CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 10 CHILLING Horror Stories to wash away another Valentine’s Day unless you had a good time

Episode Date: February 16, 2022

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "I didn't realize how lonely a person could be until now" Creepypasta►16:17 "These mysterious notes keep appearing, asking me to pay a fine" Creepypasta►33:03 "The family next door kept a man under their house" Creepypasta►56:49 "Do You Have Two Small Stitches Behind Your Ear?" Creepypasta►1:08:24 "The mountain was closed for the season, but we climbed it anyway" Creepypasta►1:24:01 "ZIP Code- 00666" Creepypasta►1:52:57 "After months of prep, I am finally ready to tackle the 'Roadworks game'" Creepypasta►2:21:25 "I accidentally broke a gravestone, and found a book sealed inside" Creepypasta►2:42:25"‘The Children’s Play Area is Closed’" Creepypasta►3:11:27 "The Quiet Hours On Sycamore Court Are From 8pm To 10am" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY► Matteo Spirito: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/lV...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

This weekend, I'm I'm awake I'm not as I'm on think. Oh, that dossier that morning off must be all I'm too

I'm too much as I'm on too oh, I'm a moose if I'm not too on too as I'm not on think. Have you it more

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Supplement forcragm-mire by the apotheker. I met Cyrus about a month back. Track season was just starting, and when we practice, he would sit in the stands and watch. Sometimes I saw him reading,

but he always had his headphones in. It wasn't uncommon for kids to sit and watch practice. Most of them were paying more attention to each other than to us. I only noticed Cyrus more than the others, because I never saw him in class. He was clearly our age, and it wasn't a big school, so I wasn't suspicious.

It was just curious to me. One day, when practice was over, I happened to be walking the same direction he was on my way home. We caught each other's glance and started a conversation. Or rather, I did. Hey man, I'm John.

I see with the track all the time, but I guess we've never had a class together. Oh, I don't go here. I'm Cyrus. I'm homeschooled, but I get bored. So my parents let me hang out to the track after school. So far, nobody has said anything, so I didn't think it was a problem. I don't think it's a problem.

Just wanted to say what's up. See if you maybe wanted to join the team. Um, thanks. I just like hanging out, really. That's all good. You walk down Kirkland to get home, because then we can walk together for a while. Sure. Our first conversation mostly continued like that.

I was talking and he was responding with as little effort as possible. The next day, however, he was waiting for me so we could talk. That continued for as long as track season continued. We talked about all kinds of stuff. We told each other about our families. We talked about hockey and soccer. I told him about this girl I had a crush on and he told me about his girlfriend he met at church. Every day we walked and talked until we got to prospect of.

park, and then we'd go our separate ways. He never wanted to come to my house to hang out after. He never invited me anywhere else. He never played video games or went to the movies. I figured maybe his family was on hard times. Maybe he was embarrassed about his house, and he didn't have the money to do the stuff I usually take for granted. As I thought about it, I realized he wore the same clothes all the time.

A black hoodie, black jeans, and some torn-up converts. For our school, that was common because we wore uniforms, but there isn't a reason for a homeschool kid to do that. I started to feel bad for him. After track season was over, he'd still wait for me after school, and we'd walk and talk. My friends asked about him, but he never hung out if I invited him to join the whole group. It was fine with me, I guess. My friends are kind of immature and shallow. Cyrus was hyper-intelligent and seemed warm.

wise for our age. One day I was talking to him about my crush for the third day in a row when the conversation took an interesting turn. I was like pretty sure Liz wanted to go with me to prom, but then today Susan told me that Liz was going to say yes to Zach Klein. Then Susan told me Liz really liked Zach and she wouldn't want to go with anybody else. I can't stop thinking about it man. I didn't even know they knew each other. I probably won't go now. Aren't some of your friends going without date in a big group, you should go with them. It isn't about not having people to go with. It's about not going with Liz. More than that, having to see how that chose Zach Klein. I can't believe this. Cyrus stayed quiet for a while and then he stopped walking.

I might be able to help you out. Don't say you're going to give me a makeover. Do you trust me? Um, sure. We're pretty good friends now. So, if you're, if you're, Even if I told you something crazy. Like, you're going to laugh at first crazy. You'd at least consider it to help your problem. Whoa, boy, I'll consider almost anything at this point. Are we going to freaky Friday this bad boy? You're a looker for sure, but I'm not sure you're so much better looking than me that she'd immediately say yes.

Kind of presumptuous on your part. Cyrus got frustrated. Forget it, man. Let's keep walking. Sorry, I'll stop. Tell me what you're going to say. I have a powder Dude, I'm not slipping anything into anybody's drink

That's messed up No, god damn it It's a powder you take You just need a picture of Liz You take the drug before bed You stare at a picture until you fall asleep Then you'll have a dream about her An amazing dream

Where she's in love with you and happy Then you'll wake up And it'll come true Come on I thought you actually had a plan I'm serious 100% serious I could see it in his eyes

that he was serious about something but people can be serious about making you look like an idiot dude that's absolutely nuts you're gonna give me a sleeping pill and then laugh at me tomorrow after school when I show up and Liz is still in love of that super chode Zach Klein

look it's your loss my dad he's into some really weird stuff I know what it sounds like, but I've seen it work. Something about manifesting deep desires from your soul into the physical world. You wonder why I never invite you over. It's because every time my dad talks to my friends, they never come back. But I know he isn't just a liar or a crazy person.

The things he makes, they work. You would just have to trust me. Jesus. Okay. Um, I'll mix your magical mystery powder into my wards. but if something happens to me, I'm going to haunt your ass from the beyond. I can assure you that will not be a problem. I'm going to go home and get it from my dad, and I'll meet you right back here.

I can't just, no, just wait here, okay? My dad will be mad if he knows I gave it to a kid. Young love is a powerful thing, I guess. I didn't pop before with my friends and liked it, but this felt like really taking things to the next level. With that in mind, it also sounds way too ridiculous to be true, so I didn't really see the harm. Cyrus was my friend. Even if it was an elaborate prank, we'd still get some laughs out of it later.

I waited at the park for a half an hour, and then he came back. He repeated the instructions and told me to talk to Liz tomorrow, and I'd see he wasn't lying. I smiled the whole time I took the bag It looked like Nesquick So I figured that's what it was I walked home and went about my usual business until bedtime I mixed the powder into some water Pulled up a picture of me and Liz from a birthday dinner last month

And got to drinking I did not drink Nesquick The powder tasted like what I imagine the earth tastes like There's some dirt in there for sure but I tasted and smelled other stuff too. I would have stopped drinking, but I was already halfway through. Might as well just dive in there. When I was finished, I laughed.

Cyrus, that old so-and-so, had just got me to drink a handful of some kind of soil by using my teenage desire against me. It was pretty funny. Until it wasn't. It only took about a minute for the room to start to spin. I had no choice but to lay down. I dropped the cup under the floor and just managed to grab the picture of Liz,

and I looked at it before I passed out. Then the dream started. Wonderful, vivid dreams. Liz and I kissing under waterfalls and sleeping under the stars. Dreams of admiring her banter at work parties and meeting my parents, cuddled up together in front of a fire. It felt like I lived a lifetime. with her. I was overwhelmed with bliss. I didn't want to wake up. I didn't want to leave her.

But I did. My alarm went off to get up and ready for school, and I had tears in my eyes. I got up as fast as humanly possible and practically ran to school. I sat by my locker. Liz's locker was in the same hall, and I waited with gargantuan anticipation. When she turned the corner. I nearly fainted. She walked right up to me and put her bag on the ground. We need to talk, she said, leaning closer. I don't know what I was thinking. I can't believe I said I go with Zach to prom, even after Susan told me you were going to ask me. God damn it, Susan. No, it's okay. I, it's not okay. I don't know what I would have done if you went with someone else and I had to see you there. I would have been stuck with you.

that Chode, well, I could have been with you the whole time. John, I know you love me. I've known for a while, and I love you too. Of course I do. I just never realized how much. Do you want to go to prom with me? Holy crap. Cyrus did it. He gave me the greatest gift a friend could give, and I laughed at him when he told me. This just said she loved me. She asked me to prom. She called Zach Kleiner chode, which he was, but still it was nice to hear. The rest of the day was a blur. Every second we weren't in class, Liz and I were together.

We held hands, we made out behind the Fine Arts building, we ate lunch without our friends. She was spilling up all my senses, but I couldn't wait to see Cyrus. I owed all of this to him. After Liz's parents had picked her up from school, I ran to the track to meet up with him, but he wasn't there. I waited for about 30 minutes before I decided I needed to get home. I ran home, I blasted songs about brown-eyed girls and lifelong love. I fell asleep after being on the phone with Liz for hours.

I woke up in the morning fully clothed. I didn't remember falling asleep, but I also didn't remember putting on these particular clothes. I didn't usually wear black, but especially not all black. And I didn't even own a pair of converse, but there were some of my feet. My room was different. None of my stuff was on the walls. It looked like a spare room. I couldn't find my phone.

I couldn't find my wallet or my keys. I started to get scared. I ran downstairs to ask my mom what happened, but she wasn't there. I searched frantically, but nobody was home. And then I started to notice some stuff. All of the pictures of me were gone. From the wall, from the fridge, from the mantle over the fire. I started looking closer.

And then I saw it. I wasn't in any of the family photos either. Just my parents and my two siblings. There they were on the trip we talked to Porter Pinasco. There they were at the Grand Canyon and at my grandparents' house in Santa Fe. But I wasn't in any of the pictures where I should have been, and in my place. Was Cyrus? My heart was leaping from my chest.

My stomach was in a knot, sinking down inside of my body. Full-bodied, swelling fear raised at every inch of my being and swept my senses. I threw up, I fainted. I woke up and panicked all over again. Then I started to run. I had to get to the park. I had to get to Cyrus. When I got to the park, Cyrus was there.

This is the first time I'd seen him outside of that hoodie. He was in an Iron Maiden T-shirt and blue jeans. He was wearing a pair of vans and a backwards black snapback. He didn't look at me. What the hell is going on, dude? I'm freaking out. My room is gone. I'm not in any pictures. I can't find my phone. You've got to help me. I'm going to try to help you, but you have to listen to me.

Let's go, dude. I'm freaking out. First, I want to say that. I'm really sorry. Don't be. Just help me get my stuff. You need to listen. You aren't listening. The best possible thing for you to do right now is accept that your old life is gone. It doesn't belong to you anymore. My legs felt like they were going to give out from under me. What are you? Listen.

His voice was loud. It almost didn't sound human. I was once just like you. I loved someone who never loved me back. I was desperate and sad. Felt like my life wouldn't continue without her. Then one day, after school, I met a kid named Rory. I was gasping for air.

I tried to pull off the hoodie, but it was stuck in my body. somehow. I was pacing back and forth, trying not to vomit again. We became close friends, and after a couple of months, he offered me a solution to my problem. It sounded ridiculous, but I was desperate, and so I went along with what he asked. The next day was the best day of my life. Don't do this, Cyrus. I swear to God I'll kill you right where you stand. You won't. You can't. As part of the rules, I'm about to let you. out for you. You can never have your old life back. Never, but you can have someone else's life. All you have to do is get them to drink the powder in your pocket. Damn, damn you, you piece of,

I trusted you. You can't force them to do it and you can't threaten them into doing it. They have to do it by their own will. I lunged at him, but I went right through him like I was made of vapor. You have to go to another time. Only then will you manifest again physically. Nobody can hear or see you here. If you ever come back, you'll disappear again. Why? Why did you do this to me?

Why not somebody else? We're friends. We are friends. Which is why you trusted me. You will have to befriend someone too. You will have to feed after their loneliness and desperation. You'll have to earn someone's trust and betray them like I've done.

Until then, this is who or what you are. Those are your clothes. You don't have a home, nor are you allowed to have one. If you try to have one, you'll disappear. If it makes it any better, John. I'm really sorry. I just couldn't be alone anymore. Good luck.

And I'll never forget you, friend. Cyrus walked away while I was screaming. That was about an hour ago. Since then, I've started walking. I don't know where or why, but nobody on the street sees or talks to me. I wanted to go to Liz, but I can't bear the thought of being erased from my mind. Hopefully, I'll find my way back to some kind of life. Wish me luck.

I've been in construction my whole working life. I started straight out of school ten years ago, and I spent much of that time on the move. Not a lot of people know this, but when the job ends, craft workers are mostly laid off. Pipe fitters, carpenters, crane operators, all gone. That means we need to pick up our tools and head to a different job site, hoping to get hired back on. Since the money is good, that's what I do, it's the life I've always known. Every few years, I just travel from one side of the country to the other, hoping to find work. After my last job ended, which was about a week ago, I received word from my old boss

that his oil company was hiring. He said that since I was a good worker, I was just hired. Just show up and get to work, told him to give me a few days and I'll be there as soon as I could. As for the location, it was in some small town out in Illinois called Brookfield. I'd never heard of the place before, but that was. was nothing new. Most plants are built in the middle of nowhere. This is in case they explode, the loss of life would be minimal compared to the same disaster in a city. The next morning, I packed up my stuff and started driving. On the road, I called and spoke to some guy

named Trevor over the phone. I'd found him on Craigslist. He was renting a room, and the price was about what I wanted to pay. Ha, I'd love to have you. Through the phone, his voice sounded jovial. I'll get some clean sheets on that bed and an extra set of blankets. It gets a little chilly this time of year. Oh, sir, thank you so much. I'll see you when I get there, I said. After driving for about ten hours, I finally arrived at Brookfield, and it was...

Nothing like how I expected. I've been to some rundown towns before, but this one right here. Their downtown could have easily been made into a setting for the walking dead. Most of the buildings I drove past looked either abandoned or half demolished. Some had girders sticking out to the sides like exposed ribs. Electric poles lay broken in the streets. One place that might have once been a gift shop looked like it had just burned down the night before. Parts of the blackened wood was still smouldering.

The only building I saw that were intact, were a police station and a Waffle House. Also, directly, in the centre of the town, there was a random graveyard. Another sort of the freshly-mowed lawn and neat tombstone set of regular intervals. This one had crosses. The kind made from two sticks roped together, buried in the muddy soil. Mounds of dirt sat next to freshly dug graves. Trees, their limbs twisted and gnarled, were scattered throughout the area,

casting misshapen shadows. One of them even had a noose hanging from one of its branches. It swayed gently back and forth. I couldn't help but wonder if some kids had put it up there as some sort of sick joke or if it was meant as a threat.

A threat for whom I had no idea. Swallowing around the tightness in my throat I continued on, followed the GPS of my phone and arrived at the place listed. Trevor was nowhere to be found Instead there was a handwritten note taped to the door It read

Sam, sorry I couldn't be there Something came up out of town that I gotta take care of Just hold onto the rent for a few days I'll collect it as soon as I get back Keys in the potted plant Head on in and make yourself at home Trevor There was an arrow at the bottom

Drawn in Sharpie pointing down and to the left. I wouldn't exactly have called the object beneath a potted plant. More accurately, I would have said that it was a pot of dusty soil, with cobwebbed and a small bare branch sticking out of the centre. I jerked a shoulder, dug the key out of the dirt, and did as the paper said. The next morning, as I made myself a pot of coffee in the kitchen,

I found myself studying the pictures on the wall, and the elderly gentleman who featured in a number of them. I assumed this was Trevor. In one picture he was fishing. In another he was at a family function swinging at a pinata. He had a kind face, smiling in every photograph. I thought that once I met the guy, we'd probably get along nicely. After pouring my cup of Joe, I headed outside, ready to leave for work.

when I saw something on my windshield. There was an envelope placed under my wiper. Confused, I collected the envelope, pulled the paper out and read it. It said, I'd been fined $100. Literally, it said, you have been fined $100. No explanation. What's more, it was written on a normal sheet of wide-rule, loose-leaf paper in red crown. Listed on the bottom of the paper was an address where I was supposed to mail the cash, check or money order.

What the hell was this? I thought to myself, flipping the paper over and inspecting the back. It had to be a prank, right? So, I did what anybody would have done. I shrugged and tossed it in the back seat where it landed on the floorboard. Then I went to my new job site where I worked as a crane operator. Most of the day I was up in the cab transporting steel It's a hard, lonely life But I was okay with that

It was good money I didn't even mind the fact that I didn't get toilet breaks I'd just carry a bottle High up in the cab I saw the other craft workers Melling about doing their jobs Flagging, sanding and pipe laying Since it took me 30 minutes to climb out of the crane most were already gone home by the time I got down.

As for that odd note, I wanted to mention it to my old boss, ask him if you'd ever heard of it, but it seemed like he hadn't come in that day. So I just got on with things, finished for the day and went home. The following morning, I went out to my car. All of the windows had been busted out.

