CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 3+ Hours of CHILLING Reddit Horror Stories to put strange thoughts of Christmas in your head

Episode Date: December 7, 2021

LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "82°06′S 54°58′E" Creepypasta►21:03 "Are there any other teachers that are petrified of their students" Creepypasta►36:01 "My Aunt Had Some Weird Keepsakes" Creepypasta►56:31 "There’s a creature in the woods. Now it’s after me" Creepypasta►1:14:25 "Mr. Gozo's Game" Creepypasta►1:35:08 "My Wife Always Told Me Never to Leave the Front Door Unlocked. I'll Never Forget again" Creepypasta►1:46:43 "If You Sign Up For The 'Lights Out Dining Experience', Here's What You're Getting Into" Creepypasta21:03, 36:01, 56:31, 1:14:25, 1:35:08, 1:46:43,Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

Of all the urban legends across America, he had to be the one that was real. Of all the awful things that could exist, he had to be the worst. His name. His man face. That name is so stupid. That was the first thing I told my friend Josh when he began the story. He had lured me out to the woods at such a late hour with the promise of a simple campfire tale. One so spooky, it would help break me out of my seemingly interminable writer's block. Josh said that he would only tell me this story once we hiked deep into the woods after dark.

When I asked why, he said, Most people don't like to be out in these parts after dark. We'll be completely alone that way. Why do we need to be alone? I asked again. So no one else will be around to hear the story when I tell it to you, he replied. Josh was really adamant about us being alone in the woods. I know how that sounds, but I've been friends with Josh since kindergarten. garden. If he was going to murder me out in the woods, he would have done it a long time ago.

So, without fear or worry, I accepted his strange invitation. Depression and poor life choices had ensured that I really had nothing better to do on a Friday night. And, well, I missed my old buddy. I don't care if he wants to tell me a scary story in the forest after dark. I'm friends with Josh, because he likes doing weird stuff like that. So, when he told me the story centered around the being called man face. I thought he was having a laugh at my expense. He knew how much I loved a good urban legend and also how much I wanted to have one of my own to share with the world.

I just couldn't think of something scary enough to catch on. Trust me, this one you're going to want to share. Whether it catches on with people or not, this is definitely going to be one you'll want to share. Josh was rarely this intense of a guy. I thought at the time he was playing up his fear to really sell the stuff. before it began.

A risky maneuver on his part. I already found the name of this entity kind of stupid. So, I was going into this story, a bit jaded from the onset. How am I ever going to fear something called Manface? I asked Josh. I thought the same thing at first, he replied. So, I'm going to tell you what a Scoutmaster told us. Josh turned and looked me dead in the eyes.

You can laugh at him all you want. Manface will still get you. I waited for him to give me a smile or a chuckle, something to let me know everything was actually okay. But instead, he just took a seat on a tree stump and continued on with the story. So, 10-year-old Josh was out in a camping trip with his Boy Scout troop and all of a sudden one night,

his scoutmaster wanted to tell a scary story. This wasn't entirely unusual, as it is a Boy Scout tradition to tell spooky stories after dark. It wasn't the fact that he wanted to tell a scary story that was strange. It was how he was going about telling this scary story that really stuck with Josh. Scoutmaster Scott was soft-spoken and kind, so when he told everyone to shut the hell up

and gather around for a story, I was scared. Not of the story, but of him. Josh said Scoutmaster Scott had been acting odd that entire weekend of the camping trip. He'd been constantly bad-mouthing the other Scoutmaster and was really trying to make things competitive between the two troops.

We have to beat the others to the top of the mountain. We have to beat them. If we don't, that means Glenn Ford is a better Scoutmaster than me. If Glenn Ford is a better Scoutmaster than me, then I'm going to throw myself right off a cliff. Josh remember some of the kids laughing at Scout Master Scott's joke. The thing is, Scout Master Scott wasn't joking. He screamed at the entire troop for over 15 minutes,

asking them if they wanted to see him kill himself. Any time a kid slowed down. down or asked if they could take a break. He asked him if they wanted to kill him to just get things over with since your little buggers hate me so much. Josh reiterated that they were all 10 years old so nobody really knew how to deal with this

behavior from a trusted adult. The boys all quietly decided amongst themselves to stop asking for breaks and just forge on her head so they could be the first troop to get to the mountaintop. That way, Scoutmasters Scott wouldn't die. Win-win, I guess. The thing is, the hike of the mountain was supposed to be done over the course of three days.

Scoutmaster Scott made this kids do it over the course of two. They reached the top of the mountain long before any other troop would get there. We were exhausted, so when Scoutmaster Scott suggested we start a fire at the summit and roast hot dogs and marshmallows, we couldn't have been happier. Josh thought at the time that the whole on-edge drill instructor routine was just a bit of misguided tough love from Scoutmaster Scott. That had thankfully now come to an end. Then, like I said, the shouting started up again, and he screamed that we all had to gather around that fire, or else.

Josh's focus snapped away from me in that instant. He'd been peering over his shoulder from time to time, but this was the first instance where he kept his gaze fixed on something moving around in the brush. It's just an animal, Josh, probably a deer, I said, trying to snap him out of his trance. Now, look. I paused to choose my words carefully. You can tell me about whatever happened with Scoutmaster Scott. I'm here to listen.

I had a feeling that Josh was ashamed that he was even telling me this story in the first place. I was starting to worry that Josh's memory of this camping trip was hiding much darker secrets than some half-baked monster. He... He...

...told us about Manface. Josh continued. His name... What he is, he told us everything. What is man-face? I asked. I was getting tired of beating around the bush on this one. He could be anything, Josh said, answering my question with an infuriatingly vague, but retrospectively accurate description of this being.

But, he added, it always bears the face of a man, thus the name. Josh looked at me in the eyes intently when he said that last part. If I weren't such a good friend, I might have laughed at how shucking up this had gotten him. Manface had yet to instill fear in me, to say the least. Josh's enigmatic description had only emboldened my skepticism. So, like, manface could be a couch? Manface could be a wall? He could be an inanimate object?

What are the rules here? And where the hell even is his face and the thing he is? Like, if he was a sign on the road, would his face appear in the sign itself? or would it be impaled into the pole? That would be pretty wicked looking, I won't lie. Also, where is woman face? Sam, Josh had said my name with such fury that I had suddenly found the fear of men face inside me.

I need you to just listen from here and out. No more interrupting. Up to that point, I mostly thought Josh's behavior was a performance he was putting on for the sake of the story. After that outburst, I wasn't sure. Scoutmaster Scott told the story with the same opening line He insisted if we ever tell the story to someone else We have to begin with the line

Josh repeated the same introduction from before Of all the urban legends across America He had to be the one that was real Of all the awful things that could exist He had to be the worst His name is man face And he feeds off your fear That last part was new

and Josh went on to explain how man-faced truly works. He is always hungry and never settles for scraps. He will bleed you dry of every ounce of fear within your heart. And then, when that isn't enough for his unending appetite, he will devour your mind, body and soul. So he kills you? I had broken my silent promise to not interrupt. He does, Josh answered immediately and forwardly.

But he continued. manface will not feed in your body if you keep the fear of him alive. Not just in you, but in others as well. It protects us. It keeps him fed. I see. You're supposed to want to be afraid of him. Exactly, Josh shouted. Eight tied kids in the woods after the dark.

We were full of fear, but not of manface. We were more afraid of Scoutmaster Scott than we were afraid of that stupid name. When he made us go around the fire and say the scariest thing, Manface would be for each of us. It turned into a game. It all started with Jeff, as most jokes often did in the troop. He shouted, the scariest thing to see Manface has is a toilet. After that, they couldn't be stopped. The band of Pre-Buess and Boys would suggest almost anything for Manface to become. Almost anything that is, but something that actually scared them. No, another boy yelled. It would be a pillow. That way he can kiss you. good night, or a tree, because no matter where you pee, man face will be watching. If man face is on a butt, does that make him butt face? I'll admit, that one got a slight chuckle out of me, and I can only imagine how a bunch of

ten-year-old boys took it. Scoutmaster Scott lost his mind, Josh said. He went berserk, he turned into a raving lunatic. According to Josh, he started yelling over and over again. Only fear can protect us. Stop your laughing children. Stop your laughing, damn it. Maybe it was the physical and mental exhaustion.

Maybe it was hearing Scout Master Scott repeatedly screaming. Maybe it was the group-wide nervous reaction to a trusted adult, absolutely losing their marbles in front of them. But Josh said, once Scoutmaster Scott began his yelling, The laughter only got worse. Some of you had to be scared, I said in disbelief. Yeah, I would. was one of them, and yet I laughed

all the same. Why? I asked. Because everyone else was, he answered. Josh had made it sound like a trance had befallen him and the others. No matter how crazy Scoutmaster Scott got, they only laughed harder. If you don't stop, I'll jump off this cliff. Scott had threatened his life again, and by the reaction of the boys, they seemed to think it was just that.

