maybe yours will too. There's two edit when was this

I'm not seeing a date for when this one was posted but at least if there is I'm too dumb to see it anyway there's an update from December 23rd 2020 where he says I saw Mitch's car parked across the street again last night and then from January 1st where he says I woke up

outside last night maybe I was sleepwalking give us the final Morse code did one more Morse code looks like it's four words each week one step the first time

you see the first time you see me will be in long forgotten memories remembered each week one step fuck sakes dude each week one step is that is that what I mean that's just like the that's the title of the thing it says

at the beginning yeah yeah I mean that's the title of the fucking it's the title of the story but it's just that thing of like it's still it's just still there it's just so good what an incredible psychological horror and there's so many ways you can decipher this story

you know also this is such a great way to end the story too of like having it be something that's like still lingering it's still coming for you you know it's like a weird thing of you know a big thing that they say they joke a lot about with like millennial shit is they say like millennials is always

the horror is like trauma or like your past or whatever you know generational trauma but this really does feel like a very fun take on like the events like the horrific events of your past like never leave you know and they're and they they always stick with you and it's really like how you approach those those difficult situations is how it affects your future you know what I mean um but man I don't I mean what a great story fuck what do you what do you think of there's a lot of there's a lot of things there from from like paranoia

seeping in and becoming the real monster a tulpa is a good vehicle for that because the whole thing with the topas it's whatever you imagine it to be so as awful as you imagine it's as bad as it becomes in a literal sense it sounds like even though he thought he got away he was still under its control because he was in that

he was in that apartment and he smelled the gasoline and burnt hair and from that he was encouraged to begin riding online. And at the very end, he says, maybe your life will be better too. And Paul said that thing to him in the psych ward

where he said, you'll lose your mind and start telling people that their life was better after they find it. Who knows? So even though Brandon had the illusion that he got away from it, he never did. And as a matter of fact, he was doing its bidding even more

by writing all this online. Because he's just spreading the influence of it. So in the end, the the intruder one, whatever it was. I think that I still think that he, what's his name? Howie, I still think Howie is the intruder

or at least a big vessel for it. I think maybe that's just how it appears to the people who are under its influence. I really like the bear thing. Like, when we first see Paul talking about the bear, he's talking about how to survive from, he says, speak to it like it's an old friend, which makes sense literally because

now we know that Paul's probably seen through the eyes of the bear like he has. But there's also this thing about like that bear being representative of like paranoia or mental illness or, you know, depression, any state of mind, right? It's detrimental. And it's like when you see it, don't run. You can't fight it. You just have to ease off. You talk to it and you let it take a piece. It's similar than like what he was talking about was going to therapy, taking things easy or the nature of the Tulpa itself. It's like you can't get rid of the bear, but you just have to learn how to deal with it. You can make things get by easier.

In a sense, the Tulpa was almost representative of mental problems. Of like, you know, even if it'd be anything from depression to like, uh, uh, paranoid delusions.

So the bear kind of embodies that. And then at the end of the story in, like we have the arc brandon has from like, I have to learn my, he keeps saying the curiosity, got the better of him to the point that he's standing out of his house at night with a knife and the police have to arrest him and put him in a psych ward. Like that's how far his paranoia took him.

And then over the course of the last couple entries, he moves away and learns to live with that and to live beyond it. And sure, it's not gone. It's not like you can delete your problems by going somewhere else, but you can learn to get better through them. Or you can be like Mitch and just deny that they even exist. And then when they do come for you, you have no reform. so you fully dive back into them.

So we have Mitch and we have Brandon sitting there in the car as two different ends. Someone who decided to confront it and deal with it and ride about it and have a healthy outlet as someone who just denied they existed until it completely engulfed them. So we have that arc for Brandon where he's learning to live with it. So early in the story, he's confronted with the bear. And then when like, and he's told how he's supposed to deal with it, which is, you know, which relates to how he's supposed to deal with the condition he's in. And then midway through the story when he's at his worse,

when he's driving places trying to figure out the truth, that's when a bear almost gets him killed in the car. Like the bear causes him to spin off. And then according to assuming that this alternate reality things, right, kills him in a life. To me, that's representative of the fact that this paranoia, this drive could have gotten him killed if he would have kept going with it. So that's where he was at.

but then he learns, he makes peace with it, and at the end of the story, when he sees the bear again, he treats it, he talks to it like an old friend. He's able to reconcile with it. He's able to reconcile with it. Just like Paul, someone who, as was said, many times before,

was in his same space and got the help he needed. Someone who was experienced with this situation was able to give him the advice that saved him in the end. And he was able to leave a piece behind and walk away. And there wasn't some huge, because that's what Mitch was looking for and that's what Brandon was looking for earlier. This eureka moment where everything makes sense

and the problems go away and we figured out how to stop the bad guy. But like you said, after walking away from the bear, that wasn't there. He just got away from the bear and sometimes that's enough. Like he said, sometimes it's okay to just wake up.

