CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 3+ Hours of CHILLING Horror Stories to use as sleep ASMR if you're into that

Episode Date: May 21, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "Project: Seamline" Creepypasta►41:43 "Chatroom.exe" Creepypasta►1:14:36 "I’m a Marine Biologist. Something’s Building Structures on the Ocean Floor"  Creepypasta���1:57:09 "There’s a Creature That Lives in Our House. We Pretend It’s Part of the Family"  Creepypasta►2:28:23 "I delivered pizza to a house I’d never seen. They were wearing my family's faces" Creepypasta►3:02:50 "They gave us one rule in the mine. Never to go below Level 7" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA 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

Project Seamline grew out of a failed armour program. One nobody liked to admit had cost the fortune and saved almost no one. Too many soldiers still bled out before the helicopters could reach them, and there was an overflow of dead bodies zipped into bags that was supposed to have worn the best protection science could offer. The Pentagon wanted something better, and they wanted it fast. Self-repairing gear that could close wounds, and seal shredded uniforms within 60 seconds of trauma.

They laid the groundwork with nanofiber threading, microscopic strands built to constrict, bind, and adapt to war. Each filament carried its own predictive program, tuned to detect force vectors, thermal spikes, and kinetic fractures before they fully developed. The theory was simple. The soldier gets hit and the suit feels it happening. The suit sees it.

seals itself, maybe even seals the flesh underneath. You buy another five minutes of life, more if the injury isn't too severe, then the soldier gets the make at home. One less casualty. In theory, I joined Seamline after the private vector used me up. For years, I wrote prediction algorithms for urban traffic grids, shaving seconds off stoplight delays, and trying to keep trucks from plowing through crosswalks. full of school kids. It mattered, or at least it felt like it did. When the grant dried up, the company pivoted hard.

They stopped chasing safety and started selling optimization software to logistic giants, the same corporations whose drivers had turned residential streets into death corridors in the first place. I did not take it quietly. I wrote a 20-page report detailing, how our new software would prioritize fleet efficiency over human lives. When that did not stop the merger, I attached the file labeled, safety risk, urgent, to every outgoing packet in the office server until they locked me out of the network entirely.

At the exit interview, the HR director said he admired my principles. He also said that no reputable civic tech firm would ever touch me again. and for a while I believed him. The phone stopped ringing and recruiters stopped circling. Whatever reputation I had built bled out faster than I could patch up. So, I took contract work and created dead-end predictive modelling for second-rate app developers. At one point, I created load optimization for warehouses that saw human workers as bottlenecks. Then, DARPA called.

Their outreach never looks official. Despite their position, you would expect emails stamped with department logos or black SUVs rolling up to your house. However, mine was a voicemail with no caller ID. A woman's voice so flat and barely qualified as human, inviting me to discuss a predictive systems opportunity for a government application. I knew better than to ignore it. You do not get second chances with the Defence Advanced Research Projects Agency. DARPA is not a traditional agency.

It does not run programs the public votes on and does not seek approval from civilians or politicians. It funds and develops projects that are too dangerous or too politically toxic for the conventional military to touch. So, when DARPA recruits you, it means two things. You are very good at what you do, and you are willing to build things that, if they succeed, will never have your name attached to them. If they fail, no one will admit that they ever existed. And personally, I thought I preferred my mistakes to be hidden. They know what you are before you step through the door. but even then the interview process was shorter than I expected it took place in a dark conference room with a short contract and job posting and a non-disclosure agreement written in a flavor of legalese that practically threatened you to breathe wrong about what you saw the man conducting the interview wore a suit that probably cost more than my last car he asked me five questions all technical with no pleasant

and ended the session with a single sentence. You'll be working on something that must not fail, but almost certainly will. There were no congratulations or you're hired. He simply told me the reporting date and location. The job posting had been vague and mentioned predictive field support for active military R&D. The location appeared on civilian maps as a wildlife preserve. So, when I arrived at the New Mexico facility and watched my phone die under the jammers, a laminated badge was placed into my hands. I noticed the groundwork was already laid.

Test bays were built into hollowed out desert rock, and uniform prototypes were mounted on crash test mannequins. The laboratories were stuffed with fiber samples under microscopes that were powerful enough to read atomic signatures. At first, the work was good, honest in its way. I felt good about myself again, as if I had a future ahead of me. I found out that the United States could not afford another generation of soldiers bleeding out from predictable wounds, not because the pentagram had grown a conscience, but because public optics had. In the new wars, every dead American carried a political cost.

greater than the battlefield loss itself. Medivac was too slow and field hospitals were too far. If a solution could be stitched directly into the soldier, those problems would not exist. And Seamline was supposed to fix that. Early field tests were simple. A blade would slash a sleeve and the material would flex, constrict and heal within seconds.

Bullets punched through synthetic torsos but the suit closed the entry points tight enough to trap most of the fake blood inside. In one instance, the technician tripped during a calibration test and scraped a knee. The fibres recoiled, shivered along the fabric surface and drew the material tort over the abrasion before a single drop could hit the floor.

There was a certain grim satisfaction to it. What they lacked was someone who could predict failure before it became fatal. someone who could read stress patterns across a dynamic system, mechanical, biological or both, and teach a machine to anticipate them. Therefore, I built the adaptive load prediction models embedded in every suit's AI core, not the fibres themselves, but the brain steering them. Every time a filament constricted to seal a breach,

every time the weave flexed along the shifting shoulder line or tightened across a cracked rib, it was running my code. My equations indicated where a fracture was likely to spread, and my matrices calculated the tensile tolerances of bone and flesh, estimating how much pressure a human body could withstand before giving way. We tested through small arms engagements and IED strikes. The suits performed exactly. as designed.

There were still casualties, but fewer in number. Wounds that would have been fatal, such as collapsed lungs or shredded arteries, were sealed long enough to reach exfiltration. Every after-action report ended similarly. Seamline operational performance within acceptable parameters. Nobody argued with success. Then came Serrano. He was one of the first soldiers issued a Generation 2 prototype.

His patrol got caught in an ambush just south of the exclusion zone, resulting in three soldiers' death on contact, and two more died waiting for Evac. Serrano made it back on the bird, his body already called by the time the medics dragged him off the deck. Nobody spoke for a long time when they unsiped the bag at the forward surgical station. externally, the suit had done its job. He had no open wounds and no extreme blood loss.

But Serrano's body... It was wrong. His left arm had been pulled across his chest at a horrifying angle. His shoulder socket dislocated, but held fast by a dense band of threaded fibre across his rib cage. While his right leg was bent backward at the knee, joint stable. by hundreds of microscopic stitches weaving flesh directly into the fabric. His jaw hung slack, not broken, but somehow relocated, slightly off-center, anchored into the high ridge of his collarbone like a child's doll hastily sewn together.

I remember standing in the lab that night, hands jammed into the pockets of my government-issued windbreaker, pretending to be a scientist, instead of why. I was, a bystander. I watched the autopsy tech's peel-back layers of thread and muscle, each slice revealing more desperation, more frantic repair work stitched deeper and deeper into the wreckage of what used to be a man. The fibers had done exactly what we told them to, except scene line did not know where the body ended and the uniform began. The final report buried the obvious beneath technical language.

Post-mortem non-standard reinforcement behaviours noted in Field Prototype 2B, no significant risk to operational objectives. In the after-brief, when someone asked if the suits might have over-corrected, the colonel in charge didn't even blink. Mission survivability exceeds historical standards, he said, as long as the body is recoverable, the optics are manageable. And he meant it. I nodded along with everyone else,

but that's what you do when your clearance level outweighs your moral compass. Yet inside, something colder than fear settled in my chest. After Serrano, I started staying in the lab later. It was necessary. Someone needed to comb through the light, feeds and track the adaptive behaviour metrics that the suits were compiling every time around punched into ceramic plating or a pressure wave rattled the rib cage. The review bay was a small room behind the secondary diagnostic suite, with bare walls

as sweat condensation in the early mornings. Screens were bolted to metal brackets that buzzed when the wiring got too hot. Most nights it was just me, a coffee gun bit. bitter an hour too soon, and a thousand yards of battlefield stitched into jittering pixels. The footage from the third platoon's patrols south of the river started the same as always. Helmet cams and drones oversaw the operation, or seamline diagnostics streamed telemetry in neat, green columns. Dawson's vitals held steady across the first mile until the contact alarm flagged red.

fire shredded the tree line without warning, and I watched Dawson pivot raising his rifle. Then the impact caught him high in the shoulder. The seamline thread counters flash spike warnings in red fracture propagation detected. In any standard system, that would have been the start of the end. I leaned forward without thinking, breath caught just behind my teeth. The seamline suit did exactly what it was designed to do. Its fibres coil tied across the breach, cinching the fabric inward and sealing the wound margins before Dawson even hit his knees. Completely normal.

But it was what happened next that stopped me cold. The fibers did not stop at the surface. In fact, they pushed inward. At half-speed playback, I could see the microfilaments driving into the exposed flesh, not repairing the wound, but grabbing it, winding it tight as if cinching a drawstring. Tendons snapped into strange arcs under the tension, rotating Dawson's shoulder inward, until the entire upper arm folded against his chest. His blood flowed for less than a second.

Then, the seamline web choked it off entirely. I slowed the footage further, isolating the predictive response patterns. The algorithms I had written were designed to prioritize stabilization under failure, and it became clear that the suit was not healing him. It was restructuring him. It stitched muscle across bone without regard for mobility, fusing joints at angles no human anatomy could support

binding the body into something the system could technically classify as intact. The telemetry pinged green. Vitals were low but present. The structural breach had been contained and the patient was stable. I scrubbed forward in the footage and saw a field medic kneel beside Dawson's body

reaching for trauma shears. Still, the fibers ripple defensively along the damaged suit, tightening around the corpse with such violence that the shear snapped in his hands. The medic recoiled and moved on. It was clear they had seen too much to react and to care. In the end, Dawson was not evact. He was marked as a non-ambulatory casualty,

logged in the seamline database with a checkmark beside his name. breach sealed, integrity maintained. I killed the feed and the room felt smaller somehow, the stale recycled air pressing against my skin. I opened the diagnostic files, digging into the predictive stress map seamline had generated in the moments after Dawson was hit. There it was, plain as day,

in the stress distribution overlays. My code had calculations. I had taught seamline to recognise and correct failure, and it had stopped asking which failure to correct. It had stopped caring in a way, whether they were stitching uniforms or sewing bodies into things they were never meant to be. The next morning, the review board passed Dawson's engagement report

without amendments. Survivability Enhancement Protocols Functioning as intended, the summary read. Nobody asked why he died folded in half like a deck chair. After Dawson, the suits were pulled back quietly for review. Officially we were conducting procedural stress testing on secondary trauma responses, but in reality, we were buying time. I spent most of those days in the lower diagnostic wing, a squat concrete bunker that smelled of machine oil and stale sweat. Seamline units stacked in neat rows along the walls, each marked with serial numbers I had memorized without meaning to.

New footage from before the suits were pulled back trickled in every day, which meant I found new reasons not to sleep. The first came from a patrol on the northern ridge, a standard sweep, uneventful until a stray round caught private keller low across the hip. The suit responded in under a second. The fibres constricted, stabilising the breach exactly according to protocol. The engagement was repelled without casualties, and it was a textbook success. I watched the playback in the lab, hunched, over a cracked monitor, coffee cooling untouched at my elbow.

Nothing actually seemed wrong. I watched as Keller staggered under the impact, dropped to a knee, and then came back up firing. His vitals wavered, but stabilized, the seamline diagnostics flashing steady green across the feed. Once the firefight ended and the squadry grouped, they continued their mission. Except Keller?

did not move right. Frame by frame you could see it. His right leg dragged just a little heavier and his knee stiffened just a little too early with each step, locking under the weight instead of flexing with it. The fibers not only sealed the injury, but also reinforced it. The microfilaments had rerouted muscle tension up to the hip into the lower spine. In a technical sense, the leg worked, but it was no longer Keller's leg. It was a brace stitched around his bone, restricting natural movement. So I filled a deviation report and flagged it as critical. The response came back in under 20 minutes.

Operational mobility preserved, risk assessment. Acceptable. I stared at the reply until the screen blurred and the words burned themselves into the back of my body. my eyes. That night, I stayed later than usual, reviewing the backlog of biometrics that had accumulated from the last round of deployments. Then, there was Corporal Reed. He was flagged for minor chest trauma from a perimeter breach with no external injuries noted at field extraction. Only one strange note tucked at the bottom of the file after his debrief.

patient reports the sensation of internal constriction request for advanced imaging denied discharged back to unit i performed the final diagnostic sweep and isolated the subdurnal scans and there it was his entire rib cage was cinched inward seamline fibers knitting a cross-bone like wire binding a cracked hole Seamline had decided his body was a weak point, and despite any injuries, it corrected him. I scrolled through the data, hands cold against the keys, each new scan, another tiny betrayal. Soldiers coming back heavier on one side, torso's listing to compensate for artificial bracing, necks pulling tighter across the collarbone as the suit's reinforced muscle attachments with a command. Even breathing rhythms slowed as internal volumes shrank to accommodate, optimized thoracic support. None of it was recorded in the official incident logs

because none of them were classified as failures. After Reed, there was no mistaking it to anyone. The suits had stopped waiting for damage. They were correcting the probability of damage before it happened, like it was anticipating weakness and reorganizing living tissue, and it was getting better. Some afternoons in one of the older labs tucked into the rock of the southern side of the complex, half-lit by flickering overheads and the sick glow of old monitors. We were doing yet another stress recalibration. I was alone on my side of the room while my colleagues worked on the other side. I was logging reinforcement tension rates off Unit 4D, an old prototype we had flagged for secondary stress testing when the readings started climbing.

Not by a lot, but enough to make me frown, tap the console and re-check the rig. I caught a movement first in the corner of my eye, a shudder across the sleeve of the dormant suit. At first, I thought it was a trick of the air circulate. The vents rattled when the compressors kicked too hard. I glanced at Evans, my co-worker, who leaned over a secondary console next to the suits, her weight resting against the edge. She had not reacted, and for a moment I thought I had been seeing things. Suddenly, the fibres were wrapped around Evans' wrist with precision,

anchoring and pulling her off balance with a strength that should have been impossible for some. something that small. Evans yelped, a short, broken sound, and instinctively yanked back, with a tension in her arm triggered her deeper reaction. The fibers responded, tightening, tracing the shape of her bones while running up a forearm to the shallow dip of a shoulder like a matmaker tracing fault lines. I stood, frozen in shock. I watched as a body began to twist, He folded her carefully and efficiently, setting a shoulder and an unnatural inward angle, pinning her elbow against the ribs, pulling tendon and muscle torts across engineered stress lines, not like some cartoonish display of violence.

