CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 3+ Hours of CHILLING Horror Stories collected from a very deep and old well

Episode Date: December 21, 2021

LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "The Night I Met Soap Sally" Creepypasta►19:11 "There's something different about my local Santa" Creepypasta►44:33 "I won a free home makeover from a new online show. You do NOT want to view it" Creepypasta►1:00:09 "Cult of the Sanguine One" Creepypasta►1:25:55 "Object 22" Creepypasta►1:59:28 "A Christmas WARNING" Creepypasta►2:20:19 "When the Storm's Wind Stops" Creepypasta►2:39:41 "I’m a lifeguard for a pool that is only open at night. I was sworn to keep its secrets" Creepypasta►3:07:50 "Mr. Gozo's Game" 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. 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-

The snowstorm was one of epic proportions. It closed the schools for three weeks, right up until Christmas break. And that was when the disappearances started. Bed not stay out too late, or Soap Sally will get you. My mom called to me as I went out the door to play with Rob and Terrell. I rolled my eyes at her, slipping my mittens on as I grabbed my sled from beside the door. Sure, Mom, I'll be sure to watch out for Soap Sally. That had always been Mom's little attempt to scare me as a kid.

When I was younger, like four or five, mom would use it to make sure I was inside before the streetlights came on. I remember the first time she ever said it to me, the moment ingrained in my brain forever. I was heading out to play in the sandbox in my front yard, something Dad had spent all day building on his day off, and she had off-handedly told me to make sure I was in before dark. because Soap Sally would take me away.

I had stopped. Little Pal and shovel in hand, and asked her who Soap Sally was. My mother just shrugged and said, it was something her mother had always said, and the two of us had used it as a kind of personal joke from then on. Better get the groceries in before dark,

I would say to my mom, Soap Sally might get us. Better hurry up and take out the trash, Mom would say, I think I hear Soup Sally prowling. We'd done it. it had become normal. But I wasn't a baby anymore.

I was 12, and I knew that Soap Sally was just some buggy man that adults used the scare kids. She was no more real than the Wampas cat, another one of Mom's colorful stories, and I put it out of my mind as I ran to join the others. Terrell had told us that his brother had told him about a big hill near Basker's Pond. It's so steep that when you come down it, you almost fly, he said. So I judged through the fresh powder over the streets that no longer look like streets at all, and made my way towards the edge of town. My hometown isn't very big.

One of those two stoplights and a gas station kind of places you always drive through on your way to somewhere else. There were maybe 20 kids my age in town, and our whole school was probably less than your graduating class. We knew we were living in a Podung town in Georgia Hills, and most of us dreamed of getting out after high school and doing anything but staying here. For some of us, that dream was actually realized. For others, the cemetery was all they had to look forward to. I met Terrell near Basker's Park, a small little picnic in play area that butted up against Basker's pond.

The pond wasn't huge, but it was a great place to swim and fish in the summertime and just enjoy yourself. Today, however, it was a winter wonderling. land of fresh snow and chilly winds. Terrell was bundled up to his eyebrows in a thick ski jacket and his snow pants had little rolls in them and made him look a little like the Michelin Man. He too was clutching a battered old sled

and when he spoke I could see the air puff from his mouth. About time, where's Rob? That was when we heard a loud call from up the road and Rob came running with a banana yellow disc under his arm. He was wearing. a matching ski suit and a pair of thick snow boots that seemed to be the only thing he wore that wasn't yellow. His voice cut through the sound of the wind like a foghorn, and I wondered if we were the only people in the whole town not inside right now. It was a little bit spooky,

even in the middle of the day. Took you long enough, Terrell said. Are we ready to sled? If this hill is high for school as you say at his tea, then I'm ready to sled till midnight, Rob said excitedly. With that, we set off. We had all seen the hill in question. Overlook crest was the place to spread your blanket on the 4th of July to watch the fireworks, or to have a picnic, or to sit and watch the boats that went fishing out there during the warm months. It offered a great view of the water, and, as we trudged up it,

the hill felt about twice as steep as usual. The snow made it slippery, and the three of us were. were laughing and pushing as we raced to the top. Terrell won, of course. Terrell was a beefy kid, and he was harder to push down than Rob, who was mostly skin and bones. He set his sled against the snow, and when he slid down, he really did seem to fly. We spent the day in the hill, sledding, snowball fighting, making snowmen, and generally enjoying the day. Blizzards like these were rare, and we'd been having a lot of days like this, where we were free to just be kids and enjoy our childhood. Sometimes we linked up with other kids from school to have snowball fights

or play games, but mostly it was just Terrell and Rob and me, enjoying the childhood we had before it was over. We had all expected it to end when we went to high school, the dying place of childish things, but none of us could have guessed that it might be something childish that ended it. I didn't notice it was getting dark until the streetlights came on and sent a dazzle of diamonds up from the snow. Oh crap, I said, Mom's going to be mad if I'm late. Oh, relax, Rob said. It's not like we have school tomorrow. As long as you're home before bedtime. Why would she care? Rob's parents were never home, leaving him in his aunts or grandmother's care since they worked late. Terrell and I, however, had mothers and fathers who would expect us home when the streetlights came on,

and I could see Terrell shuffling nervously too. We were all poised at the top of the hill, prepared to race to the bottom, and when Rob saw our looks, he rolled his eyes and jumped. We all jumped then, putting on a burst of speed as we tried to catch him. As we came down, I began to hear a strange sound. The rumble of something rolling down the street, the jingle of an almost merry bell and the hum of a gravely voice

I looked around trying to find the source of the noise and that's when I saw her walk under a streetlight it was an old woman pushing a wheelbarrow or a small cart we were heading right for her and Rob was turned around backward so he could laugh and mug at us Rob! I shouted Look out!

He turned just in time to smack face first into the cart. We swerved to a stop, Terrell and I running down the hill the rest of the way. We could already see the old lady bending over him to inspect the prone boy, and under the glare of the street light, he looked pretty bad. There was this big gash on his forehead, and blood was leaving red streaks down his yellow ski suit. Rob was groaning when we approached,

and the woman looked up at us, smiling feebly as she rose to a full height. She was as wide as she was tall, and she was nearly six feet tall. She were a voluminous black dress, her hair caught in a scarf or a kerchief that trapped it to her head. Her hands were liver spotted,

her fingers long and spidery as they sank back into her sleeves. The cart she was pushing seemed to be empty, and I figured she was on a way to pick something up when we bumped into her. There was a bell attached to it, And as Rob flopped back against it again, it tinkled merrily. "'Dearie me,' she said, and a voice was thin and spidery.

"'I didn't see you there, son. Are you okay?' We helped Rob to his feet, but he was very shaky and hardly able to stand. I was worried that maybe he had a concussion, maybe even a broken skull, and I wanted to help him get home as quickly as I could. Terrell asked the woman if we could borrow a cart But she said she needed it later and couldn't loan it to us But she said I will help you back to my cottage so you could call for help

I'll make you something warm to drink while you call your parents And let them know what happened Put him in the cart now and you can help me push him to my house I was hesitant Mom was always clear and not taking rise from strangers And certainly not going in the car into the houses, but Rob groaned and wobbled then, which made up my mind. Our town was so small after all. We'd never seen this old lady before, but what were the

chances that she would want to hurt us? No one ever wanted to hurt us, and despite all the lessons about stranger danger, we'd never even heard of anyone getting kidnapped. We loaded Rob into the wagon, the bell jingled as he slid in, and pushed it back the way she had come. As it turned out, the woman lived in the woods behind Basker's Park. The tires rumbled over the woodchips that led to her house, and Rog groaned as it was jostled in the cart. We had left our slits behind, and we moved unburdened towards a dark little cabin at the end of the long road. It looked spooky in the night, not a candle or a light to be seen inside. You can push him right in the front door, she gravelled out.

And as we neared, something screamed at me, not. to go inside that house. Common sense seems to have reasserted itself, and when I paused in the steps to the front porch, the old woman and Terrell barely noticed. As the door came open, I could smell something like wax melting, the warm aromatic smell of tallow.

There were floral smells as well, and something akin to the cooking of bacon fat. There was another smell, though, something that priggled their hairs on the back of my neck. A coppery smell, a wet smell. and when I took a step back, the old woman seemed to notice that I hadn't come inside. She turned in the doorway, and we made eye contact for a few seconds before she asked me why I wasn't coming in.

I just remembered that I... I thought of something, anything, and landed on a flimsy lie. My dad was coming to pick us up. If he comes to the park and we're gone, then he'll worry. so I probably need to... I turned to go back down the cedar path, but suddenly her hand was around my wrist. I felt my breath catch as I looked down at those long, spindly fingers.

The bones creaked beneath the skin, and the flesh around them was so thin that I imagined I could see those bones through the pale wrapper that surrounded them. As firm as a grip was, her skin was waxy and slick. It reminded me of nothing so much as candle wax. Heated tallow, and when I looked into her face, I could see nothing human there. Her face looked like an exceptionally well-crafted mask.

A mask made of human skin. Come inside, she whispered, and I could see that a mask bore too much makeup. She had really caked it on, and it made a look almost clownish. Whoever had applied it, had applied it roughly. Her eyes were like black pits beneath all. all that dark shadow. I... I whispered, my dry tongue battering at chapped lips.

I just need to tell my dad where I... Your father can't help you now. She breathed, grinning with a mouth full of gravestone teeth. But don't worry, you'll see him soon. She yanked my arm then, and I saw my one chance to escape. I pulled back hard and nearly toppled her from the porch, my arm slipping from a greasy grip. I was running flat out

as she caught angrily behind me. I didn't stop running until I reached my house. My mom was waiting for me on the porch, looking angry as I came running up. She asked what I thought I was doing out so late. She asked if I meant to meet the soap sally that she always joked about. She asked me if I intended to freeze the death in the snow. All those questions went unanswered.

All her anger disappeared as I wrapped my arms around her and told her that some old woman had taken Terrell and Rob. She called the police, but seemed angry when she hung up. She told me that they must have thought she was someone pulling a prank. They told her that they would get right on it, and that next time Soap Sally came after her to make sure there was less than a foot of snow on the ground. She sent me to bed,

but my dreams were full of the old woman and a deep, pitless eyes. In my dreams, she got me. In my dreams, she cackled and, peeled my skin off. I woke up the next day to hear Mom on the phone with Terrell's mom. He came home in a state last night, said some lady had Terrell, just like I told you last night. Didn't you find anything? I'll ask him once he gets up. If he comes home, let me know, please. She hung up the phone and came to talk to me. The police came by later that day to question me. I guess they were taking the disappearance of two children a little more seriously now.

I told them exactly what I had told my mom. Rob had hit his head and the old lady had offered to help us. We put him in a cart and pushed him to her house. I got spooked and tried to run, but she grabbed me. I got free and ran for the house. I told my mom what had happened, but the police hadn't believed her. It seemed they were interested in this house now and asked me to take them to it. I gave them directions, but refused to go anywhere near it.

They came back and told me that the house had been abandoned for years and asked if I was sure. I told them I was, and they said all they had found was a little bit of dried blood and a black dress that might fit a horse. They didn't believe me. That much was apparent, but they believed me. After the soap arrived, I woke up one morning about a week after Robin Terrell's disappearance, and walked downstairs to the smell of breakfast. Mom was making flapjacks and bacon, and the smell turned my stomach a little,

as the familiar odour has salted my nose. To this day, the smell of hot fat makes me want to puke, and the smell of it always takes me back to that house, and that day. Sweetie, could you bring the milk in from the front porch? I looked outside. The snow is three feet deep, Mom. I doubt the milkman ran today. well I heard someone on the porch a few minutes ago

they left something and didn't knock see if it's the milk before it freezes please sitting on the mat was a small wicker basket sitting on a bed of black cloth with squares of packages wrapped in wax paper I felt my breath hitch as I saw the cloth but tried to shake it off what didn't remind me of the old woman in the woods these days

I reached down to pick up the package and felt the semi-solid brick of soap as it smushed a little in my fingers. I enrapped it, not sure who would leave soap on our doorstep. And that's when I saw the note. It was under the soap, written with a long, spidery hand,

and the words sent a shudder through me that the winter chill couldn't top. See you soon. I felt the soap slipped from my numb fingers. When it hit the board, I looked down and saw something that pushed a scream up my throat. It was a bone, a finger bone. The police told my dad that it had been Rob's finger bone,

but they found trace evidence of Terrell's bones in the other bar of soap. Both their parents had received similar baskets of soap and, unfortunately, Rob's grandmother had brought it from her bathroom when the police came to check. She had been washing her hands with it all day, having no clue that she was washing her hands with a grandson's body. My own grandmother came to visit a few days later. She and Mom had a long talk about something, and I got the feeling Mom didn't want her to tell me something.

As she shuffled to my room, I couldn't help but shudder as I imagined my door opening to reveal a huge woman in a black dress and shawl, leering at me as she smiled a witch's grin. When my grandmother knocked, I told her to come in. She sat on the bed with me and seemed to think about what she meant to say. I grew up in this town too. You know that.

One day, my friend Grace and I were late coming home from a church dance. We cut through the park and, as we passed by the sign that read, welcome to Basca's Park. We saw an old woman who's trying to fix a cart. She asked us to help her. asked us to help her get a cart to her house, and we obliged. No sooner had I seen her house, though, then I got a tickling feeling. My mother had told me about a soap sally too, and I suddenly realized what the smell was around a cart. It was tallow and lie and blood.

You got real lucky, kiddo, she said, giving me a huge hug as a bones creaked in just that way soap sallies had. don't press that lock by being careless. She left then and we never spoke about it again. That was five years ago. Five long winters ago. The snow is back and the days are short. But I haven't left my home after dark since that night I lost my best friends. Though I never saw her again, I knew she had seen me.

Sometimes I hear the grumble of that cart. the tinkle of bells, and it sends me running home as surely as I did that night I escaped her. My greatest fear is that she will make good on a threat one day. One day, Soup Sally may leave me on my parents' porch. The missing son, unknowingly, come home. I'm writing this as a warning to everybody. Don't trust downtown Santa. You know the guy I'm talking about.

He's walking around right now. wearing a grubby old beard that's no longer snowy white in colour but a dirty grey shade. His red pants are scuffed and his boots are dirty from stepping in dog turds as he roams the street tamelessly.

Always downtown. I knew the moment I saw him that he wasn't the real Santa Claus. Despite the heavy-looking back he carried on his shoulder and the red hat lined with white fur sitting atop his head. Still, he saw me right away

and came stomping over to us from across the town square. Oh no, he saw us, I heard my mom mutter, grabbing my shoulder protectively. We should go. My dad shook his head, looking only slightly less worried than my mom. No, that'll make it worse. He'll probably cause a scene. Let's just get this over with.

My mother looked horrified. Her eyes had gone wide, and she was staring at my dad as if he was losing his mind. Over my dead body. she whispered furiously under a breath to him, but eventually relented as downtown Santa came within earshot. He strode over towards us with big, bounding steps and laughed merrily. Ho, ho, ho, very Christmas, what do we have here? What's your name, little boy?

He asked with good-nature cheer. I wondered if maybe he wasn't so bad after all, despite his appearance and my parents' obvious concern, He seemed decent enough, maybe just a little grubby. Jacob, I said back to him. Well, Jacob, have you been a good boy this year? I think so. I got good grades.

I helped my friend with his homework yesterday, and I always... Well, I usually clean the cat's litter box in time every week when it's my turn. At this point, I still thought it was really Santa, or maybe one of his representatives. so I didn't want to lie to him. But I'd find out later he was doing way worse stuff than lying. Way worse. My parents sounded like they were holding their breath behind me and I could feel my mom's grip on my shoulder getting tighter and tighter.

Oh, ho, ho, ho. Well, that sounds like a good boy to me. And what did you want for Christmas this year? If you could have anything in the world, what would it be? I thought about this for a few moments, then decided. If there was one thing I wanted, it was a new video game system, the one my parents said was too expensive. A PS5, I told him, and he chuckled.

My, that's a popular one this year. All right, well, I'll have to see if the elves can make up another one before Christmas. You'll be extra good boy, and we'll see what we can do, okay? I thanked him politely, and he patted me twice on top of my head, as if I are a dog, then handed me a candy cane wrapped in salafane. Merry Christmas, he said, looking at my parents now instead of me. His voice had changed and become hard and flat. Ha, ha, Merry Christmas, my dad said to him awkwardly.