A threat. He went up to the nearest cliff and stood at the ledge ready to jump And you all kept laughing Like it was the funniest thing in the world So he I trailed off and let Josh finish my sentence for me He didn't jump Josh corrected my assumption

He just cried at the ledge while we laughed It seemed like hours had passed by the time he came back to the campfire How much time had actually passed? Do you remember? I asked him. Like I said, it felt like hours had come by, but it actually had to be much more shorter than that. It had to be. The fire was still burning strong,

despite no one tending to it. If that much time had passed, the fire wouldn't have been that hot. Maybe you're misremembering the fire being... Before I could finish, Josh silenced me. I'm not misremembering the fire. His voice was anxious, but certain. I didn't question Josh further.

So, kids, Scoutmaster Scott spoke again after the laughter had finally died down. Tell me, he continued. Did my story about Manface scare you? Josh remembered how force that question had sounded. Like he was making himself say it, Josh said. But Face scared me. Jeff was the one that answered the Scoutmaster's question. The laughing fit resumed for silence.

Some, but not Josh. He felt pity instead of amusement. He saw someone he looked up to him pain and had no idea how to help. So he asked him, What would be the scariest thing to see man-faced as for you, Scoutmaster? Josh's mind, this was an innocuous question. He just wanted to make Scoutmaster Scott feel better. If he said what scared him so much out loud,

then maybe the others would take Manface seriously. Oh, me? Scoutmaster Scott looked up from the fire. His gaze had been frozen on it since he returned from the ledge. I thought it was the abyss, the endless darkness, but a single face to greet me. That single face, my own reflection, my own doom, man face, me, the void. We all become one. It seems Josh's question didn't help.

Scout Master Scott repeated the phrase, We all become one, before plunging himself face first into the campfire. It seems Josh's question really didn't help. You're kidding. I was incredulous. I'd grown more skeptical of the story after the whole transmit. At that moment, I thought I'd figured it out.

Josh held firm nonetheless. He laid there burning the flames, while the rest of us all laughed, cried, and peed our pants in terror. You didn't try to help? The trance was at its strongest. It caused us to act strange. Some kids even threw more firewood in. You're kidding me.

What did you do? I asked. Nothing. I just froze up and watched. Josh's gaze once again swiveled about our surroundings. He was looking out for something. Or someone. Did.

He died? My forewitness came from a lack of faith in the story's validity. He did. We watched his entire face burn off. We didn't even move from our seats afterwards. Once Scoutmaster Scott drew his final breath, every one of us went quiet and still. Let me guess, like you were all in a trance.

Yeah, and I didn't wake from it until long after the other troop had showed up. When I snapped back to reality, there were cops all around me. They said to Scout Master Scott hurt himself in front of us, but we were safe now. I told the cops that he didn't hurt himself. Manface did and some of the other kids helped. Of course, they didn't believe me. Josh trailed off. I didn't believe myself.

After all these years, I thought I was right too. There were lawsuits, court settlements and NDAs. I didn't understand any of it at the time. I was only ten. My family took the money and a good chunk of it went to my third. therapy. That was that. I didn't think about Manface again, until I got a message on Reddit, the scariest part of the story so far. Let me show you. Josh pulled out his phone. I almost laughed. Did he really think something I've read it was going to convince me of Manface's existence?

So, the others, the other kids, I mean, they can corroborate this story? At the time, at the time, At the time, I was more concerned about proving Josh wrong. I don't really know why. No, they're all dead. Josh answered as he frantically scrolled to his phone. That's convenient. I remember muttering under my breath. Josh didn't notice.

Finding that message was all that mattered to him at that moment. How did they all die? I asked, trying to get his attention. Jeff was found in the toilet with his head on the wrong way. Kevin died after sucking off a tree branch. Peter laid face down in a pillow and suffocated himself. They all died by the thing they said the man face would scare them the most as. Josh didn't bother to look up from his phone as he described their strange deaths.

Before he continued, I interrupted. How does your head end up the wrong way? Josh's specific and strange wording intrigued me. Internal decapitation, that's how, he explained. For Kevin, it's a strange wording. It was impalement. Peter's death was ruled as suicide, but all the vomiting tears on his pillow would have suggested he didn't want to go.

The others can also be explained this way. Ford was run over by a punch buggy. Tim was killed when a TV fell on him. I can go on. I can find you obituaries too. All seven of my former Boy Scout troop members and the Scoutmaster are all dead. If only this damn message would load. Josh showed me the app.

He was hovering over a combo between him and old friend Frankie. The message wouldn't load, but a glitched that picture did. And, oh boy, let me tell you. Looking at this picture was the first jolt of fear I'd ever felt since entering those woods. Before I could comment on it, Josh put his phone away. I have no connection here, I guess. It's okay. Josh looked around one last time.

It's about time we go. Wait, that's it? I was a bit bewildered. The story's over. Well, actually, Josh trailed off. There are a couple last things I have to do, if I'm going to do this right. He stood up from the tree stump and smiled. Tell me, Sam.

Did my story about Manface scare you? No, I honestly answered. I was, however, a bit creeped out by Josh. Josh's latest, a most radical shift in demeanor. Really? Are you sure? He asked again. This time with a little more sugar on top.

Yeah. I didn't want to lie to Josh. In fact, I had a whole lot more constructive criticism I was ready to give him when he spoke again. Here, how about you tell me what man face could be to scare you the most? That way you can go scare yourself. Josh led out a forced laugh and my unease grew with each drawn out gasp. It sounded like he was in pain.

Josh, are you? Answer the damn question, Sam, he interrupted. Uh, answer the damn question. Everything, I answered. What? Josh still sounded angry. You know, everything, Josh. If Manface can be anything, then he can be everything. That would be the scariest thing he could become to me. There's no escaping that. Josh looked me in the eyes. with a level of intensity that it once again made me reconsider his sanity. He then smiled and nodded. I believe you.

I wonder what would have happened if he didn't. Are you scared now? He asked. I mean, you're acting really weird, dude. It's freaking me out a little. I can't lie. Well, I'm sorry for my behavior. It's just that I could die any second.

Josh paused as he realized some other step he had forgotten to perform. And now you can too. If you feel your fear of man-faced waver, then spread it to another. Ideally, someone you care about, like a friend or a family member. That way, even if they don't believe you, you can be afraid for them. It's so much easier to be afraid with someone you care about than just your lonely old self. Don't you agree, Sam?

I don't know if it was how earnest Josh sounded, or his weird, infomercial delivery, but something about the way he said that sucked any fear I had right out of me. What? I let out that one word before suddenly breaking into a fit of laughter. So you're not afraid anymore, huh? Even when a friend tells you his life is in danger? The betrayal in Josh's voice sounded so real. And yet, I couldn't stop laughing.

No, I choked out. No, I don't know what's happening to me. I can't. The laughter overwhelmed me. It's okay. That happens to those who don't believe. Josh took his phone back out and turned on his flashlight. He pointed it out into the darkness while saying,

You know what the scariest thing manned face would be for me? Even if I wanted to ask what it was, my body refused to let me do anything but laugh. When they asked me back then, my answer wasn't some childish joke. I didn't try to be funny. I told them. The truth. I strained my eyes through tears to see what was at the end of Josh's beam of light.

There, away to my gaze, was the eerie silhouette of something large and on four legs, standing only 13 feet away. At that moment, I was truly and utterly afraid. My laughing stopped and the sheer. size of the figure in front of me triggered my vital flight reflex. I stumbled backward and would have broken into a sprint. But Josh grabbed me by the collar of my shirt. Don't run, he said calmly. Is that a bear?

I whispered back to Josh. Yes, and my answer to the question. What? Well, the scariest thing man-faced would be for me. A bear is my answer. I was going to say a deer and tried to be full. funny, I guess, but I saw how Scout Master Scott was feeling, so I thought I'd say something that we can actually bump into deep into the woods.

I didn't think Manface was real either, but I wanted people to be afraid. Who isn't afraid of a bear? That's what I was thinking back then. Well, what are you thinking now, Eagle Scout? I asked, hoping he could use some of his outdoor expertise to get us out of this alive. I'm thinking. I should have said, dear. Josh started to shine his light towards the bear's face,

but I stopped him before I could center it. What the hell do you think you're doing? You're only going to tick it off. I could hear the low rumble of a growl beginning to emanate from the darkness. I want to show you his face. If you see his face, then you'll believe me. Then you'll be afraid. The growling was growing louder.

I am afraid, Josh. I really am. Can't you tell? Are you really afraid? He asked. "'Yes,' I wanted to scream at Josh, but I really don't need to tell you why I didn't.' "'Really?' he asked again, sounding as incredulous as I did earlier. "'Are you mocking me?'

I could hear the slow and heavy thumping of the bear's massive feet as it sculpted towards us. "'I'm merely returning the concern you showed me when I showed you my fear.' Josh pulled his hands away from mine and pointed the light right at my face. "'Show me your fear, Sam.' He repeated the phrase, getting louder and louder with each repetition. Show me your fear, Sam. Josh. The bear looked to be right behind him.

Its shadow blotted out what little moonlight was breaking through the canopy. Its size was truly gargantuan. Show me your fear, Sam. Josh, shut the hell up. Not until you show me your fear, Sam. All right, fine, Josh. Here it is. I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of dying alone. I'm afraid of dying right now. I'm scared, Josh. I'm so down scared all the time. I have nothing to live for. My dreams are dead, and I can't hold a job. I just wish we could pretend everything was okay like we usually do. I wish we weren't in these woods.