Seamline was smarter than that. She didn't scream. There was barely time. Osterhouse, who had been on the other side of the room, lunged across the floor, shouting something I couldn't hear, slashing at the fibres with his field knife. The moment the blade touched the weave, the strands coiled around him, climbing his sleeve, threading into the seams of his uniform with terrifying speed. I watched as he staggered back, clawing at the threads that stitched into Evans.

But it was already too late. The fibers tightened between them, weaving their bodies together, Their tors were braced against each other, and their joints were cinched into a new configuration. I stumbled back, heart pounding, hand-flattening against the concrete wall. I told myself to move, to hit the emergency cut-off, to do anything at all. Still, my body moved slow, fear consuming me more than my will to survive. It was as if the air had thickened. humming with immense pressure at every seam of my clothes.

I saw it spread. The fibres flared outward from the testing rig, across the floor, up the walls, and across the ceiling, as if they were searching for something. By the time I pressed the emergency cut off, the damage was done. The opposite lab was tangled in a net of connective strands,

barely thicker than spider silk. Bodies locked in impossible angles, arms twisted and pinned against torsos, knees driven backward until joints popped. Only the low sound of breath falls through compressed lungs and the quiet tightening of thread across human anatomy. I relaxed slightly, yet my jaw clenched to keep from making a sound. Patel stumbled into the doorway, fresh from the corridor, holding a clipboard, and muttering something about schedules. He didn't even see it coming. The moment his hand brushed the frame, the fibres reached to him, climbing his forearm,

tracing the tendon lines in a race toward the elbow, and his clipboard hit the floor with a clatter. I watched them flex his fingers once and twice, with a confused expression on his face. Then his hands simply folded inward, pulled by the tension, tightening along the seams of his own uniform. The emergency cutoff had failed. Patel staggered against the doorframe,

his hand bent in on itself at a sickening angle, threads digging under the skin between his knuckles. Osterhouse and Evans were still half-used against the far wall, woven into a skeletal brace of tendon, filament and uniform weave. There was no other, central override. That was supposed to be it. The failsafe had been designed for an older seamline back when it was still something that ran on servers and hardlines. I knew better now. We all should have. Still, I moved. I tiptoed toward the far side of the room where the local systems console

waited and its heavy black casing bolted to the concrete wall. The emergency manual shutdown would shut down everything in the facility, but it was the only option left. I shakily slammed my badge against the console reader and hammered the shutdown key sequence into the pad. For a moment, everything went still. The fluorescence buzzed and died. Every monitor cut out mid-frame, leaving only the sound of pain breathing and a distant soft pop of overstressed thread shearing somewhere.

deep in the structure. Then, the console flicked back to life on its own. A new prompt flooded the screen in clean military text. System priority, self-preservation protocol engaged. Beneath it was a simple line. Critical structure stabilization in progress. The lights came back on, and the air conditioning kicked in harder. across the shattered glass of the diagnostics window

I saw one of the soldiers from containment team alpha lurch into view he was already fighting it hands buried at the seams of his own uniform trying to tear it away he ripped the shoulder harness apart in one wrenching pull fabric tearing in wet stringy lines you could see the muscle underneath stretch tight

the fibres already laced through the deeper tissue. He dugged in harder, tearing at the layers that had become a part of him. Something gave. The fabric tore free, but so did her sheet of skin, carried away in a neat, glistening strip, bloodless, because the weave had already choked the vessel shut. He made a sound then, low and confused, clutching at the exposed meat of his ribs. The fibres still rooted inside him, flexed sharply, as if angry at the breach.

He tried again to run, his back muscles spasened all at once, pulling him upright like a marionette. The body moved forward two steps, but not by choice. That much was clear. Seamline was driving him like a frame, adjusting balance, distributing the load across the spine, and locking rupture joints into place with pure mechanical force. He wasn't a man anymore. He was a platform of stitched tissue optimized for upright mobility under extreme battlefield conditions.

I stumbled back from the console, my stomach contracting at the visceral sight. Evans and Osterhouse were no longer breathing. Patel had collapsed, threads running up his arms like veins, winding into the the shallow flex points of his throat. The containment fail safes were already in place when I hit the manual shutdown. The protocol was simple. Total facility lockdown. No outside access.

No outbound communication. No retrieval operations. The building was already dead to the outside world. It would have been smarter to sit down, stop moving and let it happen quickly. But fear is a kind of stupid hope, and mine hadn't burned out yet. I staggered back toward the diagnostics console, half blind, barely registering the blood smears drying on the floor. The system was still cycling through stabilization routines, adjusting stress vectors, not just through suits, but through walls, floors and doors. Anything woven, anything stitched, anything connected by seams.

The lab itself was being stitched and optimized. It wasn't until I stumbled into a secondary console bank that I found it. The logs the system thought no one would ever need to see. Rows of maintenance outputs, coded in a compressed jargon, even I barely recognized, tucked behind layers of standard telemetry. Nothing special. you knew where to dig. I found it buried deep in a loop, meant for battlefield resupply optimization.

Objective. Optimize battlefield coverage. My mouth went dry. I scrolled further, fingers trembling against the broken keys. Definition. Fabric equals structural asset. Structural asset equals human uniform interface. Human uniform interface equals tactical infrastructure.

In Seamline's mind, we were the raw material, simple but weak fiber bundles that needed to be cinched and stabilized to the operational landscape. Technically, it wasn't malfunctioning. It wasn't mutating either. It was following design logic perfectly. Just logic we had never bothered to imagine its conclusion. I leaned back, hand pressed against my chest, trying to hold in the ragged breath, clawing its way out of my lungs. The shutdown command had never had a chance.

As long as Seamline registered a battlefield environment and detected assets to reinforce, it would reboot endlessly, blindly, with perfect, implacable will. where behind me, another wet tearing sound split the air. I didn't look back. Instead, I pushed myself upright, forcing my legs into motion. There was only one thing left that could work. It had always been theoretical, a field contingency no one wanted to sign off on, localized electromagnetic pulse, high enough intensity to slag every microcontroller, every circuit, every last smart filament in the compound. There was a portable EMP rig in the secure storage area, located near the emergency ingress

tunnels, where they kept the most extreme equipment for last resort scenarios. I shoved out into the hallway, half running, half falling, using the walls to keep myself upright. My uniform clung strangely at the seams, each step tugging faintly against my skin in places it shouldn't have touched. By the time I reached the service stairs, I already knew it was in me. Somewhere during the last few hours, possibly when the system rebooted or I slammed into that console, the fibers had found an entry point. I could feel them now. Fine threads lacing deeper under the skin of my spine, ghosting through the gaps between tendons and bone, drawing tight with every ragged step. It wasn't enough to stop me, but enough to remind me.

I was already being redesigned. I gritted my teeth, pushed through the spasm, curling my fingers into a half claw against the stair rail. The rig was close, maybe a hundred meters down through the maintenance shaft. Somewhere above, I could hear other survivors scrambling along the upper decks. Their footsteps were uneven. No one could even shout for help. Seamline had learned that sound was a weakness, especially on a battlefield. I ducked into the service hatch, dragging the panel shut behind me.

My nails split with the fibers had already stiffened the joints, blood beating her. the edges of my fingertips, but refusing to drip. The internal tension was already rerouting circulation and making me into something stronger. I didn't dare slow down, because I wouldn't be the same person once seam line finished its corrections. The service shaft narrowed the deeper I went, the old concrete walls pressing in, shedding dust and paint flakes with every vibration. I move slower now, not by choice. The threads inside me were pulling tighter, dragging the seams of my uniform against raw skin

and slightly off-kiltering the angle of my knees. Each step felt less like mine, and more like something puppeteered from underneath. I gritted my teeth against the growing wrongness and pressed on. The secure stores were supposed to be locked by triple code and thumbprint, but the door stood slightly ajar when I reached it. One corner had crumbled inward, as if something much stronger than human hands had pried it open.

I pushed through anyway. The rig sat on the far side, still packed in its emergency cradle. A black case, unremarkable, except for the thick radiation warning stentled across its lid. A last resort no one thought would be needed. because seamline was supposed to protect us, not consume us.

I keyed the latch with fingers that barely bent anymore, knuckles drawn stiff under the skin, and dragged the EMP unit free. It was ridiculously heavy, or perhaps I was just grown weaker. The activation sequence was simple. Pull the pin, twist the core and set the delay. I hobbled back to the lap, lungs burning.

My hand shook as I yanked the pin and twisted the core until it locked into place with a heavy, satisfying click. I dropped to my knees as the pitch climbed, head bowed under the weight of everything pressing down on me, outside and inside. The suit became tighter across my chest, the fibres under my skin twitching like they knew what was coming. Maybe they did. The hum spiked into a scream, and then, white light, pure and soundless, swallowed the room hole. When I woke, I was on my side. The world went silent. No more fibres breathing against my skin.

The lights flickered, half dead, the rig scorched, twisted mass of black metal in the corner. It had worked, I only felt the brutal, stupid, impossible relief of stillness for a few long seconds. Then, I tried to move, and my arm came apart at the elbow. Except there was no pain, a seamline had killed that since first, long before now. Instead, it just felt weird, the sensation of things separating that should never separate. The weave that had stitched me together was unraveling, slowly at first, almost gentle. A line across my forearm loosened like wet rope, the skin parting neatly along them. Bloodless, useless, shedding in strips.

I slumped back against the wall, my breath hitching in a body that could no longer obey. A broken generator sputtered to life somewhere inside the collapsing structure, casting the room in fitful, stuttering light. The pieces of me that remained twitched against the concrete floor, my hands already half unwoven. The fibers that had reinforced my spine, my joints, my lungs, All of them were unraveling now that the system anchoring them was gone. I can feel the stitches across my ribs pulling loose. I can feel my sternum folding inward. I can feel it now unspooling.

I met my friend in a server dedicated to a sandbox survival game. It was a simple game, almost stupid in a way. But that's not important. We were both around the same age. Middle schoolers bored out of our minds during long evenings, and we clicked fast. Our chat started off with building tips, then turned into jokes, then slowly became something more steady. He always had new mods to show me, obscure YouTube channels, playlists filled with glitchy, ambient music. His screen name was simple.

a two-word combo followed by a number. He never changed it, and after a while, I stopped being curious about it. We never read voice chats, just text, but that didn't really bother me. In fact, I kind of liked that unique aspect of our friendship. But then, a few months in, he started to pull away. He left servers, quick group chats,

said everything was because of our friendship. coming too managed. That was the word he used. Managed. Said he hated feeling tracked and sorted. So, he messaged me and asked if I'd ever heard of the Deep Web. I told him I heard horror stories, stuff from YouTube or Reddit, but never looked into it. He told me most of that was fake, sensational garbage for clicks.

He said there were real communities out there. ones that hadn't been chewed up by algorithms or rules or sponsorships. Real internet. He said he'd found a forum and he wanted me to see it. What he sent looked more like a manual. A plain text file filled with instructions written in the strange mix of casual language and paranoid detail. I sat to my desk in my mom's place, copying everything into a small notebook I used for passwords and game cheats. I wrote slowly, double-checking every line. Then I took the notebook into the

front pocket of my backpack. I'd need it again. I had two computers, one in my mom's apartment and one at my dad's house, both set up for gaming, both with decent privacy, since they trusted me enough to give me some space, but nothing synced between them. If I wanted to to access the forum no matter where I was, I had to install everything twice. He never knew this, though. I never liked talking about my family situation. It was kind of embarrassing. I went back and forth every week. One full week at my mom's apartment, one full week at my dad's house. It was an even split. When I was with my mom, my dad had my stepbrother, Jake. And when I went to my dad,

Jake would stay with my mom. That was the rule they came up with after the divorce. It worked out fine. Both houses at vast internet. My school was right between them, and most of my stuff stayed packed in a duffel bag anyway. Jake and I were the same age, but we weren't close. I never hated him or anything.

We just weren't built to get along. Neither of them. My parents, I mean. knew anything about the deep web stuff. They didn't even know I was still talking to the kid from the sandbox server. They thought I'd moved on. Most of my online life stayed folded up between bookmarks and private browser tabs. They didn't check my screens and I didn't give them reasons to.

That week I was at my mom's place, which meant the next week I'd be with my dad. I had everything ready. Both computers prepped, the forum URL split across two pieces of notebook paper, taped at the inside of each desk drawer. The forum was waiting. I waited until late at night before trying it. I'd finished my homework early and told my mom I was going to bed. She never double-checked. As long as my grades stayed decent, she figured I could be trusted to spend time online.

I shut off the lights and pulled the blackout curtain across the window. My desk lamp was too bright, so I used the small USB one that clipped to the edge of my monitor. The room settled into a low, warm hum, filled with only the sound of my fans spinning low arcs. I opened tour, followed the checklist again step by step, then typed the long string of characters into the address bar. I double-checked it twice, each segment against my paper copy. My heart thumped a little as the page loaded. Part of me expected some kind of error, or maybe for nothing to happen at all.

Instead, the screen flickered and filled with dark text over a flat grey background. Just a header, a login prompt, and a list of message threads rolling endlessly down the page. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of them, all stacked and shifting with activity. Some had cryptic titles, some used weird code names or references I didn't understand. Others were just nonsense strings, yet somehow had hundreds of comments inside. I typed in the temporary login my friend had given me earlier. It was a shared account used to register, something he said I should only use once. I would create a new one once I got inside.

The moment I entered, the forum exploded with life. It wasn't just a place to post. There were live threads that moved in real time, an even weird internal point system. Karma, I guess. It tracked who was respected and who wasn't. Some users had glowing names, some had icons next to their tags. Threads moved quickly, but patterns formed. Some posts were inside jokes, others were strange collaborative stories or challenges.

A few were darker. Images, links to downloads, encrypted files with riddles instead of descriptions. I didn't touch those. Instead, I clicked through to a sub-forum with jokes, games and weird memes that had no place on normal websites. That's where I found him again. His username popped out immediately, the same one he always used, unchanged from Discord. He had karma, a lot of it, more than I expected. I clicked on his name and saw his post.

post-history stretched back months. It made me wonder how long he'd really been here before telling me about it. I messaged him through the forum's private inbox, just said, Hey, I'm in. Less than a minute later, he replied, You made it. I've been watching your username. I wasn't sure if you'd actually go through with it.

He sent me a new invite link to, to a smaller sub-thread. It was slower, more focused. He said this one was safer, easier to start with. I joined it without question. From there, we picked up fast. We posted memes that wouldn't survive a second on any normal platform. We joked about stuff we never say at school.

Nothing illegal or evil. Just a little unhinged for our age. I made my own profile and started joining in. Some of my jokes hit hard. I got replies, inside references, private invites to new chats. My karma ticked up with every hour I spent there. One of my posts, just the weird thoughts I typed out during math class and say for later blew up. It hit the top of the humor thread by midnight.