The windshield looked like somebody had taken a sledgehammer to it. To say that I was furious is an understatement. What the hell? I said to no one, throwing my arms wide, approaching my vehicle. Once again, placed under the wiper was another envelope. This one read, Warning, fine is now $200. Pay, or you will be sent home. Of all the things I've been through in my life,

this was probably the weirdest. Especially bizarre that I hadn't heard the glass. shatter last night. Surely, I thought, I would have heard it, considering I was a light sleeper, and my bedroom window was only a few feet from my car. Fueled with anger, I crumbled up the letter. I wanted to blame Trevor for this, but the guy hadn't come back home yet. I was the only one here last night, so if it wasn't him, then who was leaving these fines? Still mad, I removed what was left of the windshield, got in my car, and drove to the address, listed on the sheet. In my opinion, this type of behaviour warranted an ass-wopping, and I was

ready to give it. But when I got to the location, it was not exactly what I'd been expecting. It was the damn graveyard in the centre of town. My blood chilled as I slowed the car to a stop. The eeriness of the situation made the hair on my arms stand on end and a twinge of nausea twist in my gut. I didn't know what to do, so I stared to the emptiness where my windshield would have been for a few minutes, gaze wandering across the grave markers. Eventually, I got myself together. The police station was across the street, so that was where I went.

It was convenient, considering I needed to fill out a police report to file to my insurance anyway. Inside the station, I found a fit, middle-aged police officer standing behind a wooden desk. The officer typed away at his computer. How can I help you? I put the envelope down on the desk. Yeah, well, I got this fine and... Silence fell across the entire police station. Behind him, every head in the room swiveled in my direction. Concern, coloured all their faces. Some hoffed out worried breaths. Others quickly returned their attention to their papers, scribbling fast, avoiding eye contact with me.

One guy looked angry, like you wanted to kick my ass. The officer swallowed. And, uh, where did you find this exactly? Somebody left it on my car. His eyes widened as some type of realization flashed across his face. His hand bounced, knocking on the wood. What is it? I asked, feeling my heart rate elevate. That nausea surged again.

He cleared his throat. He patted the envelope on the desk and slid it back to me. What is your name, son? He asked. Sam, Sam Chavez. He nodded. Well, Sam, I'm going to need you to pay this. What?

You're going to have to pay this. I don't understand. stand. The man leaned forward with a hard stare. His hand landed on his gun. Is there a problem here? What the hell, I thought. I swallowed, trying to regain my composure.

Well, can I just give you the cash then? No, he said. I was so lost. Well, uh, why the hell not? Because, you have to mail it in. What? you get in loud with me boy i blinked huh pay the fine now get the hell out of here before i put you behind bars i'll be clear leaving the police station i was so confused i was actually scratching the back of my head this was so insane that i didn't know what else to do i needed something answers or anything or at least to find out who was doing this

I tried calling my old boss to ask him for some advice. No answer. I even tried calling Trevor. Same. So, I drove 50 miles out of town and stopped at a Walmart. There, I picked up an outdoor nest camera and then headed back to my place. After setting up the camera, I installed the app on my phone and paid the subscription service to actively record all movements. Then I fell asleep.

That night, around 3 a.m., my phone buzzed, alerting me that there was motion outside. Half awake, I clicked open the app and saw a truck pulled a stop in the driveway. I recognised the man who got out from the pictures I'd seen, so I knew it was Trevor. He slammed his door and made his way into the house. I considered talking to him. introducing myself, but the guy was probably tired. It was 3am after all, so I closed out the app and went back to sleep.

That morning, as I came out in my bedroom, I saw something in the hall that made me freeze. Blood. I was almost sure it was blood. It had that smell. A trail of splatters led to the kitchen. I followed. There, I found Trevor.

He was lying on the kitchen counter, chest cracked open like an alien had burst out of it. Rib spread, viscera scattered all over the tile and sink. His face was twisted in horror, his mouth wide open, his lips stretched in a silent howl of agony. In his hand was an envelope that I was all too familiar with. For some reason, it was the cleanest thing in the kitchen. There was a speck of blood on it. The letter hung down low, angled so that the wording faced me. It read,

This is the cast. Fighting either a panic attack or a nervous breakdown, I staggered back and threw up on the floor. I sucked in a huge breath, trying to force myself to calm down, but I couldn't hold it against the next rush of vomit, and I spewed the rest of my dinner onto the kitchen floor. Coughing and gasping,

I wiped my mouth of the back of my hand and scrambled away from the body. After gathering what little rationality I had left, I fished my phone out of my pocket and dialed those three numbers. 911, what's your emergency? said the lady on the opposite end of the line. I took a deep breath. The air still smelled of blood and vomit. I...

My roommate, he's... He's dead. What's the address? Two one two, silver. Two one two silver lake drive. A man is dead. Her voice sounded terse, maybe even annoyed. Yes, how did you?

This is why you pay the damn fine, she said. Click. So I did. I mailed in a check that night and got the hell out of dodge. I'm used to living on the move, but I've never packed up so quickly. I left the body just. Just lying there as I cleared out. Someone else's problem.

I'd had enough of this. Screw with that creepiest town, the job and that damn graveyard. I drove all night, heading for my parents' house, where I knew they had my old bedroom waiting. I didn't want to wake them, so when I got there, I used my spare key to let myself in. Something was waiting for me at my old bedroom door. my blood froze

Scotch taped to the wood was a note same familiar handwriting same red crayon and I realized that maybe I'd made a mistake all along the notes had been delivered to Trevor's house

Trevor had been the one to die perhaps whoever whatever had sent those vines they hadn't meant any of it for me But now I had the retention. The note read, Who are you? Numbly, I pushed the door open.

I was just tired. I didn't know what to do. What the hell I'd cut myself into? I had the idea that I could just collapse into bed, figure something out later. Inside, the walls, the bed, the desk. All of them were plastered with hundreds of, hundreds of wide rule, loose leaf paper.

Who are you? they demanded. Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? Dan, his parents told him to never go into the basement. I was over at his place the first time he tried to open that thick, dark oak door. I remember, who was seven at the time, I think,

him flashing me that cheeky, lopsided smile, before standing on his tiptoes and straining for the handle. I remember his dad snatching him away a second later and slamming him back down next to me with a force that brought tears into Danny's eyes. Mr. Johnson was a very big man, and although I'd known him all my life, he'd always been a slight source of fear for me. As I grew older, this infantile nervousness around him subsided little, but he always made me wary. Mr. Johnson knelt, gripping down his shoulders. his face was red with anger, but he also looked shaken. I noticed he was trembling almost as much as his son.

Listen to me, Danny. His voice cut like a knife. You never, ever opened that door. Do you understand me? Never. I've told you before and I'll tell you again. Under no circumstances do you go in there? Then he bundled his snibbling son into a tight hug

before inviting us to come watch cartoons. Afterwards, I had asked Danny what was behind the door. He had told me, in a roundabout way, that it was his basement. He seemed only half interested in the conversation, always distracted by the tinkle of an ice cream truck or an interesting stick. Danny's zealous imagination could take anything innocuous, anything every day, and turn it into something extraordinary. Sometimes I thought he could actually see the things he dreamed of,

up. Danny and I had always been friends. We were never really given a choice in the matter. Our families neighboured each other directly and our parents had known each other since college. They just heaped the infant Danny and I together and waited for a bond to grow. And there was a bond, in the simplest sense. We were best friends. We were always together in the same class of school, in the same scale group. We even dug to the same. in and out of each other's homes like they were connected. For me, there didn't exist a life where Danny wasn't there to get me into trouble, or to get me out of it.

Of course, we had our differences. I was always the quiet one, good in school, rarely to be found without my nose in a book. Indeed, if it hadn't been for the influence of the popular and gregarious Danny, I might as well have been subject to harsh teasing throughout my education. That was how our unspoken trade-off played out. Danny would vouch for me amongst our peers, seeing that I was invited the games of tag and birthday parties, and I would help Danny with his schoolwork. He never had a head for sums or science, but his weakest spot was English.

Spelling, creative writing, a rare point of humiliation for Danny. He can never wrap his head around which words fit into which meaning, or which meaning fit to which word, or what the word was for a particular meaning, etc., etc. Looking back, he was at least very dyslexic and probably had other conditions, which meant he struggled in school. Sorry, let me get to the point. Danny's parents told him never to go into the basement. And, after that first incident, met by harsh parental discipline, he obeyed the command. Whenever we were at his house, we would stick strictly to his room, or the lounge or the garden.

But over time, as it always did, then his insatiable curiosity grew. His eight-year-old brain feared punishment too much to try opening that door again without intel and what lay behind it, and any questions directed at his parents about the content of the basement, were either ignored or met with rebuking. His parents probably rightly realised that If Danny were to gain the smallest morsel of information about that room Or catch the tiniest glimpse of what lay inside Then his wild imagination would create the other pieces of the puzzle

Causing his curiosity to become too much to bear After a few months Danny would often bring up the basement in conversation Presenting in childish dialect his latest speculations And what could be in there to my appraising ear an alien egg, a robot clone, a baby dragon. For my part, I was not terribly interested in the contents of my neighbour's basement, as well as being too timid to ever aid Danny in a break-in. Danny was convinced that his parents were hiding something in there,

and he was precisely his parents' caging us in the face of his inquisition, which strengthened his theory. His older brother, Aaron, 15, only laughed when Danny brought his theory. serious to him and called him stupid. Then one day, something changed. That morning, when Danny came galloping from his front door to join me

in our walk to school, there was a strange air about him. He kept shooting me sideways looks and suppressed smiles, as if he knew a secret and was bursting to tell. Of course, knowing Danny, his lips did not remain sealed. There's a man in the basement. The words came tumbling out of his mouth in a pile, leaving him panting.

He caught me off guard. My rational brain couldn't comprehend such an offload of information. What? What do you mean? I heard him whispering through the floor. He heard me, and I unlocked the door. Dad was at work. I opened the door, and there was these dark steps, and I could see a man down there, and...

Wait, wait, Danny, you saw a man in your basement? Yeah, yeah, I heard him whispering to the floor, whispering for help. Stop messing with me, man. No, I swear, I double, triple swear. Only this most sacred of oaths made me pause in my denial of Danny's story. For the first time, I let the thought cross my mind. Was it true? I began to question him hesitantly.

Slow down, what about your dad? I told you, Cam, he was working late. Your mom? She was home, but I couldn't just ignore it. She'll kill you if she catches you, man. She won't. I shut the door afterwards. So, he whispered through the floor.

Yeah, he must have heard me walking around. The house was really quiet. I heard him whispering. I put my ear to the floor, near the mouldy floorboard. You know where I mean. And I could hear him. His voice was really scratchy, like he had a cold or something. He sounded pretty cuckoo.

kept repeating himself, asking for help over and over, mumbling about being alone in the dark or something. I resign myself reluctantly to believe. Dude, that's really weird. You should tell your parents, I advised. Here's the thing, Cam, Danny whispered, voice crackling with excitement. What if they're keeping him in there? No, man, that's crazy. What are you...

You remember that film that Aaron showed us, the one mom got mad at him about? There was that guy, the mad scientist, that's what I was going to say. The mad scientist. He kept those two dudes in his basement, all chained up. He put that needle in them, you know, when their eyes exploded. Both of us paused to screw our faces up in disgust at the memory. And then he came with that knife, and they were screaming, and then mom walked in and switched it off.

What if that's what mom and dad are doing? keeping that man down in the basement. I took a moment to digest this. Think about it, Cam. All the facts add up. This was a catchphrase Danny had learned off TV. Faced with Danny's, to me, flawless logic, I had no choice but to agree.

Looking back, I find it strange, partially on my part, but more so on Danny's, how we were able to establish such a mental disconnect, how we could wholeheartedly believe that Mr and Mrs. Johnson were carrying out the actions of a serial killer and yet harbour no ill feelings towards them. In Danny's case, love them.

Our attitude towards them did not change at all. Sometimes we forget how simple the mind of a child really is, how innocent, and conversely, how easy to shatter. Danny filled me in further, explaining how the man had been on all fours at the bottom of the dark steps and how thin and bony he had looked. Danny seemed to imply at one point that he had made direct eye contact with the man,

but he appeared to grow slightly uncomfortable at that point, quickly moving on with his description of the event. He'd been about to go down those steps when he heard his mom calling him from upstairs. Then he had exited the basement, locking the door and replacing the key behind the toaster, where he knew his dad kept it. Over the next week,

Danny updated me regularly. He'd been unable to find a moment where it was possible to open the door again, but he told me that at a few quiet moments in the evening, he had whispered through the floor to the man, and the man had occasionally whispered back. He was careful not to let his parents catch these strange conversations. Doing so would alert them to the fact that he knew their secret. He was always vague about the exact contents of these talks through the floor.

I took this as a way of him guarding his secret, like a serpent guarding his hoard of treasure. For that Sunday, Danny granted me access to the Treasure Cove. Like most Sundays, I arrived at his house early in the morning, ready for a day of cartoons and fort building. But as soon as Danny had closed the door to his bedroom, he explained that he had a new item on the agenda. You're going to talk to him today. I did not have to ask who he meant. Looking back, I'm not even sure I wanted to take part in this eerie ritual. I'm sure I was terrified by the idea of whispering to an unknown man underneath the floor.

Danny led me downstairs, leading me over to the spot near the mouldy floorboard, his communication link. He bade me kneel down, put my ear to the floor and speak. As it was, I only only did. had to listen. No sooner did my ear touch the floor than it was a sail by a strange sound, almost like a stormy wind or nails on a blackboard. Strainning my hearing, I could make out sounds, then words, then sentences. My brain came to terms with the fact that it was all true, that there really was a man, this man mere meters below me. I jumped with a state. I jumped with a start, heart suddenly racing, sending Danny into fits of giggles. But I wasn't laughing.

There was something altogether not right about what was happening. My young mind couldn't place exactly, but it had something to do with that awful, rasping voice. Slowly this time, I dipped my head again, this time paying attention to what was being whispered to me. Hey, hey, you're still there. Help me. Please, kid, you gotta help me. There's nothing down here but the shadows. Shadows all around. Help me.

Help me. Help me. Help me. Help. Help. Help. This frantic repetition did not come with a rise in pitch or even a wavering tone or consistency.

The speaker spat the words out at a ferocious rate, concentrating only on clarity and speed. They whispered as someone who had learned that they must whisper, regardless of how much they want to scream. But slowly, as I listened to the repetition, the begging for aid, I detected a rising urgency. No. Was it? Anger? Yes, it was discernible now.

A clear and growing hate behind those words. Little turd, little asshole, I'm begging you, please, please, I'm begging you, come down here and help me. What are you doing? What are you doing? Help me, help me. And then, as I listened in petrified silence, not breathing, just listening, he began to say other things. I'm not going to repeat them.

I haven't spent 20 years in therapy, trying to burn them from my mind to repeat them out loud. Just know that, from what he said and how he said it, all I could think was that this man, this wretched thing below me, was the most desperate person I had ever come into contact with. To prostrate himself like that, to abase himself, to make himself little better than an animal. He made me think that he was absolutely terrified out of his mind. I had heard enough. I turned my ear away from that crack in the floor, and I made my mistake. I looked down. He was only for a second. A second was all it took. I saw his hard. In that dark crack, I saw what I first thought to be a fat cockroach or a bulging woodlouse,

some kind of rotund insect, bulbous and chittering. Then the ruptured, dirty brown shell-like eyelid opened. Time slowed down. The roomy red-tinted pupil frantically flitting, resting on me. The eye was milky white, with collections of dank yellow goop collecting in the corners. veins bulged across its surface giving the impression that it was about to burst

I couldn't look away I felt like that blighted eye was staring straight into my soul like a madman, a wild thing I fell back letting out a cry of fear I pushed past Danny running out the front door

tears streaming down my cheeks I didn't stop until I was under the covers of my own bed choking sobs echoing into my pillow I wouldn't tell my parents what was wrong. Looking back, I wish I had. After a while, guilt and boredom conquered my fear, and I returned to Danny's house. He let me in sheepishly, treading on eggshells around me, unsure of what had caused my reaction.

I found my outburst to be humiliating, and resolved myself to pretend nothing had happened. Yet, I still refused to look over. at that door or the spot on the floor where that voice had whispered to me that evening shortly before I returned to my own home for supper Danny and I sat on his bed talking what are you going to do I asked what do you mean I mean what are you going to do about him a brief moment of hesitation remembering that horrible eye emerging from the dark. Well, I'm... I'm...

Gee, man, I don't know. What do you mean? You're really gonna let your parents just keep him down there. He doesn't sound like he's having fun. You're right, Danny's eyes gleamed. I... I should rescue him. No, no, Danny, I meant like tell Mrs. Carter or somebody. But Danny was far away, imagining himself playing the part of the hero. crowds thanking him, the president meeting, all this chocolate he could eat.

I realized forlornly that he would not be persuaded. I'm going to get him out. I don't think that's such a good idea. What about your parents, Danny? If they catch you, they won't catch me. I'm quick, and I've opened the door before, remember? Besides, Danny attempted a macho persona. What are they going to do?

Ground me? No cartoons for a week? He scoffed. Where before, punishment had been enough of a threat to deter him. It now was useless. Danny had too much to gain. No, Danny. I tempted to put into words a concept my young mind could not fully realize.

Something unpleasant. A darkness hatching at the back of my brain. Something beyond being grounded. Something beyond the simplistic idea that a parent loves you no matter what. I also think that I did not believe in my heart of hearts that Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were truly capable of holding someone in their basement against his will, but they were truly capable of hurting Danny. My warning came out as vague and feeble. I think that if they catch you, they're going to do something really bad. But Danny wasn't listening.