Why are we in these woods, Josh? Why is this happening? Do you hate me? Please don't hate me, Josh. You're the only friend I have left. I was getting emotional and yelling, all while a bear was only a hop and a quick mauling away. But something in me came out at that moment.

My emotions were compromised. and things I usually would leave unsaid started to pour out of me. Josh put his hand on my shoulder. Thank you, Sam. It was at that moment I realised the growling had stopped. In fact, the bear was gone. Where did? Before I could finish, Josh said,

It doesn't matter. It worked. Now, let's go. I didn't argue with the man. I followed Josh back the way we came and got into his car. He had been my ride out here, and after what just went down, I wasn't sure how happy I was

that he was my only ride back. I asked him, while we were cruising down the freeway. Why me, Josh? Why did he tell the story to me if you believe it's true? He didn't hesitate to answer. You're my only friend too, Sam.

I care about you. But I know that you're poisoned by skepticism. You could never believe in yourself. let alone anyone else. I think it's why you're so certain you can't achieve your dreams. I think you could, Sam. I believe in you. I know you don't believe in Manface, and I know you don't believe in yourself, Sam.

But that's okay. I can do that for both of us. Josh turned to give me a smile and a wink. Right as he did, something leapt out in front of the car. It was too fast for me to see what it was, but Josh's terrified face seemed to indicate he knew what was coming. The airbags deployed, and when I came to, Josh's head was impaled on a deer crossing sign that we had somehow crashed into. I didn't scream, I didn't cry.

All I did was laugh. I laughed as my only friend died right in front of me. I don't know how this man face works. I wasn't sure if he was real. But after all I've seen now, I'll be a fool to still have. have doubt. Ever since that fateful night, I've been losing hours of my time to bouts of amnesia. The doctors say the memory gaps are because of the crash. But I know better. It's too specific. He gets rid of certain memories, but not others. He manipulates your own behavior.

I had become this very story without remembering how it had ended or why I was even beginning it in the first place. I wouldn't have started it if I'd known. I would have stayed in that snarky, skeptical bliss that I enjoyed so much. But I can never truly forget my only friend Josh. Manface won't let me. There's one thing about Manface I can tell you that Josh didn't know. When he comes to kill you, the face he bears is that of his last victim. I only know this because there are countless faces on my best friend reflecting behind me on my computer screen.

I just had to answer everything, didn't I? I just had to tell the truth. Maybe I can swap for a deer like he did. No matter, I've done what I needed to do. If this story scares enough of you, I live. If it doesn't, I die. What man face doesn't account for is a victim with no one left to fear for.

Not even. themselves. The first time I saw the man in the mirror it was right after my cat died. I was around ten years old, I think, when she got run over by a car. It was early in the morning and my parents had to go to work,

but they let me take the day of school since I was a complete wreck. I couldn't stop crying. My little cat, Misty, was only a few years old when a careless driver speeding down a quiet residential street clipped her with her car.

They didn't even bother to stop and apologise. Maybe they didn't even notice what they'd done. Or maybe they didn't care. Since I couldn't stay home by myself, my parents sent me over to spend the day with my grandma a few blocks away. I walked over there, crying my eyes out over the death of my poor cat. All I could think about was how the night prior, she had climbed onto my lap to snuggle with me,

and she never did that. She sat with me, quietly petting her, warmly asleep on my lap for nearly an hour. It was the first time she'd ever done that. My grandma made me feel a little better when I got there. She made me lipped in chicken noodle soup and fed me ginger snaps, and she let me pet her adorably geriatric black cat, Luna. Of course, it wasn't the same, because Luna was her cat. I sat there all day, watching The Price is Right with Bob Barker

and daytime murdery mystery shows on the comfortable plaid couch and a den. The old black and white zenith didn't get many stations, but had just enough range in its bunny ears to entertain me for a day, while I tried to forget about my cat. During an episode of Colombo, I caught movement in the corner of the room I was sitting in. My heart began to pan with fear, and I screamed, seeing someone looking at me through the class to my right. At first, my mind couldn't make sense of what I was seeing.

but then it dawned on me the piece of glass in the corner of the room was a mirror not a window from the angle I was looking at him it was impossible for the man to have been standing where his reflection showed him to be

there was nobody there except in the mirror it was like he was a reverse vampire only visible in his reflection the man was wearing a brown suit and the first thing I noticed about him was that his eyes were white, as freshly fallen snow. There was no iris or pupil within them.

And he was watching me with those blank eyes. He was observing me carefully from the tilted, crooked viewpoint in the mirror where he resided. I screamed as he watched me, and he calmly walked away, disappearing out of my view. My grandma came in and told me it was okay, but it was just my imagination. but I knew what I saw. I didn't go back to a house for years after that. I was so afraid of the man in the mirror. I had nightmares about him for a long time

and thought I would never get over the experience. Eventually, I did though. When something supernatural happens like that, it's like our mind reconstructs the memory, tries to make it more palatable and less impossible. And that's what I did. I convinced myself it wasn't real that it was a false memory, a vivid hallucination, a dream.

That's what we do when we can't cope with the reality of what actually happened. But I know now, I know it was real. I was just wishful thinking. Several years later, I started going back to my grandma's house. Although I had a fear of mirrors still, I managed to get by, trying simply to not look at them. Again, I'd convinced myself that it was just a delusion, but being in my grandma's house

brought it all back each time. The memory was so vivid, especially when my eye caught that mirror in a den. I didn't see the man in the mirror for two decades. Amazingly, I'd almost managed to completely forget about him. But then, my uncle passed away. We had coffee at my grandma's house after the funeral, and we were in the denials. den sitting around and talking about him. The night wore on, and it got later and later, and eventually people began to leave.

I stayed behind and helped my grandma clean up. She was obviously very upset over the tragic loss of her son, but seemed to be taking it surprisingly well. Thank you for your help, dear, she said, taking some plates up to the kitchen. Of course, Nan, anything I can do. Would you like me to spend the night? No, no, she scoffed. I'll be fine.

You've done so much already. It was a short flight of stone steps which led up to the dining room and then a doorway which led to the rest of the house. The den was an extension down on a lower level and I was once again left alone inside the quiet room. Standing in front of the table, the mirror where I'd seen the man was just beside me. But that had been so long ago I'd almost completely forgot. about it, like I said before. It all came rushing back, though. All the memories and the appointments with counsellors and therapists and all the long talks

with my parents. All of it came back to me suddenly as I looked to my left and saw her face, staring back at me from that mirror once again. Those white, bloodless eyes staring at me. This time, I was too terrified to scream. All my nightmares seemed to be coming true as he refused to turn away. He simply continued to stare at me. The thing which I told myself wasn't real, was never real.

Suddenly, it was literally staring me in the face. And I couldn't handle it. A scream finally escaped my lips that had been grown in my belly since I was a child, building into a howling, terrified wail. It felt like... It felt like I was back in that room, ten years old again, looking at that man in the mirror who made no sense, who couldn't be there, shouldn't be there.

And yet he was. He was irrefutably, impossibly there, staring at me with his blank white eyes, watching me. My grandma came into the room, and I looked up at her. She was asking what was wrong, and I pointed at the mirror. But when I glanced down at it again, the man was gone. Her face was concerned, but she didn't ask what I had seen. she seemed to already know

Grandma, what the hell is going on? This time, she didn't tell me I was imagining things. She simply nodded and walked over to the mirror. She stood in front of it and looked at me, then took my hands in hers. It felt cold as ice. I think it's finally time. I told you the truth, she said.

You have to understand. I needed to be sure. The gift. It often skips a generation, sometimes three or four even. Children, they sometimes see things, but that does not mean they are blessed with it. Only given a glimpse for a few short moments. But you have the gift. I am certain of that now.

What gift? I asked, dumbstruck. Our family is special, Jason. We have a power that only very few people are blessed with. Watch, I'll show you. She looked back towards the mirror. Frederick, she called out, speaking into the glass softly. Please come and bring the cats.

Cats? The man in the mirror returned in his brown suit with two cats in his arms, a grey one and a black one. Both of them had identical pairs of blank white eyes. Misty, and is that lunar? "'Yes. You see now. Do you recognise the man? He recognises you, I'm sure. He's been watching you for a long, long time.' "'Grandpa?' I gasped the question, stepping backwards. "'The man looked so young. That was why I hadn't recognised him. His face looked slightly familiar from photographs, but I'd never put it together. I'd never met the man. Not really. He had died when I was still a baby.'

What is this? Why are they in there? I asked, still not understanding how this was possible or why it was happening. Then, a thought occurred to me suddenly. Uncle Gary. Is he there too? Another man stepped into the frame, looking very similar to the first, I realise now. The two men stood there, staring at us blankly like zombies. They held the two cats and watched us through the glass, not smiling, not friendly. They didn't say a word, they only stared. What's wrong with them?

Nothing's wrong with them, my grandma snapped, speaking in a tone I'd never heard from her before. My mom had always been a little scared of her, it seemed to me, and I never understood why. Maybe she knew something about this, or simply was terrified of this side of her, so rarely seen by others. They get to be with us now, don't you see? It's perfect. and so many more years with us this way. Her face looked far off and dreamy as she spoke. But are they?

I stopped myself, seeing the look on her face again. I had to be careful. Can they talk? What's it like there? I asked, carefully choosing my words. No, dear, they can't speak, but I'm sure if they could, they'd say they are just happy to be with us, and the world on that side is much the same as the one here.