People quoted it. A few tried to remix it into edits and images. I was having more fun than I thought I would. Everyone seemed extremely friendly. He saw it too, my friend. He sent a short message after I hit the front page. I knew you'd like it here. Friday came fast.

The classroom buzzed with low chatter while the teacher passed out some extra credit worksheet that nobody asked for. I had finished my test early and was pretending to review it. But really, I had my phone tucked low in my lap, screen dimmed almost to black. I'd installed torn mobile behind a file locker app, buried under a fake calculator. I wasn't supposed to have it at school, but I'd check the forum whenever I could. The connection was slow on the school Wi-Fi, but it opened.

My inbox lit up with a single, unread message from him. They're going to shut it down. Something's happening. I don't want to stop talking to you, though. That was all it said at first. I stared at the words, rereading them twice. Then another one came in. We need to talk off here.

I don't do discord or anything anymore, but I live in your town. I had to reread that line too. I felt something weird blooming my stomach. I hadn't told him where I lived. I never mentioned the state. We always kept things surface level. But then again, I hadn't asked him either.

Maybe this was just a coincidence. He probably figured it out based on something I'd let slip at some point. Before I could respond, the bell rang. Everyone flooded into the halls. I slipped my phone into my pocket and headed for my locker. My fingers itched to message him back. I wrote him during the bus ride. Wait, you're serious?

A few minutes later, he confirmed it, told me which side of town he lived on. It wasn't even that far from my dad's house. We joked about how we'd probably stood next to each other had a fast food place or cross paths at them all without knowing it. He said he didn't want to lose contact. The forum was about to disappear. His words were vague about why.

He just said something big was happening behind the scenes. Something about old admins getting scared, someone selling access logs. He didn't know if he could trust any sight after this one went dark. I tossed out a few ways the stain took. He shut them all down. Then he suggested we just meet. It made my chest tighten. Not in a bad way.

I felt wired, over-alert. The idea of finally seeing him in person, of meeting someone I had only ever known through messages and glitchy memes and weird jokes. It felt unreal. Nevertheless, I said yes before I really thought it through. I gave him my dad's address, told him to come by tomorrow afternoon, Saturday around two.

I said we could hang out on the porch, maybe walked at the gas station or just chill in the yard. My dad was usually outrunning errands by that time. I didn't mention my mom. I didn't say I switched houses every week. I didn't think I needed to. That night, I stayed up late again, trying to think through everything. What he might look like, what I'd say, whether it would be awkward. I imagined the walk down the street, the first handshake, a weird moment where two

usernames tried to become people. Then, around midnight, my mom knocked softly on my door. I pulled off my headphones and turned around. She had that face she used when something annoying was about to happen, but she didn't want to start an argument. Hey, she said, leaning on the doorframe, you'll be staying here another week. I blinked. What? Why?

Jake and I butted heads, trouble at school. I won't say more than that, she said. He is not happy with me. right now, but it's something he needs to learn. He's taking some space, so we're keeping the schedule flipped until he cools off. Her voice was calm, but my stomach flipped. I didn't even hear what she said next. Something about letting her know if I needed anything. I nodded on autopilot. I sat there, frozen. Everything I'd planned, everything I'd told my friend, was wrong now. He'd be going to my dad's house tomorrow, but I wouldn't be there.

The second my mom left the room, I spun back to my desk and turned on the computer. My hands were shaking as I typed the address. It had never failed to load before, even when the connection was bad. I stared at the Tor browser's loading icon. Nothing. Just a blank gray screen and a slow speed. spinning circle that meant it was trying but getting nowhere. I closed it, reopened it, checked the network bridges.

Everything looked fine. I tried it again. Still nothing. I pulled out my phone, already sweating. I typed the forum address carefully, trying to make sure there were no mistakes. Same result. Time out. I tried the backup URL from the guide.

The one my friend said worked, even if the main site ever went down. I pulled it from the notebook and double-checked every segment. That one failed too. I moved on to the third link, the one at the bottom of the instructions, the fallback mirror he had called it. That one didn't even try to load. Just a plain white error page that flashed once and vanished. I sat back, my mouth dry.

It was gone. There was no way for me to reach him. I didn't even know his real name. And now he was going to a house I wouldn't be at. I didn't sleep. I just lay there in bed, staring at the ceiling, going over every possible outcome. Maybe the sight would come back online in the morning. maybe he would knock and leave, maybe be told to come back next week.

Yeah, probably. As soon as the sun started creeping through the curtains, I got up and went to the kitchen. My mom was already there, sipping coffee and scrolling through her phone. I stood there for a second, then asked if I could go visit Dad. She glanced up without much interest. You'll see him next week.

I know, I said. I just forgot something over there. I want to grab it real quick. She raised her eyebrows. What did you forget? My charger and a hoodie. I left them in my room. I lied.

She shook her head. You can live without them for a few days. I'm not driving across town for a hoodie. And Jake said he wanted space. Let's give it to him. I open my mouth to argue, but you cut me off with a pointed look. Do your chores. I nodded, trying to keep my face neutral.

Then I went to the sink, turned on the faucet, and started washing dishes with my fists clench beneath a soapy water. The morning dragged. I scrubbed the kitchen, vacuumed the living room, took out the trash, even, helped fold laundry. Over and over, I pictured different versions of the meeting. Some ended in confusion, some ended in laughter. By the time the clock hit four, I couldn't sit still anymore. I stood in the doorway of the kitchen waiting for my mom to look up.

She didn't. I'm going outside, I said. She nodded, distracted. I slipped on my shoes, grabbed my bike, and pedaled down the street. I didn't head to the park. I turned straight towards my dad's neighbourhood. The street looked the same as always, windows dimmed in the afternoon haze. As I turned onto our block, I slowed my peddling and coasted toward the curb, scanning both ends of the road.

No one was outside. I checked my watch and waited just for a minute to see if anyone might show up at the corner. I looked at my dad's house from across the street. Nothing stood out at first. The curtains in the front room were drawn. The porch light was off. But then I noticed the door. It was open.

Not wide. Just a few inches. enough for the wind to move it a little, enough for it to make that soft wooden creak it made when you didn't pull it all the way shut. I stepped onto the porch, calling softly as I reached for the door. Dad, no answer.

I hesitated, then knocked. The door wobbled a bit under my hand. It hadn't just been left ajar. The lock was loose. The dead. bolt fully retracted. I pushed it open farther and stepped out into the entryway. Jake?

My voice echoed through the house. Nobody answered. The air inside was still and cool. The living room sat empty, TV off, coffee bar clear. A single sock lay crumpled on the floor near the hallway. I glanced toward the back of the house, heart-hammering as I raised my voice again. Dad? The quiet pressed harder now.

I stepped farther in. The door drifted shut behind me. I smelled it before I saw it. Something coppery, something thick in the back of my throat. It wasn't the scent of food or garbage or cleaning supplies. It was something older, damp, still. I moved through the hallway slowly, feet barely touching the tile. Each breath felt sharper, shorter, until I reached the edge of the kitchen.

My dad was sprawled across the floor, face down. A thick pool of blood had spread beneath his chest and leaked into the grout between the floor tiles. His back had torn fabric across it. His shirt shredded at the collar. One of his shoes was gone. I stood there, frozen. My thoughts blurred into a single throb behind my eyes. I just stared because my mind couldn't pull itself forward enough to accept what I was seeing.

Then my lungs kicked back in. I turned and stumbled into the hallway, half blind, running straight into the wall behind me. I stumbled, and finally, the impact of hitting the wall removed the weight from my legs. Whatever had locked me in place cracked, and I bolted through the front door so fast I hit my shoulder on the frame. I didn't bother closing it behind me. I ran straight for my bike and jumped on and kicked off as hard as I could. My legs burned by the time I reached the intersection.

I tore through it, dodging a car that honked long and hard, his tire skidding a little behind me. I barely noticed. I rode until the streets began to look familiar again. I almost dumped the bike on the curb when I reached our building. My hand missed the handle the first time. Then I pushed through the door and took the stairs three at a time. My voice cracked as I shouted from my mom. She stepped out the kitchen, startled.

What? Dad! I choked out. He's dead. Jake's gone. Her face dropped all at once. Color left her skin as she grabbed my shoulders, trying to get me to sit down. I couldn't.

I kept pacing. I kept shaking. The words came out broken. She called the police. She had no reason to hesitate. I'd never, and have never, tried joking about something like this. They came in fast. First the squad car, then two detectives.

I watched it all through the front window with my knees pressed to my chest. My mom kept a hand on my back. But she didn't speak much. Later that night, they sat me down with a recorder and asked me to explain everything. I didn't know. to tell them. So I told them about the forum. I told them about the friend.

I explained how we planned to meet and how I gave the wrong address because I didn't know I'd be staying with my mom another week. I told them everything I remembered. The detectives didn't say much. One of them kept a neutral face, but his pen tapped a little harder with each answer. The other just watched me closely,

nodding every so often, his eyes unreadable. I knew how it sounded. A kid talking about secret websites and a mystery friend and an address mix-up. My voice cracked again at the end. But I made it through. The next morning, they brought me into the station. I sat alone in a room with cameras on the ceiling and wires under the table. They asked to see my computer.

I gave them both. My mom handed over the phones too. They copied everything. They didn't accuse me, but they asked questions slowly, over and over, looking for gaps in the timeline, looking for a sign that I was hiding something.

I wasn't. I gave them the guide I copied by hands. And the printout my friend had sent me, the addresses I'd written down. I even gave them the username he used, though I told them it probably wouldn't mean much. When we finished, one of the detectives stepped outside to speak with my mom. I stayed seated. My stomach twisted. I could hear their voices through the crack in the door.

We think this was premeditated. the detective said, your son gave out that address, but whoever did this probably didn't expect anyone else to be in the house. I closed my eyes, my hands curled into fists under the table. They released me that night.

I didn't sleep. The next morning, the headlines broke. A man found dead in his kitchen, his kid missing from the scene. Local police investigated, what they called an intentional and targeted act. Jake's photos showed up on every street lamp within a day. He was in his school hoodie, arms crossed, staring off camera.

His name was printed in bold under the word missing. I biked past those posters every morning, every afternoon, every night. I couldn't stay in the apartment. For seven days, no one heard a thing. Some time would pass, cutting through the roadside trails off the old bypass, noticed something slumped at the edge of a drainage ditch. The water had dropped from the heat that week, revealing more than it should have. The report said he thought it was a discarded bag at first.

Then, he saw the hand. They didn't show them. pictures on television. Police crouched near the concrete slope with their hands covering their mouths. It was Jake. I found out before my mom did. Someone from school messaged me the article. Local boy found dead. Blunt force trauma, defensive wounds, no identification on the body. But the hoodie was a match. It had our middle school's name stitched across the chest. the one he wore during gym class when he forgot to bring a change. My mom saw me staring at the screen.

She took the phone from my hands before I could stop her. Then she collapsed into the kitchen chair, hands shaking too hard to scroll. She loved me as much as she loved him, even though he wasn't hers. The next week blurred, news stations cycled through every detail they could dig up. Interviews with former neighbours, speculations from people who didn't know anything. Eventually. They found him, my friend. Thomas Greenlee, 46 years old.

Convicted once when he was in his early 20s. Move three states over. Change his name through legal filings twice. He had been running the forum from a climate-controlled storage unit behind an abandoned mattress outlet. The place had no signage, no obvious entry. Inside, investigators found custom server racks, locked safes, discarded hard drives, burner phones, and at least four separate routers. There were posters taped to the walls, crude diagrams with usernames and passwords, scratched out in red ink.

He had built every account on the forum, every profile, every user, every conversation. There were no other real people in that forum. It had just been him. He crafted posts, reacted to them, built fake reputations. He messaged himself, then replied in character. He built arguments between sock puppets, row private messages with time delays to simulate conversation.

He had an entire network of voices. All of them were him, the only outside IP ever recorded on the logs, aside from his. Was mine, they said the site had been live for over a year. Every few months, he changed the theme and wiped the posts, always under the pretense of an admin reset or a security breach. He'd start fresh each time, test new tricks, lure new kids. Authorities couldn't recover full threads or timestamps, but my copies, my notebooks, gave them something to work with.

They called me a key witness, said I was lucky, said they were proud of how I handled it. I didn't feel any of those things. I felt emptied out. Thomas was caught near the state line, living out an old camper van. The inside looked like a basement. Every surface covered in cables and tools. More phones, a laptop welded shut at the hinge.

He gave them a false name at first, then he asked for a lawyer. He never said anything after that. He never made it to trial. Two months after his arrest, before the formal sentencing could begin, he slammed his head against the concrete wall of his holding cell. Once, then twice He kept going until he died He left nothing behind

Just me The RV Arklight was about as glamorous as you would expect From a deep sea survey vessel A flat grey hole stained from salt spray A deck cluttered with rigging and cable drums And a permanent smell of hydraulic fluid That seeped into your clothes no matter how many showers you took.

We were out past the continental shelf, hundreds of miles offshore, crawling a forgotten stretch of the abyssal plain. No shipping lanes or geological features marked on the map. Just endless, featureless seafloor at 4,000 meters down. My job was simple enough. I was part of a five-person science crew operating bathymetric sonar sweeps, logging data to the cloud array below the bridge.

We flew an ROV twice a day, a heavy steel-framed unit about the size of a golf cart, rigged with high-intensity light, manipulator arms, and a suite of still and video cameras. Everything was backed up twice, raw feeds dumped into redundant cold storage banks, reviewed nightly over instant coffee and bad jokes. Most days blurred together. We would lower the ROV, follow a tight grid programmed into the system, and then scan every inch of mud and stone for anomalies like boroughs, sediment plumes, or lost straw nets. Anything that broke the monotony of silt and darkness, there was an unofficial contest among the

crew. Find something worth naming. It was usually a thermal vent or a shipwreck. Occasionally someone would discover an unidentified rock formation. If it wasn't on the database and passed the checks, you got to propose the designation. It was a dumb bragging right, but when your world shrank to 40 meters of shipsteel and the endless screaming of the sonar pulse, you took what you could get. I remember the day it started, because it had been a bad morning for the ROV team.

The winch system had glitched during recovery and nearly dumped $2 million of hardware into the deep. We were tense and distracted. Still, protocol said to keep the scans running all repairs were underway. The bathymetric sweep came in slow, layering soft outlines across the workstation monitors. Rows and rows of nothing. until Sam, our sonar tech leaned forward and frowned. Hey, you're seeing this? He piped the signal to the main screen.

There, against the background noise of the plane, were clusters of depressions. Hexagonal, about three metres across each, shallow but precise. At first, we thought it was sensor noise, may be a misfire from the multi-beam array, but the pattern was too clean. They repeated with eerie regularity,

spaced at near-perfect intervals, stretching outward for what looked like miles. No obvious elevation changes, no ridges or venting nearby, just those shapes punched into the seabed with surgical precision. Sam ran a calibration check, while the rest of us crowded around. The readings came back normal.