Yeah, I think that, I think that's beautifully said. I think that this story really does feel like a very accurate depiction of like living in hell, you know, or like, oh, dude. Dude, each week one step, like for recovery, like for doing better. Yeah.

Just each week, one step. Just take a step each week. Yeah, just like one step. Yeah, it's almost like, yeah, I know what you mean, almost just like each week one step. Like instead of like focusing on like figuring everything out now, just focus on like taking just like small victories. Just take a step. Yeah. Just the bear is going to get closer to you if you let it.

You just make peace with it and then step away. Don't run. Just deal with the bear walk away each week one step. Yeah. And then like he says, that final paragraph. So, oh man, that final paragraph works so well because it's haunting in the literal sense of the narrative because Paul warned earlier if this tulip gets a hold of you,

you'll spread the word, you know, you'll get other people. Like you've got to be careful. You'll start saying things like maybe your day will be better. But viewed in that context, after he learned to make peace with the bear and to overcome his problems instead of pretending like they're not there he says for the first time in my life

I'm okay with waking up in the morning I'm okay with existing as much as I hate to admit ever since the intruders showed up which like the problem or the bear I stopped following those stupid rules I stopped searching for answers ever since I accepted things

my life's only gotten better maybe yours will too each week one step there's also to me the story works is an allegory for like mental issues or addiction or things you can't overcome. 100%. That's what I'm saying is it feels like a beautiful, like a beautiful rendition of like an actual

depiction of what hell would be like, which is like facing your own inner turmoil, is all the worst things that could happen in like devolving and like rolling in that. Hell is really like what you make of it, you know, in that way of like the person of hell you push yourself through is all constructed by like needing that control instead of being able to let go and make amends with things and like look to the future versus like ruminating on the all the things that went wrong, you know? Also at the end, there's there's seven dashes and the seven steps. What do you think the seven steps and the seven dashes are representative of these things that were the, the repetition of seven. Like at the end, maybe yours will too.

Those are seven dashes and then it says this is not dead. Isn't it seven steps, the alcohol anonymous thing? No, it's the 12 step. I was just I think it's a lot more than that. Yeah. Yeah. I'm not sure where seven steps. Yeah, they keep saying seven steps over and over.

I'm not sure where seven steps comes from. Maybe it's just to say like the repetition of the number seven shows up in like, like one of them did it one time, but because they all share like these mindsets, like the ticks. Maybe it's just like a tick they all share almost. I'm not sure. I'm not sure we're to make of the seven. I don't know. There's a bunch of different stuff.

I mean, first off to us just blindly reading this and then trying to like off the cuff decipher things just immediately. I think, I think this is going to be something that's like you can think about it more or like there was even like there was references in this thing where I was like, oh my God. Thank God.

Like he said a quote from a character from the movie, the network, which is like a network, which is like a popular movie. But I would say a lot of people haven't seen network before. But that was just like I literally just watched that movie last week. And it was like just there's,

there's a lot of references, which is also what kind of reminded me so much of the Charlie Kaufman's like, Charlie Kaufman's, I'm thinking of ending things because I feel like there's so many, there's so many references and so many things that are like alluding to like literature that if you haven't read it

before, you might be like, what? You know, so it's like very, it's tipping its cap to just like, well, if you know, you know, if not, it is what it is. I don't know. I mean, like, man, I, I don't know if it's just because this is, it just feels like, once again, we don't get it a lot,

but the most important part of a story is just like fucking character. Like the characters were just so all consuming. And you what's weird are the characters is, you didn't, I didn't trust any of them. I don't feel like I knew any of them. I don't feel like I really, but they were so, um,

the way that they were. woven through the story was so captivating. And that level of deceit the entire time wasn't cheap. It felt like it was continuously felt like it was earned. And it kept feeling like it was making me question making. I mean, like it was fun with like I liked feeling like I was questioning the characters along with Brandon and tell the part where I was like, I don't even fucking trust you, Brand. Like I don't trust anybody in this fucking story. And I thought that was really, really amusing.

but really I think this story is so effective with how limited the characters are and how effectively they were used throughout this kind of like psychological horror and complete and utter deceit. And the thing too is like we don't get the creepy weird visuals, which isn't really a lot. And there's like pink baby man, long arm pink baby man. But by that time, Brandon's like fucking gone. Like mentally you think.