Thanks. My mom snatched a candy cane from my hand as soon as downtown Santa walked away. I couldn't help but feel disappointed Not about the candy cane Those were plentiful this time of year Downtown Santa had basically just told me I wouldn't get a PS5 When people said

I'll have to see That always meant no I was a kid and even I knew that When we got home an hour later My parents got into an argument It sounded like my mom was mad at my dad For letting me talk to downtown Santa. She had wanted us to run away from him in the opposite direction. There was whispering

and I heard her say something about what happened last year, but I had no idea what that meant. They argued for the rest of the night and I stayed in my room only emerging for dinner, which consisted of Katie Mac and Cheese and hostile stairs and clairs back and forth across the table. I was afraid to say a word, feeling like it was somehow my fault they were arguing with each other. The next day, my parents still weren't talking and neither one of them was going to make the ritual Sunday morning pancakes, I could tell. So I made myself a disappointing breakfast of Reese Puff cereal and milk. Then I told my parents I was going to play with some friends for a while. Neither one of them seemed to hear me. I met my two friends, Ryan and Brad, and we

took a walk downtown, looking for places that were given out free samples. Weekends were always good for that, especially around Christmas, and we knew all the hot spots. In December, our town's little shops were doing anything they could to try and get people in the doors, so employees were out front on the sidewalk in places, giving out free apple cider and food samples, bundled up in coats in the cold weather. There was a carousel set up temporarily in the town square, horse-drawn carriage rides and a myriad of other activities, which were happening throughout the month, especially on weekends. After scaring all of the local stores with free stuff,

we sat in the town square debating what to do. The carriage rides were fine, but we'd done that before. Same with a carousel. None of us mentioned these activities because they seemed a bit, lame, since they were meant for little kids and families. Then I saw him again. Downtown Santa. He was talking to a little kid

with a pair of nervous-looking parents once again standing behind them, looking watchful and worried. Hey guys, you see that Santa? Yeah, said Ryan. What's the deal with him? My parents were freaked out yesterday when he came over to talk to us,

then they argued about it all night. And look at that kid's parents. Don't they look scared just being close to him? The mother pulled a child closer, edging away ever so slightly as she tried to bring the interaction to an end. Downtown Santa was having none of that, though. He was still in lively animated conversation with the child, pulling the child's arm and digging in his pockets for a fresh candy cane.

Hmm, yeah, I guess that is weird. Really? You guys don't know about downtown Santa? Brett asked, chuckling at us like we were stupid. Ryan and I looked at each other. and I felt my face getting hot with embarrassment. Um, no, I don't think so. Maybe I did and just forgot, I said. What's the deal with him again?

Brad just kept laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world. He could be a bit of a dick when he had a piece of information like that. He loved being in control of a bit of juicy info and dangling it in front of your face while you begged for it. And then half the time he was just buying time, so we could make it some bold-faced lie. It was always hard to tell whether he was being honest or not. I don't know, guys.

I'm not sure you're old enough to hear this story. You're only a year old than us, Brad. Shut the hell up already and tell us. Finally, after a few more minutes of this, he relented. Okay, okay. So you guys know how there's the real Santa and then there's his representatives, right? The guys who go around to malls and everything. Yeah, so what about it?

I asked, eager to hear what he had to say. Well, apparently, he used to be a shopping mall centre over at the Western Mall, but then kids started going missing and the police started connecting it to him. They even arrested the guy. It was in the newspaper and everything. My parents tried to hide it from me, but I found the old paper in the recycling bin and asked my older brother about it. They told me not to tell you guys, since you're so immature.

You wouldn't be able to handle finding out that you sat on the lap of a serial killer. But they never proved anything. He lost his job, his house, all that. Now he lives on the street, and they say the only clothes he still has are his Santa clothes. That's why you only seem out this time of year. Ryan and I were dumbfounded. We'd never heard any of that before. But it certainly explained my mom's concern, if it was true.

The more I thought about it, the more I started to convince myself, Brad made it up. Things like that didn't happen in small towns like ours. I knew my parents would have told me something like that, if only to keep me safe. Plus, Brad was a big fat liar. Brad went home a little while later and Ryan and I were left by ourselves. Downtown Santa was still roaming the town square, and we were watching him suspiciously from a distance away. Do you think Brad's full of crap? Ryan asked me.

Probably, I mean about the murdering kids part. Brad's always trying to mess with us, but I bet he's right about one thing. This guy for sure was a former mall Santa, judging by the way he talks. And I think I actually remember him now from last year, over at the Western Mall, just like Brad said. Hmm, I wonder if he still got any connections to the big guy.

I hadn't thought of that. He had been asking kids what they wanted for Christmas Maybe he still had some secret line to Santa That he could use the same information Why else would he be asking kids what they wanted And giving out candy canes That would be cool Like a big red phone with a Rudolph nose on it

That lights up when Santa calls from the North Pole I wonder if he's really got something like that A top secret hotline to Santa Claus Can you imagine We could actually try to convince him to give us PS5 this year rather than just getting the run around again. We could plead our case to him personally. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?

Ryan asked, shaking me with both hands, excitedly by their shoulders. Yes, let's follow him, I said quietly. We'll tell him back to his place. Then we'll use his santa phone to talk to the big man. Make our case for a PS5. Then we get out before he notices us. It was foolproof.

At least, we thought so. The two of us waited. and watched downtown Santa from a distance, keeping an eye on him constantly as he went from kid to kid and family to family. Each time he provoked the same reaction, wonderment from the children, terror and suspicion from the adults.

Regardless, we'd made up our minds about what we were going to do. The idea of getting the PS-Vis we'd been drooling over for the longest time probably made our judgment a bit cloudy. We decided we would even settle for just one that the two of us would share if it came down to it. So we sat, watching and waiting.

My ass first became uncomfortably cold from sitting on the bench, so I stood up and paced. Then my face started to feel numb and my toes, and finally my fingers as I dug them into my pockets, trying to warm them up. My extremities prickled and tingled with pins and needles as they became more and more painful the longer we sat there. man he's never gonna leave this guy's committed ryan said as the downtown center marched across the town square for the onteenth time to greet another family he hadn't bothered to come over to us though i noticed maybe he just recognized me from the other day i thought to myself finally i saw a police officer come by and the fake santa's eyes went a bit wide and nervous at the sight of her the cop marched right over to down downtown Santa and told him something, and they argued back and forth for a minute or two.

He wasn't happy with whatever she had to tell him. That did it, though. He started walking away, heading towards the warehouse section of town. Ryan and I followed after him, hurrying so we wouldn't lose him. The two of us chased him, hiding behind trees and signs and boulders along the way, whatever we could find so that he didn't spot us. It was starting to get late in the afternoon, when he finally stopped at an old abandoned warehouse near the edge of town. Looking around, then lifting up a flap of rusty corrugated tin to enter the place.

On the other side of the building was a forest, and there was a quiet, rarely travelled road nearby, which led out of town and into the country. Nobody was around, and it was very quiet as we walked up to the building, our footsteps crunching in the gravel. As we approached the door to go inside, I started to second guess our plan. Are you sure about this, Ryan? What if Brad was right? What if he really is a killer?

Man, that's a load of bull. I bet Brad can't even read a newspaper. And besides, our parents would tell us if there was a killer walking around in a Santa suit, and he wouldn't be allowed to hand out candy canes in the town square. That's for sure. I half agreed with him, but then thought, about the cop, kicking him out of the area, and the distrustful glares of the parents with their kids, and my mum's hand on my shoulder the day before, squeezing tighter and tighter

until it hurt, as if she didn't even notice she was doing it. I open my mouth to say something else, but Ryan was already slipping in beneath the piece of rusty tin. Following him, I started to feel the beat of my heart picking up speed, pounding faster and faster in my chest. Neither of us said anything as we snuck into the warehouse, sticking to the shadows and following the sound of movement ahead. As we entered a large open space, I saw there were shelves along the walls and down the center

of the huge room, separating it into large aisles. Moving along behind the boxes stacked up on a shelf, we got closer so that we were 20 feet or so away from downtown Santa, where he stood at a table covered in junk, surrounded by racks of boxes in the centre aisle of the warehouse. He was muttering something quietly under his breath, and I struggled to make out the words. I noticed he was also organizing a great number of keys. They were scattered all over his table where he was standing, sorting through them. Dozens of keys, maybe hundreds of them. They all look like the house keys my parents used to open our front door.

Copper, silver and golden colour. They were all different shapes and sizes. What took you so long? A man asked from where he had been hidden a few feet away. He had the voice like a hyena, high-pitched and laughing, even when nothing was funny. He was thin and muscular, tanned with broken bones and mean eyes. His arms and chest were covered in tattoos.

and he sat with a laptop computer in a recliner that looked like the one my dad owned, but even older and covered with even more holes. Unlike you, I had to actually talk to the cop. You just got to run away, same as last time. It's my face out there everybody sees all day long. That's why I told you I'm taking 60%. I don't care if you don't like it. The hyena-sounding man, who I had begun to think of as Santa's elf,

stood up and the laptop crashed to the floor with a bang. Cords was standing out on his neck as he raised a tattoo-covered fist and stuck out a finger, pointing it at downtown Santa. You're just a distraction. If anybody should be getting more, it's me. What you do takes no skill, nothing. I'm the one who has to lift the damn keys. Why, you ask little Jimmy what he wants for Christmas.

It's my van, my gun, my job. Just be happy I'm giving you 40%. It should be 30 after this. Oh, you're going to make it 30 now, you piece of... The next thing we heard was a scuffle as the two men began to fight between themselves. Then suddenly, one of the boxes on the shelf beside us went flying and we jumped back to see downtown Santa had been throwing through the shelf

and was now the aisle we were hiding in. The boxes in between us and them had been empty, providing us no real protection whatsoever. Hey, there's kids over here. Lem, grab the gun. Neither of us liked the sound of that, and we got up and tried to run away, but found he had a firm hold of us both. The tall, red-suited man picked us both up like puppies and lifted us up by the backs of our coats. He was stronger than he looked, and definitely not old like Santa.

Don't use my name, you idiot! The other man came around with a gun pointed at us. Downtown Santa was holding us both up by the backs of our coats as we struggled, but eventually relented, seeing the gun. What the hell are you kids doing in here? Hey, you're the kid from downtown. They must have followed us here. We both stared, bawling, and asking them to let us go, and downtown Santa reluctantly led us to the ground,

still holding us both firmly in place. What did you see, little boys? You want to be good for Santa, don't you? He asked. His grey beard in my face, smelling like ash and statured. They were cigarette smoke. Nothing. I swear. We didn't see anything. Please, let us go. We won't say anything.

The tattooed man came over with a gun and pointed it at us. My heart was hammering in my ears and I barely heard what he said with how afraid I felt. He said it again and I did what he asked. Give me a wallet. Your little freaks got wallets, IDs. We handed them over. Ryan had gotten a leather wallet the year before. for for Christmas, and I'd asked for one for my birthday. It had my health card in it, and my library card, a bank card and some loyalty cards, and things

like that. Ryan's wallet was about the same. After looking through them both, the tattooed man smiled. He nodded at downtown Santa. You boys have keys for your houses, don't you? To get inside when your parents aren't home, I was too terrified to lie about it. I handed him my only key, which I was. open the front door of my house. Ryan did the same. All right, now you two be good boys and run

home. You tell anybody who saw Santa and his elf here. Well, you'll be in big trouble, said downtown Santa. But if you keep it a secret, you might just get that present you asked for. What was it again? A PS5? And you wanted one too, didn't you, Ryan? We nodded our heads and they pocketed our keys, and he took pictures of the contents of our wallets. So, don't tell your parents, got it? Santa can see you while you're sleeping, and he knows when you're awake. Not only that, he knows if you snitch on him, understand. So keep your mouth shut.

You don't tell your friends, your brothers, sisters, nothing. You don't say a word about this to anyone. You take it to your graves, or else St. Nick will send Jack Frost for you while you're sleeping to put you on ice. Get it. Again, we told him we understood, and I tried to contain the contents of my bladder as I waited for him to dismiss us. Eventually, he did.

The elf waved his gun at us and ushered us out of the warehouse, handing us two candy canes on the way out of the door. Merry Christmas, he said, slamming it shut loudly behind us. We made a pact between the two of us, not to say anything to our parents, or to anyone else for that matter. We kept it between the two of us. At least I did. Ryan told his parents the truth, at least about what he'd seen.

He left me out of it, though, not mentioning that I was there with him. He told me later that he didn't want to involve me, since it was his decision to go against what downtown Santa had told us. The police raided the warehouse the day before Christmas Eve, and found only the tattooed elf man who had been with downtown Santa. The man who had threatened us with a gun was arrested, but his partner in crime wasn't found. None of the keys were recovered either.

All of them were mysteriously missing. That Christmas morning, I awoke and ran out to the living room with excitement, happy to find a big new present under the tree which had not been there the night before. My parents saw it as well, and my mom clutched. my dad tightly. After a minute of debate, my dad approached it and lifted up the gift tag, reading it as if it were attached to the toe of a dead body at the morgue rather than a present. It says it's for Jacob, from Santa. Can I open it? I asked. Maybe it's my PS5. The tag says for being a good boy and keeping your promise. What does that mean, Jacob? Do you know any

Anything about this? That was when it hit me. It wasn't a gift from the real Santa. It was from the other one, the one who would threaten us. I had completely forgotten his promise. I hadn't even considered the fact that he might follow through on that part of it. Sorry, son, I think I should at least take a look first. We don't know where this came from.

I didn't object. In fact, I was more than a little concerned as he began to tear at the seams of the the gift. He peeled back the wrapping paper slightly. Slowly he tore the paper off further and further his hand shaking. Beneath the festive Santa print wrapping paper was a large, plain brown cardboard box. Unsealing the top with the box cutter, my dad opened it up. Huh? He said, I'll be damned. It actually is a PS5. I guess it's for you, Jacob, but I don't know where this came from. Do you, Marie? My mom shook ahead, looking nervous but slightly hopeful.

They'd wanted to buy me the gaming system. I knew that much, but they just hadn't been able to afford it. It's a miracle, my mother said quietly. We couldn't afford it and it just shows up under the tree. I wasn't excited by the sight of it, despite her hopeful thoughts. and as my dad pulled the PS5 package out of the larger box I was secretly expecting something bad to happen I just didn't know what then before I knew what was happening my mom started screaming

the PS5 box was bloody on the bottom dripping red onto the carpet I couldn't help it I stepped a few feet closer and looked inside the big gift wrapped box that my dad had opened beneath the PS5, downtown Santa had left another present. This one was for me as well. Another warning to keep my mouth shut.

Ryan's dismembered head was rolling back and forth off balance at the bottom of the gift box, looking far too small for such a large container. His open eyes stared up at me, blank and vacant. His mouth was open and I saw something different. dark has been stuffed inside, a lump of coal. I have exploding head syndrome. This is not caused by a microchip implanted without my knowledge or radiation leaking into my house. It is a recognised medical condition.

As I'm falling asleep, I hear the deafening crack of a bullet being discharged from a firearm. A sharp, bright light flashes in front of my eyes, and I start suddenly back awake. There is no gunshot, no light, no danger to anything but my increasingly frayed nerves. It is all in my mind. I can't afford to pay some fancy medic to try and help me, and even if I could, I'd be thrown away money. The causes and possible treatments of exploding head syndrome are stuck in the realm of speculation, all of which has left me to get on with my life as best I can.

Overall, my condition is not impacted too negatively on me. I've struggled to find a lady friend who wants to sleep next to a man who jumps up suddenly at least once a night and sits there sweating and cussing. I've been more successful in my professional life, working my way to deputy manager of a small convenience store and I recently bought my first house. It is detached with a small scrap of land out back

and it was just within my budget. The house needed a lot of work doing on it when I bought it. The walls were bare or peeling. Stuffing was sticking out of the arm of the sofa like pus emerging from a lanced boil. The shower leaked, the kitchen faucet spotted lukewarm water only, and when it rained heavily, a rank smell rose up out of the drains. When I made manager at the store, the hike in my wage would allow me to do the place up. Until then, I thought this was how it was going to be.

And then she knocked on the door. It was early evening, and I was starting a six-pack. I ignored the gentle tapping at first. I had lost touch with my family. My friends never called round, and I knew none of my neighbours. I really wasn't interested in being hassled by a stranger. But the tapping continued, and now whoever it was was turning the volume up. I went to see what the hell they wanted, swung open the door, ready to chew them out,

and froze. She must have been over six feet tall. Her hair draped over her shoulders like a blonde waterfall, and her eyes with the prettiest blue I had ever seen. She also had some of those foxy, oversized glasses front and centre on her face. She was a sight, a rare and wonderful vision. I hitched up my shorts. "'Mam,' I said, as a gentleman would. She smiled at this.

There were no cracks in her teeth, no stains. "'Good afternoon,' she said. "'My name is Misey, and I'm a producer working on a new show. We are in your area today looking for members of the public to participate in our pilot episode.' I took a swig of my beer for courage, looked her straight in the eye and asked, "'How much?'

It turned out there were no dollars an offer, but what I could get was a top-to-bottom redecoration and refurbishment of my house. New wallpaper, new furniture, new fittings, the works. In return, all I needed to do was give the show's crew unlimited access to my home to film the makeover, and to let them film my reaction when I saw the transformation. Sure, I told the beautiful Misey. I could do that. she preferred to stand rather than using my sofa, so I used it to rest the contract on while I signed it.

The deal was done. I was elated. It turned out good things did drop onto your lap. You just had to be in the right place at the right time. Mises smile, meanwhile, could have been seen from space. Amazing, she said. We'll start tomorrow. She turned to leave.

I silently cursed my experience. exploding head syndrome. Without it, maybe, just maybe, she would have spent the night with me. She hesitated. The thought flickered once more in my head. Maybe. Then she looked back and said, There's just a couple more things, very small things, if that's okay. Anything, I murmured. Amazing. The first thing, would you be able to give me contact details for a couple of your friends? we would like to have input to the makeover to make it extra special. Of course, I nodded enthusiastically, like a jack in the box that had just sprung out into the open. I know just the boys.

Amazing. And the final thing. Can I have a skin sample? When I arrived at Al's apartment an hour later, the back of my hen was stinging like hell under the Band-Aid. Mysey had explained that my skin tone and texture would be used to calculate the perfect wall coverings to be in harmony with the real me. I did not want to appear wimpy, so consented. I tried not to think about the way she'd produced a small scalpel from a shoulder bag with another perfect smile and pressed Al's buzzer. Al worked in construction when his back was not playing him up and had the most tremendous handlebar mustache.