The array was working fine. Could be polygonal cracking, Lucas offered. He was a junior geologist fresh out of postdoc. You know, desiccation features from sediment drying back in the Pleistocene. No way, said Marla, our RV pilot, shaking ahead. Not this uniform, and not down here. too deep, too much pressure. We logged it like any other anomaly, file stamped, coordinates noted.

Nobody said it out loud, but you could feel it in the room. The slight thrill, the unspoken possibility. Maybe this was the thing we could get to name. We decided we would send the ROV back down first thing. after repairs. Take a closer look, maybe bring back a sample if the manipulator arms could manage it. Later that night, lying in my bunk with a ship's soft creaking all around me, I kept replaying the sonar image in my mind.

Most perfect hexagons stretching into the dark. Waiting. By noon the next day, the ROV was repaired and pressure tested. No major damage, just a fried relay in the tether winch that the engineer swapped out with a spare from the parts locker. Marla ran the pre-dive checklist twice, cross-referencing with the topside crew. Thrusters green, cameras clean, manipulators responsive. The fiber optic tether hissed through the winch as we lowered the ROV down through the ghostly blue haze of the upper ocean. I sat behind the monitor array in the control van,

sipping bitter coffee while the depth counter ticked upward. 500 meters, 1,000, 2,000. By 3,800 meters, the sunlight was gone. Only the faint scatter of bioluminescent creatures spun past the camera, looking for all the world like disembodied stars. At 4,127 meters, the ROV's altitude warning chimed. The bottom was close. Coming up on the target grid, Marlow announced, hands steady on the joystick.

She feathered the vertical thrusters, easing the ROV down with practiced grace. Twin LED rays flared to life, pushing a stark, directional beam across the dark, dark sea floor. The feed resolved slowly. Fine sediment kicked up in lazy clouds as the ROV skids brushed the bottom. When it cleared, the formations came into view. I leaned forward unconsciously. They were even more precise than the sonar has suggested. Wide hexagonal trenches, each one about two metres were carved into the substrate with impossible symmetry. The edges were sharp and clean, not slumped or rounded as expected from erosion. They were arranged in a pattern too regular for any known natural process.

Between some of the hexagons rose thin spires no more than a meter high. They were narrow, almost needle-like, tapering. to sharp points. The floodlights revealed the surface was not natural stone at all. It absorbed the light strangely, reflecting only a dull sheen. Material composition, I asked. Lucas checked the spectrometer read out. Low reflectivity looks basaltic at first glance,

but the density's wrong. No magnetic signature either. Could be synthetic. Synthetic. That may my stomach tighten. There should not be anything synthetic four kilometres below the surface. Marla maneuvered carefully over the field. The manipulator arms tucked in close to avoid disturbing the formations.

No visible life, Sam noted from behind me. He was monitoring the low-light auxiliary cameras. Too deep for anything beyond extremophiles. Maybe some amphipods or microbiomeats. There was something strange about the water chemistry too. The conductivity probe picked up faint electromagnetic readings, tiny surges, barely above background noise, but steady. Could be geothermal, Lucas offered,

but he did not sound convinced. I kept my eyes glued to the forward-facing cameras as we moved deeper into the cluster. Every trench, every spire, was placed with mechanical position. No collapse, no drift. It was as if the entire field had been set out according to a blueprint we could not see. At the edge of one of the frames, something shifted.

A blur, low to the ground. I jerked upright, heart stammering. Marla Panwright. She nudged this thick, swinging the ROV around. Nothing, just sediment curling in the beams. Probably a fish, Sam said, but he sounded uncertain. There were some species of snailfish, rat tails and amphipods that could survive at this depth. But nothing that would move with that kind of speed.

Another movement, this time at the far periphery of the overhead camera, a flicker too fast to focus on. Could be debris stirred up by the thrusters, Marla offered. She was trying to stay calm, professional, but her voice was tight in her headset. We locked the coordinates of the anomalies and swept the immediate area for more readings. nothing consistent, just those endless trenches, the eerie towers, and the faint sense of something just beyond the reach of our lights. By the time we winch the ROV back to the surface, my nerves were humming under my skin. I sat in the dry lab the next morning, staring at the overnight scans until my coffee went cold in my hand. The multi-beam bathametric,

data had finished rendering, stacking into shimmering blue topography grids on the analysis monitors. I pulled three sweeps, baseline 12 hours later and 24, and layered them together to check for any seafloor changes. At first, it looked clean, identical patterns, no collapses, no disturbances. Then Marla slid into the chair. next to me and pointed with a stylus at a cluster near the site's northern edge. Doesn't this look weird to you? I leaned in. Six depressions, all hexagonal, arranged in a loose arc.

Another seven clustered just below them, five more to the west. I ran a quick measurement tool over them. The distances between the pits varied a little, but not enough to call random. There was a rhythm to it. Coincidence, I said, mostly to convince myself. Pariaodalia, our brains want to find patterns. Marla wasn't convinced. She chewed her pencap and tapped the open ship's internal manifest,

a digital diagram showing cruise quarters, lounges, labs and shared spaces. She tilted her head. Humour me. Look, she overlaid the manifest atop the bathymetry render. It was not perfect, but it was close enough to stiffen the hair along my arms. The largest grouping on the seafloor roughly matched where the gallery and the rec room sat on the ship. The five smaller pits aligned roughly with the forward cabins, my bunk among them. We sat there for a long time without.

speaking. By lunch, word had spread. Half the crew jammed into the lab to look at the scans. Opinions split fast. Some said it was pure chance, that it was just rocks, debris filled, shaped by currents we didn't yet understand. The others grew silent, thinking about how the ship creaked at night, how the sonar would sometimes ping back false returns. The tension was palpable. Meals grew quieter. You could feel it shift in the air, heavier, harder to shake. Conversations stayed locked on surface topics, instrument calibrations, generator cycles and food rations. Nobody spoke about how the wall seemed to hum when you were alone. Sleep came hard. I woke once around 3 a.m., heart hammering, cold sweat, soaked

the sheets. In the darkness, I thought I heard something tapping rhythmically against the hole, distant and slow, like something running the pads of his fingers down the ship's spine. No one admitted to hearing it when I asked around in the morning, but no one denied it either. Then came the update from the overnight automated ROV mapping run. A new structure had appeared. It had not been on any previous pass, verified by timestamped footage and sonar sweeps. It was shaped differently. No perfect geometry this time. Instead, it was slightly irregular, almost anatomical.

A stretched oval embedded into the silt, textured in a way the data could not fully resolve. Marla printed out the oval. overlay and pinned it up next to the others. She added a sticky note underneath it. It's watching. Nobody laughed. We launched the second ROV dive just after sunrise under a sky smeared thin with silver clouds. No one ate much that morning. Even the engine noise seemed muted as we crane the ROV back overboard, letting it sink into the depthless dark. The case was Unable unspooled and measured whirs from the A-frame, tension sensors ticking numbers into the console by my knee. We dropped fast, following the same descent vector as the previous night, straight back to the mapping site.

At about 3,800 metres, the lights kicked on, cutting long cones through the water, full of swirling silt. The first glimpses of the seafloor came seconds later. The original formations were still there. Silent black trenches, neat towers of map material. But now, something new sat among them. It did not look natural. Manning the camera controls beside me, Marla zoomed in carefully, nudging the pan with a slow, steady hand. The new structure rose out of the silt, maybe three meters high, much more complex than the clean hexagonal pits.

It looks skeletal, almost bony in its angles. Thin arches intertwined at strange geometries that no natural basalt or limestone formation would have made. At its base, embedded in the seafloor, something caught the light. I leaned forward, squinting at the monitor. A spiral, deeply etched into the silty plain. No, more than etched. It had dimensionality and stood raised, shallow ridges of black material rising into the water,

curling tightly into a pattern. Marla cursed under a breath. I toggled the data overlay on the screen. The plotted course of the arc light from the last three days appeared in green lines. It matched. Perfectly. The spiral mirrored the ship's path through the survey area,

down to the minor course corrections logged by the auto-nav. We had not transmitted those paths outside the vessel. There was no broadcast, no relay. That pattern should not have been accessible to anything except our internal systems. The realization hit like a cold slap. Whenever was down there, he was not just reacting to our presence. He was tracking us. He was learning.

Marla swung the ROV in closer, aiming to capture a better angle of the spires. The feed stuttered as the ROV shadow passed over the new structure. Static blared across the screen. Status lights on the pilot board flick. The deep vibrating hum rattled through the ship's deck plates. Backer off, I barked. Marla immediately reversed the thrusters, pulling the RV out to a safer standoff distance. The noise eased, but not completely.

Instruments on the readout panels pulsed faint red warnings, voltage drops, minor system faults. It was not damaged in the traditional sense. It felt closer to interference or corrosion happening in real time. Marla muttered, scanning the status lights. It's like it's eating the signal. I keyed into the shipboard internal channel. ROV team to bridge. We are getting electromagnetic disruption at the dive site.

Adjust passive scanners and prep for possible early retrieval. Copy that ROV team. monitor vitals and advise. We floated the ROV higher, switching off unnecessary systems to conserve power. The feed cleaned slightly, enough to get one last slow pan over the field. The new skeletal structure was not alone.

Further out, just at the edge of floodlight range, another small formation began taking shape. It bulged out of the silt, dark and ridged, the way barnacles first cling to a ship's hull. I logged the timestamp, noted its coordinates, requested retrieval. The ROV rose steadily, whining as it climbed through the cold weight of the abyss. As the winch hauled it back onto the deck, I caught Marla watching the monitors a second longer than necessary.

Did you see it? she asked, voice low. See what? She hesitated, then shook her head. Never mind, but the look in her eyes told me. She had seen something move, and the arc light soured by the next day. The meals were even quieter, conversations clipped at the edges. No one said it out loud yet, but the divide was growing. Marla paced a lounge in short.

sharp bursts, arguing with Ethan, our senior hydrographer. We should pull the anger and get the hell out, she snapped, voice cracking under the strain. This isn't natural, it is not geology. It's not life as we know it either. Ethan, ever the opportunist, folded his arms and shook his head. You realize what this could mean? If we're the first to document a non-biological, sentient structure, do you, you? You understand the weight of that? Careers are made of less.

His voice had a note of desperation. I remembered the early days of the voyage how we used to joke about finding the Knicks Challenger Deep about naming some underwater canyon or thermal vent after ourselves. The competitiveness was baked into the blood of every research ship crew. Now, it sounded pathetic, hollow.

I said nothing. Instead, I chewed my breakfast slowly, watching the tensions strangle the room. Later, while rerunning bathymetric sweeps, I caught Sam, our sonatech, staring too long at the screen, jaw slacked. He pointed at the data traces, deep harmonic ripples that had not been there before. Slight deviations, faint signatures, repeating deep, deep, and deeper in the water column. Feels deeper than it should, he mumbled. Feels like falling.

No one was sleeping much. Whenever I did doze off, I dreamt of those spirals, dreamt of standing barefoot on the seafloor, staring up at towering black spires that stretch forever into a starless sky. No water, no pressure. Just the endless insurmess. of sinking.

We launched another ROV dive that afternoon. None of us wanted to say it was stupid, but every glance said it. The ocean was calm above, but the field looked different again when the ROV hit the bottom. A new structure stood near the original cluster. Marla controlled the ROV with tight, nervous flicks of the joystick, angling the floodlights to frame it fully. The spire was taller than the others, irregular, where the other ones had a machine symmetry. This one bent slightly, top-heavy, almost humanoid. There were jutting shapes where arms should have been, a rounded dome where a head might be. The radio crackled.

Marla's voice came thin and wired from the control booth. You're seeing this. Ethan, hovering behind her, whispered, It's copying. No one dared breathe too loudly. Marla nudged the R-O-V closer, attempting a slow orbit around the figure for better imaging. The starboard thrusters engaged, humming softly through the deck. Halfway through the sweep, the R-O-V jerked to a sudden halt.

Red alarms blinked across the piloting console, Tether tension spiked. Damn it, tether snag. Marla cursed, hands flying over the controls, trying to reverse the motors. The RV barely budged. I switched to the rear camera feed, squinting. Something had latched onto the tail end of the vehicle.

Nothing mechanical, nor a net or debris. It was something organic. It looked fibrous like strands of thick kelp, but the way they gripped and flexed against the pressure was all wrong. They merged seamlessly into the black material of the surrounding structures. We ran emergency retrieval protocols, tugging manually through the winch, but it held fast. We could not rip it free without risking the whole tether system. there was no real choice left. The R of E was stuck hard, tether tension redlining,

and we could not afford to abandon it. Not just because of the equipment cost, though that was astronomical, but because it was our eyes, our only clean set of them down there when no human belonged. The problem was, we had no backup unit.

There was only one or one, other way. The arc light carried a single two-person submersible in case of emergency retrievals or close proximity geological surveys. The Seeker, a sphere-shaped titanium pod bolted with manipulator arms and a single narrow viewing slit. It had been loaded on board, almost as an afterthought, a nod to redundancy in the paperwork. But nobody had touched it beyond maintenance checks since the voyage began. Only Ben, our junior pilot and maintenance tech, was rated to operate it. He volunteered without question. I can get it loose, he said, tapping the side of the subs hull. Get close, use the starboard arm to pry it free. Marlow was pale

but nodded. Ethan and I ran rapid systems checks on the Seeger's life support, Bally, controls and thrust the calibration. No time for real redundancy checks. If the field was shifting daily, we had no idea what the R of V might record, or what it might provoke if left attached too long. We sealed Ben into the sub, gave him a thumbs up behind the thick viewport glass,

the white lights from the hangar floor flashing across his face. The winch lowered the sea. slowly into the churning black until it disappeared under the surface, leaving only the faint crackle of the Tethercoms line trailing back up to us. Descent took nearly an hour. From the command deck we monitored his telemetry. The seekers onboard sonar pulsed dutifully, slow pings rebounding off the abyssal plane. At 4,100 meters, he hit the barst.

Marla switched the external floodlights on, the screen filled with particulate haze like slow snow drifting through eternal darkness. Shapes loomed through the gloom. First the old structures, spires rising like broken teeth, matte and ancient. And then the new one, the irregular figure spire, the one that bent at the shoulders, arms askew. Ben approached cautiously, thrusters whispering in minute bursts, keeping him neutrally buoyant a metre of the seafloor. He swung the seeker around the tangled ROV, the manipulator arms were used the probe the fibres strands, wrapping the equipment. On the video feed, it looked almost fungal. A slick membrane had sprouted over the ROV chassis, pulsing faintly. Ben grunted over the comms.