He explained to me how, that night, after his parents had gone to bed, he would sneak downstairs, grab the key from its hiding place behind the toaster, unlock the door, go down those dark, dark steps, and bring the man in his basement into the light. He said that he would be extra careful, and if he heard his parents coming, he would just lock the door and hide. As I left that evening, he told me he would tell me all about his escapade the next morning and I walked to school.

Looking back, I marvel at how to have to be. we could have possibly thought that our daily routine would be the same. That night I was wrecked with fear, not the same fear as I'd felt after seeing the eye. That was short and sharp and painful, like an electric shock. No, his fear was far worse. It was slow and creeping, slithing around in the pit of my stomach, strangling me. I didn't touch my food and was sent to bed early. parents thought O's ill. Danny's parents told him never to go into the basement.

And the next day, Danny was gone. I waited for some time on the sidewalk outside his house, praying to see that cheeky lopsided smile. But he never came. Eventually, Mrs. Johnson saw me through the front window and came out. Is Danny sick? I asked. I already knew though what was coming. No, we thought he had gone to yours. A look of fear spread over Mrs. Johnson's face. And the nightmare began. Over the next three months, I got accustomed to seeing the flashing lights of police cars and seeing cops coming and going through the Johnson's home. At first, the Johnsons were panicked. There was no sign of the breaking. The front door was still locked, and the neighbourhood was so friendly. Everyone knew each other.

there was absolutely nothing which could explain Danny's disappearance. I remember after the first week, adults begun talking in hushed tones around me. That must have been when they made the development in the case. On the third day, the story made it unto the local news. The Johnsons were interviewed outside their home. In the short time, their initial panic had faded to anguish and despair, at least from the outside. Only I knew the truth. Danny had been caught.

His parents had done something horrible to him. If I had been afraid of Mr. Johnson before, I couldn't be in the same room as him now. I tried to tell anyone who would listen of my secret insight, but nobody would pay at any notice. Indeed, I was scolded by my parents for being insensitive and inappropriate. Over the years, I stopped trying to convince people. My pain just became a numb, Danny-shaped hole.

But I never forgot. When I was older, probably around 13, my mother decided it was time for me to know the truth of the case, what they had found at the end of the first week. She explained that Danny's house didn't have a basement. Behind that thick oak door, there was an old, unused supply closet. His parents told Danny to never, ever go in the room. there because they stored bleach and other harmful chemicals inside.

Danny had never been told it was a basement. That was pure speculation become fact, a product of his troubles with words and his overactive imagination. Inside that closet, behind mops and boxes of clutter, the police had found a hole. The bricks and planks of one corner ripped away. In that hole, there was a dark, dark flight of steps. formed from rubble and broken stones. The dark, dark steps led down into the large sewage tunnels

directly beneath the Johnson's house. In the sewage tunnel, they found many things, a used mattress, a kitchen knife, and the opening that had been made in the top of the tunnel, the chair which had been used to reach the floorboards of Danny's living room, to whisper through. It was writing on the wall, scribblings about shadows, and being alone in the dark.

Danny hadn't been caught. Unfortunately for him, he had made it down there. The police searched the local sewage network and his reservoirs. Nothing. Eventually, they found the last clue they would ever find. Several miles away, an old decrepit storm drain. Danny's watch, half submerged in the mud and slime, and a single bloody handprint, made by a small hand against the wall of the drain,

elongated along its length, where someone had fought desperately to not be dragged away. I was wrong. The voice I heard under the floor that day wasn't the voice of a man filled with terror. It was the voice of a man who was utterly, utterly deranged. It was good of you to come out, man, Alex said over the foam of his fifth beer. It's been too long. It has been, hasn't it? Alex and I had been best friends in college, but these days we barely saw each other,

even though we lived in the same town. There was a long silence. Our eyes drifted to the game on the screen above the bar. Alex scratched at something beneath his ear. Look, ah, I know I haven't done. done the best job of keeping in touch. As Alex muttered, his itching intensified. I don't know what's wrong with me.

Hey man, life gets in the way. I understand. I clacked him on the shoulder. No, I mean... As my friend leaned in close, I noticed his eyes. Bloodshot, an animal wide and marble round. Had I missed it before? I mean...

whispered, I don't know what's wrong with me. Some instinct made me want to pull back when Alex moved even closer and lifted his earlobe. He pointed to a little scar, about two inches long and closed with stitches. Have you seen anything like that before? Did you, uh, have an operation or something? I asked, confused. It looks fine. No, Alex pounded the table with his fist and his face screwed up in a mask of anger. I drink sloshed and spilled. I felt the irritated glances of other patrons on the back of my neck. No, that's just it.

I woke up and felt this itch. Then I touched this place in my neck and found this cut, like a surgical cut, and a pair of stitches. Now, I ask you, how could something like that happen without me noticing? Uh... I bought some time with a long sip of beer. No idea, man. That's pretty strange.

And that's not all, that exists. I felt off ever since. I wake up sore, but I don't remember any workout, or I try to remember what I did at a certain time of day. Let's say, between six and nine o'clock, and I get nothing. Or even worse, I get these vague memories that seem like they were pieced together from other ones.

They feel fake. They feel implanted. I frowned. My old pal was starting to sound of the guy I passed on my way to work, talking to pigeons in the park. I was afraid for him, but I was also afraid of him. Have you tried seeing a doctor? I ventured. Or maybe a psychologist.

I can't, Alex sighed. I mean, I literally can't. I tried to book an appointment, but when the time comes, I'm not there. I get voicemails from the office saying they'll bill me. anyway. The worst part is that sometimes I do remember going, but I know the memory isn't real. That's why I called you. I needed to know that something from my past was actually real. I didn't know what to say to that, and I guess it showed. You don't believe me, do you? Well, I chose my words carefully. I believe you're going through something, and I believe you need help.

Alex rolled his eyes and bunched his hands into fist. Okay, try this then. Walk around the bar, act normal, nothing suspicious. But look at the space just behind people's ears. Then come back and try to tell me that there isn't something seriously wrong here. If I was going to get help for Alex, I needed to appease him for the moment. So, I did what he asked. It's not like I actually expected to find anything.

I made a big show of standing up and pretending to search the bar for a friend and as I did, I started to notice. The 30-something woman with a bob cut and hoop earrings, the Mexican bartender bobbing his head to the music or mixing drinks, the trio suits laughing at something on an iPhone. These, and at least 20 more, had a mark just like Alex's, just behind an earlobe. So fine and well hidden, that I'd never have noticed if I wasn't already looking.

I circled the bar in a daze, counting the scars I saw. What the hell could it mean? As I did, I felt suspicious eyes following me. Was it just me, or were the ones with the stitches, watching my every move, like they knew what I was looking for? Right, Alex asked. One look at my pale, shocked face must have told him everything he needed to know. He leaned back on his stool, looking tense, but smugly satisfied.

Okay, I panted. It was hard to get control of myself. What could be happening here? You tell me, Alex grunted. But I know this much. Once, just once, after the stitches first appeared, I think I came back to my senses when I wasn't supposed to. I was standing in this hotel lobby that I'd never seen before,

with a bunch of people I didn't know. They must have realized that something was up, because all their faces snapped towards me. They had this, like, concern luck, but it was the same look, the same expression on every face. That's what freaks me out. And then...

Alex shut his eyes tight, like he was afraid of his own words. It's okay, I squeezed on his shoulder. Go on. And then... I felt something squirm, inside my neck, deep inside and the other side of that horrible little cut. I tried to grab it, but it was too deep. It kept wriggling.

I tried to fight it, but it's like it was taking me over again. And the rest of them grabbed me and everything went black. Alex started hyperventilating. Was it just a light, or could I see something writhing near his throat? almost like his intense emotions were making it uncomfortable. There were a lot of whispers and worried looks toward our table, but only the stitched ones who I noticed before watching unblinkingly like hawks.

When I came back, I was sitting on the couch in my living room with a TV on, staring into space. You have no idea how much I grabbed and squeezed and prodded myself. I tried to feel that thing again, but it was gone. Back deep inside of me. Alex held out his palms and looked at them helplessly.

So, how can I really know? How can I know if I'm me or if I'm it? Tell me you understand, man. Tell me I haven't lost it. I thought you were crazy, I admitted. Then I indicated the twenty-odd faces staring motionlessly at our table. I don't anymore. A huge shadow,

fell over our spilled drinks. The bouncer. They're going to be a problem here, he grunted. I fixated on the stitches behind his ear, and my blood ran cold. No, I murmured weakly, no problem. The bouncer snorted, hovered for a long moment, then lumbered off. By the time he did, though, something had changed. It was Alex's posture.

The way he held his beer, he saw. smile. Everything. Just a few seconds had passed, but I was convinced that I was no longer looking at the same man. Ha! He laughed, gesturing to the screen. Did you see that goal? Nothing in Alex's glazed over eyes gave any indication of the conversation we'd just been having. Yeah, I tried to laugh. That's crazy. I'm going to head to the bathroom real quick. I stood And as I did I noticed that about three other guys

stood up with me I sat back down They did as well You okay man Alex asked with a wide smile The Alex who I remembered Barely gave more than a half smirk Even at the best of times

Yeah man And I did Just tired Maybe I'll just head home I wondered how the hell I was going to get out of that place If there are enough normal people around, they wouldn't dare to hurt me, right? So soon, Alex scratched my wrist.

His smile had become a sneer and his hand was cold. Have another drink. The bartender plunked a murky cocktail down on the table beside me and I felt sure that if I drank it, I'd never be myself again. With a clumsy swoop in my elbow, I knocked it off the high table. Ah, sorry. Here, I'll order another one. I took advantage of the shattered glass, the slip of the stool. I made for the bar, but at the last second, I swerve left and bolted for the door.

Hey, the bartender shouted of the music, That guy hasn't paid. The patrons, stitched and unstitched alike, turned to watch the spectacle of my clumsy flight. I ducked under the bouncer's arms, slammed my shoulder into the door. I was free. until a hand big as a dinner plate closed on my shoulder. Dine and dashers get taken to the back room, he growled breathily into my ear.

The giant bouncer twisted my arm until the pain screamed in my brain and burst like bright lights behind my shut tight eyes. It was so intense that I hardly noticed I was being steered into an alley behind the bar. A rusted door squeaked open at the end of the alley. There was only darkness inside. Three or four figures stood beside it, waiting for what, to give me a little cut and two stitches?

I think seeing what awaited me at the end of that alley gave me a burst of adrenaline that allowed me to overcome the pain, dislocate my shoulder and run for my car. I think I must have somehow unlocked my car door and gotten inside without being caught, and then driven back to my apartment in a panic. to check something. I think that's what happened. But I can't be sure. Because I just looked in the mirror and found two little stitches behind my ear.

My name is Douglas. I'm an accountant for a large tech company in Seattle. My climbing group consisted of Lenny, a high school friend of mine, Brandon, a painter, and Kelly, a botanist that does research at the same. State University.

There's a mountain in Washington State that my climbing group and I had wanted to climb for a while. I won't say the mountain, so you guys won't go to test my story. But if you figure it out, please don't do what we did. A bunch of us conveniently had our vacation time line up and we were all itching to climb this mountain together. We usually go climbing at least twice a year, recently climbing Kilimanjaro. as one of our biggest expeditions to date. We haven't been able to climb together for a while, so we looked up if the mountain was open.

It was closed for another three weeks, which was odd considering the weather was perfect. Light snowfall, dry switchbacks, and not too much wind at the peak. Since this mountain was so close to where we all lived, and we never sunned did it together as a group, we decided to risk it. If we drove out and got turned out,

around, it wouldn't be a big deal. We'd probably have dinner together at a local all-you-can-eat buffet or find a smaller peak to hike up. We all climbed this mountain before by ourselves, so we're all very familiar with the terrain and trails. We were confident we could do it safely on our own, so we got our gear together, pulled into Lenny's car and drove to the base of the mountain. A little over an hour later, we reached the steel gate, the kind that swings in and out over the road with spikes on the front to mess up any cars that tried to drive

through. Ah, the park's locked up. Guess we've got to turn around, Kelly said. I noticed that there was a chain around the swinging gate, but no lock. I told the group to wait for me, and I hopped out of the car.

I ran over to the chain, holding the gate closed and removed the stick holding the train in place, and swung the gate open. The car rolled through, and I replaced the chain, stick and hopped back in. That's weird. Why wouldn't they lock it?

Brandon asked. We all shrugged, but we returned to normal conversation. Just pleased that we made it through. For the next half hour, we drove up winding and washboarded roads, stopping to pee and take pictures here and there. We rounded the last corner before the parking lot.

Lenny noticed it first. Guys, look, someone is in the info, booth. We all squinted to look through the dusty wind-shild, and we all made out the same picture. A park ranger, on the skinny side, was happily tapping a beat out on his clipboard, and smiling at us. You know when you get caught walking through the halls at school by the teacher whose class you're skipping? You don't know what to say, as almost anything that leaves your mouth will just make the situation worse. That's how we felt. Lenny, somewhat used to

to that feeling, from high school nonetheless, spoke up when we reached the booth. Hey, he said, cheerfully to mask his worry. Hey guys, heading up the mountain today, the Ranger asked. Lenny paused for a second. Yep, as long as it isn't closed. We saw somewhere that it might be closed. Is that true? Lenny said.

If it's closed, I shouldn't be out here. The Ranger laughed. They'd better pay me overtime if that's the case. The car, Fates, laugh Our eyes darted nervously at each other Was the mountain actually open? Seems pretty empty up here. Where is everyone?

Lenny asked, gesturing toward the absence of cars in the parking lot. Duh know, quiet season, I guess. More mountain for us, he said, winking. Might go up myself today, if I get the chance. I just love the mountain. It's beautiful this time. of year. Maybe we'll see you on the trail, Brandon yelled out from the back. Hope so, the ranger said. Let me just take your names down. How long do you plan on staying?

Just a day hike or overnight, he asked. Overnight, snow camping hopefully, I said. That's Kelly and Brandon in the back, Lenny driving and me, Douglas. The ranger scribbled our info down on his clipboard and slammed it on the table when he finished. Great, be safe, have fun, enjoy the mountain, he called out. We nodded and politely drove into the parking spot. No one really said anything, but we were all thinking the same thing. Nothing about that conversation felt normal or safe or comfortable, and everything about it just felt off.

I guess we were just happy that we didn't get kicked off the mountain. Lenny brought up the ranger around 10 minutes into our hike but that conversation quickly died down The first hour of the hike were normal And we sort of forgot about the weird parking lot encounter About halfway up the switchback portion of the mountain Before the glacier covered peaks Kelly started feeling sick

We chalked it up to altitude sickness But found it weird that a seasoned climber like her Would feel sick this low We weren't high up at all. She insisted we keep going. We made it this far already, and don't let me spoil you, fun, she said. We camped low on the mountain that we had hoped to, to let Kelly rest. She was pretty pale and needed to take breaks more frequently than usual,

so we set up camp right on the edge of the snow. Then he stayed with Kelly, or Brandon and I took our daybacks and walked up the glacier to side-sea with us. binoculars. From our elevator position we could see most of the surrounding landscape, rolling hills at the foot in the mountain, raging glacier runoff and a sea of trees that stretched beyond the horizon. Sadly, we didn't spot any wildlife, but we had a laugh making David Attenborough esk jokes while observing Kelly and Lenny mope around camp. The wind died down just enough for Brandon and I to hear a strange clicker noise

coming from behind us up the face of the mountain. He sounded similar to river rocks bouncing off each other, but it had a strange tempo to it. I looked at the source of the sound and saw someone sort of thrashing around on a patch of exposed gravel and rocks. His movement was sort of rhythmic, but still erratic,

like a robot copying dance moves. He slowly turned towards us, and once he was totally facing Brandon and I. We could see that he was the park ranger we saw earlier. Brandon and I watched in curiosity and horror as the park ranger jerked and twisted, kicking rocks and jumping up and down. He noticed us and stopped dancing immediately and waved. He motioned us to come up to him with a big smile in his face. Against every instinct, every gut feeling, Brandon and I cannot help but join him on his patch of rocks.

It was like we're on an escalator the way our legs effortlessly carried us up the mountain. Beautiful up here, isn't it? The Ranger asked. He had his hands on his hips and his chest puffed out in a sort of exaggerated parody of a proud parent. Oh, for sure, Brandon said. I could tell he was locked in the same sort of trance I was in. I wanted to scream at him to run, yelled down at the others to call for help. But I was frozen.

Yeah, I love it out here. Beautiful time of year, I heard myself say. It was like someone was using my mouth to speak. I had no control over what I said. The Ranger took a deep breath, but it looked wrong the way he did it. His shoulders just sort of shrugged. and he arched his back unnaturally, like he was imitating someone breathing. It didn't occur to me at the time, but I only ever saw him inhale, besides when he spoke.

His chest would just collapse, but no air would escape. I tried with everything I had in me to pick up my legs and run, but it was as if I stepped in concrete. I could barely wiggle, like I only had one millimeter of space around my body to move. Glad you guys could join me up here for a bit. I love company. Sharp gets lonely sometimes, he said. With his last sentence, he kicked a pebble down the mountain like a disappointed child.