It's an exact replica of this house. I call it a mirror dimension. As long as they're in this house, they're here with us. I tried to comprehend how she could trap her loved ones here so ruthlessly. I suddenly felt terrified. What if I died next and she put me in there? I imagine myself standing amid them, my eyes white and emotionless. Wow, so...

when you pass away one day, are you going to live in the mirror dimension too? She shot me that evil glare again and told me to quit asking so many questions. You can decide for yourself, do you want to learn the things I can show you or do you want to stay ordinary, like them? She asked, pointing at my sad-faced uncle

and grandfather in the mirror. The two cats lay limply in their arms, no longer alive, but not quite dead either. The implication was, clear. Either I went along with what she wanted, or I would end up there with them one day. Uh, let me think about it, I told her. She wasn't happy about it, I could tell, but she said to take all the time I needed to decide. If I decided to go through with it, she would show me everything she knew, but it would come

at a cost, she told me. Certain human attributes will be lost in the process. She said the word human with some disdain, but I would grow into a far stronger being if I agreed. I would live the same length of time as an ordinary human, but I would have abilities that most people could only dream of. What exactly will I lose? I asked her, but she wouldn't say. Part of me was beginning to understand, though,

as I looked at those sad faces in the mirror. I sympathised with them, felt terrible for them, but she merely saw them as decoration window dressing suited to fit her needs in this case loneliness I went home and lay in bed for hours thinking about the decision

it would be a lie to say I wasn't tempted that I wasn't curious but I couldn't go through with it whatever had happened to my grandma to make her act so heartless I didn't want that to happen to me regardless of the benefits I would reap from the process

The question was How would I tell her? I was worried about what she might do if I refused her offer. My uncle had been a good man and she had trapped him in a mirror version of her home for eternity. My grandfather had been a husband for 40 years and she had done the same to him. I didn't want to think about what she would do to me

if I said no. As it turned out, I wouldn't have to. She passed away the following week. before I could give her my answer. The whole family was mourning the loss of my uncle, and this just made things ten times more devastating. Everyone in the family loved my grandma, and despite what had happened the last time I saw her,

I loved her too. My mom was clearly conflicted at the funeral, as was I. With all that had happened, I hadn't had a chance to talk to her yet about the whole thing, and I was scared of what she would say, that maybe she would think I was crazy. It sure sounded crazy when I thought about what I would tell her. Hey, Mom, just so you know, Grandma was a witch,

and she trapped Grandma and Uncle Gary in the mirror in a den. Oh, and you know my childhood cat, Misty? She's in there too. Regardless, I knew I'd have to talk to her about it. I couldn't just leave them stuck in that mirror, and I didn't know how to get them out. I wondered if maybe Mom knew something more than she was saying. Maybe she wouldn't think it was so crazy.

after all. Later that night, we're at my grandma's house again, having coffee and looking through old photos with family members who had come in from out of town for the funeral. I kept seeing photos of people with my grandma, who I didn't recognize in one photo album. It looked like they were close friends, birthday parties and anniversaries,

and all the other events we celebrate in our lives. She had celebrated with them, with these people too. So, why didn't I know who they were? After everyone else had gone home for the night, I pointed out one of these photos to my mom. Hey, Mom, who's this lady? She keeps popping up in all these photos. Oh, she said, thinking about it.

That was one of the co-founders of a group your grandma used to be a part of. They stopped meeting years ago, but they used to be really close. Then it hit me. These were the other people. Like her. A dwindling group of people with powers I would never understand that I had chosen not to understand because of what it would do to me.

The faces stared back at me from the photo, judging me, and I flipped the cover of the photo album closed. Hey, Mom. You know that mirror in Grandma's den? She turned her head sharply to look at me. Yeah? I remember when I was a kid, how I saw a man in the mirror.

It really freaks me out for a long time. You remember that? Of course, how could I forget? What about it? I went back to the den and picked it up, looking at the faces in it, watching me perplexed as I carried it through the house. Five pairs of eyes looking back at me now,

all mournful, all lonely, and begging for freedom. Do you really like that? this mirror, or can I do something with it? She looked at me with confusion, but then her face softened and relaxed. You know, to be honest, I've never liked that mirror. When I was a little girl, I always broke it, and my mom, your grandma, screamed at me. Just screamed bloody murder. I never seen her so angry.

She said it was a one-of-a-kind. What do you want to do exactly? Come on, I'll show you. I took the mirror outside and brought it to the curb. It wasn't junk pickup day, but that didn't matter. Some scrap collector would take it for all I cared. But I had a feeling that what really mattered was what we did next. Laying the mirror flat on his back, I pointed it,

so it reflected upwards and faced the heavens and the stars, rather than the den inside my grandma's house. I watched the reflections in the mirror as they slowly faded, and disappeared and said goodbye. November. No matter how I try, I can't read the day or year. Only that bright white word that glows from the screen of my phone, taunting me.

Why can't I remember? Jameson, my boyfriend, named after his dad's favorite drink, the one who led us here. Jameson Lee, the pictures we'd laugh at from his cringy adolescence, trench coat and edginess, misogyny and mountain dew. Then, the tragedy. His mother's sickness, forced to get stronger,

taking on more responsibility day by day. First little things, then big things, making itself into someone who could be trusted. Someone who I thought could be trusted. What did he look like right before he disappeared? Just flashes. The closer the memory, the faster it fades. My hand has.

a muscular thigh, rugged gear, like for an expedition, all matching khakis and browns like something out of Indiana Jones. That salt and pepper stubbly beard that turned me on so much. A clever smile, like a kid who just figured out a puzzle. A tanned hand pointing up a crumbled road into the mist. That was how it started. Jameson, that obsession with the occult that he never grew out of. Even when to all the world, he was just another middle-class sales manager. Good at it, too. Enough to buy that tastefully decorated house in the suburbs. His castle, he called it. Now, I wonder if he ever really had any of the skills he claimed, or if he just excelled at selling a product, himself, James and Lee, whoever you wanted him to be. It's not that he didn't have a knack for

finding these lost spaces. That was what we called them. Jameson, Eddie, Elizabeth and me. You needed tactical-grade talent and out-of-the-box thinking in those places we explored. Like that endless, twisting tunnel of pipes. Steam, grease, clanging metal catwalks bent into insane shapes. Or the empty, endless late-night mall from the midnights. The one you could only access by stepping through a mirror in a dressing room or carrying nothing manufactured after 1994.

We had talent for cutting locks, jumping pences, getting in and out of places that defied reality. Or did we? Maybe what we'd really had was luck, that no security guard or nameless horror had stumbled upon our excursions into the unknown. Maybe it was luck that an exit appeared from the maze of pipes, or that those polished floors with a reverberating mall musk stayed empty. Maybe it was luck each time we entered a supposed lost space

and found nothing more than broken glass and graffiti. But here, in November, our luck has finally run out. If I look out the window now, I'd see Miss Nesbitt brushing dead flower petals from a patio with her homemade broom. That's what she was doing at this time on this day, 30 days ago. And it's what she'll be doing at this time on this day, 30 days from now. And if I went over to interfere, my hand would pass right. through her, like she was just a hologram projected onto fog. That's November.

Focus. What I need right now is the focus, while I still can. The conference. We were at a party after an occult convention. Jameson always turned heads at those events. People wondered what such a neatly groomed, conservatively dressed guy was doing surrounded by a gouth like Eddie, a nerd like Liz, and a kid like me. I'm 20. Or am I? How long has it been? But even back when I was still in college, people would stop me and ask which high school tour group I was a part of.

Focus. The party. After the convention, a trailer with bare bulbs and sagging floors. We were leaving because somebody had brought out needles, and since Liz's dad OD'd, she couldn't stand to be around that stuff. That was when the old biker lady tripped Eddie with her boot. Got in our faces, asked us what we were into. Eddie started to explain. She grinned.

Had we ever been to a ghost town? Jameson scoffed, said we had to go, but I hesitated. And then she told us the rumours about November. That's not the real name of this place. I have the vague idea that this place was an old cold town that dried up in the 80s, but I couldn't tell you what it's called or where it is. I remember her worn square sign. riddled with shotgun pellets, nothing more.

The closer the memory, the faster it fades. The place became Jameson's new obsession. He started staying out later and later. Seedy places, odd hours. Drug-adled, violent, half-mad strangers, rambling about the spirit realm and black holes in time. I found myself tracing his movements like a stereotypical jealous girlfriend. Except, then instead of another woman,

I'd been supplanted by a place that probably only existed in the heads of a few wandering lunatics. I told myself that Jameson knew what he was doing. Like always, he was just so much older, so much more experienced in life. He took care of the finances and the, what do we call it, adulting in our relationship. I felt powerless. It's because I was. When we finally saddled up the four-wheel drive to leave onto a road trip to, and wherever this is, what I felt was relief.

Whatever happened, this thing would be behind us. We could get back to the normal life I thought I wanted, before I dropped out to become Jameson's. What, housekeeper with benefits? I'd wanted to study history. I'd always wondered what Caesar's legions crossing the Rubicon or Napoleon's troops marching to Russia had felt. Now, I understood.