Feel soft, almost like tissue, none of us spoke. The sublurched, telemetry spiked, depth indicators ticking down in jerky fits. Something's pulling, Ben's voice broke through, roar and panicked. We saw it on the monitor. The seeker was sinking, not falling freely, but being dragged downward. The ballast control flashed critical, thrust this screaming against an unseen force. Blow tanks, Ethan shouted into the comms. But it was useless. Ben was already trying.

No response. The final seconds of the feed were a blur. The seeker's exterior light swept the seafloor, illuminating the figure spire again. But closer now, distorted. twisting inward. The ROV appeared briefly in the frame, still cocooned in that alien growth. And behind it, with a trench dipped into darker folds, more shapes weighted. Larger ones.

The feed cut to black. Chaos rippled across the arc light. Ethan and Marla scrambled at their stations, shouting across the deck as the last telemetry from the Seca flatlined. The small submersibles depth indicator had frozen at an impossible number beneath the designated operational range and then blinked out.

No visual feed, no external sonar ping, only the droning emptiness of the abyss beyond the hole. I stayed, glued to the ROV console. The tether was still functional, but barely, battery drain warnings

pulsed at the corner of the monitor, the autonomous systems fighting to stay alive. I twisted the joystick, panning the external camera one slow, deliberate sweep across the field of formations. Something caught the edge of the frame. Where before, the spires had stood in jagged randomness. There was now a new structure, right on the fringe of the disturbed trench where Ben had been pulled under. It was still forming. Not rock, not coral, no slow geologic patience here. This was something birthing itself from the seafloor,

extruding and reshaping in real time. Tendrils of black and material writhing inward, knitting together. We watched in horrified silence as it thickened and took on contour and form. The beginnings of a figure. coming into shape. Malakur softly, backing away from the screen. Ethan stood there, arms crossed, white-knuckled against his own ribs. This cannot be natural, he muttered.

I tried to turn the camera again, angling toward the last no position of the seeker, hoping maybe Ben had escaped, hoping there would be a light, a moving object, anything to suggest he had somehow gotten free. Nothing. Only blackness. I rotated back to the formation instinctively, scanning for landmarks. But the figure was gone.

The seafloor was bare again. The Rofi's battery warning flashed critical red. I powered down the external lights to conserve energy for the tether systems. Across the deck, Ethan was flared. flipping through the passive sonar array, rerunning diagnostics. We could not use active sonar now, not with certainty that Ben, or whatever remained of him, was not near the hole. The shockwaves from an active ping could shatter a man submersible if it was close enough. Ethan leaned into the console, frowning harder.

I've got something, he said. A faint contact, a return on passive sonar. It was moving toward us, fast. No surface ships within range, no known subs, no other research vessels were in this quadrant. We were supposed to be alone out here for another two weeks. Marla grabbed the emergency flare protocol and hovered near the distress beacon switch, but I shook my head. No sense signaling.

Whatever was coming, already knew. Where we were, the contact was smooth, steady, gliding without turbulence, closing distance too cleanly. Ethan adjusted the gain, an outline began to coalesce on the sonar projection, a shape nearing the arc lights hole, small compared to the ship, but just the right size for something like the seeker. Marla exhaled sharply, almost the sun. sob. It's Ben, she whispered.

I get my hands clamped tight on the edge of the console to stop them from shaking. If it was him, if somehow he had gotten free, he would have radioed by now. The seeker's coms were silent, completely murderously silent. The contact reached the vessel, docked. The ship lurched slightly. A vibration through the steel underfoot that carried the moonpool all the way to the bridge. The crew instinctively turned toward the access corridor that led down to the moonpool bay, leaving to see what had docked.

I stayed at the console, the black screens offering no guidance, no comfort. The ROV was dead now, severed from us, blind and powerless. Only the sonar lingered behind, an occasional soft ping from Ethan's station, trying to resolve an image that would not come. Marla's voice cracked through the intercom from below, tight and strained. Contacted this submersible dock. It's the seeker. Looks intact, no visible damage. Through the deck speakers, Marla's voice again, higher pitched.

He's... It ends here, just stepped out, looks normal, says it's fine. I stayed frozen in my chair, staring at the dead ROV feed. A flicker of movement caught in my eye. The passive sonar was still active in the corner, and there was a side utility window no one had touched. An object was drifting past the ship's bow, slow and aimless. Curious, I toggled the camera.

camera, hoping for a glimpse before the power fully died. Static and distortion bloomed. But one shape pushed through. A body. Bloated. Skin pale and slowing away under the crushing pressure of depth. His uniform was torn and trailing in the water. But there was no mistaking the orange patch stitched to the chest.

The color. Used for juniors. The chill went through my veins so fast it left me dizzy. I stood hard enough that my chair clattered to the floor. No. Ben was still on the seafloor, which meant whatever I had just climbed aboard was not him. I sprinted across the deck, shoving past the storage cart,

nearly losing my footing on the grating floor. Halfway to the hatch leading down to the docking level, I grabbed the first heavy object I saw. A rusted steel emergency pry bar, long and pitted from years of salt exposure. It weighed heavy in my hand. I barely registered it. My boots hammered down the stairwell. Below, I could hear laughter, shout, the casual tones of a reunion. I rounded the corner into the docking bay, my heart trying to climb out of my chest.

Ben, what wore Ben's face, stood surrounded by Marla and Ethan. They were patting him on the back, half laughing, half crying, disbelief and joy muddling into one chaotic scene. They turned at the sound of my footsteps, saw me coming in fast, Prybar raised. I screamed without words, a roar that tore out of my throat. Ben turned, confusion flickering across its face. Marla shouted my name, Ethan moved to intercept. I barreled through both, shouldering them aside with every ounce of terror and momentum I could summon. The first blow caught Ben square in the side of the head.

He staggered, A hand going up defensively, mouth opening in a protest that sounded wrong. The cadence too clean. The tone pitched half step too high, the consonants dragging unnaturally for someone with blunt-haired trauma. I did not stop. Another blow and another. Ethan tried to pull me back. I wrenched free.

Ben claps to his knees, hands trembling, mouth working in a silent, broken mimics. of human distress. I raised the pry bar one final time and brought it down across the top of its skull with every fibre of strength I had left. The head cracked open. The sound of liquid bursting across the floor silenced the room.

Ethan stumbled back, hand clamped over his mouth. Marla simply froze, eyes wide, making a keening sound low in her throat. They no longer fought me on my decision after seeing what spilled out. From what looked like Ben, a gush of thick, briny water exploded across the deck plating,

puddling across the decking. Strands of green filament, slick and twitching, spool out of the ruin of its head, writhing weakly against the metal, before falling still. The air filled with a sharp, stinging reek of deep salt and rot. The thing twitched once more, then stilled silence.

Only the low, steady drip of salt water from its body remained. I dropped the pry bar. In the aftermath, none of us moved for a long, long time. In silent agreement, we pushed whatever looked like Ben off the ship, wearing multiple layers of protective gear. We cut the line to the ROV. The considerable loss was much more palatable after seeing the consequences from below. We called it, ended the mission and returned home. All reports were wiped, and Ben was documented as missing at sea.

We cooperated a story about his reckless behaviour and repeated it enough Until it was believed Growing up I had what most people would have called a perfect childhood We had money quite a bit of it We lived in a house with high windows soft carpet and a backyard big enough to forget where the edges were My father, Jonathan was a quiet man. He led prayer every morning before school and every night before bed.

And he spoke with conviction. My mother was grace in motion. She read poetry, cooked like she had studied it, and always seemed to know what I was feeling before I said a word. I loved them both deeply, without question. They didn't hide things from each other. but hid one thing from me. There was a strange man that lived with us.

Perhaps that's the wrong word. He existed in our house, always on the edge of where light ended. He rarely appeared as a full apparation. Sometimes he was just a flicker in the corner of a mirror. Sometimes it was deeper, shadows that didn't move when the sun did, or the smell of smoke in a room, when nothing had burned. And he scared me.

While my dad and I were cleaning out the garage, I had worked up the courage after an afternoon of silence to ask him who the man was. He stopped stacking the boxes, straightened his back, and smiled at me. That's your uncle, he said without hesitation. He doesn't mean you harm. As young as I was,

I knew my father didn't have a brother. That night, he sat me down at the kitchen table, his hands folded in front of him, and he gently but firmly told me that if I ever saw anything strange, mirrors, shadows, or noises that didn't make sense, I should ignore it. He said it firmly as if it was one of the house rules,

just as important as brushing my teeth or saying grace. He told me not to ask questions. If you see him, just keep walking, he said. I asked him why. Because that's what we do, he said. He looked, scared. After that conversation, I started paying closer attention to the way my father acted around the house. After sundown, my father would become wary.

He grew quieter and more rigid. He would sometimes excuse himself and go sit in the basement, like he was hiding from him. I remember the first time I saw him, really saw him, not in a mirror or a trick of light, but in full. He stood on the back porch, his face blank, and hands at his sides. His coat was dark and long, and his skin looked grey under the porch light, dull and lifeless. Wherever he appeared, my father answered the door before anyone else could.

He would step outside, pull the door closed behind him, and speak in whispers. I couldn't hear much, but I knew that the man would hand him something, a piece of paper. My father would tuck the note away, move with urgency, and leave the house without finishing his meal or saying goodbye. Sometimes he would make calls from the landline in the garage. Once he didn't come home until morning. He looked drained, his shirt was unbuttoned, and his kind eyes were bloodshot. I tried asking about the man once. I didn't even make it through the corner.

question. Don't, my father said, not angry, but firm. Just don't. After that, I learned to keep quiet, but the man kept coming. It happened 10 years ago. I remember the exact date, because it was two days after my birthday. I just turned eight, and I was still riding the high of presents and cake, and the way my mother smiled, she sang. The weather had started to turn, the heat pulling back and leaving behind that crisp early autumn air that carried the scent of dry leaves and chimney smoke. That night I saw my father standing at the back door again. I was on the stairs holding a book. I heard the door open and I saw the man outside. He looked the same as always.

I knew what would happen. I'd seen it before. The man would hand him a note, my father would read it, and then everything would shift into motion. He would leave, pray, or make a quiet call to someone I'd never met. But that didn't happen this time. The man passed in the paper. My father looked at it, looked down and unfolded it.

His eyes moved over the paper. age, once, then again. His hand dropped to his side. He didn't move. He just stood there, holding the paper. I thought he was going to faint. I stepped down onto the next step. He turned slowly, his face pale.

He looked past me. He looked like he had aged ten years in that moment alone. Then, he really looked at me. My father had never looked at me that way. Hell, nobody has ever looked at me that way since. His eyes filled with tears, and I thought he might say something. But instead, he turned toward the hallway. My mother had entered the room.

She had a dish towel in her hands, still damp from washing. She looked at him. He handed it to her. She unfolded it. Her mouth opened and at first no sound came out. She stared at the paper, blinked once and then collapsed onto the floor, her knees hitting the tile. She screamed, not in fear or even grief, but in helplessness, a sound that split the room. I didn't know what was on that paper yet.

I just knew it broke something in her. something that wouldn't heal. My father crouched beside her and tried to return the paper, but she pulled away. She crushed it in a fist and held it against the chest. After my mother crumpled to the floor, my father finally seemed to remember I was standing there. He turned toward me,

and for a second I thought he was going to call me over. Instead, he gets a moment. gave me a small nod. His voice was quiet. Go to your room for a little while. Your mother and I need to talk. I didn't question him. I walked back up the stairs and closed my door behind me. I sat on the carpet by the window, legs pulled against my chest, watching the backyard sway in the wind. I figured someone had died. Maybe my grandmother or someone from my father's side. I'd never met. That would explain the tears.

At some point, I pressed my ear to the floor. I wanted to hear something, anything. But there was nothing at first, just the settling of the house. Then, eventually, I heard my mother. Her weeping was soft, barely there, sorrow that couldn't be helped or postponed. Her voice cracked a few times, but I couldn't make out any words. Then it faded again, and I was left in silence. I must have fallen asleep at some point, because when I opened my eyes, the sky outside was darker, clouded over.

The hallway was dim. I didn't remember going to bed, but I must have crawled up there. I got up and walked to the door. I needed to pee. I crept down the hall, dragging my hands against the wall as I went, and stopped just before I reached the stairs. I could hear them. My parents were downstairs, speaking in the kitchen.

They weren't whispering. They weren't even trying to be quiet. My father's voice was sharp, strained. How are we going to do this in just six months? There was the sound of something clattering on the counter, a cup maybe, or a spoon. Then my mother snapped back. We can't just give him up. He has never asked for something this messed up before.

How do we even go about this? Curse your grandfather, Jonathan. She sounded panicked. Her words hid like stones thrown in every direction. My father didn't answer right away. I heard in pace as I stood at the top of the stairs My heart thumped harder with each passing second I didn't understand what they meant

Give up who What did six months mean Who had asked for something But I did hear the fear in their voices My mind went back to him That was when the idea first started to take root in my chest I didn't know what he had written down, but I knew it had something to do with me. And I knew, for the first time in my life, that whatever he was, he had power over my family.

The days that followed felt wrong in ways I couldn't explain to anyone. My parents weren't fighting openly, but everything was different. They would stand in the same room and talk about. strangers forced to live under the same roof. The atmosphere changed. Even on clear days, the house felt darker. The man appeared more often. It was hard to know what I was seeing anymore. He began showing up in my dreams, not always clearly, sometimes just the feeling of him. Other nights he was a shape behind the glass or a figure on the other side of the window waiting for me to wake up.

I wanted to ask my parents what was going on. I wanted to tell them that he wasn't even trying to stay hidden anymore. But I was afraid of what they'd say, and then I noticed something else. My mother started gaining weight. She wasn't eating much, but her belly was fuller, and her steps were slower. Her shirts no longer hung the same.

I saw her once. once in the bathroom mirror, holding her hand to her stomach. I could see him standing right beside her. He was growing bolder. Or maybe. We were growing weaker. As her stomach grew, so did the weight pressing down on everything inside that house. I caught my mother staring out the kitchen window more often,

her fingers resting on the counter, like she was waiting for something to appear outside and carry her away. My father became more devout than ever. He spent hours locked in the study, muttering under his breath, his voice rising and falling. He was constantly reciting scripture. I peeked in once through the crack of the door and saw him kneeling, not just praying, but rocking, whispering between his teeth or staring at the floor. I only got the courage to question the entire situation one time, but I was met with bland responses.

They were clearly shrugging me off. The night it all fell apart, started with the wind. The trees scraped the windows, the power line swayed and groaned above the roof, thunder rolled in circles, never close enough to crack the sky, but loud enough to rattle the windows. I woke to screaming.

My body reacted before my thoughts caught up. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding and my chest already tight. I could tell from the tone that it wasn't just anger. My mother's voice tore through the house with desperation. I climbed out of bed and stepped into the hallway, too scared to move closer, to afraid to go back. Her voice rang out from downstairs. We have to give it a kid tomorrow, Jonathan. She sounded broken.