We all stood in silence for what felt like 20 minutes before I squealed out the only sentence I could manage to say. Who are you? Brandon's eyes shot towards mine, as if I did something horribly wrong. If he looked scared before, now he looked mortified. How about this weather? They should open the park earlier. Folks miss out on a good three weeks of clear skies, the ranger said. That it did.

I broke free. I nearly tackled Brandon over trying to drag its stiff body away from the ranger. We tumbled a few meters down the glacier in a tangled mess. Going so soon, stay here for a bit. Take in the view. the Ranger called out, cupping his hands in front of his mouth. Still, unable to speak, I pulled as hard as I could against Brandon's locked-up frame. He too soon broke free and joined me in running haphazily down the glacier in silence.

The Ranger didn't follow us, but kept inviting us back to his spot. I honestly don't remember what he was yelling, and with every step I took, it got harder and harder to breathe. A strange pressure was building up in my head and my vision was slowly tunneling. By the time we reached our camp, I was almost completely blind, save for a drinking straw size circle of vision. I barreled into the tent's nylon wall and screamed with everything I could at Lenny and Kelly. We have to go, now. What's going on? Lenny yelled from inside the tent.

I tore the door open and saw Lenny bent over Kelly's. She's pale and unconscious body. She's in real bad shape, started mumbling, then fell asleep. She's super cold, like dead cold. What happened to you? Lenny said. He looked us up and down, grimacing as if we'd been in a brutal car crash. That ranger, he's here.

Something's wrong, but we need to go, I said. And leave her? Lenny said. I feel like moving her would kill her. We need to call for help. I looked back to the patch of rocks But the ranger wasn't there I scanned the rest of the mountain face

And found no trace of him Maybe we can get an air lift I said We're just a light phone My bag in my tent He said pointing to the blue tent A bit higher up the mountain Pitched in a flat patch of gravel

I ran as fast as I could Towards the door facing us It was only when I got within 10 feet of it that I noticed a face pressed hard against the door facing me from inside the tent. The Ranger Its mouth open and eyes were pressed hard against the nylon surface. I quietly unhooked my ice axe from my belt and tiptoed towards the tent

before swinging as hard as I could into its face. It felt like I hit a block of ice the way it just shepherds. and splintered all over the inside of the tent. A horrible grotesque scream followed. It made my eyes water and my chest shake. It was so high-pitched I could feel my bones vibrate. Whatever was in the tent began savagely ripping at the walls, thrashing and kicking like a trapped animal.

It was clawing at the door, trying to find the zipper. I ran, screaming for my friends to run and follow me. We left our tents, gear. and Kelly behind as we scrambled down the mountain as fast as possible. We spent more time tumbling down the face of the mountain than on our feet, but it didn't matter. We reached the parking lot covered in deep couches from falling on rocks and roots. Lenny started the car and slammed on the accelerator.

We took corners at impossibly fast speeds, slamming into the jagged sides of the mountain, carved away to make the road. We even crashed through the gate at the bottom. of the hill, which ruined our radiator and sprayed coolants all over the inside of the car. We drove into town, our car scratched and smoking and pulled into a parking lot where we threw up and cried in the hospital. We told the police we lost control on a back road and that Kelly was with us the whole time.

The police searched the mountain and found nothing. No gear, no tents, no Kelly. just footprints all over the surface of the glacier. Despite all of this, the park and mountain opened up three weeks later, on schedule without issue. I stopped reading updates about the mountain staff when I learned that a new employee,

named Kelly, joined as the newest member of the park rangers that year. It said she was a botanist and wanted to study the flora of the park. Lenny and I never spoke to each other. other after we left the hospital and last I heard of Brandon he quit his job and moved back with his parents in Florida I still work for the same company it's been almost a year since this happened and I have time off coming up again I feel

drawn to that mountain still it's not open for a couple of weeks but I know it's not locked and I know I'll be allowed in And anyway, I have a conversation to finish with a particular ranger. I'm being held prisoner illegally. I have attempted to smuggle information about my plight out. My voice has never been heard. I can only hope that this time is different. I was taken while I was at a small petrol station on the outskirts of my hometown.

I was checking the air pressure in my tyres when three armed men were taken. surrounded me and demanded I dropped to the floor. They wore uniforms. Confused and scared, I thought they were police officers. I guess the people who witnessed what happened thought this as well. I know now that they were not. These men, who shouted at me, pointed their guns, as one of them coughed me and dragged me towards a car.

I was manhandled in the back seat and driven away. Signs, advertising great deals and credit available had a car dealership flashed by the window. A hawk hovered in a clear blue sky. These were my last glimpses of freedom. I had no idea then that they would be. I was trying to speak to the men who had taken me. One next to me who had a shaving cut on his left cheek and the two up front. The car smelled of sweat and cigarettes.

What have I done wrong? I pled. Why have you arrested me? Cut Cheek smiled at this. We haven't arrested you, he said. So, why? I began to protest. He cut me off with a gut punch.

I crumpled, gasped for air. There's plenty more of that available, Cutcheek said, if you keep up with your noise. One of the men up front chuggled. The driver, the man in the passenger seat said, mask him. From somewhere, cut-cheek produced a black piece of fabric, pulled it down over my head. I started the struggle.

I second punch to my stomach and did that. Blind now, only able to tell we were still moving by the motion of the car, I tried to think. I told myself that this was all a horrible mistake, that I would be taken to a police station, and there I would be able to speak to a lawyer and this hideous error would be cleared up. I wouldn't even press charges for the assault of me that had taken place. I just wanted to get on with my life. I was 20 and it wasn't much of a life I had, but I was ambitious and hardworking and believed in the National Dream.

I was going to do great things, make big bucks and sleep with a lot of beautiful women, which was my version of the National Dream. Until then, I was working nights at a convenience store and taking college classes in the day. I changed courses a few times. I just couldn't seem to settle on a subject that was right for me. But that was fine. I'd get there. I'd already overcome a number of challenges to get this far.

My mum and dad were killed in an automobile accident when I was nine. My grandmother had picked up the reins with me then as best she could. She had passed away the fall before, and I still miss her. More, I think, than my parents, who, and it makes up way of such things, I blamed for not being there. as if they'd chosen to drive into the back of a broken-down truck in freezing fog. In the back of the car that day, I thought about my family, about a girl in my college class who was so hot she made me feel faint.

About my car. Would it get towed? Would it be charged for that? Could I claim the money back when this misunderstanding was cleared up? Disjointed, frantic thoughts. I noticed we were slowing down, coming to a halt. I heard one of the car's doors opening, and then my arm was being pulled as I was hauled out.

My hand still cuffed, still hudded, I was half dragged, half carried along for what felt like a long time. I heard buzzers, doors banging shut, muffled voices. I started to shiver and feel too hot all at once. I'm going to be sick, I said. Someone next to me cursed. A moment later, my hood was lifted, just in time. I threw up.

There was a light overhead. After the darkness, its brightness hurt my eyes. I tried to turn away, but someone grabbed the back of my scalp and forced me to look upwards. Why are you doing this to me? I yelled. One of the men, I could not see which one, blinded now by light instead of a mask, laughed harshly and said, You know why, scum. Something sharp connected with the base of my spine. I screamed out in pain, and then they forced me along.

on a narrow walkway which seemed to have no end. Until we reached a new door, one constructed of steel bars, we were buzzed through into a narrow corridor. Cells lined the walls, small, dark places. The door to one of the cells buzzed open and I was thrown in. Then the men who brought me here walked away. I was alone. I looked around, wiped snot from my nose with my elbow.

The cell was about 15 feet square The front of the cell Apart from the narrow metal door Was clear glass or some kind of plastic There was a skinny bed pushed against one wall And a hole in the floor It was a struggle because of the handcuffs But I managed to get to my feet

I am six feet tall And now I was stood up The ceiling was only inches above me I felt a slight ripple of air on the top of my head, peered up and saw a small grill, an air vent, I guessed. I let the cold air trickle over my face. It felt so good that I started to cry. Something flickered to my left.

A face appeared in the center of a small screen that was set into the wall. It was a woman. Her hair was tied back and she were a light grey blouse. Make yourself comfortable, her voice came through a speaker. which was next to the screen I saw. There's been a mistake, I sputtered. I haven't done anything wrong. She consulted something, a document maybe, then said,

you have been conspiring to commit an offence that would have posed the severest level of threat to the national security. This sounded bizarre to me. So wrong that the only thing I could think to say was, I'm only 20 for God's sake. She paid no notice to this and continued. You will be detained until you are no longer a danger to the good people of this country. The picture faded.

The screen was once more a dull rectangle in the wall. You can't do this to me, I yelled. You can't. I began to kick out of the screen, lost my balance and ended up back on the floor. You can't, I sobbed and rolled over into my side. You can't, I said again and again. Somehow I must have fallen asleep. and I woke up with a start.

A hatch near the base of the door had opened and something was being slid through. A tray covered with a lid. I could see a man through the clear cell front. I tried to sit up, my arms cramped and I hollered. Help me, please, stand away from the door. The voice that addressed me was cold and sure. I can't get up, I said, hearing now how pathetic.

I sounded and hating it. Move away from the door, the man repeated. I shuffled backwards in my ass. The door buzzed open and the man came in. He was older than me with a bus cut and wore a grey shirt and trousers. He reached over me and unlocked the handcuffs, then stepped away. I haven't done anything wrong, I repeated. He ignored me, left the cell and was already walking away as the door buzzed.

locked. Where am I? I shouted after him. You have to tell me. I have rights. I believed in things back then. I believed I lived in a free country where we were guaranteed fair treatment, a trial represented by an attorney in an open court, the right to speak and to be listened to.

The only thing I'm certain of now is the darkness which awaits me when the lights of my cell is turned off at night. alone by the man who had unlocked the handcuffs. I sat for a while, alternating between panic and anger. Eventually, I managed to shrug off the handcuffs. My arms and wrists hurt like hell, and I spent a week massaging them, then decided to see what was on the tray. I opened the lid on the hinge to show a plastic cup with watering

and what looked like soup in a plastic bowl. There was no spoon. I wasn't hungry, but my mouth felt very dangerous. dry, so I lifted the bowl and tried a sip of the soup. It was cold, greasy. I spat it out and took a drink of the water. It tasted metallic. My stomach spasmed, and, apart from a few drops of the foul-tasting water, I dry heaved. A while later, I can't say how long, the lights went out and I was left in total darkness. Using my hands to feel the way I crawled up onto the bed. It was hard and there was one thin bed sheet.

I didn't sleep. I said earlier about the lights being turned off when it's night. I have no idea whether that is true. Whether it is night in the world outside when the darkness is imposed, whether the sun will have risen when the lights are turned back on. There was a regularity to this part of the routine though, and I decided to try and keep track of things by remembering how many times the lights were turned off and on.

In this way, I could keep a tally of the time I was incarcerated. I was clutching under the flimsyest thread of a place beyond the cell, of an earth that turned on its axis, where people cursed their alarm clocks and worried about the bills, where they had their hearts broken and wondered what it was all about. Alone in my cell, the cycles of light and darkness added up. The only human contact I had was the guards who brought me food and drink, on the tray, and, once a week, a bowl of tepid water for me to wash with.

The first time I asked for a towel to dry myself, I was told to use the sheet. Most of the guard said nothing. A few taunted me. When I needed the toilet, I used the hole in the floor and learned to save up water to try and clean myself with afterwards. Every few weeks, a new bedchew was brought, and the old one, by then, disgusting, taken away. and at seemingly random intervals the door buzzed open and everything in the cell was hosed down including me i kept counting when the lights went out and the lights went on and i never gave up hoping that one day this hideous ordeal would end by my reckoning this lasted for almost five months and then there was a change not to the cycle of abuse that rolled on with sick efficiency but one day i was no one day i was no one longer alone. I heard the new prisoner before I saw him. Before the steel bar door at the end of the corridor, which I could only see in my memory, buzzed and opened, there was the sound of swearing.

It was like a tornado of profanities, and it was heading my way. The door sounded, and it got louder, and then I saw a man, who must have been six foot seven being hauled along by four guards. My first thought then was, being so tall, how would he fit in the cell? The door in the cell opposite me opened and he was forced inside. The guards kicked his stomach and his groin to get him bent over enough to get through the door. And then they left him, stooped over, but still hurling insults and threats, even though now the guards had gone and there was just the two of us. His face was flushed red and I could see crude tattoos on his cheeks,

just under his eyes. He was not looking at me. He was still screaming in the direction the guards had gone. And, after months of longing for someone to speak to, I could not think of a single thing to say. He kept shouting until the lights went out, and for long after. I know how crazy this would sound, but the noise of him lulled me to sleep.

Perhaps because the silence of isolation was broken. I woke when the lights came on, sat up and realised he was staring at me. Welcome to the zoo, I said, feeling in my enclosure like some dumb animal. He was sitting on his bed. He rubbed his face. What is this place? he asked. I shrugged. I don't know.

He rubbed his face again. What did you do to get so banged up? I don't know, I said again. There was no way I was repeating the lies I had been told on my first day. His mouth twisted into a kind of smile that had nothing to do with happiness. Yeah, me neither, he said. Then, my name's Mox. I nodded.

Jake, I'd shake your hand, but, you know. Yeah, Mux responded. The sound of a woman's voice interrupted this heart to heart, and Mok's turned to look at the wall beside him. because of the angle I couldn't see the face on the screen but I could listen as she said to him exactly

what she had said to me he listened with what struck me as remarkable calm then when the woman had finished he surprised me he burst out laughing so bad he had to lie down well as much of him

as could fit on the bed at any one time ah that's rich he said that's a bank vault full of garbage. Me, a threat to national security. He got a little more control over himself, then turned to, once more, face me. I spent most of my life in jail, he said.

I break into houses and steal whatever I find and take it down to the shop. That's what I do. I went some schmucks in a weird uniform drew on me in the street yesterday. I thought that's why I was being arrested again. But no. Me, a threat to national security.

He repeated the phrase, as if it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. In a way, I guess it was. I lay back on my own bed and came the closest to a smile of my own in a long time. Shortly after this, a guard came with our trays. Marks watched him sullenly. I caught the man's eye, though. I hadn't seen him before. He did not look much older than me.

He put my tray on the floor in front of the cell door. then he pushed moxes through the hatch into his cell. Then he turned back to face me. Everything okay, he asked me in a quiet voice. The first time a guard had ever said anything like this to me, and there was something in his eye, something that told me he wasn't like the others. Call it instinct, call it what you will.

I started the wonder and made a snap decision to go out on a limb. Oh, you help me. I whispered. He looked me straight in the eye, but did not respond. I went on, will you help me get a message out to tell people what is happening here? He was motionless, and I thought I was wasting my time. Then, he said,

Yes, I'll help. I'm disgusted by what I've seen here. I'll bring you a pen and paper so you can write it all down. My heart began to soar. After all this time, there was a glimmer of hope. Thank you, I said, my voice breaking. There's one thing, he said. You'll need a return address so the bleeding hearts can write back.

I got tightened. His eyes glinted, and he said in a sneering tone, How about using zip code zero zero six six six? Because you an hell boy and you going nowhere else. Then he lifted the lid of my tray and urinated on it. Behind him, Mok's, who I don't think would have been able to hear the conversation, began to roar, began to tell the guard what he would do with him when he got his hands on him. The guard finished what he was doing, pushed the tray through the hatch with his boot, then left.

I moved as far away from the tray as I could, a few lousy feet in that damned cell, and then I began to weep. Mux and I never spoke about what happened and a couple of weeks later by my reckoning we were joined by two more prisoners because of the angles of the cell apart from the brief moments

when we saw them being brought in we could hear but not see them once they'd been locked in over the course of the days that followed the four of us began to talk one of the new men John talked a lot like me he'd never had a run in with the authorities

In a shaky voice He told us that he was 34 and going through a rough patch He lost his job and become isolated Rarely leaving his apartment He'd only gone across to the store To spend a few dollars he had on essentials When the armed men came for him

The fourth of us Imprisoned so unjustly So obscenely Said he was called Henry Like the damn king with all the wives He added He had a degree in computing And a dope problem

and was out on probation after a stretch for fraud. He liked prison, he said, because the dope had been cheaper and better quality than on the outside. Every time the guards came with our trays, he would ask if they had any of the good stuff. Only the good stuff, he'd say, I don't want nothing that's been cut with bacon soda or detergent. The guards blanked him or laughed at him,

same as they did with the rest of us. We waited for more arrivals, but that was it. The terror that followed was to be shared between the four of us. The calendar in my head told me that we were in the new year when it began. We'd been talking, griping and cracking jokes or describing in graphic detail what we'd do to the people responsible, if only we could get our hands on them, when Henry piped up.

Hey, my screen's coming on. Mine as well, John said. I looked over at the screen set into the wall of my cell and sure enough, there she was, the woman with a tied back hair and light green blouse. She was silent for a moment, maybe to make sure we were all listening. And then she said,

Your lives are to be given purpose. You will be participating in some medical experiment. Some of you will be given a new compound. Some will receive placebo. that is all. Then the screen faded, and I heard a click, looked up, saw a faint mist descending slowly from the vent and the ceiling.