It's relief. There might be a tiny voice in the back of your head screaming that there's no way back from what you're about to do, but is drowned out by the feeling that the waiting is finally over. For better or worse, the thing is in motion. The coin had been tossed and it will land on heads or tails, unless it falls through a black hole in time. I don't need to remember what happened to James and Liz and Eddie, because I can watch those events as they happen.

I can watch a battered green jeep roll out to the fog. My friends inside talk to each other and to me as if I was there, repeating the same conversation forever. The Jeep can't be turned away from his fixed course. I know, I've tried. Although Jameson, Eddie and Liz are as incorporeal as shadows, a wheel and gear shift moved by themselves like a ghost ship compelled by the weird physics of this place.

Trying to change things here is like trying to change the past. and so I watch Liz points out the window at the abandoned buildings as a jeep rounds the curve As always Eddie tells his joke about the pig With a wooden leg for the nth time Jameson with a paternal glance Asks if I'm okay

Or more specifically He asks the empty seat beside him The seat where I would be sitting If I died like the rest of them The seat where I'll be trapped forever If I fail to escape from November The Jeep Rolls to a stop in front of me, as many times as I've seen my friends step out into the town. The sight never fails to shock me.

It's clear that Eddie's joking around is just a defense mechanism. Liz has dark circles under her eyes and Jameson has been aged prematurely by something we encountered out there in the fog. Everyone is thin and grimy. I don't know what happened in those lost memories between the moment Jameson pointed up the road and this one, but it took its toll on all of us. Still, you can see the excitement on my friend's faces and finally having arrived in the town. Whatever may have happened before.

Eddie eagerly prepares his recording equipment. Liz does a gleeful little swirl and starts scanning the empty houses with binoculars. Jameson puts his arm around the empty space where I'd be standing if I'd met the same fate as my friends. Then he claps his hands together and our little band fans out to explore. We always stayed within sight of each other.

Yes, I think I recall that being one of our rules. It doesn't make much difference when time and space don't behave how they should. But that comes later. First comes the joy of discovery. Most of us had never seen a real Main Street before. Not with a post office and a family grocery, a butcher and a hardware store, and a little diner whose faded sign offered coffee and a cherry pie for $1.50.

It was like a movie set. We should have known. The town is gnawed and battered by the elements, but beyond that, there were none of the usual signs of abandonment. No graffiti, few broken windows. Even the antique cars partying the street are mostly undisturbed. Liz appears into the grocery. The lightless aisles inside are fully stocked.

Eddie comments that maybe this town isn't abandoned after all. My friends step inside. A little brass bell sounds. A fallen can rolls out of the darkness and everyone jumps, just like always. The place reeks of spoiling food. Melted ice cream runs like blood from the freezer doors in the back. Eddie picks up a can of crystal Pepsi, looks at it curiously. It seems impossible that all this stuff from the 80s has just been sitting here all this time.

And yet the refrigeration kind of gone out more than a month ago. My friends walked through the store, discussing. possible explanations for the mystery. They leave without seeing the shadowy figure that emerges from the back room to slog the shelves. Instead, they cross Main Street and begin examining the other buildings. They're in front of the diner

when they see Derek Weaver crossing the courthouse square in a hurry. They exchange a glance, then Jameson runs up to catch to Mr. Weaver who pays no heed of Jameson's cries of, Hey, and, wait! That's because He's just a shadow trapped in time, doomed to repeat its routine forever.

But my friends just don't know that yet. They figure it out when Jameson reaches out for Mr. Weaver and his hand passes right through him. Oblivious, the shade of Mr. Weaver goes into the courthouse to keep its eternal appointment. Everyone runs to Jameson. He stares up at the blustery grey sky, as stunned as an atheist who's just met God. my ragged friends back into a circle as shades appear, keeping their clockwork routines. Roy Evans, the shadow inside the grocery store, steps outside to wave to Emily Hereford, who walks through Eddie on a way to the diner.

He jumps, shrieks and shakes himself before realizing that she's less substantial than air. My friend's experiment, trying to contact and interact with the shades of the town's former residence. No effect. I watch my friend's faces change as they realise. that something horrible must have happened here, and that now we are a part of it. They begin to understand what Jameson must have known all along. As hard as it was to find the place, it was going to be even harder to leave. That leads to anger.

Another thing I learned from my interest in history, the first thing people do in a crisis is look for someone to blame. I no longer remember what I said in the argument, but as I watched the response, is play out in real time, it's clear that I take James inside and everything, just like a loyal puppy. It's afternoon now. Soon he'll be getting dark. No one wants to find out what happens if you spend the night in the open in this eerie place and there isn't room to sleep in the Jeep. The hunt is on for an open building to spend the night, preferably one without any ghostly inhabitants. This is easier than it seems, as the town was clearly already on its way out, even before the event.

event, as Jameson had taken to calling it. The shades of my friends creep around like cartoon burglars, looking for a house to spend the night in. It would be funny if the encroaching darkness didn't feel so deadly. We finally enter through a boarded-up house through the basement. My friends block the doors, reinforce the windows, and do their best to fortify the place. Their work will do about as much good as a blanket fort against what's out there.

But they don't know that yet. I wonder how many times I've watched this same performance. I wonder how I felt when I was living through it. Was I scared, determined, hopeful? The closer the memory, the faster it fades. We sit around a crackling fire made from some broken off bits of furniture. I can tell from the conversation that my friends have started and noticed the effects of November. Liz comments that she doesn't feel tired or hungry anymore.

Eddie checks his camera batteries and notes that they haven't lost any charge. No one shivers from the autumn chill. This non-ness, this resignation, deepens as the days go by. In the morning, our attempts to escape by car. The Jeep reappears around the curve, leading into town a few minutes later each time. Then come the flights to the forest. We trudge into leaf-chote gullies, only to emerge in one of the town's many empty backyards, bewildered. Through it all, however, no one reacts with a kind of.

of panic that someone should experience in such a situation. Our emotions are as pale and apathetic as the grey sky overhead, even when one of us doesn't come back from the woods. My friends wait and wait for Eddie to reappear. Jameson paces nervously along the top of the ravine at the edge of town. The intensity of his emotions has finally broken through the numbness of November. Where is he? Where could he be? Jameson snarls. I must have tried to comfort him,

because he pushes at the empty air where I would have stood. After a long pause, Liz, screams. Oh my God, you've killed her! Jameson looks around from side to side guiltily before creeping down to the base of the ravine. He kneels down and goes to the motions of checking a pulse. He frowns, and then he steps back and shrugs. I guess that was the moment my friend,

left me for dead. I run a hand along the scar on the back of my skull. It's how I know I'm still alive. Back atop the ridge, Jameson tells Liz that now isn't the time to point fingers. Liz screams and calls him a murderer. But the behavior of one of the shades causes them both to fall silent.

Miss Nesbit is walking into town, apparently to do some shopping. When she pauses. She squins through my friends and I, apparently trying to identify something in the woods. Her eyes go wide. She tries the scream, but makes no sound. She hobbles desperately for home, but something lifts her into the air.

Something invisible. Because, like me, it's still alive here in November. It isn't trapped as a shade in this well of memories. The unseen thing eats her from the inside out. Miss Nesbitt's shade then vanishes, not to be seen again until the cycle. starts. The Time Eater. That's what I call the thing that got Miss Nesbitt.

The thing that stalked to the people of this town and devoured them one by one, trapping them in this last month of their lives so that it could feed on them forever. It got Eddie too, out there in the woods. Now it's about to get Liz. I watched Jameson's face go slack. He makes a primitive sound of fear, pointing at something behind Liz. At first, Liz doesn't understand what's happening. Then the time eater catches her from behind, doing to Liz what it did to Miss Nesbit before.

Like Miss Nesbit, Liz disappears when it finishes feeding, trapped forever in a loop that starts the moment she entered November, and ends when she's consumed by the time eater. I follow Jameson's shade as he runs, looking back over his shoulder and what must have been a gruesome sight. This is pelvis, legs and feet being slurped up. by the time eater. Jameson reaches the Jeep and pulls out a high-caliber hunting rifle. Based on the expression of his face, his shots have no effect. He squirms into the mud under the jeep. Then he too is pulled out, screaming and devoured in the air before my eyes. I feel nothing as I watch my boyfriend being eaten, and I'm not sure that's just a numbness of November. My friend's loop is now closed, and it won't open again.

until the cycle restarts. There are only two living things in November. The time eater, out there somewhere, incomprehensible, indestructible, eternally hungry.

And me, a cool breeze blows dead leaves against my boots. The sky is azure and clear. I feel sure that I'm forgetting something. But what? In the summer of 2013,

a man named Mr. Wright had sent me an erratic letter depicting his fears of a local anomaly that he called the lampmen of Bedfordshire. At first I struggled to decipher his messy script, but I was taken aback by his claims.