No car was better waxed than Al's face was. He welcomed me in. Tom was already there. Tom was on benefits. If he ever committed a crime, any potential witness would describe him as wearing a battered or pair of brown leather boots. Tom loved his boots like Al loved his tash.

I was mighty fun to both of them. I shared my news with them, a bit worried at first that they would be angry I'd given their details to Misey. but I need not avoid. She had already been in touch and had already worked her charm on them. With big grins on her faces,

we settled down to the game. This was Cards' Night, when Tom, Alan Me, gathered around the table and bet penny stacks and agreed what was wrong with the world. I arrived home sometime around midnight and drunkly wandered around my house, imagining what it would look like

once it was transformed. The next day, I was pretty hazy, and had almost forgotten that Misey had told me I would be picked up after work. When she pulled up, her hair tied back, all regal-like. The stupid, annoying things that had happened at the store that day faded into the distance. I had booked all my annual leave to begin in a couple of days, which is how long Misey had told me the makeover would take, so I could enjoy my new domestic surroundings.

Perhaps invite Mises around for a meal. I spent the car ride once in a while. into ask her if she preferred pizza or Chinese, but could not find the words. She dropped me off at a hotel on the outskirts of town and went with me to make sure I got checked in okay. The production company had paid for the room and meals. There was cable, the shower had a massage setting. This was living. As I tried the bed for springiness, I told Misey that I already felt famous.

She smiled a smile. You will be A market research has shown There is a real demand for our type of show Your face will be on laptops across the world As it appeared on the face of my happiness Laptop I asked

My yes She said sitting on the bed right next to me Close enough to touch if I move my hand an inch My heart started to beat faster I thought to focus as she went on The show will be available exclusively on the internet but only for those who have subscribed. She put a hand on my leg, looked into my eyes and said,

You are part of the future of entertainment. I puckered up. She shook her head, got up and left. Time passed slow then. The hotel's luxury was sweet, but I kept wishing Misey was there to share it with me. Work annoyed me more than usual, and I ended up losing my temper and resigning on the spot.

Back at the hotel, I ordered a bottle of bourbon on room service and thought about what Misesy had said about being part of the future. As the drink slipped down real easy, I saw how I could turn this one appearance into a career. I would give interviews, be invited onto chat shows. There would be a spin-off reality series just about me. This became clearer and clearer as the hotel room blurred around me. At some point, I tried phoning Al and Tom.

If I couldn't have a good woman by my side, at least I could have my best buds. But they didn't pick up. I started to fall asleep, heard a gunshot, and saw a painfully bright light when my exploding head syndrome kicked in. Sitting there, woozy with a booze, but now wide awake, I made a mental note to hire the best doctor's money could buy to find a cure for my condition. It would make a good standalone edition for my reality show. could even be a Christmas special. This was the last thing I remember before someone knocked on my hotel room door.

It was miser. The scent of Paradise wafted against my face as I blinked, red-eyed and swallowed down an acidic belch. Today's the day, she said brightly. The day of the big reveal. Are you ready? I smiled. Great.

As she drove me back to my house, Mice explained what would happen. When you arrive, the camera will record your every move. When you go into your house, you will see how it has been changed. Your reaction will be online gold. I can't wait. She took her hand off the wheel and squeezed my cheek. A few minutes later, we arrived. Nothing on the exterior looked different.

The only sign of my impending celebrity was the man standing outside my house, pointing a handheld camera at me. My legs feeling wobbly. I stepped out of the car and headed towards my door. I could smell Mises perfume nearby, figured she was following me, but keeping out of the camera's sight. This is it, I told myself,

and stepped inside. The hallway took my breath away. A pristine wooden floor shone, walls painted off white, led to the doors to my kitchen and front room. A strip light subtly embedded in the ceiling cast a gentle glow over everything. I remember there was a camera filming me

and shut my mouth. Somewhere behind me, I heard Misey whisper. Act naturally. I walked down the hall, entered my front room. I could have wept with happiness. My hideous sofa had gone to be replaced by a black leather recliner. A glass table stood next to this.

the perfect dressed in place for the drink I would get from the new mahogany drinks cabinet, which I would sip or watching my new slimline widescreen TV. Wow, I said, wow! Then I noticed the boots that had been placed and a newly installed shelf, either side of a row of shiny hardwood books. They were brown, battered leather. I moved closer to look inside one. Bile rose into my mouth at the sight of bone poking through ragged flesh.

I turned away in horror, saw the wall covering. It was pale with pink blotches, and about head height, there was a line of bushy hair which curled up at the edges. I puked on the brand new carpet. Gasping for breath, my mind reeled. I looked for Misey. She was standing in a corner. The cameraman was next to her, still filming me. I pointed at her, cried out.

You turn my best friends into wallpaper and a pair of bookends? She smiled a smile, unperturbed, then placed a hand on the cameraman's arm. He stopped filming. She began to applaud. Amazing, such a dramatic reaction. Then she stepped towards me and said, The deep web awaits.

I did not see the syringe in her hand until it was too late, and the needle was in my arm, and the plunger pressed. Within seconds, a numbness was spreading throughout my body, body, and I staggered backwards, found myself falling into the recliner. Misey was standing over me. We just have one more piece to add, one more bare wall to beautify.

She once more produced a scalpel. It seemed to shimmer in the light as she brought it closer to my face. I felt the first cut just below my ear. I wanted to scream, wanted to beg, but I could not speak, could barely move. I was almost paralyzed. The only thing I could feel was fear. Her smile filled my vision, and she whispered, It'll be just like falling asleep.

My eyelids flickered. A gunshot exploded. A blinding light filled the world before me. And I sat bolt upright. Misey looked shocked, stepped away for just a moment, long enough for me to lash out and grab the scalpel. I was not thinking, just acting I didn't. instinct, and was as surprise as she looked when I slashed the face with a scalpel.

She clasped to the floor, and the last thing I remember before I passed out was the cameraman dragging her backwards across the floor, leaving a trail of blood. Screw the carpet, I thought, and that was it. By the time I came round, they were gone and it was dark outside. I was alone in a house, decorated with the remains of my best friends. I'm still here I'm too scared to go outside or contact the authorities

What if they don't believe me What if I'm arrested for murder and locked away I need to think Need to come up with a plan In the meantime I have one thing to ask If you're online later If you're in the dark

Hidden places that exist Seeking something forbidden Something to get your pulse racing And you see a new page for a show Teasing a home makeover with a twist. If you do, please, please do not. Press subscribe.

There is a poison-coated blade embedded just beneath my heart. Ordinarily, the wound itself would be fatal, but due to present circumstances, it isn't. I'm actually happy that it's not, because otherwise my death would allow him to take control of my body through his profane, necromanic usurpion, one of his many dark and sorceress abilities. But his partial possession of me grants my body certain resistances.

I am able to endure far more physical trauma than the average human, able to sustain injuries that would kill a stronger, healthier man. The poison is gradual in its distribution, long staying in its occupancy of the body. With my resistances, it will take months, perhaps even years to kill me. For that, as grim as it may seem, I am thankful, because those are years the world will be spared, his world-shaking iniquity, his calamitous devilry. I will lie here among the rubble of this time-forgotten fain, dying with maddening slowness while he sleeps or seeths within me. When my heart stops and his spirit awakens, he will take for himself control of my necuitized body and news is more disclosely. clenched hands to cast the evilest maledictions.

To water, with my death-dried lips, blasphemies and diabolic incantations memorized from his time as a fledgling incubus under the tutelage of some ultra-mundane priest. He desires neither fame nor riches, only the destruction of the human race, and the races of all the people planets throughout this galaxy. I should mention that his residency within my body was not something I willingly allowed, It was forced upon me by a man, a Professor Warrington, who, along with two of my closest friends, trapped me within this temple. The vein of sanguinity. The betrayal on part of one of my friends, Alexandra, was not malicious.

She, upon learning of the plot, became complicit in it only to save herself, a reason for which I cannot wholeheartedly blame her. I probably would have done the same had I been in her position. the only other option was death, or worse, if Professor Warrington's threats of soul defecmentation are to be believed. Under the promise of uncovering some rare anthropologically forgotten artefact of vast antiquity, we were led to the temple by a professor of anthropology, and once there he briefly related the history of the site, the temple and those fell members who, centuries ago, congregated within its

glimmering, slanted obsidian walls. Therein, under a much younger moon, the cultists would perform the most heinous and violent rites, practicing with immense perversity of rituals and ceremonies of their order. All these efforts and obeisance to the infinitely baneful entity whom now resides within me. The temple itself was reared amidst the swath of ancient wood within the dark heart of Missouri,

and the site has been largely left noted. or intentionally ignored. The environs immediately beyond it, however, are wrongly populated. The suburban neighbourhood sits just a mile to the north. According to the Professor, legends of the temple were forgotten by the early 1900s, and a new kind of evil had since been ascribed to the area by those aware of it. It is said that the Half-moon Ark of Woods, with its gnarled and curiously bent trees, is now the home of deranged meth addicts and other mundane.

degenerates. We encountered none during a half-hour bountiful sunlit trek from its perimeter to its heart. But I do recall hearing strange, incomprehensible, though plainly human, noises, and smelling fulsome, unusually sweet scents, always off in the distance, wafted by the wind by some unvisited corner or depth. Upon finishing his short lecture, the professor led us through the half-crumbled, ovoid-portled vestibal of the temple. wherein sat various pots, vases, jars and basins of multiform shapes and unguessable purpose. The walls themselves, shimmering blackly, gave off their own eerily profuse illumination. There were no sconces, chandeliers, candelabra, or any other source of, nor fixture for, artificial or natural light.

Professor Warrington gave only the briefest remarks of the artefacts in architecture, and despite our collective curiosity, we rarely ask for clarification or explanation. The vestibule held an atmosphere of ageless morbidity and the deathly impression given off by the darkly luminous walls and dust-blanketed receptacles only deepened as we progressed farther in. It was aggressively disquieting and by the time we reached the subsequent foyer

we were all, including the professor. The foyer immediately led into a large hall. The only real spacious room of the temple which was, unsurprisingly built in the orientation of an inverted cross. The two wings, the short offshoot of the cross shape, held Crips. The partially shadowed and cobweb draped alcoves, visibly tenanted by the members of the cult. We were not immediately told how they had come to be collectively interred within the temple,

since the legend goes that they allowed no one to join, or even know of their order, and slaughtered all trespasses without mercy. It is rumoured among historians at least Those with cult propensities That there once existed a coven Whose leaders sought to ally themselves with a cult But was summarily executed upon making contact This massacre

In which some two dozen females were butchered It's said to have most likely occurred Due to the cult's profound misogyny however We crossed quietly to the far end of the temple And my friend The one whose betrayal was premeditated made various comments that I found impressive at the time, but now no, where rehearsed remarks made us strengthen my trust in him.

Had he not presented himself in a trustworthy authority, second to the professor on the ancient temple and its bizarreness, I probably would have left before the ritual could be completed, and their plans would have failed. In the nadir of the temple, the far-flung corridor has, through time, decline somewhat steeply into the earth, we found a curiously reddened artifact atop a short, unremarkable altar,

which the professor confidently called the skull fragment of the sanguine one. My traitorous friend, Oscar, then gave a supplemental anecdote, saying that it was the only surviving relic of an ultraterine prodigiously inimical demon who was allegedly the most powerful pupil of the black horologist, whose existence and powers are allegedly mythically immune to the ordering of, of time. The Sanguine One My body's unwelcome, but irremovable guest,

learned from his Atemborough master many sorceries of a cosmic and deplorably satanic measure, with probably the most profane, having been the sacrilegious art of necromancy, the rearing at subsequent misuse of the dead. How the sanguine one came to meet such a pitifully fractured end was not shared. Neither of the informed men seemed to know that part of the entity's law,

But the fragment was recovered at some point by the cult, and therefore honoured and celebrated through unmentable acts of post-humorous adoration, many of which involved the cruelty-thused sacrificing of men, women, and even children. Alexander and I listened intently, simultaneously enthralled and chilled by the sheer villainy of the self-fable cult. Before that night, I wasn't particularly religious, hadn't ever gone to church or attended any kind of spiritual gatherings. But now, now I can only hope that there exists an equal, if not greater measure, some balancing force or presence of good to rival the enormity of evil presently bolted to my spine, waiting for its chance to commit its black atrocities with my undead hands. A soft whistle was all that precipitated the act of betrayal, while Alexandra studied some hieroglyph upon the walls, when I heard the hammer of a revolver slowly being pulled back.

I managed to half turn before the bullet rocketed into the back of my skull and exited through my temple. I had the crack of the shot for a split second after. I went down shouting something like, What? A dumb expression of incredulity. I heard Alexandra scream, and before my vision faded, I heard Oscar Threatener with a bullet, and Professor Warrington offer his own warning. The aforementioned threat of soul defragmentation, should you do any,

anything but follow their instructions. With her compliance secured at gunpoint, they instructed Alexandra to remove a portion of my skull and replace it with that of the Sanguine's One. This, I learned later on, through a sort of transference of consciousness, when, upon joining, the Sanguines One's memories were implanted to my mind.

The fragment had somehow retained not only life, but awareness throughout its buried and fractional existence, and perceived my execution with as much sensorial clarity as if the full being had been present to oversee it. Alexandra had to peel away a portion of my skull to make enough room for the sanguine one's cephalic chunk, and in doing so, she nearly vomited into my unceremoniously exposed brain. It's weird.

Even now, I can somehow remember the feeling of the heavy channel air upon my lobes, even though I was very dead by that point. And they say, you can't actually feel anything on the sun. surface of the brain itself. At the completion of the savage cranial transplant, she was then instructed to leave, and to never speak of what happened to anyone. Professor Warrington reminded her once more of the fate that would befall her if she did not do as instructed, and then turned his attention to me, confident that he had sufficiently

frightened her. Oscar, being less mature and quite possibly psychopathic, fired her few resounding gunshots into the air, and at these, Alexandra ran off, screaming. Her terrified shrieks, somehow overriding the ringing shots, echoed bizarrely within the interior of the temple, the slantingly built walls possessing unique and therefore unnerving acoustic properties. Not the first screams to have bounced off those architecturally confounding surfaces.

They weren't the last either. I was brought back to a state of wakefulness a few moments later. The recollections from now are my own again, and came to a wobbly. awareness, with Professor Warrington and Oscar kneeling before me. I remember laughing at the sight, at the irony of it, and then abruptly stopping upon hearing how oddly, deeply intoned my voice was. This catural intonation only served to further prostrate my now ex-friend and former teacher, and I realised with a sort of grim clarity that something darkly transformative had occurred

during my brief period of brain death. Professor Warrington, ignorant of the miraculous renewal of my consciousness, offered a few words of reverence, and then, shockingly, confessed himself to be, to have been for years, a follower of the sanguine one. Oscar likewise confessed to his fellowship, and, after a few more utterances of praise, during which I remained broodingly, appropriately silent,

they threw themselves face first under the dusty, blood-stained floor, and begged me for the opportunity. to herald my coming. With my voice still modulated, as if pitched to the pipes of some deeply soronous organ, I, with convincing verbal grandiosity, gave them the permission

they had so empathetically asked for. It seemed, in the moment, the best thing to do considering the presence of the revolver. Still on their bellies, they rejoiced, and then, rising to the knees, performed odd

and highly theatrical gestures with their arms and heads, to which I responded with a slight nod, satisfied they asked what I would first have them do as my first servants of this, soon to be subjugated era, and I told them to go out and inform the local authorities of my resurrection, and explain in detail how exactly they had facilitated my return. To this they clapped their hands and offered more praise, and before I found myself rushing at them in irritation, I dismissed them.

Even as they departed to confess their crimes, they extolled them. my black and brilliance. I thought it would be fitting for them to willingly confess their murder, a released attempted murder, for even if they weren't believed, they'd still be held for questioning once Alexandria was contacted and corroborated their stories. When they'd left the fane,

I found myself walking toward the left, facing from the altar whereupon we had found the school fragment, wing of the cross, with no conscious intention in mind. But upon reaching the first of men, recesses wherein were held the bodies of the cultists. A sudden feeling overcame me, not dissimilar in discomfort to a vicious migraine. Reeling, I barely managed to catch myself on the almost insupportable smooth walls

and only prevented myself from falling onto the floor by kneeling beside the aforementioned burial alcove, which sat at about waist level. I waited for the headache to subside and then peaked in and involuntarily cried out an alarm. For inside, I saw not the hollowed skull of a long-dead acolyte, but a face fully fleshed with piercing black eyes, and lips curled into the most malignant grin you'd ever see on a human face. Astonished, I fell back onto my butt, and the impact of my phone, which had been in my back pocket at the time, but is now presently my hand,

caused a metallic clink that resounded with startling audibility in the stuffy room. A moment later, there came a chorus of rustling sound, and of throats, dried by centuries of disuse, being cleared and rewetted. The combined sounds were deeply unsettling, and I knew at once what they collectively meant. I, or more specifically, my phone had somehow reawakened the death-immune cultists. The stirrings of these long-entombed preto-humans caused within me a sort of responsive reaction. I felt the return of that headache, and before I could do something to relieve it, I was brought to the floor from the sheer pain of the cranial pulsations.

My eyes began to water, and I felt an immense, decidedly alien pressure arise within my skull, until I found myself howling, howling madly, my voice rising above the gasps, groaning, and terrifyingly coherent murmurs of the reviving cultists. I think I might have even prayed for death at one point. The pain was just that awful, that unprecedented for my ordinarily healthy body. when, after a longer period of agony, the pain again subsided, I shook away what I could of its embers and rose the stand on wobbly feet, only to find myself suddenly facing an ensemble of ancient, though very much alive, cultists.