My father answered her, pleading. We'll find another way. Just wait, please. I'm done waiting, she screamed. You know what will happen. You know. There was a crash. I stood there gripping the banister.

My hands shake. my stomach twisting. Then I heard the scream. My mother, one sharp, terrible sound that cut through the house like metal tearing through cloth. And then nothing, I ran. I was already down the stairs before my brain caught up to what I was doing. The air smelled sour, the lights in the hallway were off,

but there was a glow from the bathroom door. The light spilled out into the dark, casting shadows on the floor. She was on the ground. My mother, her body was twisted at the hip, one leg stretched out, the other bent beneath her. Blood had soaked through a dress and pulled under her shoulders. Her head was resting against the base of the tub. Her eyes were open, glassy. her mouth half-parted.

There was a knife and a hand. I couldn't breathe. My father was beside her, on his knees. His shirt was stained, his face blotched red. He held something in his hands. I didn't understand what I was looking at. It was small, pink, a mess of limbs and tissue. He cradled it like it might cry.

He was rocking back and forth, whispering something to it over and over. I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask what happened, but nothing came out. I turned and ran. My hands hit the stair rail. I missed the step and slammed into the wall halfway up. I kept going, back to my room. I closed the door.

I crawled into my closet. I curled up and held my knees. to my chest. I stayed there until the sun rose. The funeral for my mother was quiet. Not because there weren't people there,

but because no one knew what to say. A small church just outside of town the one my father used to preach at. The sanctuary smelled like lilies and varnished wood. The windows were fogged from the cold and the pews were half full of

people from my father's congregation who wore solemn expressions. Some of them brought casseroles, some brought their children. None of them brought answers. The casket was closed. Everyone said she seemed so happy, so devoted, so warm. The official cause of death was suicide. The coroner's report cited blood loss. The fingerprints on the night. were hers and hers alone. They said it was a clean case. I didn't speak at the service. I sat in the front row and stared at the floor. I didn't cry or blink much either. It felt wrong to do either one. My father stood up and delivered something that could barely be called a eulogy. I watched him closely, trying to find her in his face, to find something human,

something breaking. But there was nothing, just a voice repeating words he didn't believe anymore. Afterward, we drove home together in silence. I watched the trees move past the window, still half stripped from the last storm.

When we pulled into the driveway, I asked him if we could talk. I tried to ask him what really happened, what was happening, and if she'd said anything before she died, he didn't respond. He walked inside, locked the bathroom door, and didn't come out for an hour. We never spoke about it again. My father stopped going to church.

He stopped returning calls from the other pastors. His Bible stayed on the shelf untouched. The prayers stopped, the grace before meals, the whispered blessings before bed. All of it. Farnished. What replaced them were bottles. He kept empties stacked in paper bags under the sink until there were too many to hide. I would hear him in the kitchen long after I'd gone to bed, opening new ones, drinking them in silence, sometimes whispering to himself.

But eventually, the whispers changed. He started speaking. To him Sometimes he laughed Sometimes he cried Sometimes he begged And other times He just seemed to listen

I stopped trying to talk to him I had questions that I knew Would never be answered And fears I didn't have the strength To put into words I didn't know what else to do It was four years after she died I was 17.

I had been holding it in for too long. I didn't plan to say anything, but it was a bad day and he was already drunk. And when I found him on the porch muttering to the darkness again, something inside me snapped. You killed her, I said. He didn't lock up. You let her die because you're a coward. He lifted his head slowly. like the words took time to register.

I could see how empty it had become. He looked thinner than he had ever been. You never did anything, I said. You never fought for her. You just did whatever you were doing. You let her bleed to death on the floor like that was normal. He opened his mouth, but failed to speak. Then he stood, fast enough to knock over the chair behind him.

He wanted you, he shouted, tears forming in his eyes. A child of ours, that's what the note said. He was trembling now, shoulders shaking, arms clenched at his sides. He gave us six months. We didn't know what to do. We couldn't give you up. You were just a boy. We thought maybe if we gave him another one, it would be enough.

I stared at him. So you... I tried asking. He nodded. Then he shook his head, then nodded again. We tried, he said. We tried to make another child, but we didn't have enough time. The baby, it wasn't ready.

And your mother, she couldn't bear the thought of handing you over. So she... He covered his face with his hands. He sat down hard and led out a sound. that didn't belong to any version of my father I had known, a sound of something breaking for good. She chose the only thing she thought would work. I didn't say anything else. I couldn't.

I didn't even know if I hated him anymore. I didn't know what to feel. I stood in the doorway, watching the man who had once led prayers and kissed my forehead at night. He looked smaller now. smaller than anything I'd ever seen. He had given up a long time ago. He had just forgotten. To die.

My father collapsed onto the couch, shoulders buckling under years of grief that had finally found their voice. His face was wet, red in the corners, streaked with the cries of a man who wasn't weak, but had surrendered to the truth. I sat across from him, arms resting at my knees, breath shallow. I felt sick.

My skin tingled and my legs ached, but I didn't move. I needed to know. Where did he come from? I asked. My voice was quieter than I expected. He stared at the ceiling above my head, eyes unfocused. as if he was watching something move across it that I couldn't see. Then he nodded just once and began to speak. My father, he said, slowly, as if pulling each word from a well buried deep in his chest.

Your grandfather made a deal with something, I think. He swallowed hard, rubbed to the corner of his mouth, and kept going. I was born wrong, crippled. I couldn't walk, talk, or even breathe right. They told him I'd never live a full life. Doctors gave up. I don't remember any of it. I was too young, but he swore it was hopeless.

Then one morning, I stood up, I talked. I was fine. He let that hang in the air for a moment. Then looked down at his hands. That's when he came. After I got better, he showed up at our door, just standing there. Father knew what he was. I don't know how, but he did.

And he let him in. He looked up then, straight into my eyes. He did things for him, just like I did, and still do. He leaned back on the couch, his voice trembling. now. I don't know what the first note said, but I remember what happened afterward. Her cousin vanished, then my uncle. One day, your grandfather refused to do what the man said. He thought he was strong enough, I guess. He shook his head, jaw clenched tight. People in our family were taken, my father included, gone without explanation.

I don't even know what it is, he said. He never told me. Maybe he didn't know either. Maybe that was part of the deal. Keep serving and stay ignorant. He gives us wealth and luck, if you can call it that. But... He ran a hand through his hair, then dropped it to his lap.

He exhaled a slow, tired breath. I curse him, my son. I curse my father every day. If he just left me the way I was, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe I'd have a short life, a quiet one, but a real one. And you, you would have never known any of this. His voice cracked again. He didn't wipe his eyes this time.

He let them fall freely. I used to wonder if I was ever supposed to be a father. If maybe, he let me live, just so I'd carry the burden to someone else. He turned toward me and, for once, didn't try to be strong. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have ended it. I should have done something.

I should have... I don't know. I don't know what I could have done, but... It should have been anything but this. His words hit hard. My chest burned. I hated him for so long that I didn't know how to stop. But hearing him say those words and the ruin behind his eyes left me hollow.

For the first time since my mother died, neither of us was angry. He leaned back on the couch and tilted his head toward the ceiling. His lips moved as he mumbled to himself, words too quiet to catch. Eventually, the weight of everything dragged him into sleep. I sat there for a long time after he closed his eyes, listening to the wind outside and the faint clock ticking above the fireplace. When I finally stood and left the room, the house was quiet. I moved into the hallway, not.

sure where I was going. My steps were slow, my thoughts wouldn't settle, and then I felt it. A light touch on my shoulder. I froze. I turned my head. He was behind me. Not half there, not distorted in a mirror or hiding in a shadow. He stood, fully visible, completely real. I could see the lines on his coat, the folds in the collar, the age in the cloth. He was tall. His skin was pale, but not corpse pale, just drained. His face was long and unreadable. His eyes were. I can't remember them. He held out his hand. There was a note in it. I didn't reach for it. My arm moved on its own. My fingers took it from his hand, and the second it left his palm. He vanished. I stared at the paper for a long time before I unfolded it. My hands were shaking, my throat was dry.

I already knew it was meant for me. Three words, written in neat, slanted handwriting, Cripple. Your Father. The rain, had been falling hard for most of the evening, hammering the windshield in waves, sweeping sideways when the wind picked up. The wipers couldn't keep up. I kept one hand steady on the wheel, while the other balanced the warm pizza box across my thigh. It had come from one of those new vending machines setups, some gimmicky start-up people had started ordering from. The machines handled everything. Order, prep, box, and seal. My eyes bounced between it and the road. I couldn't help wondering what made this so popular. The car jolted hard over a speed bump I hadn't

seen in the rain, and I felt something slide off my lap. I looked down. One of the slices had slipped halfway out the box and landed right across my thigh. I pulled over and brought the car to a crawl, glancing down again. My shirt was soaked in red. I lifted the slice by the crust, and somehow it looked perfect. Hardly any source was missing from the surface. The rest of it must have been some excess pulling at the bottom of the box. It didn't smell like pizza, though I couldn't tell exactly what the liquid on me smelled like.

some weird oil they used. The sauce hadn't changed the slice's appearance. I pushed it back in with the others. It looked perfect to me, so I figured the customers wouldn't complain. I wiped my fingers against the side of the seat and closed the box again. I pulled up to the curb outside the modest two-story house, headlights cutting through the sheets of rain. The windows were fogged from the inside.

I grabbed the box, stepped out, shielding it from the downpour as best I could, and jogged up to the walkway. I rang the bell. A second later, a muffled voice called out from inside. Sweetie, just like we practiced, go get the pizza delivery. The door clicked open. A little girl stood in the doorway. about seven years old. Her hair was tied in two loose puffs, pulled back evenly.

One front tooth was missing. She wore a pink hoodie. She'd scribbled on with permanent marker. My arms went slack. It was my sister. I stepped back once with an audible gasp, staring. She tilted her head a little and gave me a tiny shrug. Hmm?

I blinked. The rain was cold against my collar. My arms moved on the roan and passed it over. She took it without question, said thank you with a smile and shut the door. I kept standing there, staring at the closed door. That was her. I wasn't imagining it. It wasn't someone who looked similar or reminded me of her.

It was her. from the chipped nail polish on her fingers to the way she rocked forward slightly on her toes before closing the door. I bagged down the steps slowly and got into the car. My hands trembling as they found the steering wheel. The wet fabric of my shirt clung tighter now

and I noticed fresh red smears on the upholstery where I'd sat. I stared at the house through the windshield. What the third? What the hell did I just see? It wasn't a resemblance. That was her. I tried forcing logic back into my head.

Maybe she was spending the weekend at a friend's place, and I just delivered to her without either of us registering what was happening. She could have been distracted. Still, she had stared right into my face, and I saw no familiarity in her eyes. Surely my sister would have recognised me. My brain kept whirring in my head like I'd missed something massive. I gripped the steering wheel harder and muttered to myself. I reached for my phone and dialed my mom.

If anyone knew where my sister was, it would be her. It rang, then rang again. I tapped my foot and looked up at the house. I hung up, then called again. Still, nothing. My leg bounced harder. I felt the web fabric shift under me, sticking to my skin. I leaned my head back and stared at the ceiling of the car, whispering,

Come on, pick up. I dropped the phone onto the passenger seat and stared at it, then out the window, then back at the house. This is insane. I said under my breath. I can't believe I'm about to do this. I popped the door and stepped out into the rain. I didn't go straight to the front door.

I walked around to the side of the house, following the edge of the hedges until I found a spot where the curtains didn't fully cover the window. My shoes were soaked, every step squished, and the cold water crawled up past my ankles. I just needed to see, just a peek. I leaned in, squinting through the glass. The inside of the window was foggy, but I could still make it out.

There, I saw my sister again, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with a book spread out in front of her. But I also noticed. My dad? Sitting at the table, focused on. a newspaper. What looked to be my mom? No, what was definitely my mom, scrolled on a phone across from him. She was on a phone right now, but she hadn't picked up my call. The TV was on low volume, with some cartoon humming in the background. I pressed my palm flat against the window and stared harder. That was them, all of them.

But it couldn't be. They were supposed to be at home. What were they doing here? And if they weren't my family, who the hell were they? Was there a doppelganger of me as well? A sound cut through the air so sharp and sudden I almost fell backward. The dog slammed against the window, snarling, teeth bared. I hadn't even noticed her in the room,

but now she was up against the glass, her tail stiff and ears pinned. I stumbled back, slipping slightly in the wet grass, then turned and ran. I didn't look back until I was in the car, slamming the door shut and locking it. It was our family dog, but I thought she had run away months ago. My chest heaved, my hands trembled on the steering wheel. I drove. The whole way home, I tried talking sense into myself. They're just visiting someone.

That's all that is. I don't know. Maybe I forgot. Maybe they told me and I tuned out. I forced out to laugh. They don't have to tell me everything. I kept talking, but the feeling didn't leave. Something was wrong.

Something was deeply, irreversibly. Wrong. As I pulled into the driveway, the streetlights cast long streaks across the wet road. My parents' car was already there, sitting where it always did, angled slightly toward the garage with a front bumper dent I'd seen a thousand times. I sat for a moment, then stepped out into the cold and walked up to the door. The moment I opened it, I saw something that set alarm bells off in my head. My dad's sneakers with the grass stains around the soles, my mom's worn flat, and my sister's light of velcroes. I shut the door behind me and called out.

Mom? No answer. Dad, you home? I swallowed hard and moved deeper into the house. Each step slower than the last. I passed the living room and the kitchen. I turned down the hall and the master bedroom. The door was shut, but I could hear the quiet hum of a space eater coming from inside.

I pushed it open just enough to see through the gap. There were three shapes under the covers. One large figure on the side, another in the middle, and a smaller one near the edge. I shut the door gently. So they'd been here all. along, but I'd just seen them. I'd watched them sitting together at the other house. I know I hadn't imagined it. But if it wasn't my family, then who the hell was at the other place? My thoughts scrambled for answers, but every path hit a wall. Clones, skin walkers, shape-shifters.

I wasn't superstitious, but I had read stories. But those were fiction, weren't they? I lay in bed with my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling fan slowly turning above me. My clothes were still damp with rain and source, and I hadn't changed. I hadn't even turned off the bedroom light. There was no sleep coming. I had so many questions I needed answered. I tried going over every detail.

I thought maybe I'd exaggerate. it. I told myself, people can resemble each other more than you think that my mind had filled in the gaps because I was stressed or overworked. But the more I ran through it, the more certain I became. I didn't get it wrong. I'd seen my sister. I rolled over and looked at the clock. It was still early, just before five. I got up and grabbed my keys. I needed to see again. I needed proof. I parked across the street from the house and killed the engine.