According to Mr. Wright, his quaint town of Little Barford, Bedford, Bedford, had been tormented by the lampmen since the forties, and the residents had simply accepted it. Mr. Wright didn't seem to know what the cause was,

but stated the town had strict rules and curfews, to keep its two dozen occupants safe. Mr. Wright had shown his concerns ever since a young girl had recently gone missing. When I first told Mr. Wright that my urban myth tumbler was used to submitted stories

and that I never actually visited the towns, he refused to believe it. In fact, he became far more assertive and rather than suggest I see Little Barford, he demanded it. It wasn't until a further 15 minutes that I figured out that Mr. Wright wasn't a gentleman

who lived in a quiet town with his loving wife and kids. Instead, he was a 15-year-old named Ronald Wright. After I pointed out his poor grammar and asked for ID, he soon came clean. Although Ronald had been lying about himself, he had been very truthful about Joyce Byrne, who had disappeared just a few days before his first email. After finding out the truth, I firmly rejected his proposition.

Knowing he was a kid, knocked out all formality I had, and I ignored his further emails. I can't say the story didn't intrigue me. In fact, I debated posting it to my Tumblr, but on the weird off chance that it was real, and I decided not to. I even researched into the small town of Little Barford, and only found articles under construction of the power station 50 or so years ago. December soon came along, and I had finally forgotten about Ronald.

his emails had been directed straight to my junk box automatically. However, just days after Christmas, I'd set foot inside the junk box, searching for a voucher code my uncle had gotten me, and came across a recent email from Ronald with a subject, I broke the rules, the lampmen are coming for me, and opened it. The title was intriguing, and the fact who still emailing me caught my interest. In the email, Ronald addressed his previous email. emails and how I'd been ignoring him, and even went as far as to predict I hadn't been reading

them. Ronald spoke about how nobody else had gone missing since choice, but after months of no reply for me, Ronald had gone out at night in hopes of finding choice. Ronald laid out a few of the rules the town had been following, and they read, One, do not go near the lights off the road path at night. That is a lampman. Two, if you see a lamp post that doesn't. does not belong, do not approach it. 3. When navigating road at night, use a lantern. If you see a tall source of light approaching you, you must drop the lantern and hide.

It might be too late. 4. At night, curtains must be drawn tight. If you have electronics on, make sure the light doesn't lead outside. They will find you. Little Barford was mainly a long road lit by the orange glow of candlelit street lamps. each scattered carelessly at our distances. Fields faded into the dark abyss,

with a light pollution of nearby towns brighten the sky. Despite this, the sky was painted with an abundance of bright pinholes. The taxi stopped at a row of bungalows, each one covered with an aged thatched roof. It was as if the town was frozen in time. Ronald pulled me inside frantically, and his eyes were wild with fear. Did you break any of the rules?

He screeched with urgency, his pre-bubescent voice sent shockwaves through my body. No, no, don't worry, I reassured. Ronald relaxed lightly, but the atmosphere remained thick and suffocating. Before I had gotten to take my coat off, he had shoved an unkempt and small green buck into my hands. The dyed leather flaked off of the spine and some of the pages threatened to spill out. Ronald stared at me with impatient hues and wordlessly nodded at me as if permitting me to open it. Inside was the name Sheila Wright in neat

cursive ink. Your mother's? I asked. Ronald shook his head and silently flipped to a page with a folded corner. In the top right was a date 2nd of August

1940 and underneath it read Mother and I closed the curtains this morning and read by electric light. We no longer need the fire from the lamp meant to read during the dark. Father wasn't as excited. and he left for his new job of the power station in a huff.

This evening we did not offer our fuel to the lampman and mother turned on the heater as a special treat. I wonder if the lampman will go hungry. I bit my lip in anxiety, my teeth scraped at the dead skin. Ronald watched on with huge eyes as if I hadn't gotten to the most crucial part. I flipped to the next page.

3rd of August, 1940. Father did not return last night. night, I wonder if he lost his way. Mother said that he would be back soon. As it got dark, I saw the faint glow of one of the lampmen. He was not far away. Instead, his flames had grown dull. I snuck some fuel out to him, and he seemed grateful.

Fourth of August, 1940, the lampman from last night came back with others. Mr. Evan, the next door neighbor, threw water of them and screamed at them to leave. It seems like nobody cares now that we don't need them. Sheila's diary contained a lot of information, a mass of details he'd expect to be in a teenage girl's diary and only brief information about the Lampmen up until the 10th of August.

Sheila's dad had been missing for over a week at that point. There had been no sign of him and a few other locals had disappeared, including Mr Evans, who had gone for a night-time walk. Sheila had continued to feed the Lampman oil each night and in return they guided a home a few times after spending evenings at a friend's house, and even return a brooch she had lost. She had noticed that the nights she failed to supply them with kerosene, people had disappeared

into the night. Many people began to fear the lampmen, and soon enough, a list of rules was spread around the small village. These were the same rules Ronald had informed me earlier, plus an extra one. I had almost missed it. My height threatened to skip past the familiar words, but when I spotted the number five, Five, my heart and body froze. Five.

Do not miss a feeding night. I flipped a page to find that it had been ripped out. Ronald, I said through dried lips. What happens when you miss a night? I asked. The young lad stared at me, lips spread wide and straight in a look of pure guilt. His ghostly features washed into the pale wallpaper behind him. I don't know. People disappear, and most of the time, it's the people just driving through.

There was still part of me that refused to accept the situation. Every fine detail about this town and its apparent lampman technically made no sense and read like a local folk tale. Where's your grandmother? I felt the only sentences that left my mouth ended with a question. She died near Easter, he admitted. just before I emailed you. Ronald played with his fingers and nervous disposition.

We found a body in the woods and near where she used to drop of the garrison. She had a bad liver. She said from drinking some nasty stuff when younger. I removed my coat and headed into the living room. Ronald's house had a strange homeliness to it. Vintage pictures lined the wobbly walls as well as furniture and decorations that didn't belong in this century. The smell of damp and petrol was covered poorly by. candles. Did you keep feeding the lampmen? I asked. The sentence felt foreign and I struggled to push it

past my lips. Until recently, he nodded. I can't buy kerosene. I just used what grandma had stored. I just used what grandma had stored. That night, I slept in the spare bedroom. As much as Ronald tried to hide it, I knew that the bed once belonged to Sheila. Ronald's mother had worked the night shift, and luckily for me, didn't dare step into a late mother's room, even if snoring leaked through the cracks of the door. At first, it was difficult to fall asleep. Everywhere in the house stunk of fuel, the spare bedroom was the worst for this. In the middle of the night, I turned on my phone's flashlight to discover a party of fuel containers under the bed, all empty. I'd found this when I dropped my glasses accidentally.

When I pulled them back up, they were coated in a strange substance, something too red to be kerosene, but too watery to be paint. Whatever it was, it was the source of the stench. I spent the next day studying the diary as if I had a test coming up. I'd have liked to get information from the locals, but there was an odd sensation of strangeness and anxiety that came with a thought. Despite that, it seemed like all the information needed was laid out before me. all thanks to Sheila.

Night two is where it got interesting. Despite my unwillingness to speak with the locals, I was brave enough to venture outside. It's strange how social anxiety works like that. Ronald had begged me not to go, but armed with a little box of kerosene that I had brought earlier, I had felt like I had solved the issue. I left Ron's house at 9pm.

The road was much darker than my arrival, and I could see the sky much. clearer now. I didn't dare think about the details behind it out of fear itself. The stink of kerosene followed me into the woods as I used my phone screen to make a dim light. It was almost too dark to see, but I knew I'd tempt danger by using the torch function. It felt like I was travelling through the woods from miles, but I was confident I had retraced shoeless steps despite the low visibility. The trees came to a stop and I found myself in an open space where the grass had turned to stone.

Ahead and in the darkness sat stone monuments, most resting at a height above my knee. The air was heavy with a smell similar to gasoline, just like the smell had run outhouse, and the further into the woods I travelled, the more pungent the smell. Sheila had offered no instructions beyond this, so I placed a bottle on one of the stone structures

and returned the way I had come. Beyond the trees, just metres away. way. An orange glow leaked between the trunks, and I called out, Run, over here! My feet began to move on their own, and I travelled forward in a brisk walk. Bizarly enough, the smell became more aggressive. The closer I got to run, the more my brain hurt at the intensity. Only, it wasn't run.

The closer I got, the better look I got. The lightsore sat around 12 feet. I hide that little run would never reach without miraculous methods. I didn't stop walking. The mystery of light in the middle of the woods fueled my curiosity and the excitement of lampmen being real caused waves of electricity to soar through my body. With steady steps, I made sure not to trip over overgrown roots.

My body swung 180 degrees at a sudden crack of a branch just meters away, and behind me at the stone structure stood three street lamps. The figure surrounded the fuel I had left, and I watched as one of them took the container with lanky and ornamented arms. It opened what it could only describe as a window to its face, and poured a bit into it. The flame inside weakened into a slight orange glow, and it shrieked the tone so high it felt like daggers had stabbed my ears. The two of the beings stepped back in shock as the others threw the container into the foliage ahead. It didn't take a genius to figure out something. something was wrong.

I ran faster than I ever had before, back through the woods, back through the small town and back to Ron's house, who stood in shock with his mother as I burst through the door. You can imagine the shock on Ron's mother's face as I burst through. However, she was surprisingly accepting when we explained the odd situation. Ron's mother, who introduced herself as Marie, was more than happy to discuss the topic and even provide insight into details we hadn't known prior. After a cup of tea, I explained what had just happened and how the lampmen had rejected the kerosene I supplied them.