They all wore the same outfit, crimson vestments girdled at the waist by black-tasseled ropes, though all were varied in their oppression of age. I surmised then that they had not died altogether, as many organisations like these seem to, but individually, gradually, with the fallen brought to the tomb and stored within the alcoves but they're still living cohorts. I have no shame in admitting that I was incredibly, unbelievably terrified and might have dampened my groin area of my otherwise dust-coated pants. After all, I had only minutes ago heard the barbaric crimes against all manner of men. To see them before me was a sight so uttered. frightening that I, forgetting with whose power I was endowed, screamed a second time.

But to the cultists who had not uttered a word upon fully gathering, my scream of terror must have sounded like some authoritative, though beastial declaration. They straighten their death-slash postures at once, and arrange themselves impressively before me in rank upon rank of evil formation, inexpressibly disturbed, yet also somewhat impressed, considering their assuredly moulded muscles and bones. I stood a little straight to myself, as befitting a demonian leader at the head of his infernal horde. Seemingly awaiting some command of proclamation, they silently and inexpressively stared at me with their black-puped eyes and mottled faces, and I found myself impelled by some internal force to speak to them. With words I didn't

consciously form, but drew from some alien sapiens paracidically joined to my own. I spoke to those accursed servitors, who in turn listen hungrily, though quietly. These were the words, more or less. Together, my children, we will flood this era cities with the blood of their inhabitants, and take for our plunder the hearts of every man, woman and babe, sparing no one, leaving nothing unstained, nothing unsanguinated. I have watched from the of this fallen temple, this world and his people live free of fear, go about their insignificant lives oblivious to the ultraterine horrors that cause malignantly through the cosmos beyond their planet. Today they will be properly educated. Tomorrow they will be exterminated. The age of men will come to a swift

and bloody end, and in its place I will usher in a never-ending epoch of ensanguination. I will bleed this world dry. This and every world, until naught but lifeless husks remain amidst the cosmos, unshackled from their stars, left to list forevermore through the pitch-black gulfs. Together, my children, we will prove ourselves worthy of transcendence into the black horologist realm, the sidereal, paratemporal garden beyond the grasps of time. For response, the undead flock muttered a cloutive gasp, a deathly exhalation of excitement that made me inwardly recurred. coil. Still, under the influence of that sinister indwelling spirit, I turned and proudly marched

across the cross-section, and, with some necromanic word, raised from their mausoleum slumber the other half of the cultists. I gave them more or less the same, evilly prophetic speech, and received from them a similarly baleful response of joyous gasping. With my congregation fully mustered, I, the being inside me, led them back toward the altar, on which the school fragment had rested, and with a series of unrepeatable lyrics, summoned from the cycles accumulated dust and corruption, a sort of fleshy totem from the temple's floor.

The altar, the head of the totem, rose ceiling wood, and beneath it came a column, comprised, or merely wrapped in human skin, from which protruded several yellowed objects that were plainly bones, presumably from long-dead sacrificial victims. With the entity now in near full control of my body, my hands went to one of the bones, a particularly sallow femur and pulled it down in a liver-like motion. From behind me came a sound, oddly mechanical and shrill, and upon turning, I saw, incredibly, the flood splitting apart.

As the two great longitudinal slabs parted, my cold-hearted votaries gathered themselves in equal divisions on either receding side, so that a two-fold audience gazed upon the darkness between them. Finally, the floor ceased his parting, leaving two shelves on either side of a long stretch of voidness, with the two harzor cultists standing densely on either side. Saying a few more incantory words, I raised my hands and a light, red and evil, suddenly filled the chasm.

The cultists then took on the diabolic, heart-stilling chant, and together we recited some song of extreme wickedness, became a choir out of some theatre of hell. We ceased our lyrical chanting and lowered our hands when an unsettling viscous fluid rose nearly to the rim of the chasm. I hoped that it wasn't blood, but some inner voice, which before had yet to acknowledge me, confirmed that it was. It was unbearably sardonic and told me, in no kind words, that I would watch my loved ones drown in the sea of crimson malignant that submerged in this incredibly toxic blood, they would writhe in the deepest agony until naught but their atoms remained

and upon their deaths their own blood will be added to that inimical concoction cellularly repurposed to become likewise toxic the infernal sea replenished by the blood of his victims the thought of my family dying in such an excruciating and blasphemous way stirred something within me unconsciously but powerfully

I called forth some remnants of human strength that hadn't been blasted from my being by the presence of the demon and its horrors. And using this, I managed to regain a semblance of control of my doubly-insouled body. With titanic effort, I wrestled control away from the incubus, and, with my voice still modulated by its own, I gave a command for the cultists to march themselves under the steaming sanguineous chasm. I didn't have time to give some epic and verbose pronouncement. Could feel, even as I uttered this short command,

the demon wrestling madly with my briefly emboldered spirit. The cultists looked to one another with an almost childlike uncertainty, as if to find assurance in the dry orbs and gaunt faces their compatriots. Struggling, I shouted out the command again, and silently thanked the demon for his monstrously booming voice, even as he rained spectral blows upon my soul. All doubt and ideas of insubordination immediately vacated the cultist's minds at the repetition of my command.

and one by one they stepped forward to suicidally plunge themselves into that simmering tract of blood. They leapt forward in silent thraldom, and even as their forms were bloodily consumed and turned molten to intermingle with a spume, they remained silent and during the hellish end with a deathly solemnity. The demon within me roared in anger, and I found it odd, and then amusing that a being of such grand iniquity would need such a flock of undead and dim unwitted followers to achieve his goals. When the last had thrown himself headlong into the sea,

its surface now frothing redly, I turned, and in a moment of bleak ingenuity, plucked from the bone totem an object I'd taken notice of earlier. Kneeling at the head of the pit, I dipped the object into the foul liquid, and then rose with it fairly coated in the blood slush. Turning, I pushed up the bone lever, closing the floors over the chasm.

With a sanguine sea now hidden away, I held the dripping object out before me, so that the demon could see through my eyes the coming of his end. I felt its abominable roars reverberated my skull, as if I'd made them myself, and laughed mockingly in response. Then, without any sort of speech or chance for a change of mind, I plunged the object, a simple blade of bone, into my chest, meaning to pierce my heart. But the demon at the final moment wrestled control from me And diverted the blade's course to have it pierced just beneath my heart A blow that would have nonetheless been fatal

Had I been a normal human But the demon's fortifying spirit saved me from death With my demise now forestalled for quite some time I sit here leaning against the totem of flesh Surrounded by dust and the lingering mists of that unwholesome sea inhaling the tomb funk of this decrepit temple. The demon, defeated but not deterred, sleeps within me, awaiting my death. I've saved the world from a truly nightmarish end, paying the price of my life in the process.

It is a perfectly acceptable transaction, as far as I'm concerned. I've told all there is the tell. My phone's battery will die soon. I will post this tale and hope that his readers will take it as a warning, not to delve into the dark and forgotten places of the earth, not to plume their supulical depths, the mysteries, and horrors of bygone years, lest they awakened something that wasn't dead, but merely slumbering. My footsteps echo around the concrete walls of the underground complex,

my place of work. I know politely to a pair of my colleagues coming from the opposite way, and adjust my glasses. To my left is large, long, place of my work. glass windows built into the wall and I shoot a quick glance through it. The metalwork placard beside it catches in the watery blue-green

overhead light. Object 16, it reads, and a grimace. We have soldiers stationed around here now, or trained professionals, or whatever. Increased trustworthy security. Guys with guns, guys who can keep their mouth shut. Not my jurisdiction.

And to be honest, I'm not sure how I feel about their presence here. But so it goes. We had an incident about a month ago involving our former surface representative, a politician. He tried to get his hands on the object and abuse its power for his own means. And he succeeded, actually. I loosen my collar a little as I walk. God knows where the madman is now.

The knowledge that he is out there somewhere is a constant source of stress in the back of my, and many of my colleagues' heads. I'm hoping I can convince his eventual permanent replacement that Object 16 is a suitable candidate for controlled elimination. But, I digress. I have other business in the complex tonight. I take a quick look of my planner so as to mentally prepare how much time I should allocate to the task at hand.

But the answer is always the same. As much time is needed to get the job done, Just right. A task worth doing is worth doing precisely after all. An elevator dinks to my right, but I put a hand on the nearby rail and take the stairs instead. I'm only going up one floor after all. The level above is a little busier and the corridors are a little wider.

There are more rooms up here, more offices. The level of light is just the same though. That same teal turquoise, washing itself over the walls and the glass. I allow a little wave to one of my co-workers as they pass by, but I don't think they see me. I lower my hand. I diverge from my path just for a moment

to walk to the edge of the containment facility for Object 30, and I peer inside. The glass and the containment here is thicker than the rest. It was made differently, as the room beyond is filled to the brim. with water. A filter bubbles quietly in the corner. It's tuna low, steady hum. In the very centre of the containment facility, floating steadily is object 30,

a not quite spherical shape about the size of a basketball. It shimmers through shades of pale pink and white. A bizarre thing, as all the objects are, I suppose. And as I watch, the object begins to change its shape. It stretches and morphs At first into the form of a human skull Then white pink flesh starts the bubble And billow out from the bone

The face that forms Is mine And as soon as I recognise myself in the object It shifts and warps some more Back to a featureless orb The colour of the object's material changes to a darker red And it flashes at me I sigh making a small note

in the margin of my planner. I speak to the scientists on duty and recommend that they decrease the water's temperature a little. Then I leave them as they assess their readings. I'm unsettled now, however. That was an atypical display from Object 30.

Deviations from the expected always made me deeply uncomfortable. I suppress a shiver. Object 22's containment lies just ahead. That's the one of my here to see this evening, the item of my focus. Object 22 is more volatile than most, and was a particularly difficult object to restrain and contain. I pushed through a set of

double doors into a viewing area that wouldn't be out of place in a zoo, albeit we have a little more scientific equipment here, computers and motion crafts and such. To my left is a set of steps that lead down to a wide hall filled with bustling people. I can see them through the glass. To my right is an office relatively small, with only a couple of rooms and a small collection of

scientists inside, deep in thought. I take a few steps forward. Ahead is the plexiglass of 22's containment. Good evening, Reese, warbles the voice of the object through the glass. From a shadowed and murky pit

below me on the opposite side of the glass, a bloom of wet and sticky smoke slowly rises. It hangs in the air directly before me for a moment, then solidifies on the opposite side of the glass into a gastropodic shape, writhing and shifting, and a series of disturbingly human-like teeth pushed their way through the slug-like, oozing mass of the object, and form themselves into a crooked grin. Tell me your dreams, Reese. You know I'd bring them to life after all. For you, all for you.

Reality is such a thin membrane these days. I'm sure you'll agree. The teeth do not move in time to the words. The object is repulsive. I've always found it as such. Excuse me, I say out loud. Not to the object, but to the science. scientist in the office to my right.

There is no door there, only an arch, so they hear me, and the closest peers at me from over his glasses. Hey, Brian, it might be worth adjusting the volume on the speakers. Object 22 seems particularly keen to engage tonight. Hmm, Brian replies, turning back to his controls. He pushes his glasses up his nose, and begrudgingly adjust some settings. You can't quiet me forever, Reese. I'm always here.

my voice will... But 22's voice trails off and he's lost entirely as the speakers are adjusted. The teeth continue to move but no further sound is heard. It often gets anxie at this time, I say to Brian, good-naturedly.

You might want to consider keeping the sound system on silent four. It's my department, Reese. Brian replies with a sigh, not bothering to look up. We've been through this. I have important research to do regarding the object's enticements, your input has been noted.

I falter. Ah, right. An awkward pause. I notice a small smudge on the metalwork placard for Object 22. I rub my thumb across it to try to clean it off. Stuff like that always bothers me. Brian shoots me a look. Don't you have work to be getting on with, Reese?

Suddenly embarrassed, I withdraw my hand. I... Yes, of course. It relates to the 22, actually. I've been instructed to compare the volatility levels with one of my own... But Brian has checked out. He's not listening. So, allow my words to come to a close with a soft sigh. Then, to work then, I suppose.

I ignore the mouthless teeth of 22's sudden stretch into a bitter snarl. And I head to the left, down the stairs to the hall below. There are officers down here, just the two I think, near the back by a small canteen. There's a fire hose to the right and a water cooler too. Aside from these officers, the rest of the people down here are scientists, comparing notes or engaging an analysis of 22's behaviour. One or two are eating meals. I sit down at a table facing the plachyglass walls of the object's containment and adjust my glasses, drawing out some papers from my bag along with my laptop.

Might as well spend a few minutes getting set up before I properly begin. So, Object 22. Recovered almost exactly one year ago from an abandoned African mine. Object 22 takes the form of an enormous slug while stationary, adjusting its molecular structure to a plume of thick, wet smoke as it travels from place to place. Object 22 consists of three distinct colours, green, black and brown, though it scarcely features all three of these colours at once, instead cycling through them seemingly at random.

It possesses the ability to recreate simplistic humanoid features. Teeth are its latest post, though previously we've also seen fingernails and elbow-like joints in illogical places. Object 22 is able to speak, by vibrating the surface of its skin. It is unclear at this stage if 22 possesses sentience or is simply somehow creating the illusion of intelligence. I scratch my chin with my pen and look around.

A low-level soldier, a grunt named Kenneth, but a nice enough guy is standing through the glass into the murk of 22's containment. He has been for a while, actually. I consider calling out to him, but dismiss the idea. That's not something I do, really. I'm sure is fine.

Back to my notes. 22's key features, however, its most anomalous property is its ability to create realistic visions and relate directly to an individual's desires. It shows them what they want to see. The semi-telechonetic properties on this object are what draws most of its interest and attention.

unique to every person, these visions. I jump out of my seat at the sound of a sudden shout and the general gentle buzz of the room fall silent. Kenneth swears and looks around wildly. We have to get her out, he exclaims. We have to get her out. My ball starts to race as the tension in the hall tightens immediately. Stay calm, stay calm.

He's having a vision. Damn it, is there a leak in the glass perhaps? But others start to panic too. Someone drops a clipboard and points in dismay to the glass. How did she get in there? he shouts. And following his point, I find to my utter surprise that I can see her too. There's a woman behind the glass, trapped in a swirling cloud of fog. I can't hear her, but she's clearly screaming for help.

Chaos erupts. Chairs are knocked over as people rush to various stations, some straight for the exit. But that doesn't make sense. I'm in shock. 22 doesn't possess. It can't do that. It can't lift people up with his smoke.

What's the next most likely outcome? Is this a shared vision? Can we all see this? Amelie, Kenneth roars, and he lifts and cocks his weapon in his hand. Jesus, wait, a colleague of mine shouts at the soldier. But he pays him no mind, firing into the glass with a terrible cacophony.

I slammed my hands to my ears and drop behind the fallen. desk, watching as he shoots and kicks until the glass shatters. Damn, right, now we're in real trouble. An emergency light flashes in the corner of the hall, and a metal grid begins to grind its way across the exit. I'm too slow to act, and can only watch as the last desperate escapees make it past before the rest of us are locked inside, hammering on the metal and making angry fumble pleased with their cell phones and radios.

containment breached, locked down in place, please remain calm, blare's the security voice through the overhead speaker. I don't understand, I mutter to the woman crouched beside me, trying to calm myself and keep my breathing under control. You saw the girl through the glass, yes. She nods, face pale. I go on. But that's not behaviour we've ever seen from 22, is it? I cover my ears as another torrent of bullets is fired into the murk of the object's containment. Shatterglass rains down to the concrete as I hear the officers trying to reason with Kenneth,

order him even, but the soldier has other ideas. I watch as he races into the containment, and myself and many other scientists rush to the edge of the glass to see what he's doing. He jumps down from the ledge and stumbles and staggers as he lands in the murky pit below. and there he gathers up the woman he referred to as amalie in his arms i'm sorry she cries clutching him tightly sobbing i'm so sorry kenneth i'm so sorry i don't know why i said what i said i love you i do please promise me you'll never leave me i promise the man replies hugging her close

i'll never leave you again i love you amalie i knew you'd come back it's okay And then, he stumbles forward as amly dissolves into a cloud of putrid black smoke. It sticks like tar to his skin, and before he can really comprehend what was happening, his eyes roll up into his head and he collapses to the ground. Deep rumbling laughter is heard from the growling shadows in the corner of 22's containment. Get back, I shout to everyone most uncharacteristically, adrenaline surging. everyone get back these are shared visions here this is a new behaviour please everyone continue to think rationally but my words are falling on largely deaf ears they stagger backwards as 22 smoke form drifts and billows to the shattered glass it materializes on a desk a few feet away tearing over a colleague of mine a woman named rebecca she stares at the thing in terror i look over to the officer with ice in my blood but they're useless.

At a time when they should be taking charge and directing the flow and the procedures, they're doing nothing but carrying at the back of the room. One of them is screaming into his radio. The other simply stands stock still, dumbfounded amidst the clamor. What are you doing, 22? Rebecca asks in a voice, scarcely above a whisper.

This is irregular behaviour. You have only scratched the surface, of the things I'm capable of, Rebecca. 22 replies. Teeth pushed through the slime of its body and create a vertical mouth with columns of teeth in place of rows. They throb and shift positions as it speaks.

You've always suspected this, haven't you? The arrogance of the men upstairs. They think they understand me. But they don't know. None of them know. You're the only one who ever thought outside the box. Don't kill me 22.