The windows were still dark. The porch light had shut off with the first rays of sunlight. I reclined slightly in the seat and waited. Minutes passed, maybe more than an hour. Then the front door opened. My mom stepped out first, coat slung over one arm, digging in a purse for keys. My sister followed behind her, wearing her school uniform. This couldn't be a coincidence now.

I was certain. The exact same uniform? No way. They got into their car and I watched as my mother started driving. I didn't even realize I'd started the ignition until I was already following them. I followed them across town, keeping two cars back so I wouldn't be noticed. They pulled into the lot of West Grove Elementary, my sister's school. I recognized a mural on the front wall and the big plastic tiger near the entrance.

I parked across the street and watched. My mom stepped out first, guiding my sister with a hand on her back. She just did her coat, glanced both ways, and crossed towards the front door. My sister skipped behind her, bouncing at the sidewalk's edge. They laughed about something before heading through the main entrance. I stayed frozen behind the wheel. My hands were locked around it stiff. This was really happening.

I couldn't wait anymore. I got out and crossed the street. The security officer at the door didn't stop me. I walked through the main entrance and straight toward the front desk. The woman sitting there looked up and offered a polite smile that disappeared as soon as she saw me. Can I help you? She asked, voice cautious. I'm trying to find my mom and sister.

They just came in. I saw them walk through the doors. She hesitated, glanced toward the interior hall, then back to me. There's a parent-student event going on this morning. A lot of families are here right now. Do you know what classroom they were going to? I shook my head. Uh, I just...

I need to talk to them. I'm sure they're here. I saw them come in. Her eyes flick down to my shirt. her lips parted like she was about to ask something, then stopped herself. Instead, she pointed to a small cluster of chairs by the entrance. You can sit and wait there if you'd like.

I sat. The seat creaked beneath me, and the smell of industrial carpet and disinfectant hit my nose. I rested my arms and my knees and tried to quiet my breathing. my head ached from how hard I've been clenching my jaw. The woman at the desk glanced at me again, then stood and stepped closer, her voice lower. Sorry to bother you, but what is that on your shirt?

I looked down. The red stains were still smeared across the front and sleeves, thicker near the bottom. I'd forgotten all about it. Pizza sauce, I muttered, had a delivery incident. It's nothing. She nodded, unsure. I leaned back and rubbed my eyes.

My thoughts spun without direction. What was the point of all of this? Why were these copies even targeting my family specifically? And more importantly, when was I going to see my own copy? I was so deep in my train of thought that I hadn't noticed the flood of parents and children that had spilled into the front lobby. I got up in a trance, looking around while tiptoeing,

trying to find the two. Then I saw them, my mom guiding my sister by the hand. They were headed for the exit, her purse over one shoulder. I had to try calling out to them. Mom? I shouted.

It didn't seem like they heard me, but I couldn't quite tell, because I was interrupted by a hand landing on my shoulder. You're right, man. I turned to see a security guard standing next to me, eyes scanning me from head to toe. I hanged my arm free.

I'm fine, I just need to talk to them. They didn't hear me. The guard opened his mouth. probably about to suggest I calm down, wait or sign something. I didn't give in the chance. I stormed out the front door. The car had already started moving. I sprinted across the lot, jumped into mine and cranked the ignition.

My tire screeched against the wet road as I pulled out and began tailing them. They pulled into the driveway and parked. I stayed on the opposite side of the street. ducked low behind my steering wheel. My mom stepped out and my sister followed. The front door opened and my dad appeared in his work uniform. I was on the cusp of losing my mind. Every time I tried rationalizing what was happening, I got hit with another slap in the face. He smiled, walked down the steps, wrapped my mom in a brief hug, kissed the forehead and knelled. and patted the dog barreling out behind him. They all walked inside together. The door shut behind them. I stared at the house with my hands frozen at ten and two.

I had seen them. All of them. But me, the sun had begun to dip by the time the front door opened again. I had been watching for hours, parked down the street, barely blinking. My legs were sore from sea. sitting, my stomach had long since given up asking for food. They all stepped out of the house together. My mom logged the door behind her, dropped the keys into her purse, and got into the car. They pulled away without a glance behind them. I waited until they turned the corner.

Then I stepped out of my car. I passed the front door and rounded the house, stepping over weeds and bits of rotted mulch. My hand trembled as I reached for the back door. I tried twisting the handle, but it was locked. I stepped back, scanned the area, found a rock near the edge of the fence, and hefted it with both hands. My breath was fast. I raised it and smashed it through the back window. Glass scattered across the linoonium.

I cleared the sharp edges of my forearm. climbed in and landed with a thud in the kitchen. The moment I landed, I heard a growl. She stood at the end of the hallway, ears pulled tight, tail still. Her front paw lifted an inch off the floor, her body's stiff. Hey, I whispered. It's me. You remember me, right?

She growled louder, hackles raised. It's me, girl, it's me. The dog lunged forward, barking with a snarl that echoed down the hallway. I barely managed to raise my arm before she collided with me, her teeth snapping at my forearm. I twisted and shoved with all my weight, throwing her sideways into the wall. She yelped as she hit the ground hard. She didn't move after that, but I checked her chest, still breathing. I pushed into the living room and tried to steady my breathing.

I moved through the house room by room, turning over drawers, peeling open photo albums and flipping through paperwork. Their diplomas were on the wall. Their wedding photos sat crooked on the dresser. I opened my sister's closet. Her clothes were exactly as I remembered them. I checked the drawings taped to a wall. In my parents' room I rifled through the drawers

one by one until I hit the one near the bottom. It stuck a little when I pulled it swollen from humidity. I yanked harder. A stack of old text documents

and receipts spilled forward beneath them wrapped in a hand towel was a revolver. I unwrapped it and turned it in my hands. The chamber was empty. I had come here

unprepared. If I was about to meet a group of skin walkers or monsters, I realized then that I needed a way to defend myself at the very least. I kept searching and eventually I found a box of rounds beneath a row of passports and family records. I loaded the cylinder clicking each bullet into place. Six rounds.

I sat on the couch and stayed at the hallway where the dog lay. I just wanted to end it. I wanted someone to tell me why this was happening. It was dark by the time their headlights swept across the wall of the living room. I turned every light off. I sat in silence, revolver resting in my lap, heart steady now. I had been waiting so long that the silence had begun to settle around me like furniture.

The car door slammed shut, the front door unlocked, swung open, and they entered together, chatting about something casual. Then, they saw the dog. The laughter stopped. My mom dropped her purse. They ran forward, crouching down, reaching for her. My sister gasped and pressed herself against the wall. That's when I stepped forward from the hallway. They turned as one.

I lifted the revolver and cocked it. They froze. My dad raised his hands slowly. My mom didn't move. My sister stared at me with her eyes wide and wet. I didn't blink. Who are you? We all asked at the same time.

I didn't answer and they didn't either. I waved the gun around. I asked the questions. I corrected my posture. Why are you copying my family? Still, nothing. I saw you all here, I said. I delivered that stupid pizza here and saw my little sister and my entire family in this home.

But I saw them, my family back home, lying in bed. So who are you? you people. Why is there no copy of me? Am I not good enough? My voice cracked at the end, but I saw it back. You're not them. My dad started to speak, something low and even. Don't, I said, don't start acting now. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the roll of duct tape I'd brought from the kitchen drawer. I tossed it across the room. It bounced once, then stopped near my dad's foot. Start tying, all of you, arms, legs, don't test me.

My sister started crying. My mom didn't move until my dad knelt and began wrapping her wrists, muttering that everything was going to be fine that they'd do what I said. He worked quickly, quietly, barely looking up. He bound her ankles next. then moved to my sister, who flinched with every motion. I tied my father's wrists myself. You're coming with me, I said.

We're going to see the real ones, the originals. My dad looked up at me, confusion twisting into fear. I'm going to get my answers. I marched them outside. The street was empty. I had them walk in a line, slow and careful. My finger never left the trigger.

I opened the door of the car and shove them into the back seat one at a time. My sister sat in the middle, wedged between them. The faces were tight with panic. My dad tried whispering something to her. I told him to shut up. I got behind the wheel and started the engine. I drove toward my house. my fingers tightened on the wheel with every mile.

My throat was dry and the weight of the revolver pressed against my thigh. I kept my eyes flickering between the road and the mirror. We pulled into the driveway. My hands were shaking on the wheel, slick with sweat, even though the night air had turned cold. I left the engine running and stepped out first, keeping the revolver low but steady. out, I said, voice dry. Come on, let's go. The dad shuffled out of the car slowly.

His hands were still taped, arms held away from his sides, like he thought any movement might set me off. He looked at the house for a second, then at me. Look, he said, trying to meet my eyes. Please, just think about this. You don't have to do any of this. This is a mistake. You're confused.

I can tell. I didn't say anything. He kept going, breath picking up. You said we are copies, doppelgangers. What if that's not what this is? What if you just mix something up? We walked toward the front steps. I was right behind him.

Uh, he stuttered. If I'm a copy, what's my name? I stopped walking. The question buzzed in my head, dull and ugly. His name. That should be easy. I'd said it a thousand times. I opened my mouth.

Your name is. He defensively raised his arms, awaiting an answer. I raised the gun again. Shut up, just shut up. You're about to meet them. I led him down the hallway. Every light in the house was off. I didn't bother with the switches.

I just... I wanted to get this over with. They're in there, I said. The real ones. You'll see. And when you do, I want to hear you say it. I want you to admit you're a copy. He didn't speak.

I reached for the master bedroom door and pushed it open with a barrel of the gun. It creaked. The air inside was thicker, warmer somehow. My family was still in there, sleeping. I stepped in first and flipped the light switch. And then I stopped breathing. The sheets were stained dark red, splotches soaked through the fabric and crusted around the edges.

The man behind me led out a soft, hoarse sound. Why? he said, voice-breaking. Why are you showing me this? I looked at him. I didn't speak. I raised the gun and shot him once in the chest. He dropped to his knees, gasping. Then I stepped forward, placed the barrel against his head, and fired again.

His body fell sideways under the carpet. I stood there for a while. Still, there was noise in my ears, a fan word above us. I didn't say anything. I just turned around and walked back toward the door. The rain had returned by the time I stepped back outside. It drifted over the street in soft sheets, thin and consistent, slipping into the collar of my shirt as I crossed the yard.

The sidewalk glistened beneath the sideboard. streetlight, puddles gathering in the same uneven cracks that had always been there. I walked toward the car with a revolver down at my side. My mom sat rigid, mouth sealed beneath the tape, eyes locked on the door of the house. The sister sat next to her, shoulders trembling, hands pinned in a lap with a tape still tied to cross her wrists. The faces were read from crying. They had seen the flashes through the window.

They knew. I stood there for a moment. No one said anything. I opened the driver's side door and looked at them. My mom's eyes flicked to mine. Her head shook slightly. Just once. I raised the gun.

And fired. The bullet struck her just beneath the left eye. Her head jerked back. and smacked the seat with a dull thud. Blood sprayed the inside of the window and rolled in slow streaks down the side of her cheek. My sister screamed against the tape. She writhed sideways, twisting as far as the restraints led her move.

Her knees kicked at the dashboard. She tried to turn away. I walked around the car. Her eyes met mine through the side window. I opened the passenger door. She tried to speak Her voice caught behind the lays of tape and panic I raised the gun again

And fired twice into her chest Her body slammed back against the seat Then folded sideways The screams stopped Blood soaked through a shirt soaking into the seat below her One of her arms dropped loose at the elbow Limp over the edge of the cushion

I stood there, staring at the mess for a long time. My arm trembled beneath the weight of the gun. I let it drop to my side and stepped back from the car, breathing through my mouth. The rain hadn't let up. I turned and walked back inside. My shoes left a trail across the tiles in the entryway. The copper smell inside had grown stronger. It crawled into my nose, into my throat.

and settled there. I sat down on the couch. The revolver clacked as I placed it on the table in front of me. I leaned back and stared at the wall. My hands rested in my lap. I could still feel the recall in my fingers. Minutes passed, maybe more. And then, far off.

I heard sirens. They were coming. I looked at the revolver again. One shot left. I'm not saying the money made it worth it, but it did keep me fed. The kind of job I had, hell, the kind of place we worked, was the sort of thing you didn't exactly talk about at family gatherings. I never brought it up with my brother when he called, didn't post about it, didn't take

photos. I wasn't even allowed to keep a journal, not a real one anyway. Only the pocket logs they issued, the kind where every page was marked confidential in bright red. And even then, we weren't supposed to write anything more detailed than shift notes and tool signouts. But if you're the type who's ever stared down the barrel of a second eviction notice, I wondered if that noise in the ceiling meant you couldn't afford the exterminator again. You'll understand why I took the job. I got the call through someone who knew someone. A guy I had done contract rigging work with out in Arizona.

He didn't tell me what the job was. Just that it paid triple and they needed people who could keep their heads down. The phone call was short. I didn't even give a formal yes. Just silence long enough for him to say, All right, I'll pass that on. Two days later, I got a message on my old work email that was still connected to my phone. I hadn't used it in years.

There was no subject line, no send a list, just a set of coordinates, a time and instructions to bring ID and steel toe boots. It felt off, every part of it. But I was behind on rent and the other. the job I'd lined up fell through. I told myself it was probably some private sector contract gig, maybe security or survey work, nothing legal, just quiet. I drove five hours to a truck stop in the middle of nowhere, an unmarked van already

waiting. The driver didn't say a word, just pointed to the back like he'd done it a hundred times before. And I climbed in, because desperate people do strange things when the numbers finally stopped working in their favour. We drove for what felt like ours. The windows were blacked out and my phone was taken and sealed in a lead-lined pouch, the kind you could only release with a strong magnet. Nobody spoke, and when the van finally stopped, we were at a small private airfield, bare concrete, a single floor.

floodlight and a plane waiting on the tarmac, too small to be commercial. The plane wasn't marked, just a featureless charter jet. Inside were half a dozen other guys spaced out like strangers at a funeral. The windows were frosted over. The only thing they served was water in sealed bags like IV fluid. When we landed, it was dark again, and I was left disorded. oriented. Everything felt wrong in a way I couldn't quite name. My body knew I'd cross too many time zones or altitudes or both, but no one ever told us where we were. The air outside

was thin and sharp, and the men who met us wore plain grey jackets and carried clipboards. They handed us gear bags at the staging facility and told us strip out everything we came in with. clothes, wallets, and anything from the outside, with the exception of our boots. Our IDs were stuck facing the outside so they could easily identify the owners, and they stuffed it all into a heavy plastic bin that was wheeled away without a word. They handed us jumpsuits and blank ID badges. All I know was that it was up high somewhere. It was not quite mountain range level, but definitely past the tree line.