You know, so at that point, you're really riding that line, which, you know, I've seen some comments or, you know, when we were talking or when I was listening to talk there was reading some of the comments. And, you know, I can see how some people might be like, you know, I don't like the whole, oh, is he crazy? Is he not kind of ending? Is this a dream? You know, kind of ending that this might pretend, like might decipher two to some, but I don't know. I don't know what I can't at this time articulate what that difference is for me. But it didn't feel like it's a cheap ending of like, well, I don't know. Is he crazy? I who, who know? It doesn't feel that way.

But I can't articulate why. I love the story. I thought it was really fun. I thought it was really good. I really enjoyed, I liked Paul a lot. I thought he was a great character edition. And I like how it were,

I don't mean all the, you know, the thematic stuff at the end to take away from like, it was scary in parts like him, the thing breathing on the other side of the door and the menacingness of just a coat rack showing up. It just peppered in so nice. And it's like at the end,

maybe there was a bunch of coat racks in, Paul's backyard. Maybe there wasn't because you can't trust Mitch then. Who knows? He's so gone in the delusion that he's seemingly lost forever. Yeah. Yeah. Um, so it's like, who knows? Who knows what came of it? But I like that because, you know, again, kind of representative real situation. Sometimes you don't know everything, right? You know enough. You can put together the picture. But, you know, it's not the kind of thing you're going to win against. You're not going to kill the monster. It's just there. Yeah. I think that people, I think that this is like a great understanding of like people feel like they need to have total control and feel like they have complete resolution when that's just not as cringy as to say that's just not what life is. Life is just curveballs and it's just fucking horrible. I mean, it's horrible shit. It's good shit. It's mundane shit. It's just kind of a mixture of everything. Really, I don't know, the more we talk about, the more I just really appreciate. Also, just what a fun way to like put a bow on this. Because also, too, if you, I think that's the thing too is like if you, there is no resolution. to this story.

Like there is no resolution to a lot of things. It's just a matter of like you kind of keep going. Like what happens to Brandon after the story is he probably has a probably pretty a pretty normal life with some weird shit that happens like what happens every once in while, which is what's going to be with everybody else who's reading this story. You know what I mean? I think that that's a very powerful and fun way to end this thing.

And it doesn't feel like also a letdown. It doesn't feel like my like the wind is out of my sales thinking about that. Yeah. Because the journey was so fun. Yeah, it did great. I think there's a lot of moments of tension. There were a lot of twist. I'm going to find myself thinking about the story and like theorizing about it for a while. And I thought it was great. Like, let me pull up the name again because I keep forgetting. Polter Kites or Marcus Cleaver, a fantastic job. Wow. We're going to, we'll have this stuff linked in the description. This guy sells books. Like I said, he's got a deal with Netflix for this story, which he adapted into

There's also the book that is. Yeah, yeah, which is based on this story, which I'm sure he adapted stuff. So be sure to check that out. That'll be linked in the description. But man, what a great author. I can't wait to read more from him. Yeah, we're going to put some more stuff. And also, I mean, I might even pick up some stuff here.

I mean, he has a book called The Caretaker and Please Remain Seated as well. Very fun. I mean, yeah, we'll put it in the link. Please go support this author. And I mean, God damn. What a great, what a great story, man. very very rarely do we get to have this kind of uh this level of quality so very very appreciative of that and man how awesome thank you guys so much for listening to this episode uh thanks

you're sticking with us and hopefully you don't have too much of an existential crisis uh after this is done and uh it's real it's real it's half real it's not real it's in your skin it's in your head yeah i was going to say i feel this i feel this whiplash my neck is tense i feel like i've been on a wooden roller coaster is what it feels like. But yeah, no, I mean, I thought it was awesome. Guys, thank you so much for listening. If you're watching on YouTube and you want to listen on an audio podcast or an audio platform, consider listening to us on Spotify or Apple Podcasts or anywhere you can listen to a podcast.

That would be helpful. And also for anybody looking for extra content, feel free to check out our Patreon and support the channel. We got some extra episodes up there as well. So until next time, guys, stay creeped. stay creeped and also spooked and anything that you think is

whatever your worst interpretation of the story is because the way Tulpas are is if you imagine them enough they become real something inhabits it so whatever you're currently afraid of or think is happening

in the story it is real it's going to get you right now run immediately by you.