She croaks, frozen in place. Don't kill me. The object hisses and bubbles. You think so little of me, Rebecca. What do I have to gain from killing you? I have no desire to take your life. If helping you will see my freedom, then why would I keep you from the things you want the most?

My abilities go far beyond anything they could ever comprehend. Object 22, through a new range of colours, a dazzling orange, a sunrise yellow. I stagger backwards in alarm and shield my eyes as a doorway appears in a cloud of drifting smoke, replacing the broken glass of the containment wall. It flows like water from 22 side, and as a smoke shimmers, the doorway stands tall and proud a glow with light. A boy's voice comes through from the opposite side.

Rebecca, it calls, then louder. Rebecca, oh my God, Bex, are you there? Rebecca slams her hand to her mouth. She stares at the door and locks between 22 and the portal of light. Don't do this 22. Please, just tell me if it's a trick. Just tell me. She loses her words to sobs.

I cannot bring your brother back from the dead. 22 says in a voice that rumbles around the, the chaos of the complex. The security voice drones on overhead, repeating his line over and over. But I can take you to a plane where he was never lost. Help me get out of here, and I will take you to him.

I find my own voice. Rebecca, it's a trick. This is Object 22. But she ignores me. She nods at 22. And, wiping her eyes, she hastens through the portal. The second she does so, it banishes. 22 returns to his familiar colours, green, black, and the waves of light cease at once.

There is a thud and a raced of the glass to see Rebecca's body at the base of the pit, covered in 22's mucus black tar. This look-like body of Object 22 turns to me with a sickening squelch. Rees, it whispers, and I turn away at once, hands slammed to my ears. No, leave me alone. Not today, 22, damn it. I look out over the panicked masses.

It's okay. Remain calm, everyone. And to my amazement, I find that they are actually listening this time. We've dealt with 22 before. Just grab the smokers from the emergency boxes. Go, go! The smokers are a half-funnel, half-gun.

Large and heavy things. But put out, when activated, large amounts of specialised white smoke. It dries very quickly, all that it comes into contact with, and has been shown to be effective at limiting 22 spread. It has the unfortunate collateral effect of causing severe dehydration amongst humans in the vicinity. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

Hurry, I call out, keeping a wide distance from 22 and pointing to the smoker stations. There's one there, and one there. Get him out. Now, both! I shoot a glance back to the glass. Kenneth and Rebecca are still down there in the pit. They're still alive. I'm sure of it.

As scientists scurry for the smokers, an outspoken colleague of mine leaps up under the table and shakes an angry-fisted object 22. He's worked with the object before on numerous occasions. Don't make this harder than it needs to be 22. Return to your containment at once. and if I return you guarantee my protection

from the others Roger from Object 21 from Object 3 Roger falters wary What do you mean 22 laughs bitterly Then its voice shifts

to a more panic tone It raises and pitch They're all out Roger You think I'm alone in this They're all out All of them I need to escape before they find me. All of them?

Roger replies, skeptical. All 22? I know your thoughts on Object 16, Roger, on the one that grants the power of sight. It's in here, you know. It was the first to escape. You could take it for yourself. Do as the politician did and use its power for all I care.

Just help me out. Help me get out of here and take whatever you want. leave this place behind. I know you hated here, Roger. 22 is struck by a blast of the dry smoke and enveloped in white. It shrinks and bursts into its cloud-like sticky smoke form and shivers its way around the room,

desperately trying to avoid the blast of the smoker. I'm caught in the smoker's trail and my throat dries at once. I choke and cough and stagger away, blinking rapidly as my eyes dry out and turn. I try to encourage me. moisture. Damn it.

The trail of the smoker's trajectory suddenly alters dramatically. And through the smoke, I see Roger engaged in the fight with its operative. I'm sorry, he bellows as he knocks the smoker from the scientist's hands, slamming its user to the floor. I know it could all be a trick, but I can't at this opportunity by. Something buzzes right past my face, and I flinch an alarm. Impossible, I murmur, as Object 16 drones right by through the air. Object 16 takes the form of a large red-black insect, and it flies around in a wide arc to avoid the fumes.

It's mine, Roger bellows, jumping from his position to the floor and racing towards it. He reaches out his hand and swipes at Object 16, first the miss, and then on his second attempt, his hand connects with the object's body. and it bursts into a cloud of black tar. The substance splashes up his hand and arm. It sticks to his face and he calls out in dismay, realizing all too late that he's been tricked. Then, before he can catch himself,

his eyes roll back into his head, and he hits the ground like a stone. Object 22 billows out from the corner of the room and slithers like a creeping, black mist, across the tables and chairs. I look with desperation to the, commanding officers, but they're still just standing there. Why won't they take command?

With a grimace, I leap out from behind the desk and race the length of the room. I grab up the drop smoker and reignite it, struggling with the weight, but aiming as carefully as I can at the escapee, blasting out hot streams of white smoke in our defense. If the officers refuse to act, then that makes the most important senior person in this room. I realize, looking all around me as the heat of the weapon blasts back onto my face and dries my gums. I cough and wince as I feel my lips start to crack and split. 22 shrieks and cows up to one of the hall's corners as someone takes control of the second smoker, blasting out streams into the vicinity.

Everyone's watching now, terrified. Reese, one man calls out to me, what did we do? I begin shouting directions left and right Do my best to take control of the situation Before I could get any worse Sweat pouring from skin And instantly drying in the fumes of the smoker Gather by the doors

Aim the smoker up higher You keep raiding through to upstairs Get those emergency doors rescinded And let's get everyone out of here Orders fly from my throat as I take command And a rush of exhilaration shivers through me Yes Yes this is it

I can do this. I can save them. I can save the day. Hey, I shout to the bewildered officers. Get that fire hose stretched out now and get it over here. With dumbfounded nods, they comply, and I pass a smoker in my hands over to a colleague with a grunt. I pointed to where he should aim. Shoot out in bursts. Don't overwhelm this half of the room, or we'll all choke to death. Keep 22 pinned there. I'm exaggerating about choking to death. I hope, but the less time we spend in the fumes of the smokers, the better. I grabbed the fire hose from the officers and ordered them to anchor it to the nearest solid,

then to hold on tight as I pushed through the broken hole of the glass in 22's containment wall, and with a deep breath begin to clamber my way down, down into the pit. With a grunt I land on the bottom, my feet squelching in the ewes, and there place 22's victims Kenneth and Rebecca I check them as quickly as I can still riding that adrenaline rush

they're alive and breathing though Rebecca is bruised and the angle of one of her ankles concerns me but she'll live I go to her first tying the hose around a waist as best I can and hauling her to the enclosure's edge

looking up I call out to the officers as a blast of smoke burst through the gap overhead. Pull her up, I call, as quickly as you can. And for a moment, I fear that they won't be able to hear me above the chaos. But thankfully, pull they do. Right you are, Reese, one of them calls, and up she goes, swaying a little, but up and out of the depth of the pit.

I run my hands through my hair. Stay calm, you've got this, you're in control, Reese. Kenneth next. As the fire hose tumbles back down, I grab it up at once, grunting with a strain, but dragging the unconscious Kenneth to the edge, getting the hose supported around him and calling for him to be brought up. I wait, and only after he's away from the immediate danger of 22's lair do I follow up, clambering up the hose with my feet against the concrete, steadily back up, up into the chaos. The noise becomes instantly louder as I clamber back up into the hell But 22 remains where I last saw it Stuck in the corner

Its plumes of sticky smoke now thinner and lighter It cannot move It's trapped Don't you people realize you're in danger Let me go, you must let me go It shrieks For the smoke operators have a system now Two people to each weapon

sharing the weight, aiming carefully. Everyone else is gathered by the doors, and upon my return, they cheer. Reese, Reese, Reese, they chant in a frenzy. And despite everything, a surge of pride flows through me and a grin spread across my face. You're a hero, Reese, a woman proclaims, her eyes wide with worship.

A hero. She thrust something into my hands. It looks a little like a remote control. The men upstairs have been in contact. They need someone with your security clearance to confirm it's safe for us to leave. But you did it. Just press the button and they'll open the doors. I look down at the remote as the cheers rise.

Down at the button in my hand. Reese, Reese, Reese, they cheer. Just press the button. And my grin falters. Then fades. The cheering becomes a backing track, muted almost, as if underwater. Slowly, I turned the remote around in my hand. I consider the situation.

Just press the button and they'll open the doors. Just press the button. You're a hero, Reese. Oh, I said quietly. You're here, aren't you? Object 22. Something dark and smoke-like slithers through the back of my eyes. head. I close my eyes, forcing myself to calm, taking slow, deep breaths and drowning out the

sounds of the cheering, of the blast of the smokers, of the blare of the siren, pushing my personal feelings aside. Focus, Reese, focus, focus on what is real. And with an exertion of will, I reopened my eyes. I am standing in the office above Object 22's containment. I'm not standing by the doors. There is no cheering crowds, only quiet, background bustling. And look around me, the glass to Object 22's containment wall is in place. None of it is smashed, and there are no cracks. I can see Kenneth from here, through the walls of the enclosure,

down there in the hall where I thought I was just standing. He isn't passed out. He hasn't even staring through the glass. He's just sat there at one of the tables. eating a small meal and minding his own business. No one is calling my name and the air is clear. There are no trails of smoke, oily or white or otherwise. I bring a hand up to my lips.

They're neither cracked nor dry. And there is no panic. Everything is fine. It's all fine. I look down to the control panel, the one I find myself standing behind. Someone has activated all the switches required for unlocking Object 22's containment, for opening its enclosure and releasing it.

The only thing left to do is push the release button. The one my finger is currently hovering over. Just press the button. I steadily move my hand away from the button and deactivate the switches one by one. Little lights on the panel change back from yellow to green. Object 22 shows you what you want to see. Don't be a fool, Reese. Don't you want to be the hero?

Comes the frustrated voice of 22. I stride back to my original position. Nice try, 22, I murmur bitterly, looking around for a clue as to how it managed to infect me. My eyes catch again on the smudge and the metalwork placard, the one that denotes the occupant inside as Object 20. I didn't wipe it all the way, it would seem, and looking carefully at my thumb, I now see the black, tarry strands across the fingertip,

and I headed the disinfectant station at once to wash my hands. Glancing up the glass wall directly above the placard, then, peering a little closer, I see there is a gap, the tiniest, thinnest slithers of gaps, where the glass connects to the concrete. 22 must have leaked a little of its ooze through the space. Brian walks past me now, up the stairs from the hall below us.

His reading notes from a clipboard, but wrinkles his nose and pushes up his glasses when he sees me. Don't you have work to be getting on with Reese, he asks. I point to the gap at the top of 22's containment. It looks like 22 has eroded a layer of concrete, Brian, I say to him, and he stops squinting up to the ceiling. I smile humorlessly at him.

Perhaps focus on your own work before worrying about anybody else's, hmm? Brian stares an alarm at the gap and immediately draws his radio from his belt with fumbling hands, barking orders through the thing and hurrying back to his office. Miserable dick, I mutter, hopefully just loud enough for him to hear

as I turn and take my leave. My work with 22-2, can wait, I think. If you ever change your mind, Reese, you know where to find me, 22 whispers in my ear. They don't appreciate you, but they could.

I can give you what you want. I don't respond as I make my own way down the corridor, though my pride hurts just a little. My heart is still racing, but I do my best to get past it. A colleague nods politely at me, one headed the opposite way, and I nod back, pausing at the doors that would lead me back into the complex. Rees, whispers Object 22. And with a grimace, I push on through, striding swiftly away, and leaving the object's behind.

I don't hide the fact that I hate Christmas. Call me a proverbial Scrooge Insore me to no end But every year I feel dread greater than anyone Who hates the holiday season could ever claim If you know me personally You'd assume it's because of my younger brother's disappearance

And you'll be right for the most part It happened one Christmas morning When by all rights The two of us should have been sitting by a tree Opening presents and making treasured childhood memories Instead, I was treated with a day of police, frantically searching our house and neighbourhood, while questioning my distraught parents. They questioned me too, of course.

But as a ten-year-old, I didn't have much to say. I told them that he and I gone to bed, excited for what the next day had in store for us, and that was the last I saw of him. He just never came down to open his gifts, and that's when my mother discovered his room was empty. but that was a lie. I do know what happened to Chris. I know who took him away. And I know that if I told the truth,

no one would believe me. Then or now. Santa kidnapped my brother. Please don't laugh. I know how it sounds. And you're right. It sounds ridiculous. He can't be real.

And even if he was, he's supposed to be nice to children. But I know what. what I saw, and it wasn't some lunatic in a Santa suit either. That man was as real as a winter wind that chills you down to the bone. I suppose I should start by telling you how all this started. Before the holiday was ruined for my family, at Christmas Eve, we all left out cookies for Santa, talked about what we'd hoped he would bring, and then our parents read the night

before Christmas to my brother and I, all of them cheerful Monday in traditions for our family. What was different that final year was I was noticeably less enthusiastic about the whole process It was the first year I'd openly stopped believing in Santa Claus I was a strange and cynical child Much to the concern of my parents To tell you the truth Until that fateful night

I'd never really been a believer in Santa Claus I mostly just played along to please adults But that year I was tired of all the acting That's one of the many ways we differed so much, my brother and I. You see, Chris was a young, energetic and curious boy. I remember the year he was taken was also the one where he found out where our parents was hiding our unwrapped gifts weeks ahead of time. He refused to tell his own big sister what she was going to be getting, though.

Figures, I guess. More importantly, however, being three years younger than me, he was still very much a believer. My flat denials of the existence of Santa Claus only served as a challenge to him, and he was determined to prove otherwise. We were heading up the stairs to bed when he got my attention. Stay up with me, he said as he tugged at my pyjama sleeve. I'll show you he's real. We'll catch him in the act. I bet we'll be the first ones to have ever done it, and I'm sure he'll give us all kinds of stuff when we do.

I sighed. I'd rather just get some sleep, Chris, I told him. You can go on believing if you want, but I don't have to just have a good Christmas. I always try to avoid being a damper on his spirit, and I thought convincing him to forget his hairbrain schemes would be better than waiting up half the night just to see his disappointment. Oh, come on, he cried. Do I always have to make you have fun?

If it weren't for me, you'd be boring, just like Mrs. Henderson. I must have made a disgusted face, because Chris laughed, gave a mischievous grin, and said, Well, what's it going to be, Mrs. Henderson? Are we going to catch Santa in the act or not? Mrs. Henderson was my fourth grade teacher, and I despised the old crone with a passion. Chris knew how to push my buttons.

All right, short stuff, you're on, I said with more provider than I actually felt. First of all asleep has to wait till New Year's to open their gift from Santa. Chris's eyes flashed with excitement at the wager. I'll take that bet. So we went to our rooms, to wait for our parents turned to go to bed. After the lights downstairs went out,

I waited about half an hour just to make sure they were asleep, and I crept out of my bed and sneaked my way downstairs. I saw that there was a light on in the living room. Chris was sitting casually near the fireplace. What took you so long? He said, always the confident one.

I waited for Mom and Dad to get to sleep, idiot, I replied. They're not going to be too happy if they find us here. With an unceremonious plop, I sat down on the couch directly in front of the fireplace. So, how do you expect to stay up the entire night? I asked. I imagine I'll figure it out, Chris said. I'm not sure how long we waited there for the so-called St. Nick to appear. But Chris looked almost ready to doze off.

We were shocked away by something that must have been large and heavy hitting the roof. After a short pause There was a sound of shuffling and the scraping of feet I was sure I heard the ringing of little bells Oh man Chris whispered in awe It's really him For a moment I wondered why mum and dad weren't awoken by any of this

All the racket was enough to wake the dead But the train of thought stopped When the chimney soot started sprinkling down into the fireplace Chris dashed over to me and shook my shoulders What did I tell you? It's real. It's real. Unlike Chris, I didn't think there was any supernatural explanation behind this strange occurrence.

I was convinced there was a burglar trying to find their way in through unconventional means. I sat stiffly, staring at the fireplace for a few moments, unsure of what to do, until I rose and dived underneath the couch to hide. What are you doing? Chris cried in bewilderment. He's coming. Get down, I whispered fiercely at him. We don't know who that really is.

Chris opened his mouth to protest, but a voice let out a grunt from the chimney, and it spooked him enough to find a spot of his own. He hid behind Dad's large leather lounge chair in the corner. A few moments later, a final loud thump came, and the front of our fireplace was obscured by all the sot rushing out into the air. I covered my mouth and nose desperately to prevent myself from coughing. when it finally settled the sight gave my cynical mind

a serious shock the old man that stood before me really was someone dressed as Santa Claus and he looked every inch apart his body was the perfect size he had a long white beard and his outfit was a beautifully made red jacket and pants

his face contained the soft loving features of an old man enjoying the moment what surprised me the most about this strange man was even though he had just entered through a musty chimney, there wasn't a speck of sut on him. It was almost as if anything that could mar his perfect appearance was naturally repelled.

I was finally convinced he was the real deal by what came next. Throwing a sack of presents over his shoulder, Santa stepped away from the fireplace, and a short elf girl emerged to follow him. The elf had pointed ears, a glistening green suit, and was so short she only came up to Santa's knee. Unlike the jolly old man She seemed terrified to take a single step into our home

She looked all around As if there was some terrible threat in the room And seemed only slightly relieved When she mistakenly thought it was empty Santa noticed a fear But rather than reassure her As would be expected For a fraction of a second

His kind face changed into a look of pure horrifying malice It was like the kind old man had been replaced by an insane, merciless master, only to return a nanosecond later. The elf's mood changed on a dime. In short order, she was filling our stockings with small toys and candy, with a smile plastered onto her face that seemed ready to crack at any moment. Being so short, she had to use some kind of magic to levitate, so she could get within reach.