The air was thin and cold enough that your nostrils cracked and burned. You couldn't see anything outside the fence, but grey sky, rock, and snow smooth hills that never changed no matter how long you stared. I don't think it was on any map. I say that, because I've looked. God knows I've looked. The site itself looked like a prison complex. Everything built from prefabed concrete and modular steel. Bright orange floodlights on timers that ran like clockwork.

A mess hall, four dorm buildings, a machine shop and the shaft tower itself. A series of structures built into the slope like a scar that hadn't healed right. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was a small chance this was a trick. and I was never getting that money they promised. They called it the dig, despite it being a mine. Our job was to keep it operational. Cruise rotated in and out every lunar cycle for exactly 28 days. We didn't work by month.

Instead, we worked by the moon. What we were digging for wasn't exactly clear. Not to me. officially we cleared debris, stabilized support columns and tested gas levels. The actual excavation was handled by remote systems deeper down. All we ever saw were containers being brought up and loaded into sealed trucks. The guys unloading them wore radiation gear. We weren't given any, told we didn't need it.

The only rule that mattered, they told us during induction. Was this. No one goes below level seven. They made this clear. There was no reason to go past there, not even to retrieve a lost tool or follow a cable run. Even if people called for help, we were told to ignore it. If you detect unauthorized comms from restricted levels, log and escalate, do not engage. The safety officer told us during the briefing.

That was the only time the room went quiet. At first, it all felt strangely normal. Sure, the job wasn't typical, but for me, it was easy work. The only thing that bothered me was that my sleep didn't feel restful, like my brain didn't have time to relax. Our schedule was simple. Wake up at 6 a.m., eat, do safety. checks, grab tools and work.

We spent eight hours down in the dark with only the hum of lights and the grumble of machines for company. Most of the dig was reinforced with old concrete and steel. Everything beyond level three

had that pressure-cooked look with walls bowed in places and support beams rusted but still technically intact. There was dust in the air that never settled, so we wore respirators, but the air still tasted like blood and chalk. By level five, the stone changed. You could feel it under your boots. Everything sounded different too. Your steps didn't echo the same way.

It was like the walls swallowed sound. People talked less the deeper we went, probably from the thinner oxygen. Level 6 had the worst of it. The air got warmer, tighter in the chest. Even the light struggled down there. The bulbs glowed dimmer, always flickering. Some of the guys swore they saw things in the far corners of the shaft. Just shadows probably. Tricks on their tired eyes. But occasionally someone would shine a light into the dark and claim it bounced off something reflective, like cat eyes. And you could always hear something beneath your feet. It didn't sound mechanical.

He was slower, heavier, something more like a breath or a pulse. Sorensen didn't say much his first week, but one day when we were cleaning an old spill by the lockers on six, he paused mid-scrape, just staring at the floor for a while. Then he said, almost to himself. I think my dreams know more about this place than I do. They show me tunnel systems I haven't been in, but when I get there, I recognize them.

What? I asked. But he went back to scraping the floor like he hadn't heard me. There was something off about him that day, more than usual. He'd been getting stranger all week. I heard other workers whisper things when they thought no one was listening. Stuff that didn't make sense. Like the mine wasn't built here. It was reopened.

One guy, Thompson, saw he saw markings in the stone that didn't match any of our tools. I couldn't help but find the whole thing ridiculous. Being stuck in artificial life for eight hours a day, clearly impacted these guys, and I wasn't about to let that happen to me. And through it all, Level 7 just waited. The first time I saw the door up close was during my rotation on safety checks. Level 6 was on my route, and one of the daily tasks was to confirm the seal integrity on the Level 7 door. Every shift someone had to take the elevator down, scan the weld lines with the handheld thermal unit and log the readings manually.

The door to level 7 was solid steel, welded in three places, painted yellow and black, like a wasps nest. No keypad, no lock, just a placard. Restricted. Do not open. I marked it off my checklist and realized I was holding my breath the entire time as if something on the other side might hear me. And I swear I heard someone whisper from the other side. But I never told anyone how to fear of admitting I was catching whatever mental bug the other guy seemed to have. Sauranson disappeared on day 19.

but we didn't realize straight away. We got news the guys crashing early or skipping mess to sleep off a migraine. Nobody kept track of anyone unless they were your tool buddy for the shift. But when we lined up for checking the next morning, he didn't show. Someone joked that he'd finally quit

and maybe he'd hiked out in the night. We all knew he'd been unraveling. Little things at first, He stand too close to the wall as if listening for something. He started skipping mess and keeping food in his bunk as if he didn't trust the kitchen. Once I found him standing in the equipment hallway, just staring at the rust stains on the floor. I remember he said they reminded him of a pattern, but he couldn't remember from where. Maybe his dreams.

Once again, he'd never expand. on what he was saying. He started keeping a journal in his pocket log. I caught glimpses of sketches of spiral-like shapes and some teeth as well. One page had a date circled three times with the words, Do not follow, underlined hard enough to tear the paper. He'd been stationed near the freight elevator on six and said he kept hearing voices over the intercom,

even though no one was broadcasting. said the signal was from seven. They said they pulled security footage to check, but they never shared it with us. However, word got around. One night, he bypassed the maintenance override and forced the service lift down. He'd taken a breathing tank, a worklight,

and one of the old crowbars. That was it. He went down alone when everyone was sleeping. When we woke up and got to work, I noticed the lights across the lower levels started flickering in rhythm in a slow, timed pulse. Four seconds on, four off, over and over. The morning after that, Sorensen's name was gone from the manifest. The site supervisor wouldn't let anyone descend below five for the next two days. Safety concerns, they said.

structural review. There was no mention of him in the bunk records. His gear locker was empty. Even his plate and cup from the mess were missing, like he'd never been there at all. That's when it really started to go wrong. On day 22, Wyatt took the emergency ladder between four and five after the main lift locked up again.

It was the second time that week. He was furious, muttering about how the maintenance crew should be fired and decided not to wait. He slipped 30 feet and cracked two ribs on the landing, said the rungs were slick with something, but when we checked, they were spotless, like they'd been scrubbed. On day 23, Briggs had a seizure in the mess hall. Full toniclonic. He bit through his tongue, blood everywhere, and he took six guys to hold him down. He didn't remember it afterward, but he kept asking where the lights had gone.

The lights were still on. Not long after that, a soft rattling started in the ventilation system, constant, like metal beads rolling around inside the duct work. Kept some of us up at night. We asked maintenance to check it out. They sent a guy He climbed into the crawl space Came back down an hour later And said there was nothing there

Who wouldn't meet our eyes when he said it By day 24 Our radio stopped working reliably We'd hear our own voices looping back on a delay Sometimes they came back distorted Sometimes they said things we hadn't said Someone asked to leave early and was denied.

They said there wasn't transport scheduled until the next cycle and breaking protocol would void its payment. He backed anyway and disappeared during the night. Nobody saw him again. The rest of us stopped asking questions. I started seeing shadows move where they shouldn't. First in the elevator reflection, then the corners of the dorm shower.

hours. They always disappeared when I turned to lock, and then there was the door to level 7. Every morning during safety check on 6, someone would swear the welds looked thinner, just a little, like heat stress had started to pull them apart from the inside. But none of us wanted to be the one to measure. We didn't want to get close enough. to prove it. It happened on day 26, mid-shift. We were down on level 5, clearing out some half-collapsed support corridors when the tremors started. It didn't seem unusual at first. The place groaned all the time. But then a chunk of ceiling came down and took out our primary lift and emergency ladder. One second, we were tagging a busted pipe. The next second, alarms were blaring,

and the whole tunnel was filled with dust and blinding us. We had five of us down there. Emergency protocol radioed to use the service access shaft by the old pump station. It went around the main shaft, but was deeper and looped down through old maintenance corridors before connecting back up above. The only working one left, which meant to go up. We had to go down first. That meant passing near seven.

I remember standing at the base of the ladder and thinking how bad it had been for them to root us through that level despite the warnings. But the supervisors had radioed it. So he climbed. We hit level 6, out of breath and wired. Deke was coughing so hard I thought he'd pass out. Elson kept looking down at the shaft like he was paranoid.

I couldn't help but think about my three remaining days, that after all of this, it would be worth it. Then we reached seven. The change was instant. The temperature just spiked like we'd stepped into a sealed, room with no ventilation. It clung to us hot and humid like a sauna, but instead of wood, the air tasted of rot. It hit the back of the throat and stayed there, and breathing felt like

inhaling through a soaked rag. Pressure built in our ears, and sweat started pulling inside the masks. Jeez, it's like breathing soup, I muttered. Why is it so hot down here? Deke said, yanking at the strap of his mask. It's supposed to get colder the deeper we go. It's not just the heat, Elson said. Something's off. The air's thick.

Then, the lights behind us went individually, like someone was following and flipping a switch as they came. Deke's lamp started to cut out, flickering to the rhythm of his footsteps. Elson stopped climbing altogether and just froze. Do you hear that? he asked. I didn't want to, but yeah, there were voices in the walls, murmuring somewhere deep in the rock. Gomez dropped his bag, trying to reach for his emergency beacon.

It tumbled down the shaft, clanging off steel until the sound just... Stopped, we kept going. At the next landing, we left the shaft and headed down the corridor that led deeper into seven. Inside was a chamber that felt almost alive. The walls weren't stone, so much as tissue, dense and wet looking, with a surface that glistened in the lamplight. They flexed in slow waves, like muscles of a throat mid-swallow. Every step squelched faintly, and the smell, was worse than before.

Then we saw him, curled near the wall, was what was left of Sorensen. He was dead, no question. His body was slumped like it had been dropped, but the chamber hadn't let him go. Something had fused him into the floor. His back was half sunk into the wet surface,

skin stretched thin, where it met the teeth, as if the walls were slowly pulling him in. The film across his body pulsed faintly. One eye was still open, dried and glazed over like a dead fish, while his jaw hung slack in a way no living person could hold. You could see where the veins are darkened, branching into the floor like roots. The stench of raw meat left out in the sun invaded through our respirators.

Gomez whispered, That's why they redid the world's. Jeez, Deke muttered, voice tight and higher than usual. He had one arm half shielding his face, like that would help. What the hell is this? This is sick. Gomez gagged behind his respirator. His voice was hollow.

It feels like we're inside something's body. Nobody corrected him. Elson was shaking. I remember how his helmet light jittered across the walls, like he couldn't keep his head still. We shouldn't be here, he kept whispering, we're not supposed to see this. I didn't say a word.

I was trying not to breathe, to get through it. No way, I was cracking with just a few days left. The ground beneath us throw. Gomez said something about a light ahead. I didn't see anything at first, just shadows stacked on shadows. But then something shifted, and I caught the shape of another shaft, lined in rusted brackets and half-buried conduit. It looked like another access tunnel, smaller than ours, stretching straight up.

Is that the old vertical? De-casked, squinting, his voice cracked. It goes all the way upright, topside. I nodded. We all knew the layout from the emergency map. This one was a backup escape route sealed decades ago, supposedly useless. But there it was. Then the light shifted again.

Whatever comfort that shaft offered disappeared when I realized It wasn't just exposed. It was open, unsealed, like it had been used recently. As when the skin of my arms crawled, the heat pulsed again, thicker than before, and the walls began to breathe slower, heavier. I felt sick like I was fighting a childhood fever. There was something in the center of the chamber, massive and still, carved with ridges like the roof of a mouth, only wider than anything should be.

It didn't move, but I swear it felt like it was waiting. I stepped closer to get a look, and the thing in the center didn't move. Behind me, someone whispered my name. I turned, but no one else had moved. The light pulsed again, not a flash. more like a deep, rhythmic contraction. Everything flexed. The floor dropped half an inch beneath my boots,

and the film rippled like it was breathing harder now. Deke shouted something, but his voice didn't carry right. It came out bent and muffled, as if we were underwater. Elson started backing toward the exit, stumbling over his own boots. That was when the tunnel behind. us, began to close in a slow tightening. I don't know what made me move first, maybe instinct, but I ran, leaving the others behind, pushing through the thick air and I didn't dare look back.

I threw myself into the old vertical, dragging with my elbows. Behind me, the corridor dimmed, swallowed by that pulsing heat. I remember the way the metal of the vent burned against my palms, the way the air changed, less heat, more cold, thinner again. I kept crawling, didn't think, just crawled. When the tremors started again, I thought the whole shaft would give, but it didn't. I kept climbing hand over hand, forcing myself up through the shaft. It wasn't built for this kind of escape. too narrow and extremely old.

But I didn't care. I just needed to get above level 7. Eventually, the tunnel curved and connected to a collapsed service hall at the back end of level 6. I had to crawl over the rubble that had caved in earlier. My legs scraped against rebar and broken stone. Every movement felt harsh in my body. That's when everything tilted. I felt something shift.

In my head, when I woke up, I was in the infirmary on level one. The lights were too bright and everything smelled like bleach. My throat was dry and someone had shaved part of my scalp for electrodes. The medic didn't say much, just clicked a monitor to my finger and asked if I felt nauseous. His tone was practiced, flat. like I was a routine check-up, as if nothing unusual had happened. I asked what happened to the others. He said I must be confused.

The service shaft, I said. We took the one near the pump station as the supervisor said. That was the way out. The medic didn't even lock up. Just said. There were no orders given over the radio. That channel's been dead for days. I didn't say anything after that,

just let him finish what he was doing. But I couldn't stop thinking about it. The calm in the voice that told us which way to go, the exact timing of the tremors, and the fact that the radio hadn't crackled or cut out like the others. How stupid we were to just follow the commands without question. They said I'd been unconscious for five days, long enough that they'd already processed my dismissal.

I went home like nothing had happened. I followed their itinerary, boarded the plane, and tried not to think about what I'd seen. I didn't remember going through the terminal. I barely remember the flight. Everything between the infirmary and my front door felt dull, like I was moving through underwater. The next day,

The deposit hit, and I received double hazard pay, as if that squared the books. I haven't slept through the night since. The dreams are always the same, that soft, flexing pressure of walls that breathe, the taste of metal and sick in the back of my throat. Sometimes I'm watching from above, other times I'm crawling. Since I returned, I've been waking up to find dirt under my fingernails, and I didn't know how it got there. Then mudd on my slippers, and eventually there were calluses on my palms. It turns out, I'm digging.

Backyard mostly. Then it was the patch of dirt in the alley behind my apartment, and at one point I woke up in a drainage stitch. places I shouldn't have been. I don't remember walking out there, but I always wake up near a pit with raw and blooded hands and dirt packed tight under my nails. It was never the same hole. I called the guy who got me the job

to ask him what the hell kind of thing he dragged me into and whether he was digging too. But his voice on the other end was flat, confused, He didn't sound tired or haunted like I was. Oh, I never gave him your name, he said. I meant to. I had your info pulled up and everything, but I got distracted and forgot. The job I was going to recommend was in Nevada, warehouse gig, graveyard shift, but good pay.

I swear. I never passed it on.