I watched as it flowed out into the cell. My instinct was to flee, to try and not let it touch me. But where was there to go? What the hell? I heard one of the others call out, John, I think. Opposite me, Mox was standing up at the vent in his cell.

He rubbed his feet. face as he'd always did when he was thinking. I learnt a lot about this man since we'd been in prison together. He'd been beaten by his dad and his uncle, but by the time he was a teenager, he was big enough to stand up for himself and had put them both in hospital, then simply walked out the door and lived on the streets. He'd gotten his tattoos the first time he was in prison. They were meant to be teardrops, but the person who'd done them in return for a payment

and pills was so high, it was lucky Mok's hadn't lost to his. sight. He might have a kid of his own, he wasn't sure, but he hoped he had, and one day he was determined to speak to them, to tell them to follow a different path in life to the one he'd taken. This man, this big, messed up man, sat there and watched the mist settle on him. Smells kind of funky, he said and laughed. I don't feel so good. This came from Henry. Try and stay strong, John said. He was opposite. it to Henry, so unlike Mox and me, could see what was happening to him. Stay strong, John said again in a quieter voice.

Henry was the first to go. I wasn't so good with my mental tallying up of the hours as I was for the days, but I'd say a couple of hours had passed when John started to shout. Henry? Henry, man, wake up. What is it? I yelled. Henry's not moving, John called back.

I think... I think he's dead. I could hear that he was starting to cry. John was a gentle soul, gentler than the rest of us. It's going to be okay, I said, trying to reassure him, and thought desperately what I could do. I knew there was no point shouting for the guards to come help. I looked at mocks, hoping together we could come up with something.

But he was leaning forward, still on his bed. His head drooped over his knees and his arms. his hands were shaking slightly. Marks? What is it? I said. What's wrong? He never responded.

And shortly afterwards, he died. I know this, because his bowels and his bladder let go. And after that, there was a terrible stillness to him. I hoped he had found peace. I vowed revenge on those who had killed him and Henry. I waited and listened to my heart, racing in my chest and wondered when I would join them. I wasn't next though.

John had been crying all the while, and suddenly he shouted, No, not! And then he was silent. And once more, I was on my own. The lights went out. Still, the guards did not come. There were three dead men lying in their cells. Were the guards going to leave them there all night?

I sat in the darkness. I felt an unbearable sadness and an anger. I was possessed by both. When the lights came back on, my chest still moved with each breath. I was somehow still alive. I had had the placebo. I looked over at Mox. His corpse was a pale shape in his cell.

It was like death had frozen it in place. Goodbye, friend, I whispered. And then I saw His hand twitched His right hand I shot to my feet cried out Max

Max you're alive At the sound of my voice His head slowly raised Turned to face me And when I saw his eyes Saw the emptiness in him An icy coldness spread through my body His mouth opened

He looked like he was trying to speak I stood paralysed by fear and stared. He was trying to speak, but no other words came out. His hands flexed, he began to stand. His frame, too tall by far for the cell, was soon twisted, stooping, and still his lips moved. Then the silence was broken. I could hear something being slammed against the walls of the cells that were out of sight. Had John and Henry risen as well? Had death not been the final act in their tortured existence? Across from me, the thing that had been mocks began to tap on a clear cell front.

Tap, tap, tap, then slam. His fist connected with it, then his other, again and again. The noise of the three of them built around me like a storm. I have talked about how I've been so careful to keep track of time, how it was a way of clinging onto a life I used to have, one in which I could walk down the street, go for a coffee, think about going for a coffee but decide I could not be bothered. Stupid things that are precious beyond words to me. Precious because they are lost.

But my reckoning, five years have passed since the mist descended from the vents. And mocks, John and Henry died and then became... I know there's a word for this, but I don't want to use it. Really don't want to use it. I was closer to those three men than anyone else, save my grandmother who raised me, three men who became no longer recognizable as human. After the mist, after they died and rose, their bodies decayed, their skin fell away, their flesh and their muscles and their organs beneath rotted.

And still they raged, throwing themselves against the walls of the cells. moks punching and thrashing and silently screaming. The guards did come eventually in the days after the mist descended, but pretty soon they retreated and stayed behind the steel bar door at the end of the corridor. The door of my cell was buzzed open for a good while later. Five years on and I collect my food and drink now from the guards to the steel bar door. I can see the disgust on the faces of the guard. I am numb now to the nauseating stench coming from the cells, but they clearly are not.

I don't think it's just disgust at the smell. I think they are revolted by what has been done here. Through rushed, murmured conversations, one of the guards has even agreed to take my testimony, this testimony to the outside world. I have no guarantee. I can only hope there is enough decency in the man I'm trusting. I will finish. writing soon and handed over.

But first, I walk for one more time past the cells, the small, dark places. John and Henry, who only glimpsed briefly when they were alive as they were dragged into their cells, are little more than masses of ranted flesh and bone that ride around on the floor. They are dead, forever, and will never be at peace, always struggling, always moving. Moks is further gone than the other two. His body is so badly reduced, I can see individual teeth, strands of hair, all caught in the pudry gathering of what his corpse had become.

And there is more. In the last few days, I've seen a dust rising from his remains. Elements of him that are now finer than a strand of hair, a fragment of an individual tooth, elements of him that is still animated with a force that makes a dead dead. man move. And I stand and watch as the dust continues to rise, swirling and rising. And I look up to where the vent is in the ceiling and think, keep going, Mox. Because if the dust reaches the vent and goes through and leaves the cell, then a part of you has escaped. A part of you is free. Roadwork ahead.

Theo begins with a big don't grin on his face. I can see the whites of his teeth in the corner of my eye. Don't say it, bro, I interrupted the mutter, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. You don't need to say it. Yeah, I sure hope it does, he finishes, chortling to himself, as I swear under my breath. I've always hated that stupid vine. How are we doing on the time? I ask him, changing the subject.

He checks his watch. his phone and the car's clock. All in sync, dude. 2.17 a.m. We've got five minutes. Perfect, I respond as we drive down the length of a dark and empty highway.

We're actually going to make it this time. Have we got far to go? No, I tell him. Just a bit further on. It's hard to see, but there's a load of hills just ahead to the right. That's where we're going.

Right, he responds, settling back into his seat. The highway stretches through a long, dark section of country. There aren't many trees, but the cornfields grow high, and they'll taper off soon as the hills rise. There's a subtle turn-off from the highway coming up, and it leads through these hills. That's where we're headed. You have to time it just right though, if you want to play the roadworks game. The clock ticks 2.18 a.m.

Sam, we're actually going to make it, I reply. Are you nervous, man? Nervous, Theo laughs. Nothing's going to happen, Dara. It is, I'm telling you, it's been done before. I reply, as we race to the night. The engine, a subtle backing track. Yeah, we'll see about that.

The corn and the hills roll on by. The time ticks on. I shift in my seat. My throat has gone dry. And though Theo refused. chooses to admit it, he is anxious to. The atmosphere in the vehicle has changed. We're here, I murmur, slowing the car right down as the clock ticks over to 221.

Turn right, then you have reached your destination, the voice of the GPS announces. I do so, bringing the wheel around in an arc and turning off from the highway. I wind the car between the hills that rise up all around us. and at last, just as the clock hits 222, we come to a stop at a traffic light. It has the appearance of being a temporary instalment, but I've never known it not to be here. It is accompanied by a rusted yellow sign with a KS construction logo printed in small letters on the top left. In the sign centre, it reads simply, road works. The traffic lights glow is ready.

It highlights our faces in its crimson glow. Nothing's happening, Theo mutters. Did we get the timing's wrong? A part of me is disappointed, but I find that a much greater part of me is relieved. Perhaps this was a dumb idea anyway. And then, as if in response to this thought, the traffic light does something that I've never seen it do before. ever. It changes to yellow, illuminating the road beneath it in bright amber, and my adrenaline surges.

Damn, Theo blurts out. He tries to say something, but stumbles over his words. I do not speak. I know how to begin the game, and it's really very simple. I slam my foot down on the accelerator, and the car lurches back into life. the vehicle leaps forward and I wind it around the traffic light and down through the hills the time ticks the 223 we meander left and right passing between the hills of various heights and sizes as I expected of course but then the landscape changes instead of coming out the hills and being led

onto a parallel highway as geography would expect we are instead met with a vast flat landscape as the hills pull back. It is a moonless night, and our only source of light comes from the beams of the car itself. Ahead is the road, and to either side are grim and empty fields, sparse pieces of rotted vents,

dead crops, all fading away into the void at the light's edge, the total and surrounding darkness of the night. My heart pounds. Jesus, Theo says, oh God, this is real, it's real, we're playing, we're actually playing. Of course we are, I reply. I told you so.

Remind me how it works again. His voice is tipped with fear now. I can hear it. The rules, what do we win? They say that the game gives you what you need the most. Great, he forces out a weak laugh. PlayStation 5 it is then. Yeah, maybe, I reply, Deadpan.

If we were. win? What do you want? It's what you need, not what you want, Theo. Fine. What do you need? I consider. I don't know, man. A new family would be a good start. A new life. Theo does not respond directly to this. We've talked about it before. Instead, he changes the subject. You said, if we win. If. So, how do we lose? I don't reply. I just grip the wheel a little tighter. We just have to stay on the road till the end,

I say eventually. That's the rule of the game. Don't leave the road. Follow the road till the end. Till the end, he repeats. And we are quiet for a while after that, driving steadily through the wastes and the shadow. The tension rises until Theo can take it no longer.

Let's put some tunes on. He says, tapping play in his phone, still augst. What the hell? I ask him, as the intro to Toto's Africa starts blaring obnoxiously from the speakers. Bro, turn that off. Why? He asks, holding his phone away how to reach. It's a banger.

He starts humming along to the opening beat. Theo, turn it off. I reach out again. I tried to grab his phone. Why? It's not against the rules, is it? He starts to sing along. I look down to the open.

and pull it from the plug. And in that second, the split second that I have my eyes away from the road, the car drifts ever so slightly, and with a loud and sickening crunch, it lurches up and then back down with a thud. Christ, Theo shouts as we are slammed up and down in our seats. Panicked, I swing around the steering wheel

and press a foot down on the brake, and the tie screech as the car comes to a quick stop, still on the road, but now at a slight angle. We turn to look through the rear window. My pulse is racing. Theo is grabbing my shoulder. Dara, you hit something. Oh God, oh God.

What was it? Is it moving? I squint. It wasn't a person, was it? Did you see any movement? No, but, I mean, it was dark, so... You were distracting me. Me?

What the hell, dude? But our fight comes to a quick halt as a beat bids us turned swiftly around. The GPS has begun to glitch and blink. Its pleasant white-glows screen now shines in a sinister, warning red. Black text appears across the ruby screen. Follow the road.

We stare at this text, Theo and I, and then Theo glances back over his shoulder. His eyes widen. Bro, he mutters. It's gone. I turn around to love. look, and sure enough, the large, dark shape that we hit in the road has vanished. I think we need to keep driving now, Theo says, as a creeping, lurking terror begins to slink

into my mind. I don't respond. I don't need to. I just sit back in my seat, push down the handbrake, and drive us off, quicker this time than I was driving before. The GPS remains unchanged. black takes on the red background. The car sails to the night.

Was that part of the game? I asked Theo. Do you think... I don't know, dude. You know more about this game than me. It just disappeared. It must have been alive. Well, if it moved, then it must be fine, right?

It wouldn't be a person. What would a person be doing on foot way out here? Well, if it wasn't a person, then what was it? Theo had no response. My hands are clammy with sweat now. I wipe them one at a time on the side of my jeans. Dude, Theo murmurs. There's something in the fields.

What do you mean? Look, he says quietly. And I do, peering to my left, then to my right. I cannot help but catch glimpses of rustling in the long grasses. The headlights catch curious little shadows darting between. between the broke fence posts. But every time I tried to look directly at one,

it has already disappeared. More and more of this rustling takes place around us. Shivering grass, small, little shadows, dozens, then hundreds. I put my foot down on the accelerator and the car picks up speed. Maybe we should turn back,

Leo asks out loud. Then, we should turn back. bro we should turn the hell back no i reply determined we committed we have to see the road through till the end that's the rules the quivering little shapes in the grasses fall back and away the lights of the car catch on a person

standing a little ways out in the field to our left damn theo shouts and i stare an alarm at this mystery person standing alone by the road with their arms outstretched But no, this is no living person. As they draw closer, it becomes apparent that it's only a scarecrow. Its sacks drawhead lulls to one side. It's ragged clothes flutter very lightly in the breeze.

It whizzes by. A second scarecrow appears on the same side of the road, a little further back into the field. It too whizzes by. Then there is a third. This one standing right by the road on the field, far behind it, and only barely visible in the edges of the headlights and shrouded it in shadow. Is a fourth. They are coming faster. More and more, all over on both sides.

Scarecrows, silent and watching, straw sentinels that guard the road and the fields. Theo has begun to mutter under his breath. Why you like this man? He asks, why do I let you talk me into dumb stuff like this? You're so reckless. This was short-sighted as hell. I laugh at his use of language. Short-sighted?

Short-sighted? Says you, man. Since when, have you ever thought more than a week ahead about anything in your life? I don't know what you're talking about, dude. You got your stomach checked out yet? You've been complaining about it for like a month. That's totally not relevant. What about your exams?

You started revising for your finals yet? Sure I have, liar. The fields are full of scarecrows now. Each may be only a few feet apart from the exit. Like an army standing in various frozen poses, disappearing into the void. We just have to stay in the road, I say through gritter teeth. Easy.

The scarecrow's start thinning out. They become fewer and fewer, until once again the fields are barren and empty. they remain empty for some time. About an hour by my count. A long, long hour of driving. A thought occurs to me. I'm sure it has occurred to Theo too,

but neither of us dare say it out loud. What if the road doesn't end? I try not to think about it. There are occasional bumps and cracks in the brick of the road but it's otherwise quite smooth and always in a straight line too There are no turns here Just constant, endless road

Theo drums his hands on his leg His fingers illuminate red By the glow of the GPS Do you really think I'm short-sighted He asks for a while Well yeah, a little bit Sorry He says nothing at first

then there's something else out there dude where over to the right look i glance over and sure enough i think he's right it's difficult to tell since it's so dark but the edges of some piece of of what looks like massive machinery are caught in the headlights out of glow way out into the field what is it some farm thing could be a tractor, I guess. But as we make these guesses, to my utter horror, the tractor starts to unfold. Go, Theo shouts. Oh God. Oh God!

I do so, but I can't stop staring at it at the massive machine in the distance, in the dark. It's much bigger than I'd first thought, too. It clanks and grinds echo out over the field towards us, and then it disappears behind us. us into the dark. For a tense few seconds, we wait, jaws clenched, and then the machine reappears. It approaches. I catch sight of it in the mirror. It is unfolded into the form of a monstrous metal man. Bolts and nuts fall from its joints as it runs after the vehicle. It is easily three times my height, perhaps bigger. It roars a terrible, oily, mechanical sound, and it reaches out an arm towards us.

Damn, Theo screams. Darra, go, just go! My knuckles turn white against the wheel as I go flat out, but my beat-up car struggles to accelerate. Two blazing orange lights flicker into life in the machine man's head. Too angry, watchful eyes, staring right at us, its iron-jaw unhinges and monstrous metallic bellow thunders out. It's catching up dude, Theo shouts, swiveling around and round in his chair. I know, I know, I reply, eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror. The machine man grips an axe in two iron hands, and it's a heavy-looking thing,

comprised entirely of cold grey and rusted brown with a massive sharp blade at one end. The monster roars as it raises the axe. I dragged the wheel to the left, keeping us narrowly on the road, but away from the centre, and slam down on the brake. The axe slams down hard on the road just ahead of us as the machine man stumbles. He turns his great head to look through the window in rage. Go, go, go, go, go! I hit the accelerator.

The engine whistles and grinds in frustration as smoke blasts from the pipe, but they pale in comparison to the roars of the monstrous machine. It does not follow us, however. I don't think it can. It struggles the dislodge the axe from where it struck the road, and it disappears gradually into the distance behind us. When it is nothing more than two pinpricks of orange light, I finally allow myself to breathe

and wipe a quick hand across my sweat-soaked forehead. Theo runs his hands through his hair, then holds one out in front of him. It is shaking violently. I guess we're not turning around then, he mutters. Don't want to meet that guy again. I told you, dude, we can't turn around. We have to make it to the end of the road.

Sure, he says. So, the drive goes on. Who do you think made this game? He asks. I have no idea, honestly. Who even could? Right? It's all screwed up.

The whole thing is insane. I managed to get some footage to the machine man, you know, on my phone. It looks crap, but it might be worth a watch later. Nice, I tell him. Yeah. You sure you don't just want to go home, Dara? We make it to the end. He hesitates.

Okay. The fields are not quite so empty now. No more scarecrows, but instead stand ruined remains of buildings. We pass by a lone telegraph pole made of curious, dark stained. green wood. It is cracked and does not appear to be connected to anything else. The fences here too are that same colour. Dank, rotted, murky green and clustered around these ruined remains are remains of a different kind. Carcasses of great beasts. Cows, I suppose, but they have been torn essentially beyond recognition. Massive gorse-streaked ribcages

rises up from corpses in the dark all around. Stay cool, I mutter, we got this. Our thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a roaring in the distance, less mechanical this time, more animalistic. We brace, but nothing further happens for the next ten minutes. We are primed, muscles aching from the unconscious tension. It is excruciating this pressure, waiting for the next horror.