With purposeful, yet quiet footsteps, Santa made his way to our tree. taking two presents from his bag. He placed them in the proper spot and went to where we had left his traditional snack. The elf was done with her job too, but Santa wasn't inclined to share with his companion. Now that she was towing the line, he barely even acknowledged her presence.

She just stood there next to him, waiting for him to finish, wringing her hand in nervous movements. On its face, this whole scene was like something ripped straight out of a Christmas television special. But even at my young age, I could tell that something more was going on. What I'm trying to say is it seemed like they were attempting to appear whimsical, for whimsies' sake, like it was all one big act they were putting on.

The little elf barely passed as a convincing actress, and Santa's momentary lapse only cemented my suspicions. It was something I was unable to articulate fully at the time. But I can now. It looked like a ruse. Chris fell for it right away, though. He must have been too young to notice the sinister signs that I had been able to pick up on.

From my angle on the floor, I could see him clearly in his own hiding spot. The look on his face told me everything I needed to know. He was completely enamored with these two people. To my horror, he slowly crept out from behind. behind the chair. I wanted to call out to him, to tell him to stay right where he was, that these two were strangers, that there was no way to tell what would happen once they knew, knew we were there. But that would have given us both away. It's not like he wouldn't have listened

to me either. How many kids out there can't help but trust Santa Claus? Wow, he whispered to our bizarre intruders. It's really you. At this, both Santa and his elf turned to find Chris standing in the middle of the room. Both had this faux expression of surprise that only served to unsettle me further. Waiting up for us, I see, Santa commented with a warm smile. Yeah, Chris said cheerfully, I wanted to prove that you are really real and everything. And it seems you have, Santa replied with a chuckle. He sat down in my father's chair and motioned to Chris to sit with him, to which he obliged.

Oh man, I've got so many questions, Chris exclaimed. Are there a reindeer on the roof? Can I see them? What's it like living in the North Pole? Oh, I wish I could see it someday. All in good time, Santa said, grinning at his remark. Maybe to some it would have looked like a friendly expression, but to me it was a smile that seemed to content. the self-satisfaction of winning a game. As for the elf, she had lost all colour in her face.

She made no move whatsoever as the two sat together. But her expression was enough to tell me that something horrible was about to happen. I knew you were real, I just knew it, Chris said. And all the big kids at school give us such a hard time about it. Even sis was losing it too. Just wait until everyone hears about this. Oh, they won't, Chris, Santa said, clasping his gloved hand over my brother's shoulder. Huh?

Why not? He asked, confused. Do I have to keep it a secret? Santa laughed a deep, evil laugh. I was too much unlike his fabled, ho, ho, ho. Do you honestly think that you've been the only one to ever see me? That throughout history, the many little children of the world haven't done the same as you. you? Chris shifted uncomfortably in the man's lap. I guess not. You see Chris,

Santa began, children are not to be trusted. They're the ignorant, greedy and selfish offspring of humans, a greedy and selfish race to begin with. Over the years, I've been able to sustain myself on these human qualities. And humans have happily whitewashed my persona in order to satiate their desires without guilt. It's the perfect season for it. Don't you agree, my dear boy. The excitement in Chris's face was all but gone. He was finally starting to get it. The children who seek me out always want something, Santa said. More meaningless possessions, satisfaction of curiosity or simple proof are only a few examples. However, there is always a price to be paid for breaking the rules

and finding something that is not meant to be found. Throughout this conversation, the elf began to gather the gifts they had brought with a hint of reluctance. She even managed to make the cookies Santa 8 magically reappear. She was ridding the house

of any evidence of their presence. Santa's hand squeezed Chris's shoulder tightly. I'm always looking for more helpers, he continued. Children who are have seen me who can never keep such a secret are the perfect candidates. My brother's face turned into an expression of absolute fear. He now realized his fatal error. You are not the first, he said. You certainly won't be the last. Turning to his elf, Santa barked out of command.

Annabelle, his time. Change him now. No, please, the elf stammered. "'Please don't make me.' Santa gave her a cruel look of disdain and waved his hand toward her in an odd way. I was horrified to see the elf suddenly start clawing frantically at her face, digging her nails into her own skin. She screeched in pain, unable to stop harming herself. Santa waved his hand again, releasing her from a torture.

Her face was now covered in scratches and dripping with blood. Chris screamed and dove off Santa's lap, trying to rush out of the room, but the old man made another strange wave with his hand and Chris stopped in his tracks. As if possessed, my brother turned around to face him, his eyes wide with fear. He was under that awful man's control. Don't you see it? It's too late for you now, he said triumphantly, except your fate. With a smug grin, Santa looked down to his companion. I should really start having you all wear red, he said in a mocking tone. At least then, the blood wouldn't show so much.

Are you going to do as you're told now, Annabelle? Or do I have to think of something worse for you? The elf let out a heavy sob and looked up to my terrified brother. I'm sorry, she said in a sad, high-pitched voice. From where I was, I could see her tears mingling with blood, as she took a little silver wand hidden in the fold of her clothes. She pointed it directly at my brother

and, in a blinding flash, filled the room. It took some time for my sight to recover, but when it did, I saw the Chris I knew disappearing before me. His whole body looked like it was melting before my eyes,

unnecessary flesh falling away and reshaping itself. When the transformation was over, he was shorter and squatter. His ears came out to sharp points. His nose was round and flush, as if he had been out in the cold.

Even his clothes had changed to a uniform similar to Santa's companion. Only read this time. His new elf appearance was a caricature of his former self. He must have been so scared, looking down at his new form. He could only let out a pitiful squeak.

So was I, as I lay frozen underneath the couch. clutching the carpet. As that awful, obese man and strange crying elf dragged my newly turned brother into our fireplace, Chris looked down and stared directly at me, his expression a desperate cry for help. But what could I do? How could I fight off two magical beings without getting myself into the same horrible situation? So, I did nothing.

I still have nightmares about that. With Chris and Toe, they shut up the chimney all together through their strange magic, and that was the last I ever saw of my little brother. For almost the entire night I stayed under the couch, softly crying. In my state of shock, I had no strength to do much else. But as I saw the sun slowly rise from the windows, I knew it was safe to crawl out of my hiding place and find my way back to my room. The rest, I guess,

is history. To this day, I won't have anything to do with this terrible holiday. I don't decorate. I don't give out gifts. I don't go to parties. I won't even live in a house with a chimney or fireplace. Hell, I even refuse to visit houses with one this time of year. Don't get me started about the mall or street corner santas. I just keep to my apartment as much as I can. In my paranoia I really must turn into a cheerless shutting a month out of the year because I know that somewhere in the world

there will be more unlucky children going missing I still don't know why I didn't meet the same fate as my brother as he never told his captors that I was there too could he really keep a secret for that long could they somehow pry the truth out of him Every year since that night I've been terrified that they'll finally come for me

Perhaps what keeps me safe Is the fact that I've stayed quiet all these years Never telling anyone what really happened I can only assume that Chris has done the same Anyone out there must be wondering Why I'd say anything about it now To be honest I want to Because

I'm not sure what that fat guy would do to me I mean, there's no way he could turn a fully grown adult into an elf, right? But most of all, I want to know what's become of Chris. It hurts to think what could have happened to him over all these years, and I need to find out. Maybe if I share my story with the world, somebody out there would give me some answers. Maybe there's some way I could help him. I'm willing to take the risk.

I just hope all the disturbing possibilities I've imagined won't come to pass. Christmas Eve is coming. Wish me luck. Living in the Central US, our family was accustomed to our fair share of storms. We were just on the cusp so that we would occasionally get snow in the winter, but not as much as states further north. At the same time, we weren't south enough for the oppressive heat, dry seasons or tornadoes. Overall, we felt it was a pretty good midpoint when it came to the weather. So, one April day, we didn't give the announcement of a coming storm a second thought.

After hearing, it would likely be heavy with strong winds. We simply cancelled our dinner plans and prepared to bunker down for a cosy evening. I wish things had gone as nicely as we predicted. Our house is rather isolated. You can't see another house if you look in any direction, as it would take you a decent drive to reach the nearest neighbourhood. So when the events of that evening took place, we had no one to go to or relate our side of the story to.

We were completely alone. It started with a loss of power, thus knocking out any communication we may have. While it wasn't exactly a common occurrence, it had been known to happen with heavy storms such as these. So we brushed it off and lit some candles to light our home. We soon grew used to the sounds of rain, wind and thunder outside. The next oddity was when we noticed the clocks had all frozen at the same time, locked at 1017.

The battery powered one on the wall, my dad's wristwatch, our grandfather clock in the hall. No matter how long we waited or how hard we stared, none of the clocks in the house moved. We simply chalked it up to the loss of power, seeing as we had no reason to think otherwise. What made us seriously question the storm was when the wind stopped. Now, don't get me wrong, when I say this, I don't mean the storm itself stopped. It was still pouring rain and flashing lightning intermittently. The wind that was rustling the trees and hallowing against the walls simply ceased to blow. It gave the storm an eerie calm and quiet, despite the rain still falling heavy outside.

At this point, we began to discuss what exists. exactly could be happening. My mother suggested a hurricane since they have the calm eye in the centre, so perhaps we'd simply hit the half-by-point of the storm. My father quickly shut down the idea, saying that clearly such an event would not happen so far inland. My sister, the bratty know-it-all of a tenth-grade class, quickly gave the facts on the largest hurricanes recorded and how far they had travelled in from the coast.

Still, it wasn't as far as us. After a good hour, our argument slowly dwindled as we realized the wind wasn't coming back. There was something different about the storm. Trying to get the children's mind off the strangeness of it all, my parents suggested we play some board games, to which we both agreed. The wind continued to be absent. About halfway into our game of Monopoly, we started hearing the tapping. Above us we could hear the rhythmic sound of something clicking against our roof

We all stopped our bickering and negotiating to listen to the mesmerizing sound Tap tap tap tap tap tap It seemed to be following a pattern Each set of three taps will be followed by a pause With the next three coming from somewhere else entirely on the roof Above the kitchen, then above the bathroom Then right above us then above the kitchen, then us, then the bedroom.

My sister and I's concern was probably clear on our faces, so my mother quickly suggested it was simply some tree branches. It wasn't impossible, as we had several trees close enough to the house, and it was likely that some branches would have broken off and landed on the roof, lodging themselves somewhere and repeatedly knocking on the shingles. But still, the nagging feeling of doubt lingered in my mind, and certainly in everyone else's. After all, how could they be tapping the roof with no wind?

To further cement the idea and bring us peace of mind, my father went around and closed the curtains to the windows to protect us from branches that may fly in, as if a piece of fabric would do much to stop something like that. With everyone still uneasy, we continued our game, but with quieter tones, The tapping continued And the wind still didn't return

Tap tap tap tap tap tap Tap tap As we were playing a game of clue My sister suddenly yelped Pointing at the window behind my father We all turned to see A shape silhouetted behind the curtain It was long and relatively thick

Like that of a large tree branch It came from the top of the window And ended at a rounded point that was clearly visible. As we all gazed at the incomprehensible shape, it suddenly began to move, slithering like a tentacle, the end quickly retreated up toward the roof.

Seconds later, the tapping became faster and louder. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. At this point, my sister had tears in her eyes, fear clearly visible in a face. Even my mother looked disturbed. In that moment, I probably looked my eyes. much like my sister, despite being older than her. Through it all, my father maintained a resolute expression, never showing fear or worry.

It was likely his determination that kept us all from breaking, at least for the moment. We soon decided it would be best to try to sleep through all of this, resolving to put it behind us and hope he'll be over in the morning. Of course, with the tapping, no one could fall asleep, so instead we decided to try to sleep. to simply stay together in the living room. Over the course of the next hour, we saw the tentacle-like shape three more times outside the windows, with each tapping appearance bringing louder and faster tapping. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

Soon it sounded more like banging, and began to drive us to the brink of madness. At that point, my father must have gotten tired of sitting still and doing nothing about it, because the next time we saw the shape, he got up and approached the window. To this day, I wonder what would have gone differently had he had done nothing

and simply waited until morning. Of course, after having waited for what felt like hours with no change of the clocks nor darkness outside, who knew if day would ever come? As he stumped toward the shadow, he retreated as normal, but my father flung the curtain to the side. Outside, we could see the sky was a sickening dark green,

the color you would expect from something old and rotting. I had heard of storms turning the sky green, but something about the color we saw, stretching out in all directions, made me feel sick. My father threw the window open, the rain from above dripping down into the house. With no wind, the rain didn't manage to blow inside.

He stuck his head outside, looking to the left and right. As he did, we could see his eyes. grow wide with shock and fear. Slowly he turned his body to lock up to the roof and as he saw whatever was up there his mouth opened. Perhaps he was simply amazed or perhaps he made to scream. Whatever the purpose it didn't matter because as he did one of the tentacles flew down and grabbed his head. As quickly as it appeared he returned to the roof bringing my father with it I was in too much shock to comprehend what the tentacle had looked like

past the fact that it clearly was exactly that a dark black tentacle Later I would see exactly what other details they had With everyone stuck in stunned silence We heard nothing but the rain Part of me wishes that we heard something else A scream, the sound of this creature Or any sign that my dad was even up there

For the silence we were met with was more terrifying than anything that could have possibly happened. Whatever happened to my father had happened instantly and without any sound whatsoever. After several moments of silence, my mother quietly approached the window and closed it, drawing the curtains back. After she did, she clasped to the floor and began to weep. I heard my sister do the same, and I'm sure I did as well. the realization dawned on us that we were all in danger.

Suddenly, the banging on the roof resumed, feeling our minds and fueling our madness further. We could not take this for much longer. After waiting for what I felt was several more hours, the sun surely should have risen. But still, the clock read 1017. The darkness lingered outside, and peeking out the window,

revealed the same sickly green sky. How such a clear, color was visible while at the same time drenching the land in darkness was beyond me. But at this point, nothing that had happened made any sense. Not long after I began to wonder about these things, my mother seemed to snap. She got up from a spot on the couch and stormed at the front door. My sister pleaded for her to stop, but my mother ignored her. I just sat there, watching emotionless.

She opened the door, stepping out into the rain. The darkness outside looked tangible. infinite and ready to devour anything that stepped inside. Despite the darkness beyond and green above, my mother defiantly stepped forward, expecting her to immediately be snatched up and devoured just like my father. I was shocked to see her take a dozen steps out onto the grass. She stopped and turned to look at us,

a mixed look of confusion, surprise and relief on her face. But inevitably, her gaze was drawn up above us to the roof, As her eyes moved to the door to whatever lay above, her face contorted into fear and shock. Her mouth opening much the way my dad's had, the scream of pure terror and horror that she let out in that moment. It's never left me. As she screamed, a tentacle shot out and wrapped around her body, with audible sounds of bones snapping. I screamed into that of pain, and I'm sure blood began to run from her mouth. I say might have, because my gaze was drawn instead to the tentacle.

Its lingering allowed me to view it in all of its horror. It had the suction cups you would expect on that of an octopus, but in the centre of each one was a single massive eye. The gaze is all darted about, some locking onto my mother as she tried to writhe and break free of its grasp. One landed its gaze directly on me, staring into my very mind and soul. I felt a pure feeling of terror and panic.

that I have never felt before and could not hope to describe. Moments after it gazed on me, the tentacle once again retreated to the roof with my mother. As it did, as screaming abruptly ceased. When she stopped, my sister began sobbing

and suddenly ran out toward the door. I know I should have stopped her, should have yelled, should have grabbed her, but the stare of that eye was all I could see in my mind. shaking it from my vision as much as I could, I managed to watch as my sister stepped over the cusp of the door. As soon as her foot hit the wet concrete beyond,

another tentacle shot down and grabbed her by the neck. I heard a scream, followed shortly by a violent pop, as the scream stopped instantly. Her lifeless body got pulled up, her legs dragging against the top of the door frame. I was alone. I don't know what drove me, but I slowly got up and walked toward the door,

standing just in front of that open portal to the darkness beyond. I froze, not out of fear, not out of judgment. I just stopped walking. I stood there for what felt like an hour, simply staring out into the void. The only thing I heard during that time was a soft falling of rain just beyond. No tapping, no screaming, nothing. What snapped me into my senses was a sound of my mother's voice.

She was calling my name, quietly. Her voice sounded like hers, but something in my brain told me that it was not. I could not discern what was wrong with it, but deep down I felt it was not the voice I knew. I began to shake out of fear, and as I stood frozen there, I noticed three figures slowly fade into view ahead. What I saw was impossible. but there in front of me they were anyway. I heard my mother's voice again, calling my name, sounding louder. It was coming from the figure on the left.

These three figures were my family, my mother, my sister and my father. As they grew closer, the features in the face became more obvious. It was clearly them. It was then that I noticed everything wrong. My mother's body was twisted, ribs poking through the skin, blood leaking from her mouth and from the wounds. My sister's head was turned to the right at an unnatural angle, her neck jutting out. My father was the best off, with no wounds visible. But behind each of them, a collection of high-covered tentacles were implanted in the backs of their necks, reaching up and back toward the roof.

I could see in the eyes of my family that no life remained. but this thing was using their bodies like puppets. Collectively, their voices beckoned me to come outside. The urge that stepped forward and joined them was deafening my mind. Without them, I was so alone. As my mind cleared enough to think, I took a step back. As I did, the faces of my animated family contorted. Their mouths gaping open far larger than the jaws should allow.