There was some left upstairs? asked Marie. Shock painted across the delicate features. No, I bought some, I informed, and Marie let out a sigh. She bit down on a bottom lip and she decided whether to share something with us. It's not just kerosene, she uttered. Her lips froze in place, and it made a speech difficult to understand. I waited in silence for her to continue. My mother mixed it with blood.

Excuse me? I stuttered. A laugh bubbled up on my throat as the bizarreness tickled my sides. Marie's face remained silent, a perfect poker face, if it wasn't for the hint of concern in her eyes. I straightened my back and cleared my throat. Go on. She mixed it, one liter of blood to five of kerosene. I watched on as Marie crossed her arms.

She couldn't take it in her old age. I tried to help her, but for some reason they rejected mine. She stopped. The air was strangely heavy yet empty. I couldn't help but guess that maybe that's how Sheila past. Unlike Marie, I did not have a great poker face, and as soon as my eyes landed on Ron, she tensed up. She explained that he wouldn't do it out of fear of needles, and the little venom in a word hinted that she could not hide of frustration. The rest of the evening was equally

stressful. There was a constant back and forth between both mother and son, as Marie pushed and pressured Ron into facing one of his fears in return for saving his town. Both parties looked towards me, with pleading eyes, as if they were begging me to side with them. But, I couldn't. If Ron didn't try this, then what would happen? People had gone missing. Sheila had informed us of that, but did we have any evidence? I couldn't side with either.

How could I? I was stuck in a modern-day ethics dilemma. Who would stay behind if there were ten spaces in a lifeboat but eleven people on the ship? Who perishes so the others can live? is her way to fit everybody in the lifeboat. Ron stormed up the stairs in a huff, and a tear of live Marie stared at me. I avoided eye contact.

Suddenly, the pattern of the carpet was the most excruciating thing in the world. Am I a bad mother? She sputtered. Huh? Am I a bad mother if I go against his wishes? He's still a child, so... Marie paused and nervously swallowed a glove of spit.

if I slip in some zipper clone and just take a bit of his blood, does that make me a bad mother? I suddenly became aware of just how harshly my nails were digging into my palms. The stress of being the deciding factor was making my stomach do somersaults. I'm his mommy, and I know what's right, she justified. Did she not know I was basically a child too? How could she ask a 19-year-old what's right? I don't know, I whispered. technically it didn't matter to me what happened to this town i could just leave marie and ron could just leave i could get a taxi to the train station and maybe just maybe forget about all this after a few months

marie broke down into complete sobs her shoulders bounced with each shaky breath i still refused to look at her i need to do this i need to she inhaled deeply he won't know of his sleeping Ron knew. He was gone in the morning. He left no notes or messages, but his neatly made bed and missing essentials were more than enough to tell Marie and me that he did not plan on coming back. Days passed, the coward in me

was unable to leave a grieving woman alone in a town full of beast. But my sleepless nights of anxiety and fear have been taken had begun to take its toll by day three. By day four, I received an email from Ron. He told me he was okay and he didn't intend on coming back.

He told me to keep away from the town that I don't want to be there five days after the lampmen haven't been fed. I don't think you realize that despite being gone for four days it had been five days since they had been fed. A shriek rang through the house. I sprinted to see a manic Marie

pressed up against the door. The dizzying sense of gas ran havoc through the house. They're outside, they're all outside, she shook everywhere. They sped into the living room and pulled the curtains open a millimeter. At first, the daylight blinded me, but I could see dozens of street lamps scattered across what was meant to be an empty, crunchy road. My heart dropped to my stomach and joined the tsunami of anxiety with it. Outside every house and on each side of the road stood a motionless lampman.

Shakily, I closed the curtain, but my hands remained with a tight grip on the textured fabric. Damn it, damn it, dammit, Marie coward. The back door, we need to leave, I called out. Marie's back garden led out to a large field, the perfect escape from the lampman. Marie made it out of the back door first, but stopped suddenly. In the distance, scattered across the area where more of them, none moving but menacing. I gagged on the smell and pulled right. runs mom back into the house.

What do we do? We can't leave. Marie dropped to a kitchen chair and rested a face in her palms. Rather than offering, I don't know, I let the silence settle. Lights radiated in from under the curtains and dimly lit each room. It seemed like a nice summer day outside. However, the sky remained a dull grey. The warm orange light that crept in belonged to the lampmen,

and it served as a constant reminder to Marie and me. that we were in danger. We should try at night. Something clicked inside of Marie, and she gained a sudden authority. We'll go into the field where there's less of them. If it's low light, we might be able to sneak through. Every hour or so, the lampmen grew closer in the field.

Luckily, by the time it was dark, there was still hundreds of metres away from the garden. Marie and I stood in the darkness of a garden as she mapped out our escape route. Once over the gate, the field grass brushed against my thighs in Marie's hips. Okay, crouch and follow me. We shuffled through the jungle of grass. The blades tick on my chin and my calves burned from the strain.

Marie led us towards the woods. She claimed that if they were out on the streets, the woods would be the easiest method of escape, providing we get past the singular lampman that was guarding it. Once we arrived at a dangerous distance from the beast, It became clear that was when Marie's plan ended. We watched the Lampman, hopeful they would just leave, but that was wishful thinking. Inside the woods, a branch cracked, and it turned to the sound, but didn't follow it.

I wondered if they were able to see, or if perhaps they used some other sense. I signalled for Marie to stay still and crawled a safe distance from her. Using my phone's flashlight, I shine a light towards the figure, and it paid no need. notice. It wasn't the evidence I needed, but it was enough for me to make a rough and desperate guess. We needed a loud, constant noise, not the thumb of a throne stone or a crack of a branch, something to scream, I'm here without putting either of us in danger. I unlocked the screen, the brightness hurt my eyes. I then turn on a podcast loud enough to be heard by the creature, and it definitely caught his attention. I hardly had time to read.

react as a lanky monster came sprinting towards the noise, desperate for a kill. Within seconds it closed the gap between us, and in a panic, I threw the phone. The screen's brightness had made me blind in the dark, and just as my eyes adjusted, I was able to make out Marie's silhouette, and very quickly her face was lit up by a warm orange. I watched as she'd die for the phone and stumbled back up to throw it, but it was far too late. Marie's body was lifted into the air her screams attracting the attention of the surrounding lampmen who paid no notice to me as the first one pulled the woman in half

the spread of viscera lit up from the lights the crimson liquid in guts glistening into the now open faces of the surrounding lampmen and instead of dim orange lights their flames grew solid and bright she had lied about her blood Shakly and quietly I rushed into the woods With each step the liquid in my stomach scaled my throat

Like a mountain burning my throat I don't know how long it took me to find civilization But I didn't dare tell anybody what happened when I did Police assumed I was some sort of runaway But once I was ready to talk They helped me get home Seven years later I find a strange

comfort in living in a city these days. I know that as long as the streetlights are modern, I am safe in their artificial white glow. If you ever find yourself driving through Little Barford, put your foot down and don't stop until you're far away. That town belongs to the Lampman now. I used to work as a janitor and a mid-sized college in Minnesota. Some people might consider this to be cheap labor.

which is a crappy job, but I enjoyed my time there a lot. The students were nice to me, and I was invited to attend any class and event that I wanted. I can honestly say it was one of the best jobs I've ever had. At first, I thought I was going to have a problem with it. I injured both my legs in a car accident a few years ago. I got titanium plates and everything. It was serious. Both shin bones were pretty much shattered, and the knees were even worse.

Still, I was lucky. You should have seen the other guy, or what was left of him. Working in maintenance and being on your feet eight hours a day can be exhausting. I get these aches deep in my bones at times, where it just feels like my legs are screaming. It has gotten better over the years, and just keeping up a healthy routine of working out my legs really helps. Mostly stationary bikes and nighttime jogging. I live close to the college, so I usually walk there and home again after work. Sometimes I jogged there at night

It was a late November night During one of these jogs That I noticed the equipment shared next to the football field It was wide open I always locked it up tight As we've had problems with break-ins in the past I knew for a fact that it had been locked As I'd assembled the shelf there earlier that day

We'd gotten some new equipment not too long ago So the place was ripe for the picking for a thief in the know I typed the emergency number my phone put my finger on the dial and walked up to the shed. As soon as I got closer, I noticed something was wrong. The door had been taken off the hinges. The walls had been stripped clean and the metal shelves were laying in shambles on the floor.

Even the new one. Everything had been dismantled and stripped down to bare materials. Whoever did it must have been there for hours. They must have started just as I left work. Maybe they even waited for me to leave. I called it in and stepped inside to see if anything had been stolen. Even the screw on the bottom of the light bulb was gone, so the entire thing had fallen out of the socket and shattered against the floor.

I stepped over broken glass, trying to explain to the operator that the college had been vandalized. They asked if anything had been stolen, but I didn't know what to say. I'm not sure, I said. There's lots of debris. I was just on my way out when I noticed something in the corner of the room. A glass jar full to the brim with nails, screws and plugs, everything

taken out of shelves and furniture. The police didn't know what to make of it. It was vandalism, sure, but nothing had been stolen. It all seemed to point at some sort of prank, something to mess with the janitor. Still, that didn't seem likely. I'd been on the receiving end of pranks before, but this was just weird. I'd never heard of any. anything like it. Some of the pieces that were dismantled couldn't be fixed, so it was just destruction of property. That's not a prank. That's just malicious. It didn't take long for the whole thing to calm down. Students and faculty all stopped talking about it, but to me it was still a mystery. I started double-checking the college at night just to see that there

was no automatic lights triggering where there shouldn't be. No big deal, I thought, until I noticed the light in the faculty lounge one Thursday night. It had only been a week. Cleaning up the shed had been a pain in the ass, and they didn't want to do the same with the faculty lounge. If that really was the vandals, they'd be sorry. I once again dialed the emergency number and got ready to make the call, but first I was going to check it out myself.