And at last, it's almost a relief when we finally see its source. Almost. Atop a ruined barn. I think it is statue at first, until the creature moves. It lifts his head and opens wide its jaws and releases another of those blood-freezing roars. Its skin is black, a monstrous, prehistoric, cat-looking creature with a shaggy black mane and two tiny green eyes, shining with malice in the night. It leaps from the barn roof and begins bounding right for us down the road.

Watch out Dara, Theo shouts. I panic and attempt a similar maneuver to my previous one, though this time I don't bring the car to a stop. The great cat skits past and growls, swiping at the vehicle, and its claws go right through Theo's side door. Three huge great scratch marks streak down just inches from the guy And he flinches in terror The creature's green eyes vanish temporarily into the dark Before it begins pounding after us yet again

Keeping pace saliva spilling from its jaws I cannot go any faster The car is flat out The lion-like monster leaps from the road And grabs onto the back of the car We feel its weight and the car judders and groans in complaint I start swinging the wheel from left to right as fast as I can, whilst also keeping the car on the road. The creature's snarling face takes up the entire back window.

I can hear the metal scream as its claws are dug deeper in. But at last, the creature is thrown free and it spins away, roaring, vanishing into the long grasses to the side of the road, and we don't stick around to see if it will return. The broken buildings and structures in the fields are numerous now. They are all over the place, surrounding us, all ruined. There are water towers and heaps of rundown ancient machinery, all that same shade of rusty, murky green. A road sign, the first that we have seen since beginning the game, whizzes past us.

It is rusty green with a faded white border. City limit. it reads. I don't know if it can take much more of this, Theo mutters. Dara, maybe there's a way you can go home you don't know about. Do we have to make it to the end of the road? We've been driving for hours, dude. What if the road doesn't end?

He looks to the GPS. Still, a bright and ruby red. Maybe there's something here we can use. I told you, man, to the end. I'm not quitting. I doubt we even could if we wanted to. For goodness sake, you're playing with our lives, Dara. Theo is suddenly angry.

You complain all the time about how bad your life supposedly is. You ever consider the fact that the problem might be you? I splutter with indignation. But our argument is interrupted by the sudden, terrifying sound of something wet, smacking onto the windscreen. Red gorse splashes across the glass, and I put the wipers on, horrified as the redness is smeared across my field of vision.

What the hell was that? Theo asks quietly. He leans forwards and looks up. Hey, there's something. He jumps back on instinct as a large pink glob of human flesh splats sickening against the screen. I stare at it in horror. Mashed slightly and leaking ooze, it is still nonetheless perfectly recognizable. It can be nothing other than a human brain. It clings to the glass before sliding off and disappearing into the dark.

Fliks of fleshy rain splattered down. And, with a pint or two of blood, a heart is what hits us next. It smacks onto the glass and bounces away. And what follows causes me such fright that I feel like I'm going to pass out. An entire human spine, clotted with blood and flesh, smacks hard into the glass. And cracks it. The impact cracks spread out over almost half of the windscreen, and the spine slips down the front of the car and is crunched beneath the wheels. This is hell.

It must be. Some terrible, god-forsaken nightmare land. But the feelings are all too real. My surroundings, the sounds and the sights, it is all terrifyingly real. Ahead, directly above the road and beneath an enormous wooden wooden. green arch, an inhuman face flickers into view. It stares down at us, moving like a hologram and keeping pace with the car. It grins, stretching its cracked and ghostly lips to reveal a shimmering smile with

layers upon layers of teeth concealed within. A human stomach smacks against the glass and explodes, bursting and leaking on theo's side of the window. Welcome, booms the voice of the great and terror. terrible face. What do you need? And the answer to me becomes painfully, blindingly clear. Home, I scream.

Just let us go the hell home. Theo has begun tapping and shaking the GPS. He presses a shaking thumb against the screen and the text on the red screen disappears. It is replaced, quite simply, with a home icon. A little picture of a house. presses it about 20 times in the space of three seconds and the great face above us begins to laugh. A great barreling cyclone of air races down the road towards us and there is no escape. And in a second we will be enveloped.

This is the end I guess. I scream and swear and against my better instincts I lift my hands from the wheel to defend my face as the world beyond is lost the sight in the torrents of wind. For a while, there is only screaming, and then, gradually, we calm down. We haven't died at least. I daren't to open my eyes just yet, I daren't. But a low level of light registers through my closed eyelids, and cautiously I opened them up.

I return my trembling hands to the wheel. as the car chunders to a gentle, casual stop. The sun has begun to rise and a flock of birds fly across the deep blue ever so slightly lightning sky just ahead. We are on the opposite side of the highway. I swivel in my seat. Behind us is a meandering path through the hills.

Theo, Theo, open your eyes, bro. He does so through gritter teeth. and then he too takes in his surroundings. There is peace. Theo crosses himself, something I've never seen him do before, ever, and he shoots a quick glance behind us. He swallows.

I think... I think... I'd like to go home now, dude. Yeah, I reply, as my wing mirror falls from the car and hits the road with a clank. Yeah, I think that's a good idea.

So, I put the car into drive and we begin a very slow and very steady ride back home. Theo ended up getting his stomach checked out. He didn't give me the gross details, but he assures me that everything is fine now. He just said, it's a good job I went when I did,

could have gotten much worse. And I realized something too. Honestly, my life ain't all the that bad. Maybe not being a miserable guy all the time is a good place to start. I won't be attempting any further play-throughs of the Roadworks game. After all, there's really no place, like home. It's trashy, I know. Let me just say right now, I know it was trashy. But my girlfriend, has a strange place's fetish. We've done the deed in some pretty public places. and while it's awesome, it's very risky, obviously.

We did get caught once on a walking trail. It was the middle of the night, and hardly anyone takes to the trail that late. So we went from walking to do the horizontal Mambo, and of course some old guy with a flashlight comes around the corner. She turned. I covered her, but the guy saw a lot of me. It was mortifying. So we tried to smile through it and wave him ahead,

but he took it upon himself to lecture us about public decency And how ashamed we should be And if he ever caught his daughter out here, yada yada, I'm sure you can imagine pretty much exactly how it went. So I told her we needed a break from the more public part of our adventures. She agreed, and a few nights later we went to the graveyard. literally the graveyard of graveyards it's massive big enough for about 14 different drivable lanes and probably 50 more tombs or mausoleums or whatever they are and a ridiculous amount of regular graves with regular headstones some gravestons were in shapes of benches angels chalises crosses crying maidens you know the lady in a robe-looking ones mother mary maybe Anyway, just a huge variety.

So, we walked around for a little while. We both liked creepy stuff, and it was chilly enough that walking was nice. The graveyard has enough trees that you never really feel exposed anywhere, but it's not exactly a forest either. We walked and talked, and eventually she stepped to the side and read aloud from a really nice black marble gravestone. here lies Slade Aberatta, whose final studies of death brought him here, whatever the hell that means.

She shook her head and looked back at me, then leaned over the gravestone and smiled while looking at me. Now, obviously, I'm not going to go into the detail of that, so if you're reading this far, hoping for that kind of NSFW, you are mistaken. But there was some movement, some point. forceful poshing, and the last posh, thankfully, ended with a loud cracking sound. By the time I realized that was happening, the top half of the gravestone slid forward and hit

the ground. She almost fell forward, but I caught her. I felt all sorts of emotions. The relief was immediately overshadowed by the fact that we had just broken a rather expensive-looking gravestone, like someone's last memento to the living world, and we were. just destroyed it. She stepped back, quickly fixing herself and looked at me with the same shocked expression I must have been wearing. That sucks, I finally said. Taking a deep breath and sighing, I put my hands on top of my head and mouth of four-letter word reserved for times like this when I screwed up big time. Yeah, I think this is how people get cursed. We're definitely cursed now, right? She asked me with a flimsy smile.

One of the many things I liked about her was her attempt to make everything better with some light-hearted humour. Oh, for sure. I lifted my arms up dramatically and made my voice sound ghostly deep and spooky. Return the slab! We looked at each other. Any other time we would have laughed, but with post-nut clarity, I knew that my options were, A, own up to it and tell someone. Or B, fix it, and live with knowing I broke a gravestone and screwed up this guy's afterlife marker. Either way, I did need to return the slab.

Help me put it back. I'll call someone in the morning. Tell them I sat down in it or something. It didn't make sense, but it was the best I had. My girlfriend didn't critique my story. She just stepped around to the other side. I walked around, grabbed me. my half, she grabbed hers, and we lifted while moving it back to the bottom half.

Oh, hold on, set it down, I said, noticing the hollowed out centre of the gravestone. What is it? she asked, now seeing it too. We carefully set the top half back on the ground, and I reached in the small hollow that had been hidden inside the black marble gravestone. The only thing inside was the book. Not leather, not ordinary paper. It wasn't skin either, so that was good. It was some kind of bookcloth, which meant it was smooth, malleable and felt nice. I removed the book and pulled out my phone to use the flashlight.

The book was just pure grey with no symbols or words. I flipped through the pages and saw that nearly every page was filled. Mostly words, but some sketches and diagrams. The title was on the first page. Thanatology from both sides. The title, like the rest of the book, was handwritten like a diary or journal, it seemed. Everything since removing that book has gone horribly wrong. We did replace a slab.

I kept the book with me. I figured I could put it back when the time came to face whoever I had to about the breaking of the gravestone. Obviously, I should have left that book in the hollow. That night, I had some of the worst dreams I've ever had. I was sitting in a study, sitting at a rather nice looking desk that was filled with old parchment paper and scrolls, literal scrolls, like I was in some medieval room, and maybe I was. There was a fireplace roaring with flames that came up and over the mantle. much flame, but it didn't seem to spread, and the heat wasn't unbearable.

There were glass tubes, cylinders, vats that bubbled, and on the shelf were three skulls of various sizes. But all of this was just a backdrop for the man that sat across from me. He seemed unaware of my presence as he scribbled furiously in a book. The grey book. I lifted myself up a little one. and peeked over the desk. She's pregnant, the man said.

Even in my dream, I felt my stomach drop and my heart skip a beat. Was he talking to me about my girlfriend, Helen? The man looked up at me and now I was looking right back into his face. After the initial surprise passed, I realised he was not looking at me. But through me I turned around and saw another person standing in the doorway The light from the fire avoided them

As if they were meant to stay hidden An opportunity The figure responded A woman's voice An opportunity For what? Distractions How can I understand death when I'm distracted with life The man asked

He closed the journal angrily Andly and looked sharply at the figure An opportunity to see death during the birth of life, the woman said simply as if it was obvious. The man raised an eyebrow, slowly understanding. An opportunity, he smiled as soon as the smile. The flame roared higher, and only then did I feel the heat. It was fierce. It crawled across the room.

The woman, the man, neither noticed. They didn't move or speak as the flames washed over them, consuming the room. But I felt it, burning my skin and trying my lungs. I screamed and woke up coughing intensely. Helen switched the light on beside me. Kirk, are you all right? she asked. I continued to cough and reach for the water I always kept to my nightstand. As I drank it, I felt the cold water touched.

where the fire had scorched my inside. But it hadn't. Not really. It was a dream, a nightmare. Is something burning? Helen asked. I nearly dropped the bottle when I looked at her. What?

I asked, stunned. Helen sniffed the air. Nothing. I thought I smelled burning. It's gone. It wasn't toast. I don't think I'm over in a stroke. I didn't have the words to tell her about my dream.

I didn't understand it enough to explain any of it. I told her instead that I was all right and for her to go back to sleep. But sleep for me was something I couldn't do. After a couple of feeble hours of lying in bed, remaining stuck with the feeling of being burned alive, I gave up. I carefully got out of bed and made my way to the living room, to the book.

I switched on one lamp and opened it. In a matter of days, I will have the opportunity to witness the definition of creation. With the birth of my child, I will see firsthand the power of life,

and I will bond it with a gift of death. At my hands, 20 men and women have been given to the goddess of death to better understand what it means to die. But what happens

when life and death become one? With the proper chemicals, I am convinced I can assist my wife in the birth of death. Even after death, my child will still be born. The opportunity to understand death during such a moment is paramount to furthering my studies of death. I closed the book and felt sick to my stomach. I checked the cover, the back, I flipped through the pages for any trace of the burns from that nightmare vision. But the book was in excellent condition. The fire was only a nightmare.

But what had I seen? It happened, hadn't it? I finally fell asleep on the couch, with the book dropped to the floor beside me. The next day, it took a little online searching to find who was in charge of the graveyard, and after calling them, we were prompted to leave a message. I'm calling to tell someone that one of the gravestones was damaged. It may need some... or something, whatever it is you folks do.

The name of the stone was Slade Aberetta. And the book? Helen asked, not loud enough for the machine to pick up on. I felt the book in my hand, considered it. All right, that's it. Give me a call back if you need any more info. I hung up, looking at Helen, who looked back with some confusion. It's a weird book. I want to read a little more of it, I said truthfully.

She rolled her eyes and sighed, You're going to be haunted. I smugged for my reply. I couldn't tell her no, I wouldn't be, because at the same time, I didn't realize how right she was. Every day that I read that book, I had nightmares that felt more like memories.

The book wasn't long by any means, but with a hectic schedule of work and life, I made time when I could to read a few pages here and there. Despite the nightmares, I continued. It took four days for the graveyard caretaker to call me back. When she did, a woman named Pine called me back. When she did, I was nearly ready to deliver the book to her myself, just to be rid of it.

Once we got the formalities out of the way, she said, Well, I just wanted to reach out and say thank you for telling me about the gravestone. I thought you'd like to know that it was taken care of by the family. and the stone was fixed. Fixed? How? I asked. Oh, well, to keep it simple, it sort of like a glue compound we have.

Then it's held in place until it's solid gain, she informed me. I nodded reflexively like she could see me. Then realized she said family. Wait, Miss Pine, you said the family fixed it? Is that right? Yes, sir. In almost all cases, is the family's responsibility to fix a mental their headstones, when no family is present, it's on us.

Would you be able to get me in touch with a family? I asked. The line was quiet for a minute. I could almost feel pine considering my request. So, I added, I'd just like to pay my respects. It's been weighing on me after seeing the stone broken. I bit my lip. It was true, of course. It had been weighing on me. But not because of the stone. Screw the stone. It was the book I found in the hollow, the one detailing death in the man's pursuit of understanding death, even going so far as to orchestrate the stillborn birth of his own child, the details of which had been equally horrific in the following pages. Well, normally we wouldn't, but seeing as how you were kind enough to call. Sure, Pine said back.

then she gave me a name and a number. I sat at my kitchen table for a while, just looking at the number I'd written down. Helen was at work and would be for another three hours. I took a moment, gathered myself, and called. It only rang once. Hello? asked the man's voice. I didn't say anything right away.

My eyes searched my kitchen like I was looking for words to appear on the walls. Hello, he said again. Jesus, with these damn car warranties. Hello, hey, sorry, I'm not spam. Or whatever, I said quickly, finding my voice. I'm going to tell you it was me that found your grave, the grave, that damaged gravestone.

I roared my eyes and my own inability to speak. Ah, the voice said, followed by a pause. Yes, thank you for that. It's been mostly taken care of. Mostly, I asked. The voice was calm, collected, smooth, and it made me unsettled hearing him say, Yes, mostly,

because you see, the stone was a box of sorts, for something that was to remain sealed away. It appears whoever broke the stone, stole the item. He wasn't curious, he wasn't just telling me. He knew. He knew it was me. I don't know how I knew this, but I knew he knew. Have you read the book?

He asked slowly. I almost hung up, honestly. I wanted to drop my phone in the sink and run the water. Instead, I replied, Yes. It was all I managed to say. He sighed or groaned rather into the phone. Well, you didn't finish it.

If he did, you'd be dead. I somehow knew he was telling the truth. Death is complicated, he went on to say. I spent my whole life trying to understand it, and when I finally learned everything I could while alive, I finished writing that book. And do you know what she gave me in exchange for a lifetime of study? I didn't know what to say.

I didn't know how to breathe properly. and I didn't want him to keep talking. Every word was like adding ice to my already chilled blood. But he did have more to say. He didn't wait for me to respond before he continued. She denied me the one thing I desired, the final step in my studies. He asked,

Cruel, cruel, mistress. Your Slade, you... You killed your child, I said. The only thing I could think of, of children, so, so many of them. He sounded regretful, but I wondered if it was for the children or for himself. A seemingly endless supply of subjects, how easy it is to create life. Of course, I was limited by the mothers. They hated me, rightfully so, and in time they became subjects

on their own. I felt sick to my stomach and had to switch hands because the one holding the phone had become sweaty. The man sighed again. The book belongs with the dead. He said simply, You don't want it back. You don't want your book. I asked, angry of how casually this man talked about killing his own children.

Want it back? No, I never want to see it again. It cost me everything. Your wives, your children, you didn't deserve them, I snapped back. My wives and children, he replied slowly. It wasn't dumb, it wasn't slow. It was me that had been confused. I realized my mistake.