A horrid screech erupted. from deep within them, driving me to the floor with my hands on my ears. When I finally managed to look back up, my father had come closer to the door, now a mere foot in front of me, still screeching and reaching out with both arms. Feeling consciousness failing me, I reached for the door, and, in a final act of defiance, slammed it shut. Instantly, the screeching stopped. I willed the images of the eye of my twisted family, of the door.

the green and black beyond the door out of my head, and was consumed by darkness. I don't know how long I was out for, but I awoke sometime later to see the light coming through the windows. It was sunlight. Getting up and finding my balance, my head still throbbing. I hobbled over to the nearest window and opened the curtains. The sky had returned to a pale blue,

the sun having just finished rising over the distant horizon, The ground was wet from a summer's rain, but no leaves or branches were strewn about. To my left, a clock read, 1018. Opening the front door, everything looked completely normal. It was finally over. At least, that's what I assumed. Eventually, the police got involved to investigate the disappearance of my family. Being the only one remaining, put me up.

under great suspicion of course, but I could see that they felt I had nothing to do with this. They never did tell me how they knew I wasn't involved. I ended up staying with a relative for the day after they cleared me to leave, and it seemed I would be

for the foreseeable future. In fact, I still am to this day. At that being the end of it, I may have simply accepted that everything I saw was some sort of horrible nightmare, and my family had simply left for some unimaginable reason.

But that night, as I slept, I had a dream that convinced me that the event of that night were more than my imagination. I was standing at the front door of my house, a step away from being outside. With my body out of my control, I walked out onto the concrete, counting a dozen steps, and stopped and slowly turned. I saw it on the roof of my house. I stay awake for days on it. and drinking as much coffee as my body allows.

I do everything in my power to fight off the sleep I need. Inevitably, I succumbed to the darkness, where the horrors become reality. Everyone I know thinks it's just part of my coping, but they can never understand. This being sits atop the roof of my house, an infinite number of tentacles protruding from its slender body. They twist and morph in all directions, some drooping down onto the ground, Others floating up into the sky. Each one covered in those horrible eyes. The entire thing is the darkest of black,

so dark as the standout even in the night. All light seems to be absorbed by the thing. Its horrific body curls upward into a massive head, a twisted visage resembling the shape of a human's. It has no eyes, nose, ears or hair. All it has is a snarling, massive mouth, curled up into a smile full of sickening yellow teeth. Every night I am forced into my home on the edge of the door.

Every night I am forced to walk a dozen steps, I only to turn and face it. And every night I am tormented by three of its tentacles, hanging closer, controlling the lifeless bodies of my family. And every night, with the twisted voices of the ones I used to love, it repeats the same thing to me. Come home The pool complex I work at is pretty typical It's not in the center of the city It's closer to the edge

And as such has loads of space to work with There are gyms and courts And several large pools that is comprised of All interconnected with warm And pleasantly humid plexiglass tunnels Extra appreciated at this time of year Sometimes as I'm walking through one such tunnel in my shorts,

sandals and lifeguard shirt. I'll catch a glimpse of someone outside, shivering through their coat in the snow, and I can't help but feel relieved to be on this side of the glass. My boss is an eccentric lady, the manager.

She laughs and smiles a lot, but damn if she doesn't always look so tired. It's like I can see the stress aging her in actual real time. She needs to take it a little easier is what I think. We're just leisure facility workers after all. I consider telling her this in a meeting she's called me into. I'm not concerned. We get on well and I'm a

good employee. I try to think of a diplomatic way to word my sentiment, but she begins to speak before I have a chance. How long have you been working here now, Dan? She asks me, tapping her finger against the desk. About a year I think, I reply, and there is a pause. I can't quite put my finger on it, but something suddenly changes. The atmosphere becomes a little more strained, a little more tense. I shift uncomfortably. Kate, my boss, glances up from the desk and over my shoulder.

I turn around to see one of my colleagues behind me through the open doorway. Nice guy. He's been here longer than me, I think. but the moment my eyes meet his, he turns away and heads off and away out of sight. I look back to Kate and the silence stretches on. I manage an awkward laugh, but she does not smile with me now.

Employees that have been with us for as long as you have done are given the opportunity to earn a little extra money. Oh, okay, a reply, eyebrows raised. She rubs her wrist absentmindedly, rubbing a thumb over the V she has tattooed there as she looks at the wall in thought. We run night sessions here sometimes. Did you know that? She says, still not looking directly at me. For real? I ponder this.

No, no, I didn't. Is this a recent thing? No, she replies and does not elaborate any further. More silence. I shift with discomfort in my seat. The air is, as it always is in the complex, humid, but goosebumps shoot up across my arms regardless. Kate, is everything okay?

She rises from a chair. Come with me, please. Silently I stand and I follow on beside her as we walk through the complex. The complex stays open pretty late into the night for the gyms at least, but the pools will be closing in about ten minutes. It's dark, and aside from the falling snow,

I cannot see much of anything beyond the grass when we pass through the tunnels. Dan, once employees have been with us for a year, then their hours get reduced somewhat. I start to protest, with surprise, but she quiets me. Don't panic, your pay remains the same. It goes up, actually.

But once a week, will need you to spend a few hours. In the night pool, I tried to process this. A few hours at night? Why haven't I heard anything about this? As I said, it's just once a week. She leads me down corridor after corridor

through a set of locker rooms and past our least popular pool. Nothing wrong with the pool itself. It's just an unusual shape and a little further out of the way than the other three. Kate leads me through one of the doors of the back past steaming pipes and whirring filters round a corner we go beneath a blinking emergency exit sign

and I find myself starting to get a little anxious My gut is telling me something But I don't know how to respond So this This is the way to the night pool then I ask That's right she says quietly A pool that I didn't

didn't know about until just now. For a session I didn't know even existed. Kate says nothing, and we find ourselves at the top of a tired staircase, one that leads down and down into the humid gloom. Kate wavers on the top step. She grips tight to the metal rail. Then, with a slow sigh, she descends, and, against my better judgment, I follow. Down.

Into the dark Kate sandals clack against the tile As we go down The mine echo softly behind as I follow This is pretty creepy, you know I say with a weak chuckle But again I receive no reply My breathing becomes shallow

Kate I say to nothing God damn it Kate I'm sorry about this Dan She mutters I'm sorry alright but this is what we need from me and we arrive at last at the base of the stairs before an open, tiled arch in the wall.

The world beyond is red, low, gloomy red, as the room is awash in nothing but red light. Jeez, I murmur in disbelief, stepping forwards, and together with Kate, we step through the secretive underground pool. A deep, soft humming sound rumbles overhead through the pipework. water drips from somewhere unseen I look around and try to take it all in there stands a lone lifeguard chair by the edge of the pool there are some lockers against one wall

and as for the pool itself the pool is rectangular as one would expect and the water is dark black almost in this light but the most curious part are the seven rivers The pool, despite at its core looking much the same as any other, has seven off-shooting waterways.

They stretch off and away through gaps in the tiled walls, through watery tunnels leading away into the dark. Kate, come on, what is this place? Kate grabs me suddenly by the shoulders, and I swear an alarm, heart pounding in fear. Dan, she says, her eyes staring desperately into mine. just do your job just for two hours just sit in that chair and do your job you must you hear me you must and she speaks with such cold conviction such force of will that i cannot help but be swayed to believe what she is saying so i just sit there and and what and do your job she says again releasing me she's shaking two hours tonight, the next week I'll need you to do two more. You'll have greater flexibility with your daytime hours and you won't need to come in quite so much either. Thank you. I'll be upstairs if you need me. Wait, that's it? You want me down here right now? Alone? Kate looks away and wipes her eyes. She starts to walk back to the arch. Kate, wait, is this a joke, a prank? She shoots a look back at me

over a shoulder. Her expression makes it very clear that this is no joke. Two hours, Dan, she says, as the pipes hiss and the filter hungrily gurgles in the gloom. Just two hours, then I'll see you upstairs and you can go home. And with that, she departs, leaving me alone in the underground pool bathed in red. I stand there for a minute, just gobs from a minute. Just gobs smacked. Unsure what to do. This is insane. This creepy-ass pool, all empty and alone down here in the darkness.

I look around once again at the seven tunnels. Where the hell do those even lead? I wonder out loud. I lock over to the lifeguard chair, a still and silent sentinel above the dark water. And I glance to my watch. Two hours. She wants you down here for two hours. hours. I wonder over to the chair, my footsteps suddenly sounding much louder in the eerie quiet.

The water laps and churns softly against the rim of the pool near my feet. This is crazy. This must be a joke, surely. I should just go back upstairs and refuse, but I don't. Something about Kate's manner really frightened me, so I'll just do it this once, see what the big deal is, and then make a decision from there. so I clamber up into the lifeguard chair and settle myself into place. The lone watcher over a sea of black and red. The water churns, the humidity pinpricks my skin with sweat, and I watch.

I watch the water, as is, my duty. Nothing happens, by the way. Not this first time. I start to feel a little queasy as the hours drawed to a close. but I put that down to just a little dehydration. And when my time is finally done, I jump from the chair and hasten away, not wishing to spend an extra second in this unsettling place.

Kate is gone by the time I return upstairs and through the complex to her office, so I simply go home and bring it up with her the following day. Kate, I tell her, I don't want to do this. You can keep the pay in the flexible hours. Just don't send me back down there again. Dan, I'm not going to discuss this with you any further. I'm sorry, but this is just the way it is.

Kate, look, it creeps me out, right? I don't. You will go down again. No, I won't. Yes, she shouts, you will. Slamming a hand down onto a desk, and silence falls in the immediate area. She pauses and bursts into tears with her hands and her face.

I don't bother saying anything further. I just walk out. what is there to say. I speak to one of my colleagues a little later that day. Guy called Rex. I ask him about the pool. And if he has any answers for me? You just have to do it, he mutters, eyes downcast.

If you don't then, it'll fall to somebody else, right? How long has Francesca been working here? You like her, right? I stutter in reply. I mean, I don't know about that. How long has she been working here? working here now, man. Well, about 11 months, I guess.

Eleven months. Yeah, that's right. Rex doesn't say another word. He just rubbed his wrist and thought. I looked down and make the connection for the first real time. That is the exact same place as Kate's. It's of three eyes positioned next to each other. Three.

I mean to ask him about it, but he just claps me on the back and strides away. So, a week passes and I find myself again at the top of those gloomy stairs, the ones descending down into the red shade. I scratched my arm in thought, paused, considering. Is my job really worth it, I think to myself? Is it worth it to go back down to that awful place? You're joking, right, comes to rebuttal. It's two hours of sitting on your ass. Two hours and you get to keep one of the best jobs you've ever had.

You like it here. You've just been given a raise. It's two hours in a red room. Man up and get the hell down. Fine, I think to myself, steadily descending the tile stairs. But there's something else going on here. Something not right. And I'll find out what it is. Kate barely looks me in the eyes these days. Something's seriously up with her. And it's scaring me. I take a deep breath As the levels of light lower And shift to a more total Forboding Red

I step down under the dampediled floor Of the lowermost level And walk cautiously through the arch And into the pool room As before Entirely Empty One pool with seven offshooting rivers Rivers that run through tunnels

In the tile Leading away through the dark And the lifeguard chair waiting patiently for my arrival. I head over and climb on it, sitting with a small sigh and my hands clasped, I look out over the face of the water. Dark, black.

It swallows the feeble red light and softly churns, demanding more, perhaps. I stare at the water, waiting and willing the time to go faster. Until I zone out. Movement. I am shocked from my careless dozing by what I assumed to be movement in the water. In a panic, I grip the sides of the chair and lean forwards, eyes wide and staring at the very center of the pool. My heartbeat suddenly rapid and painful.

I wait and I watch, waiting for confirmation of what it is I saw, hoping beyond hope that it was nothing more than my imagination. I stare at the spot in the pool. for a minute or more, and just as my heart is beginning to slow and I'm allowing myself to relax. I see it again. It's subtle, but it's there. A small splash in the water,

a ripple and a churn. Damn, I mumble, then a little louder. Damn it, damn it, damn it. It's just a filter, perhaps, bubbling from the bottom of the pool? But, as if in response to this thought, the splash comes again and a watching cold horror as the water rises

and steam drifts from the pool's surface a long dark shape slithers its way through the red shadow towards me then slinks back down and into the deep screw this I have ten minutes left on the clock by my count but I'm done

I'm out I leap from the lifeguard chair and stagger my way across a slippery poolside tile back through the arch to the steamy underground backrooms and up the stairs and into the complex, racing through corridor after corridor. Kate is still here tonight, it seems. I find upon my arrival at her office, red face and breath shallow. What the hell is this Kate? I shouted her. Tell me, tell me what the hell is going on. You think I wanted this? She mutters in a low voice, leaning forwards.

She doesn't seem surprised by my outburst in the slightest. You think I wanted to be a part of this hell, Dan? She scratches at the V tattoo she has in her wrist. We do our duty as lifeguards. As lifeguards? I allow myself a laugh and throw out my hands. This is insane. Tell me, Kate, what exactly is in the pool below a complex? She looks at me, then looks at a watch.

You left your position early, she says. No one is watching the pool. No one is watching the... I begin incredulous. Then I stop, close my eyes. and take a breath. Kate, I say to her, I quit. And without another word, I turn and stride from her office.

I leave the complex behind, shivering in the snow. And despite how much I used to love my job, I intend to never return. I intend. That night I suffer from terrible, terrible nightmares. In them, I found myself struggling to breathe, coughing and spluttering. my lungs filling up with putrid, dark water as I scrabble for the surface. The surface that only ever gets further and further away, this direction keeps changing, and I'm being watched.

They're watching me through the water. I lose count how many times I awake during the night, and by 5 a.m., I'm too terrified to return to sleep. I spend the next day seeking new employment. But that night, the dreams are the same, if not worse. The next night, they come back, renewed. And the night after that. I find myself unable to stay awake during the day.

The dreams find me at any hour. I'm too exhausted to cook proper meals. I stop trusting myself to drive my car. And when I can take it no more, I am right back in Kate's office, dishevelled and desperate. And I ask her, How do I make them stop? How do I stop the dreams?

She stands and steps over to me. She draws me into a hug. Just do your job, she says softly. You're a lifeguard. Then she says, I'm sorry, Dan. I'm so, so sorry. There is no other way. So, I return to my job.

Once a week, I do my shift. in that awful, monstrous subterranean pool. Sometimes the water remains still. Sometimes the nights are entirely uneventful. And sometimes I see shapes stithing around in the darkness, disrupting the pool surface. And my greatest fear remains

that one day, one of the things in the water is going to clamber up onto the tile and I will not be able to summon the constitution to escape. The nightmares only come the night before my shift these days. and they are not as intense. But I can handle that. I can deal with it. They are only as heavy as it's needed, I suppose,

to remind me to do my duty, to do my job, to watch the water, week after week. My duty goes on. How long do I have to do this? I ask Kate. I ask Rex.

I ask the others who have been here longer than myself. But none of them give me an answer. And one day something happens that is worse than my greatest fear, worse than one of the things in the darkness climbing up into the light. And it's so predictable, I can't believe I didn't see it coming, so classically painfully obvious that I consider myself an idiot for not preparing for it sooner. I am forced to do my job, my job as a lifeguard, because one terrible night I see a boy in the water.

It begins as any other I'm uncomfortable and scared as I sit in my chair As I watch the water quietly churn And listen to the pipes above me hiss and rumble Perhaps it's going to be another quiet night I hope preemptively Perhaps there will be no disturbances tonight

And that's when I see him That's when I see the boy A kid A human boy just drifting through one of the tunnels down one of the rivers and into the center of the pool, paddling and pulled along by an impossible current, one that I cannot see. Help, he cries out, and I can see the fear on his face, washed and red. Dad, Dad, where are you? I can't believe what I'm seeing.

Hey, I shout. Hey, kid, over here. But the boy does not react to my voice. He simply looks all around himself, spinning in a circle. calling out for his father. Dad, where are you? His voice echoes around the tarred walls as the deep red light shimmers

across the face of the water. Kid, hey kid! I try blowing my whistle. He does not react. I jumped down from the chair to the tile and wave my arms, but the kid just can't see me. It is as if he's looking right through me

when he turns my way and the poor little lad starts the cough. He swore. following mouthfuls of water, and he splutters and chokes. His strokes become more erratic as he keeps on calling for help. He is drowning, and the only one who can save him is me. My blood runs cold as I see further disturbances in the water at the far edges, dark and slithering shapes, and Kate's voice blares like a siren through my head.

Do your job, as a lifeguard, you must do your job. Time seems to slow a little. I watch as the boy starts struggling for real, as it begins to dip below the water, splashing and crying out for help. For help. But of course, I'm the only one who can hear him. I grit my teeth. With jaw set, my blood, once cold, now surging, fires me up with a blast of adrenaline.

I take a long step forwards, then another. It feels slow, but I'm moving fast. I can tell. I follow procedure without even realising Three quick blast of the whistle And I've shut myself forwards from the edge of the pool I'm diving forwards Leaping from the edge and out towards the darkness of the unknown

The boy is just a few feet ahead He draws closer and closer And I hit the water with a great splash And a rush of bubbles burst up past my ears For a moment I'm trapped in time I'm adrift in the void, lost and alone in the watery darkness. The pool is impossibly, unfathomably deep.