Death. It cost you death. That's all you care about, I asked, utterly stunned. She'll come for you, and for that. I'm envious Read the book Or don't He doesn't matter to me

I'll be here When you roll but dust I'll always be here And so will That Dan book Hidden amongst the dead Where it belongs Then he hung up

Just like that I tried to call back Tried until the number Was disconnected I went back to his grave A few days later Plague by nightmares that grew more and more vivid and terrifying.

But his headstone was gone, and that night, as I exhumed his grave, I learned that his grave never existed. No body, no casket. It was only ever a headstone. I buried the book back in the hole I dug, where his grave should have been, and it appeared back in my house within an hour.

So I did the only thing that made sense. I found a new graveyard and found a marker with a secret hollow just big enough for the book. And there, it remains. I won't tell you where or whose name is on it. I won't tell you if it looks old or new. It could be a simple stone or an angel or even just the chalice. It could be across the country or it could be in your own town. But I will tell you that every now and then I write.

by and check on it. I don't stop and I don't get too close. But last night I rode by it for the first time in months and saw a woman standing over it. A woman I had only seen in a nightmare. The children's play area is closed. It's a simple sign. Black black text and white laminated paper with the fast food chains logo in the bottom right corner. The restaurant is closed now, so every starlight filters in through the wall-sized windows all around us. The peeling posters and the various stands and trash bins cast overlapping and curious

shadows. It wasn't hard to break in. Would you believe they didn't even bother to lock the doors? The restaurant stands essentially. alone along one of America's longest, most forested stretches of highway. There's an unmanned gas station opposite. One lone flickering neon bar is the station's only source of light. It casts a watery, pale blue aura across the pumps.

A line of far-spaced and skeletal transmission towers stretch away above the treetops in a straight line in both directions, perpendicular to the road. But, in terms of man-main structures, That's pretty much it. There are no street lamps, no buildings, just sprawling endless forest, silver-tinted pines in the darkness.

I turn my attention from the view outside back to the restaurant's interior. Eliza is fiddling with a locked door, the one with a sign on it. The children's play area is closed. Her tongue sticks out from her mouth at an angle and her eyebrows are furrowed. Come on, she mutters to herself, adjusting her little tool set.

Do you think you can open it, I ask her? Oh, I'll be able to open it, she replies. Just thought I'd have it by now. It's okay. We're not in any bit of a rush. But still, I think to myself, glancing once again through the windows. The woods stretch away, out into the darkness. We've stopped here three.

times Eliza and I, en route to our actual destinations. The first time was about six months ago, stopped for food. Second time was just before Christmas. That's when we noticed that the sign was still up. We had some idle chit-chat about it. Third time was last week. We stopped for gas and I made us come in to see if the sign was still up. And of course, it was.

throwing the knowledge that someone supposedly died here discovered by Eliza during a late-night forum search and that was our interest well and truly peaked we were hooked and so we find ourselves back here once again creeping around in the middle of the night snooping we live for stuff like this Eliza and I

I rest against a nearby counter and admire the artwork on the walls as Eliza continues muttering to herself. I use the term admire and artwork quite loosely. Most of the walls are just glass, affording a view to the forest beyond. But of those that are solid, crude cartoon characters have been painted across them, off-color Looney Tunes clones.

One of them looks like it could be a Super Mario character. I don't know. They look weird in the dark. They're expressions. don't seem quite so clear, like they're less happy to be here, almost. I look away. The door clicks. Gotcha, Eliza murmurs, looking up at me with a shine in her eyes.

She reaches up to the handle and gently pulls, and with a creak, the door starts to drift open. This must be the murder scene, surely, if someone did indeed die here once upon a time. We've searched the rest of the place, and hell, while they keep a perfectly good play area all locked up for so long, unless they had something to hide. That's no guarantee, Eliza had replied one evening with a shake of her head. Could just be a health and safety thing, maintenance costs or whatever.

Yeah, but that's boring, I'd replied. Far too boring to be true. It was only a joke, but it seems now like I might have been right. Eliza and I stare, open-mouthed as the door opens all the way up. Beyond it, and draped in shadow and dust, is a pretty standard-looking kid's play zone. Phone padded poles create a structure in which a child could climb. There's a plexiglass dome window sticking out from one of the upper levels and a couple of slides. These are not what draws our attention, however.

What fascinates us about the... The scene ahead is the bizarre staircase in the floor, revealed by an open panel of flooring, leading down into darkness deeper still. What the hell is this? Eliza murmurs, stepping closer. Jesus, I echo, stepping to the edge and peering down. I look back to Eliza. I mean, we're going down, right? She rolls her eyes.

Uh, yeah, we're going down. Come on, let's do this. And so we do. With one final cautious look back into the empty restaurant, we descend the stairs. They're pretty narrow, so we go in single file with me at the front. My flashlight illuminates the way ahead. Down we go. The sound of our breathing becomes louder in the enclosed space.

The stairs go forwards and backwards, but always down. deeper and deeper and further and further below the surface. Kind of freaked about this, not going to lie, I muttered to her. Baby, she replies. But she feels the same. I can hear it in a voice. The stairs do, of course, eventually come to an end. They lead us into a dark and cavernous subterranean hall.

Everything structural is black. There are black pillars between random stretch, of black wall. The floor is cold, black concrete, and with the gaps through the pillars and walls allow us to see, there is nothing. I shine the flashlight all around me. I cannot see the edge. I try to force a laugh, but cold sweat buds on the back of my neck. Eliza takes a step closer to me. I feel a shoulder against my arm. This is messed up, Xavier, she says quietly. Is this some kind of basement, storage? Why the ceiling so high? Why is it so deep below the ground? I don't know, I reply, stepping up to the nearest stretch of wall. Something has caught my eye. A faded, dank-stained

piece of paper with some scribbled color across it. I peer closer. It's a drawing. Xavier? Eliza begins, but she doesn't finish. The drawing is crucial. The drawing is rude, made using black-color crayons. It depicts a family, a man and a woman, and between them holding their hands. A kid, a girl by the looks of it, she wears a blue skirt and she's smiling. On the right-hand side of the page beside the dad is a brown splodge with two eyes and two ears. Could be a dog. That's the creepiest thing I've ever seen, Eliza mutters after a beat.

She's right It is creepy A creepy kid's drawing down here in the dark But still I think it's nice I rely on playing devil's abdicate And it is kind of In any other context

It would be lovely She has talent I finish Taping the picture back to the wall where I found it A cold chill blows between the walls and pillars and Eliza grips me suddenly much tighter. Maybe this was a bad idea, Dave, she says.

Maybe we should just go back upstairs. Now who's the baby? I whisper back, chuckling, leading her on into the darkness by the hand. This might have proved to be a mistake. To tell the truth, I'd rather head back up to the surface also. But we've committed now. Best to press on. Our footsteps,

echo as we explore. There are more drawings down here. Some of them are pictures on torn paper and tacked to the wall. Some are scrawled across the walls themselves in white chalk. They become more numerous the further we go in. They seem to be of slightly better quality than the one by the stairs. But they're still not great. And they all depict the same thing.

A girl, a child, all by herself. The colours of her clothes vary, but she always has long brown hair, and her hair is always done in the same exact style. Hey, I realise after a few minutes of walking, of exploring, she kind of looks like you, don't you think? What the hell, Eliza retorts?

Why would you say that? She stops and a breathing gets really shallow. Wait, Eliza, are you okay? You know I was only joking. I go to her at once, suddenly concerned that I might have taken things too far. Eliza is not coping as well as I thought she was. This isn't like her. I think we might need to head back.

Eliza, I'm sorry. Look, let's just head back up, okay? We don't need to go any further. As I'm comforting her and calming her down, I can't help but glance to one of the drawings stuck to the wall behind her. This one is larger than most of the others, not quite to the same size as the chalk drawings, but bigger than its other paper counterparts.

The edges are frayed and black. It depicts as the others do, the girl. Her hands are folded in front of her body, her eyes are downcast, and she looks sad. I follow the drawings line of sight. On the ground, slant up against the walls and hidden in shadow are a series of kids' books, colour by numbers. There's a torn catalogue from Clare's riddled with mould,

and a torn plush doll, its head lulled to the side. And reality hits. What the hell are we doing? Genuinely, why? Why do we think that it was a good idea to come down here? My heart starts to race, but I have to hold it together. No use in both of us panicking. I grab Eliza's hand and start to lead her back the way we came.

We're heading up, okay? We're heading up. It's all right, it's all right. But almost as soon as I've started to move, I freeze and we come to a sudden stop. A second of this cold gusts of air rumbles by from someplace unknown and it chills my skin. I can feel Eliza digger fingers into my palm, but the pain does not register just yet.

My adrenaline has spiked. Just ahead and through the pillars, a silver-white mist has begun to creep its way towards us, slowly cascading, drawing closer, and amidst this fog-like approach are a dozen little girls. Their eyes glow softly in the surrounding void. They drift with a mist through the darkness. They vary in height and appearance, but they all look roughly similar to the girl in the drawings. They all have the same hair at least.

The faces show nothing but sadness, sadness and rage. The verse of these spectres bears the teeth. She screams. The noise is horrific. As if in a dream, a nightmare, we turn tail. and run, screams echo through the darkness as we barrel our way through the void and pass pillar after pillar. I accidentally slam my shoulder into one of the black outcrops of wall and cry out in pain, but Eliza drags me forward. On we go through the darkness as we try to flee

the encroaching mist and the mist's inhabitants. But wherever we go, the creeping silver mist finds its way to us from different places each time, from around secretive walls and from pipes in the ceiling, it just keeps coming. Eyes glow through the fog as panic rises, and it isn't long before we are surrounded. Xavier, Eliza screams, what do we do? Please, I shout out into the mist, just stop. And in this last, desperate instant, the dark shape bursts from the final vestige of shadows. I swear my heart is about to burst through my chest with fear, but the shape does not attack us, nor approach us. The shape is a man, and he throws himself between us and the mist. Stop, he cries out to the encroaching swirl. Leave them alone, leave them alone, monsters and fakes.

He turns to us. It is a man, adorned in ragged, dark clothes, and shockingly pale, sickly looking in ill. Quickly, he urges us, grabbing me with a shoulder, walking into Eliza's face, follow me, and he takes off at once through a gap in the mist. We look at each other, but realize we have essentially no choice. We take after him as fast as we can, lungs still burning until we catch up. He mikes to himself as he spins round a great wheel on a black door built into a section of wall, and, with a great creaking groan, he holds it open. There is a small, flickering lamp inside, some benches, what looks like some cupboards in a bed. He pushes his way inside and beckons us to follow.

Quickly, damn it, and close the door behind you. We do, as he says. Eliza goes first, and I bring up the rear, staring into the silvery darkness as the mist approaches, and with a grunt I drag the heavy door shut with a boom. The mysterious man collapses onto his bed with his head in his hands, and Eliza and I do much the same onto the benches. We are quiet for a few long minutes processing, composing ourselves as best we can.

I break the eventual silence with what I feel is owed. Thank you, I say at last to the man. Thanks. He looks up and slowly swings his legs around, leaning forwards towards us and resting his elbows on his knees. Don't mention it. They grow angrier by the day, and a small part of me doesn't blame him. Please, how do we get out? Eliza asks.

The man turns to look at her and regards her. The stairs back up to the surface are more or less just behind this room. He says, I'll take you back there once the danger is dispersed. The lamp flickers. The level of light and the room is low. What the hell is this place? I ask him. What are you doing down here? The man glances at his watch.

He angles his wrist to the light so that he can read the time, then sighs. I have a story to share. If you would hear it, it'll only take a few minutes. The mists will have parted by then. Elizra and I exchange a look. She shifts uncomfortably. but neither of us can say a word, and the man takes this as his cue to continue.

Many, many years ago now, he begins, his voice low. I was a troubled and lonely young boy. Before the construction of the restaurant, there was an indoor playpen upstairs of sorts. My father used to drop me off here and leave me for the length of the day, almost every day in fact.

The man shifts and sighs, and what child wouldn't wish to spend their day? days in a playpen. Endless fun, no. Well, no, as it turns out. As with most places, I was a quick and easy target for bullies, as soon as they caught centre my weakness. Well, that was that. They used to hold me down in sections of the playpen, unseen by adults, and there were always too few adults. They used to draw on me or hurt me. He flinchers. Sometimes they would cut me with sharp tools. My mouth is dry. I glance back to the door. Eliza feels it too. We won't be able to just spring up and run should we choose to do so. The wheel and the door will need to be unspun so that

we can escape. That will take time. I look back to the man at the far side of the room. This stranger. And what? What is he doing here? Living down here alone in the dark. I tried to take one of my teeth once, he says quietly. Why would they do this? A chance to play dentist, perhaps, with an actual subject, and I dare say they would have done it too. Or at least gotten further than just injuring my gums.

Had Heather not stopped them? A flicker of a smile crosses the man's face. Heather, my soulmate, she saved me, and she continues to save me. The man fidgets. My pulse has once again begun to raise. She sounds like a great person, I begin, but I really think we should be... She saved me from them.

She was brave, confident. She told them where to go. They laughed at me for needing rescuing, for needing rescuing by a girl of all people. But regardless, they backed off. The man rises to a stand. I realise just how tall he is, despite how crooked and hunched he appears. His hands are clasped behind his back.

I did everything I could from that moment on to show my affection, to show my thanks. His smile falters, but she began to push me away. She was polite at first, but she did not want me around. Her words felt sharper than those of the others. They hurt me the most. The man twitches. Heather stopped coming one day. She just stopped coming.

She was never there as frequently as I was, of course. But one day, she disappeared altogether. The man had begun tapping his foot against the tile. So I disappeared too, and I promised myself that one day I would find her again. His eyes flicker over to Eliza. And today, I think, could be that day. He takes a step towards her. Heather, he whispers,

this story sounds familiar, does it not? Is it you, my sweet? Eliza has risen from the bench and backed herself against the wall. No, I'm sorry, you have the wrong person. My name is Eliza. She suits me, a panicked look, and I start to slowly move my way over, putting myself between them.

Let's just stay cool, I begin wearily. And the miss? I asked the men, trying to change the subject. Who were the girls in the mist? You called them fakes, Eliza murmurs quietly. That's right, the man mutters. They were fakes. All of them fakes.

Deceivers. None of them were the real heather. But what are they? I ask. The man's eyes remained fixed on Eliza. They are monsters, ghosts, dead things. lingering where they are not wanted. We need to go.

We need to get out. How did they die? Eliza asks in a voice that is almost inaudible. I gave them what they deserved. The man whispers in reply. I killed them. Eliza, the door! I shout, jumping directly between them.

And as quick as a flash, the man raises his arm up over his head and brings down a brick. He must have been holding it this entire time. I catch a brief glimpse and raise my hands in automatic defence, and it smacks down hard against my head. I dropped to the floor as a door ringing reverberates through my skull. I can vaguely hear Eliza shouting my name.

Something pushes past my leg. I think... The door? I think she managed to open the door. I groaned on the floor, head spinning. Blood runs down my arm I was able to cover my head A little before impact

And one of my hands took the brunt of the blow I think the bones are likely broken But my brain struggles to process All the stimuli at once The pain would largely come later I should think I could see the man in the dark clothes grappling with Eliza through my blurred vision

Heather he shrieks Is it you? You're so much older How? How is it possible that you've aged whilst I've remained the same. We should be together. Please stop. Get off me.

Eliza cries. The limbs merge together in my vision as they struggle. Come up, Xavier, I urge myself. Eliza is in trouble. You have to get up. Get up. I grunt and shake as I roll myself over, clambering up onto an elbow.

But the man in dark clothes is starting to drag her away into the shadows. He has her around the neck. "'Save you!' she screams. "'Help! Help! "'Elp! Eliza!' "'I tried to call out in return, "'but it sounds sluggish and what?

"'I'm going to lose her, I realize. "'I'm going to lose her to the dark, "'and I'll never see her again.' "'And just as these thoughts come through, "'this dark begins to rapidly recede. "'I crawl out through the open doorway "'and into the main hall, "'and an arc of misty light

"'begins to shine. all around us coming from the distance. The pillars are stark in their contrast. As my vision returns, I see those familiar forms in the silvery smoke. I see the young girls, all similar in appearance, all with that same dark hair. Still sad and still angry. But it is not directed at us, I realize, with a sudden surge of hope. The man is trapped in the middle.

He still has Liza by the throat, but he looks from side to side panicking. Stay back, he warns. You can't take her from me again. She's mine. I found her at long last. One of the girls opens her mouth to scream. The sound is dreadful and shrill, an icy wind that blows throughout the cavern. She is joined by another and another, and the noise rises and rises.

And when I think I can bear it knowing. longer. The man in dark clothes releases Eliza so as to cover his ears, screaming himself as he staggers quickly away into the shadow, yelling obscenities, swearing. I stagger to my feet, stumbling and slipping and falling, slamming a knee down into the concrete. I try again, and this time I am able to go further, collapsing at Eliza's side, doing my best to reassure her and calmer. It's okay. It's okay. It's Okay, come on, we have to go. She stares around us, watching as the ghostly girls drift and wail overhead.

Come on, come on! And last, she seems to snap out of it. I tried to help her up, though it ends up more as her helping me, and together we race around the stranger's little room. The stairs are in sight at least. I suppose he was telling the truth. past black pillars and shadowy walls we go. We've done a loop, it would seem,

and approached the base of the staircase from the opposite direction. It's okay, we're nearly out, we're nearly out. And at our approach, we find herself stumbling to a stop. Staring, staring down, at a ghostly little girl. She is sitting in front of the stairs at the base of the wall opposite. She's drawing something on a piece of paper with a few colourful crayons. She looks up at us as we approach, then looks up to the drawing taped to the wall above her head, the one of the family with a dog.

She looks back to me. Thank you for liking my drawing, she says. And she smiles. Cautiously, I smile back. You're welcome. I say quietly, and she goes back to a doodling. A moment later, and she is gone. Like a whisper smoke in the wind.

I squeezed tightly to Liza's hand, and without another word, we ascend back up the stairs, step by step. It feels longer on the way up somehow. And at last, we return to the restaurant. That silvery starlight is still streaming through the wide glass pane window. We turn and we close the door to the play area tight shut behind us. The children's play area is closed, reads the sign. We've been back since that dramatic night.

We debated on telling someone what we found and decided that it was simply the right thing to do. But as we drove past it once more, just a week later, we were surprised to see that such might not be necessary. The whole restaurant has closed down. There were cop cars and vans parked up all over beneath the overhanging branches of the surrounding forest. Eliza and I went up to an officer to ask what they found. Discovery has been made beneath the facility, is all he said. A decade's old case likely to be closed in the coming weeks.

Maybe a few more had that, he sniffed. Someone opened up some long locked door and some kid pushed through it the other day. His parents went to get him and found... something they found worthy of telling the owners about. Put it that way. The officer shifts. Probably shouldn't be saying all this, he tips his hat. Have a nice day, folks.

We glanced behind him to see what looks like a body beneath a sheet, being carried out to a waiting van. Thanks, I reply, exchanging a look with Eliza. We will. When we told the real estate agent, we were looking for a tranquil place to start a family, She leaned in close and nodded sympathetically. When we told her our budget, she leaned back in a chair and laughed until she almost fell over.

My wife and I glanced at each other. Had we said something wrong? Wait, I'm sorry, our agent fixed herself. You're serious? Actually, yes, I frowned. My wife is having a very complicated pregnancy. She might not be able to work for quite some time after, so... Ah, well, the agent looked out the window with a thousand yards there.

I didn't mean to laugh. It's just the most she can get for that amount around here is a cardboard box. Utilities not included. She sighed. When's the baby due again? Any day now, my wife smiled. But it was more like a grimace. I could tell she was in pain.

I squeezed the hand. We'd wanted to start a new journey in our life together, but we hadn't imagined it would be like this. Maybe I showed more pain than I meant to. Maybe the real estate agent just wanted to get rid of us. Whatever the reason, she sighed again and pulled a worn binder from a filing cabinet. At first, I thought I was misreading the page she showed us. There were several offers, all for the same neighbourhood,

all within our price range. What's the catch? My wife crossed her arms over a round belly. I nudged her, trying to hint that we couldn't afford to be picky. But she had a point. We didn't want to raise a child in a dangerous neighbourhood if we could help it. Why don't we take the drive over

and you two lovebirds can have a look for yourself? It wasn't a Mr. Rogers' neighbourhood, but it wasn't a crack then either. The houses were older and a little on the small side But overall, Sycamore Court seemed like exactly the sort of calm Out of the way spot we were looking for There are at least three houses for sale nearby It seemed like we could have our pick

My wife, Kara, however, was still suspicious We made several trips back to the neighbourhood at different times of day But didn't see anything that set off alarm bells The only strange thing, in fact, was a sign nailed to a large dead tree at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. Sycamore Court, quiet hours, 8 p.m. to 10 a.m. Oddly, the sign faced inward, away from any visitors and toward the residence. That's a little draconian, don't you think? My wife muttered the night we noticed it.

14 hours of silence? At least they don't have an HOA, I muttered. don't worry, I checked, and anyway, you don't want a bunch of college parties or bargain dogs keeping up the baby, right? My wife nodded, but her eyes lingered on the homemade sign as we drove away. On moving day, a week later, I caught her staring at it again. Does that sign really bother you so much? I asked, wiping sweat from my forehead.

It's just odd, that's all. Kara lay ahead on my shoulder as I took a break from cardboard boxes and secondhand furniture. I get a bad feeling about it. Then again, I don't know what I'm feeling half the time these days. I'm just ready for this to be over. I know, honey, I... Hey there, neighbor. A ball guy with jug ears and a plaid shirt waved to us.

He was holding a plate of cookies. Mickey Holsterter, please the meteor. I pumped his hand. my wife thanked him for the cookies. You might not get too many folks coming to welcome you, so I thought I ought to... Oh, Karen and I exchanged a glance. Why's that?

Sycamore courts, a busy place. Lots of movement, you know. People coming and going. Everybody but me. Mickey shrugged. He almost looked sad. Well, me and Miss Crabtree. A new neighbor indicated a dumpy-looking house

halfway down the street. She lives there, Miss Crabtree. Miss Crabtree and her cats. I reckon we got more cats than people living on Sycamore Court these days. Mickey laughed to himself. Well, you folks take care now. I gotta get back. Lots to do.

Keep him busy, you know. Keeping busy. Mickey Holstetter was definitely that. Busy. Between loads of boxes, I watched him wash his car, wikes his boat, get on the roof to inspect his shingles and clear out his gutters. The guy's house practically sparkled, but I felt a little bad for him. He seemed lonely.

I made a mental note to beg him something in return as an excuse to swing by and check on him. You should have asked him about the sign, my wife remarked, as we sipped lemonade and watched the sunset from our porch. Yeah, I yawned, maybe next time. We were too exhausted to talk, but as a dissoned, The distant clock struck 8pm, our new neighbours treated us to a spectacle that, I later learned, was an almost nightly occurrence. The retiree working on his classic car checked his watch, panicked, then unplugged his radio. We watched him put his tools away, very gently, without so much as a clatter. A no-nonsense mother scooped up her two children from the yard with one hand and muted a television by remote with the other.

Our nearest neighbor had been trimming his lawn with a push mower, leaving his yard one third cut, he rushed the mower to his garage. When he lowered the door, we noticed he'd placed phone core below it to muffle the sound. All up and down the street, the humdrum background noise of suburban life were cut off as if by a guillotine. They take their curfew seriously, I guess, I tried to joke, but my voice was swallowed by the sea of silence. Not even the birds and the power lines are called.

I glanced over at Kara. She was clutching her stomach. I think, my wife grunted, then passed out. Only then did I notice the spreading blood stain between the thighs of a sundress. I sped down the street so fast I almost ran over a pair of cats crossing the street. I didn't care. My thoughts were with my wife, Kara, our unborn daughter, Tess, and getting her to the emergency room as quickly as possible.

And that was how we came to spend our first night in our new home, not in the master bedroom, but in the hospital. The next few days were a nightmarish maze of doctor visits, insurance calls, an awful, awful waiting. I forgot all about the strangeness surrounding our new house. I think we even forgot we had a new house. My whole world was just Kara, Tess, hospital intercoms, and bitter coffee in starophone cups.

When Karen Tess were finally given the all-clear to leave the hospital over a week later, there was a surprise waiting for us on Sycamore Court. Another one of the for rent signs was gone. In its place was an orange sofa, a bunch of sunburn guys in polo shirts and baseball caps, a boombox and a game of cornhole. Greek letters hung over the door. A fraternity was setting up its off-campus party house in our neighbourhood.

After getting Kara settled in bed, I returned to the porch to observe how things developed. Just like when we moved in, Mickey Holstetter brought over some baked goods. The frat guys offered him some beer from their cooler, although they didn't seem to pay much attention to what he was saying. Mickey kept pointing at his wrist where a watch should be, trying to emphasise something, but somebody inside had pulled up the big game on a flat screen TV.

With thumbs up and finger guns, the brothers left Mickey Holstetter standing crestfallen in an empty yard strewn with beer cans. It was almost 2 a.m., and the base from their speakers was so loud it was rattling the window panes. I felt like a crumpy old man

as I peaked out the blinds. Harry, Harry! Harry! Harry! the crowd was chanting. A tanned shirtless guy with frosted tips and a body of a Greek card smiled, waved and did a cake stand on the porch. He'd already had too much though, and a couple of seconds later, beer, and maybe his lunch was dribbling down Harry's chin.

He was about to fall and split his head on the concrete. The moment the cake flipped, a big guy with Coke bottle glasses and a huge fro ran up, scooping Harry into his arms, an oversized pucky toddler with six-pack abs. Theo! Theo! The crowd chanted, as Theo, apparently, carried Harry to the couch and lay him in a position that were preventing from choking. My wife groaned and rolled over. The baby wailed. I wondered how long these new tenants would last. It turned out, I didn't have to wonder, for long. The frat house stayed quiet throughout the next day, and the next.

I was coming in from work when I almost ran into two frat boys standing on a porch like evangelists for the church of Natty Light. Good afternoon, sir, the red-headed guy began. I was wondering if you could help us. Have you seen or heard from either of these two? His friend, a bald guy with a stud earring, showed me an image of two smiling young men at a football game. Two young men I recognized. They're Harry and Theo, the redhead explained. Our brothers, they're renting the house for us. I mean, they were, but they've been missing ever since the inauguration party. Have you heard anything? I shook my head. I felt sorry for the

two grinning faces in the photo, but I had a wife and child to take care of, and I was already exhausted. The strain of the past week had hit me with a brain fog that, looking back, probably kept me from noticing things I should have. Like the cats? Just as Mickey Holster Derr had said, it sometimes felt like there were more cats than people on Sycamore Court. Have you met Harry and Theo? Kara asked me one evening. What? I asked. Sure, I hadn't heard right. Harry and Theo, she chided. The cats. Sure enough, two kittens were huddled beneath the front porch swing where my wife relaxed.

One was tan and lean with golden hair around his ears. Harry read the tag on its collar. The other was chunky, with puffy hair and a pattern of black hair around his eyes. It almost looked like glasses. I shivered. I didn't check his collar, but I was sure it had read Theo. Harry and Theo were the names of the two fat boys who went missing. Ah, Kara wrinkled a nose, that's dark.

I sat up, stared as three dark shapes rushed us. More cats, big ones too. They circled around Harry and Theo like playground bullies. They growled and I imagined what it would feel like to be threatened by something three times my size with sharp claws. Before either of us could intervene, all five cats scampered, and Tess, awoken in my arms, started to wail. With an uneasy look and miscrabdry's house, we scampered inside. After all, it was almost 8pm.

A few days later, the big Greek letters and orange sofa were gone. The fore-end sign was back up in the yard of the ex-fraternity house, and 14 nightly hours of silence had been restored to six. Well, most of Sycamore Court anyway. In our house we had Tess, a little screenbox who couldn't care less about signs or curfews. Everyone had warned us about what life was like with a newborn, but the experience was something else. To make matters worse, something kept waking up the baby. Maybe it was just the sleep deprivation, but every time I ran back to check on Tess,

I thought I saw something scurry away from the window. I was about to ask Kara if we could afford a baby monitor when I heard a knock at the door. Or rather, I heard a soft tapping and noticed a shadow on the porch. I realised I gotten used to not seeing, and especially not hearing anyone after eight, and it set me on edge. I gripped the baseball bat I kept in the umbrella stand

as I unlatched the door. Mickey holstered as big friendly eyes blinked at me Hey, neighbor, shh, Mickey cut me off Let me in, I gotta talk to you I scoffed But I did as I was told It was all so strange I closed the door and crossed my arms

impatient to get this over with And get back to my crying daughter upstairs Look Uh Mickey's eyes started around the room, like he didn't know where to begin. You gotta shut that kid up. Excuse me, I snapped.

You saw what happened to those college kids, didn't you? You wanted to happen to you. Are you threatening me? I realized that I was still holding the bat, and my knuckles had gun white around its handle. No, Mickey yelled, nobody, no. I'm helping you. I mean, Jesus, I shouldn't even come over here.

If she finds out, "'She?' I demanded. "'Who is she?' "'Look, I got to go,' Mickey whispered. "'I don't care what you have to do. "'Soundproof the room, move it to the basement, "'gagger for all I care. "'But if you don't do something quick.'

"'With a nervous little shrug, "'he was at the door.' "'Who was that, honey?' "'Carra called down the stairs to me. "'Just Mickey, babe.' "'I stalled, trying to find a diplomatic way "'of telling my wife that at least one of our neighbours was a dangerous nut job.

I was so zoned out that I didn't notice what was happening outside until it was too late. Through the peephole, I watched Mickey Holtz that his lonely shadow pass under each streetlight

on the way back to his house. But he wasn't alone. By the third or fourth pool of light, I noticed the dark, lithe forms stalking our eccentric neighbor. Dozens of cats were right behind Mickey.

and he had no idea. Mickey Holstetter never made it to the sixth streetlight. This time, it was the police going door to door, and they didn't like when I asked questions back. Don't you think it's a little odd that there have been three disappearances here in the last, what, month? People go missing all the time,

the officer retorted, and don't worry, sir, there's no sign of foul play. And I'd venture that a lot more folks than that, that have gotten missing in this same neighbourhood, haven't they, officer? I bet if I look up the data, statistical anomaly has to happen somewhere, right? When I kept protesting, the cop got in my face. Look, Guy, we got limited resources, right? Got to put them towards cases we can actually solve.

Otherwise, bye-bye funding. Non-violent missing persons ain't that type of case. I'm sure you don't want to obstruct our investigation. His partner leaned in menacingly. Upstairs, Tez started to howl again. I let it drop. It wasn't easy, but I convinced Kara to move Tez's cradle to the basement, which meant one of us had to sleep down there too.

I took that one on myself, but I could tell my wife was unhappy with the arrangement. She didn't like feeling like we were prisoners in our own house. She didn't like living in fear. Of what? Despite the countless. arguments we'd had about the strange rule and mysterious disappearances, we'd yet to put a name to exactly what it was that threatened us. Maybe we were afraid that naming it would make it real.

Standing outside at night on the silent street, I felt like I was trespassing in some forbidden domain. Even worse, I could still hear Tess's cries. They weren't as loud as I'd feared, but they still broke curfew. I suppose it was only a matter of time. Kara was in the kitchen and I was changing Tess's diaper that night. It must have been around midnight. Honey? Kara shouted from upstairs.

Come here. I'd never heard such fear in my wife's voice before. Returning Tess to a crib, I rushed upstairs. Kara was peeking out the window, frozen. I didn't understand what she was looking at. until my eyes adjusted, and I could finally make out the dark shape, leaving Miss Crabtree's porch, and heading for our door. Maybe it was just fear, lack of sleep, and tricks of the light, but the figure's proportions seemed all wrong.

It moved more like an over-large marionette than a person, and when it finally came to a halt beneath our porch light, I think I actually stopped breathing for a moment. The thing outside was inches from our door, but, it didn't knock. It just stood there, waiting. When I moved to get a better look at it, I saw its head snapped towards me, quick as an owl tracking a mouse.

I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed the baseball bat and ripped open the door, only to be confronted by the strangest sight I'd ever seen. The figure in front of me was tall as a baseball player, but hunched as an old crone. Its face was a crude mask of a smiling grandmother, badly painted.

Its headscarf and baggy clothes were clearly meant to conceal the thing, or several things moving underneath. In its gloved hands, it held an antiquated type-to-talk machine. For a moment, you just stared at each other, me and the creepy, public-like thing on my doorstep. Hello, name,

Burr, a mechanical voice greeted me. Miss Crabtree, I guessed. With a creaking rattle of wood, the figure bowed. You make a lot of noise, neighbor, it said. Cries, cries, cries, cries. That's our baby, Tess. She's a newborn. Babies cry, I retorted.

The thing twisted his face to the side. There was a long silence Make it stop Or I will Whatever the thing was It had gone too far I lifted the baseball bat And I heard my wife scream

From the depths of the basement Forgetting the apparition of my porch I charged down the stairs Tess was shrieking The narrow open window Flapped in the cool night air Kara clutched the crib which was empty

apart from a few drops of blood on the white bedsheets. A large bridal cat held our baby by the neck. With horror, I realized he was preparing to leap out the window with its prize. You will not!

I roared, swinging full force at the huge feline. It escaped out the window but was forced to drop tears. Barreling up the stairs to race tess to the hospital, we barely even noticed that Miss Crabtree was gone.

More doctors. more tests. Kara and I were holding each other in the waiting room when a nurse emerged with a clipboard to tell us that Tess was fine, minus a few scratches. She'd run a blood test to check for infections and let us know the results. But we were free to go home. If we dared, we didn't. I wish I had an explanation for what happened to us on Sycamore Court. what happened to Harry, Theo, Mickey, and who knows how many others. But I don't. We resold the house at a loss and moved into a dingy basement apartment far away from my work,

and far away from packs of cats, vanishing neighbours, and weird animatronic puppets, far away from the quiet hours on Sycamore Court.