I cannot see the bottom. Something massive and slow lurks far below me, a shadowed thing that writhes with motions like the waves of a dark sea against the bitter shore. And I know that whatever it is can see me. All around in the water, the slithery shapes draw closed. Time returns to its regular speed, and I burst up for air and power through the darkness towards my target, towards the boy, lost, alone and in need of help. I've got you, I splutter as I shake off the void and grab him beneath the arms. Immediately turning, I power my way towards the edge with the boy trembling and shaking behind me, arms and legs pumping as fast as I am able.

Though I cannot lose that terrible feeling of being flanked by the things in the water. getting closer and closer, closer, and closer. I do not know what would happen if they were to reach me, but they do not. Not today at least. I reached the edge, and with a roar of strength, I bring round the boy and holding him to my chest, I clamber, clums the up and under the side.

I roll away from the edge of the pool, still clutching him as I tried to put as much distance between us and the water as I'm able. Shooting her look back reveals those menacing dark shapes sling quietly back into the depths and I come to an exhausted halt looking down at the boy

and moving to help him sit up as I catch my breath but there is no boy not anymore just a boy-sized shape comprised entirely of water and the second that I comprehend this fact the water acts as one would expect it to

it just melts right through my hands splashing down across the tiles and washing over and away. A solid and then formless. Gone. Still panting, I pushed myself up to the wall. I rest myself against it, soaked. And I just sit there for a while, processing, trying to think, to put it all together.

And failing, feeling a subtle itch of my wrist, I look down. And there, forming before my eyes beneath the pool's red glow. There's an eye, a thin, dark, Roman numeral one. It looks just like, her tattoo. What does it mean? I ask Kate upon the completion of my shift.

I stand before her, bedraggled and afraid at the complex entrance. I had to rush out to catch her before she left. The snow barrels down and the Arctic wind burns my wet skin. But I don't care. Not in this moment. The lights through the complex doors behind me Send my shadow out long across the snow And illuminates Kate's face

And shines in her eyes Eyes that look sadly back into mine The wind sends the tails of a coat billowing out to the side What does it mean? I shout above the gale Showing her my wrist And she draws down her sleeve to reveal her own The V

The Roman numeral 5 Seven souls, she whispers, in a voice I can barely hear. Seven rivers, seven tunnels, and seven souls to be saved. And then we can be free. I don't understand. Kate, please. Seven souls, Daniel, she says as she looks back up at me. And a voice rich with sorrow, an apology, with warning and with hope.

save seven souls and your duty is done. We are the sentinels and the lives are ours to guard. Without another word she turns and walks away and into the storm. When I was a little girl, I had a strange friend that I believed I'd made up until about an hour ago. My father and mother were out of the house a lot when I was a child. It never occurred to me then that we were poor,

but looking back I realised that we must have been Mom worked two jobs serving in a restaurant and driving a bus for the school Dad worked in a fishing market during the day so we could attend night school in the evenings Both of them would come home very late and flop down for a few hours before they had to do it again They were never cool to us

They just didn't have the time for my older brother and me Mom and Dad got together in high school And mom's senior class photos showed the swell of her belly as she carried my brother. They were parents before they were more than children themselves, and with no real skills, they had to take whatever jobs they could get to keep food on the table. For the first ten years of my life, there wasn't a lot of happiness.

There were no Christmas mornings, there weren't a lot of birthday presents, and I like the parental involvement that a lot of my peers seem to have. This was what probably led me to create, Mr. Gozo. My brother was supposed to be watching me after school. I've talked about my brother a little bit, but I don't think I've told you much about him. He was eight years older than me, a senior in high school who was supposed to be my caretaker

while my parents were at work. This usually translated to him in his room with the door closed or him leaving the house and telling me not to answer the door or go outside. This meant that I spent a lot of time alone as a child, but I much prefer the times he left me alone. My brother was more than a neglectful babysitter. He could be pretty mean and seemed a delight in tormenting me. If he was gone, then it was just me and Mr. Gozo with a house to ourselves.

Mr. Gozo was a friend that I discovered living in my house one day. He was tall, taller than my dad even, and had a strange, whispery voice that always used to make me laugh. He wore grown-up clothes, a long coat and a pair of suit pants with square-toed cowboy boots sticking from underneath them. His head was round and pale, his eyes always seemed a little too big for his face, and he didn't have any ears, which I found very funny as a kid. His smile was my favourite thing about him, because it reminded me of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. Something else about him that always reminded me of that cat was that he would disappear whenever anyone else was around.

One minute we'll be having a tea party or playing hide-and-seek, and the next my brother would come home, and he would just be just. vanish. I told my parents about Mr. Gozo, but they only smiled and said it was good that I had such an act of imagination. My brother just said I was a little freak and to stay out of his way. Mr. Gozo did not like my brother. He is a brute and he knows nothing of imagination, he said in that buzzy, cultured sort of voice he had. Gozo and I played a lot, but I remember his favorite game was hide and seek. He can never beat me though. I was an excellent Ida, and he would clump around for a while before finally saying I'd won, and I would burst out and wrap my arms around his leg.

Despite never winning, he always seemed to want to play. He seemed to like chasing me through the house, and when I think back on those days now, I see how lucky I was to never learn anything to the contrary. You see, Mr. Gozo would always make these bets before we started playing hide-and-seek. He would promise me things If I can't find you Then I will make you whatever you want to eat Or if you win

You can watch whatever you want on TV No matter what it is Or something like that But then he would always follow it up by saying But if I win You have to come back to my house to play I would always agree I was ten and very good at hiding

When I say he never found me I mean he never found me I would hide under things that were too hard for him to lift or hide in places he was too tall to climb into. I would camouflage myself with blankets and pillows and I could remain absolutely still for quite some time. Mr Gozo would try his hardest, stomping around while his two big eyes roving everywhere.

Eventually he would just give up and tell me I'd won. He always made good on his promises too. I'd watch Sailor Moon or Powerbuff girls in the middle of the night long after Cartoon Network stopped showing cartoons and I've eaten chocolate ice cream and pizza and we barely had groceries in the house much like Mr Gozo though if my brother came home early

he couldn't see the food or the show or the new toy Mr Gozo had given me I'll turn back to find an empty plate or a staticy TV and Mr Gozo nowhere to be found Mr Gozo would play anything I wanted but he asked to play hide and seek at least once a day if I said I didn't want to he never pushed the issue

he also never let losing deter him from playing it appeared that whatever he wanted to do with me at his house could wait he was a perfect companion for a lonely child I never saw his more sin as the side until I looked back after the incident not until hide and seek when I lost my brother

it was late probably after 11 o'clock and Mr Gozo and I were playing hide-and-seek as we had been for most of the day. I kept stumping him even after hours of playing, but this looked like the time he might finally win. I was hiding beneath the couch cushions, compressing myself into a divot

under the middle cushion where the springs were sagging. I could see him searching from under a small gap in the cushion and Mr. Gozo was looking desperately for me. He had lost eight times in a row, and I saw that his patience was starting to deteriorate, He was pushing things aside, rustling the curtains, and pushing the pillows off the couch roughly as he searched for me.

As the pillows hit the floor, I must have moved slightly, because he turned those much too expressive eyes back to the couch. They seared in on the cushion, and I knew that Gozo was about to win one. He wrapped his long, sinuous fingers around it, grinning as he prepared to lift it up, and I tried to stifle a laugh as I prepared to be found. Just then, keys rattled in the door, and I saw Mr. Gozo turn his head to look. I looked too, and when I turned back, Mr. Gozo had disappeared. My brother walked into the living room then, and as I climbed out from under the couch, I could smell him before I saw him. He'd come home like this a few times, smelling sour and like the chemicals mom kept under the sink,

and he sighed and disgust as he looked at the house. I hadn't expected it would be back so soon, and Mr. Gozo had been a little rough in his searching the last few times. There were pillows and blankets on the ground. The curtains were open, books were scattered around the shelf, and the magazines were on the floor. The living room was messy, and as I climbed from the couch, he asked me what the hell I'd done. Nothing, I said timidly. Mr. Gozo and I were playing hide-and-seek. My brother rolled his eyes.

Mr Gozo, Mr. Gozo, Mr. Gozo! He slurred the name as he said it, stumbling a little as he flopped onto the couch. I'm so sick for hearing about that stupid freak. Clean up this crap before Mom and Dad get home and yell at me for it. I started picking up, feeling him watch me as I moved around. He was acting weird, weirder than usual, and he was making me uncomfortable as he sat staring on the couch. I cleaned up the books, the magazines, and put the blankets back on the quilt rack

and closed the curtains. As I went to put the pillows on the couch, I looked into his eyes and saw something I hadn't seen there before. It wasn't love. I knew what it looked like, but he was different from anything else I'd ever seen. I didn't like it.

And when he caught my wrist and pulled me towards him, I squirmed and tried to get away. Let go, I said, trying to keep the wine out of my voice. If I whined, it would only egg him on. Don't be such a party pooper. I could smell the pungent brew. Come sit with your big brother. I struggled, pulling against him.

He was acting weird, and my brain screamed at me that I did not want him to get his hands on me. I looked around, looking for Mr. Gozo for help. And I saw him peeking from the hallway. His expressive face told me that he wanted to help, but that he didn't know how. There seemed to be a sort of duality about him. I want to help his friend,

but a knowledge that such a thing would be unwise. My brother swore at me, yanking in my arm. Just like the girl at the party, he mumbled, yanking hard and almost pulling me off my feet. Suddenly, though, I knew how to get him to stop. There was a way that Gozo could help. I can't play with you right now. I'm playing with Mr. Gozo, and he'll get mad if we don't finish our game. I saw him sneer, but I could see something else there too.

My brother pretended he wasn't a little weirded out by Mr. Gozo, but I could tell that the idea of an invisible friend kind of freaked him out. He'd seen the pictures I drew of him, and I couldn't help but notice the shudder they elicited in him sometimes. When he was wobbly like he was tonight, he was especially nervous about Mr. Gozo, and I decided to take advantage of that to get away. His grip tightened, though, and he told me that,

You played with him long enough. Why don't you play with me? I shook my head Mr. Gozo will get mad I have to finish my game I turned back to look at the hallway and saw him shaking his head begging me not to go on

but I pressed my look but if he played with us and finished the game then I'd be done and we could play I guess I tried to stay calm but he made me nervous his sweaty hands making my skin crawl My brother looked thoughtful for a moment And let my arm slip out of his hand

Okay, one more game with Mr. Gozer Right His smile made me want to run into the night And never come back Right, you hide and I'll hide And Mr Gozo can't Gohide so he doesn't find you My brother got up, wobbling a bit

And went down the hall to hide I turned to go hide too And that's when I heard Mr Gozo's voice Please don't do this. You could just come with me. He can't hurt you where we are going. I turned around and saw Mr. Gozo tearing over me, his eyes looking sorrowful and his mouth held in a frown.

Count 100, Mr. Gozo. If you find me first, I'll go with you. But if you find him first, he has to go with you. We just looked at each other for a count of ten before I put his hands over his eyes. And I went off to hide. I went into the kitchen, having a perfect place in mind, as I heard Gozo's count reach 15. I opened the cabinet beneath the sink and squeezed in, not sure I'd still fit. I'd found this spot once, seeing the smaller space beside it once you hide under the sink,

and marked it for future use. I knew he would be too small for Mr. Gozo or my brother to squeeze into, and they would have a hard time seeing me in the little space between the drawers and wall. I squeezed in there, pulling the drawers back, as I inadvertently nudged them, and pressed myself as flat as I could against the wall. Even if my brother got bored and came to find me, he'd never find me here. I breathed very shallowly and stifled my gasps,

as I heard Gozo's count reach 100. Then, the game began. It started out normally, Gozo seeking and me hiding. He checked beneath things, he checked under things, but the gravity of the game began to shift very quickly. Gone was the playful task as he was. tried to find me. Gone was the careful way he looked. Now he was shoving things over and pushing them around, and it sounded like he was tearing the house apart. He moved into the kitchen,

glasses breaking, and things in the counter being pushed into the floor. This wasn't like him. Why was he acting like this? I shivered in my hiding place, waiting to be found, or for him to move on. I had the table flip over, the face of the microwave shatter as it hit the ground, and the the floor groan as the refrigerator was pulled over. Its gut spilling everywhere. Mr. Gozo called my name. He's normally happy voice cracking with sorrow and anger. I wanted to go to him then,

wanted to wrap my arms around him and comfort my friend. But I didn't dare leave my cubby. I would stay hidden all night if I needed to. A bar to me now feared Gozo as much as I feared my brother. Come out, he bellowed. Come out. It's not too late. you can still...

What the hell is going on in here? I heard my brother yelling. I could almost picture him in the doorway to the kitchen. And as I eased out to the cubby and moved a shaking hand towards the door to the cabinet, I heard Gozo's heavy boots as they stepped towards him. My brother asking who he was and what the hell he was doing on our house.

He was slurring and shouting. Gozo was silent as a grave as he walked towards him. I pushed the corner of the cabinet open just a little bit. looking out the crack and seeing two long legs as they walked towards my suddenly scared brother. I wasn't looking between his ankles as he walked. He'd been so close to my hiding spot that he might have heard the subway shivering in the drawers if I'd started shaking any harder.

My name is Mr. Gozo, and I believe that you have been found. My brother screamed as Mr. Gozo blocked him from sight, and I pull myself back into the cubby and sat shuddering as he went right on. yelling in terror. I stayed there until my parents came home an hour later and called the police. They had many questions, the police and my parents. I told him that I'd been playing with Mr. Gozo when my brother came home. He was acting weird, so I said he should play hard and seek with us, so I could hide from him.

He was trying to get me to do things that made me feel weird, so I hid, and then Mr. Gozo had wrecked the house looking for me. When my brother came to see what all the noise was about Mr Gozo had taken him away And I had hidden in my spot while he screamed The police clearly didn't understand what I was talking about With all the Mr Gozo stuff But they just shook my heads when he asked my parents If they had a son

No, she's always been an only child I could have sworn we called a sitter for us Since we would be home late Didn't you hire a sitter? Dad asked Mom Mom just shook her head I thought you had. They both, however, had this streaming look in their face, confusion mixed with embarrassment.

Like when you walk into a room and forget what you came in for, it probably seemed weird to you that I kept calling my brother by his title and not his name. It's because, as I saw my parents looking so confused, I realized I didn't know his name either. I remembered that I had a brother, in that vague way that you remember when you remember when you were six, you had a pet, but not precisely what happened to it. I couldn't remember his name. He was gone from all our family photos.

His name was gone from any journal entry or class assignments I wrote it on, and no one remembers him at all. It was as though he never existed. And even now, I can't remember what he looked like, or what his voice sounded like. I only remembered that he existed. And now he was gone. I often wonder if that's what would have happened. to me if Mr. Gozo had caught me.

The police had a lot of questions after that, and he was finally agreed upon that I had been the victim of a breaking and hidden from the intruders. They hadn't found me, so they had left after a while, and I was extremely lucky. The police agreed to check the house but found nothing. My parents said they would check the valuables, but never reported anything missing.

Mr. Gozo had only taken one thing, but they couldn't remember that it existed. They sent me to bed, telling me to get some sleep while they cleared up the mess. And that's when I saw Mr. Gozo for the last time. I was lying in bed that night, listening to my parents' talk about how they needed to be more careful about leaving someone here with me. When, I suddenly felt his eyes on me.

I rolled over to see his sad face, his heavy eyes full of sorrow, and his two big mouth turned down in a frown. I also saw the speckles of bed. blood on his normally clean coat, and a small, hesitant smile lying just below the surface as he gauge my reaction to him. "'Go away, Mr. Gozo,' I said quietly. "'I don't want to play with you anymore.' "'I made him go away.

I made him stop hurting you. I showed you what I was so that you could be safe. "'And now you won't be gone,' he whispered. I rolled over, looking at him and yelling. "'Go away, Gozo!' "'Say it again, then. Say it thrice, and I'll never darken your door again. Go away, Mr. Gozo, I almost whispered, hearing my parents stop talking downstairs.

He evaporated like a fine mist, and I never saw him again. I'm growing up now, married with a girl of my own, and I hadn't thought about Mr. Gozo until a few hours ago. I was putting away laundry when I found my four-year-old hiding in a towel closet. Emily apparently got her father's hiding jeans, I suppose, because a blind man could have found her hiding under that pile of towels. She squealed as I found her, but then looked grumpy and told me to close the door before he found her. Who? I asked, smiling as I lifted her into my arms. Mr. Gozo, Emily said, and my blood ran cold.

She took me to a room when I asked who that was and showed me pictures. He was wearing the same long coat and straight black pants, and she even drew the square-toed boots that stick out from beneath them. She captured his face in a way that I never could as a child. His pale oval face, his almost cartoonishly large eyes, his smiling mouth and pointy teeth, and his distinct lack of ears. His head is still shaven, but she's drawn in with a large top at an eye floating in the middle.

The eye is blue. Where my brother's eyes may be blue? She's in my room with me right now, whining because she can't finish again with Mr. Gozo. Sometimes I feel like I can see him out of the corner of my eye as I write this. He smile wide and predatory. I don't know what to do. I can see Emily talking to him in the mirror.

His two large forms sitting on the bed as he listens to her. Every now and again though, I see those two big eyes as they glance over at me, knowing me and see me. seeing me for who I am. I want to take my daughter and run, but I don't know how he will react to such a move. Perhaps I can offer him one last game.

Perhaps I can give him what he always wanted. Perhaps I can save my daughter, as my big brother inadvertently saved me all those years ago. I have to try, don't I?