Walking around the college at night is scary. It is dark and the hall's echo. I had access to all the keys and hurried up the stairs. There were electronic locks further up, so whoever went up there had to have a key card. I hurried to the faculty lounge. The lights had turned off automatically, so whoever'd been there wasn't around anymore. Or maybe the bulbs had fallen out of their sockets again. The moment I stepped into the faculty lounge, all hell broke loose.

Lights fell from overhead. Furniture collapsed, the fridge fell over, spilling ingredients all over the floor. All mounted cupboards fell apart. everything on the walls fell simultaneously pictures paintings diplomas and the white board for scheduling even the coat rack next to me fell apart pieces of wood smattering against the plastic tiles this thing started spewing water all over the floor

in the blink of an eye it was all over I could barely breathe I swear I almost had a goddamn heart attack I'm the kind of person who gets agitated by loud noises so I couldn't do much else than to screaming frustration. No one was there to hear it. And there, on top of the pieces of a fancy new couch,

was a large glass jar of nails, screws and plugs. What the hell? This time, everyone took it more seriously. The police got involved. We checked security cameras, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. We checked the ID of everyone who'd entered the building, but there was nothing. The only conclusion they could come up with is that whoever did it, had slipped in with the rest of the students and just stayed late.

If they climbed out through the window, we could have missed them on the cameras. I did try to strike up the occasional conversation with students around the campus about it. There were lots of rumours flying around. Someone thought there was a corpse under the shed and that they'd moved it, that all of this was just a cover up to distract from the first dig. Another student thought he was crackheads, looking for copper to steal. One rumor was that he was someone psyching people out, before a school shooting.

Dark stuff, all of it. The one thing I heard that felt plausible was the suggestion that it was a ticked-off student, someone who'd been wronged by the faculty and wanted to do something. It was a Friday afternoon when I accidentally ran into the dean of admissions in the cafeteria.

I asked if she could think of any angry students, but she laughed it off. To her, it was obvious what I was referring to. You're talking about the lassick girl, right? She said. That was over a year ago. I don't think she'd wait an entire year to get back of the staff. Lassett? Lassett who? Lorraine Lassett, she clarified. Skinny white girl got kicked out of a dorm about a year ago. Why? What happened? She was basically squatting. She hadn't paid a tuition and she refused to leave. She made a huge scene. They had to drag her

her out of the dorms. I had no idea. I'd worked there for three years, but I'd never heard about it. Apparently, it had happened over Christmas when I'd been out of town visiting my family. It sure sounded like something you'd be mad about. Maybe not mad enough to start dismantling school property. But it was a start. I asked around about it, and most students were uncomfortable even talking about it. It had been heartbreaking.

Just a long series of bad luck. Her dad, a truck driver, had been in an accident. A car had swerved in front of him, and he'd run them straight off the road. It was horrific. The details surrounding the accident was spotty at best. He'd gone crazy with grief, and soon afterwards, he'd gone missing. They found him drowned in Frog Lake, a solid four-hour walk from his house. As he'd been fired, he'd lost most of his health insurance.

His estranged wife, Lorraine's ex-stepmother, got most of his belongings. Lorraine was left with little to nothing. She lost the scholarship and she couldn't keep a grade averageer. She missed a lot of classes and another student was showing promise. So she suddenly had a tuition to pay for. Apparently she tried to pay with her savings. This big glass jar full of pennies and silver dollars. Instead, she was kicked out, jar and all.

They just put her out on the street. The only thing she had left was the screwdriver her dad had left as they put together this cheap IKEA closet for a dorm room a while back. She desperately wanted to take it home with her, but wasn't allowed to go back in to get it. Campus was off limits. She was standing barefoot in the cold, calling out to what she thought were her friends. No one came forward. She just waved the screwdriver around until the police took her away.

All around, Lorraine Lassett had plenty of reasons to be mad about. Luckily, no one had heard anything from her in a while. Most figured she'd moved out of state to stay to stay with her cousins. I remember that closet. Cheap white plastic and plywood. I carried it down to our storage a few weeks after she was kicked out. Yet I never heard the story of why it was down there in the first place. Students leave stuff behind all the time.

An IKEA closet is nothing. You know how many bongs I find? It's embarrassing. Later that day, as classes were closing up, I decided to go down to the storage and check the closet. closet out myself. There was this huge cellar storage, some kind of remade bomb shelter from the 50s, basically a series of interlocking hallways with scattered little rooms every now and then. You could get lost down there easily. I wouldn't. I'd been there a thousand times,

but there were plenty of reasons why that place was locked up. Good thing, I had a key. The place was darker than a tomb. I had a flashlight on my phone to help me, but it only shone a few. It only shown a few feet ahead of me. I could see the dust dancing around me. I'm sure there was something down right toxic down there. I could almost taste it. Mould, probably.

It didn't take me long to find the room. It was full of old wooden desks, a blackboard, some half-rodden student furniture, and, in the far left corner, a cheap IKEA closet. I didn't know what to expect. I just walked up to it and opened it. There was a screwdriver in it.

I just stood there, looking at it for a few seconds. I admit, I was creeped out. Then I started hearing this eerie, metallic sound, scraping, little tinks of metal against the floor. All around me, screws are falling out of the wooden desks. One by one, they tapped against the floor, as everything in the room started to break apart and unmake itself. The desks, the blackboard, the goddamn floor mouldings in the corner,

corner, the springs of an old bed unfurling into curved spikes. Things were unraveling all around me. I turned to take the screwdriver, wanting to arm myself. But there was another hand holding it. She had not been in that closet a few seconds ago. She wasn't just pale. She was frozen solid. Her long blonde hair was tangled and chunks of it had fallen out. She was sickly thin, wearing a torn and stained yellow summer dress. Her feet and hands, black from frostbite, twisted like twigs. Her lips were blue, pulled back in a skeleton smile. Her eyes were gone, leaving red and swollen skin in their place. I panicked.

Holding up her hand to assure myself, I fell backwards, tumbling over the remains of an old wooden desk. I sprained something in my back. It was a snapping sound, but it didn't come from me. Lorraine's knee was bent the wrong way. She fell face forward, smacking a head, straight into the concrete floor, just an arm's length away from my face. Like a marionette puppet being pulled up with invisible strings, she slowly rose from the floor. Broken or not, she was coming for me. She was breaking apart and all the furniture in the room fell apart with her. The only thing not budging was a grip on that screwdriver.

I had to try something, forcing myself up, I ran for the exit, passing her by just a few feet. Blackened twig-like fingers brushed against my shoulder. Her footsteps made just the tiniest clinking noise, like porcelain tapping on a rock. I reached the hallway before my sprained back betrayed me. I fell forward, screaming in pain as I hit the floor, hard. She followed me, one snapping joint at a time.

As she reached the doorway, she just stopped to stare at me as I tried to put some distance between us. I tried leaning against the wall to get back on my feet. ironic that with two busted legs it'd be my back failing me I didn't understand what was happening at first it was just this pressure a nerve pinch and I lost control of my left leg then a cramp

still leaning against the wall I slid to the floor clutching my knee the titanium screws in my plated knees they were being pulled out of my goddamn skin I couldn't do anything but to scream Lorraine didn't move a muscle She just stood there, pointing the screwdriver at me, waiting for my legs dismantled themselves. I screamed into my throat bled, those dead eyes looking straight through me, into something deep in me, something primal.

I just felt this swelling, all-consuming panic as my knees split open, and I lost consciousness. Somewhere in the darkness between death and life, I heard the clinking of nails, screws and plugs, being driven. dropped into a glass jar. I was found half frozen the next day and taken to the emergency room. No matter my witness statement, they figured I'd walked down there and gotten myself lost. They'd never tried to explain the screws missing from my knees. They did find titanium screws in that glass jar, but there was no blood on them. Apparently, Lorraine just wanted the screws, not my blood or my life.

No one even attempted to explain that stuff. Before I handed in my resignation, I looked up the rest of Lorraine's story. Apparently she'd been close to keeping a grade average up, despite the tragic loss of her father. The college had increased the score limit. This was done to appease a donor whose son wanted to get in on a scholarship. He didn't need it, but there was a certain prestige to it. The donation more than covered for the scholarship itself and a sizable compensation. Remember how I mentioned we'd gotten new equipment?

Yeah, this was why. The shelf I'd installed that first night when the shed by the football field was torn apart had been the final item we'd bought with that donation. Apparently, Lorraine had waited until it was all set up before she started tearing it down. To the best of my knowledge, Lorraine is still out there. I'm sure if someone were to look closely,

they find a body in Frog Lake, right where her dad passed away. The only difference between them was that no one came looking for her. That college has been in the papers because of this a few times. They're downplaying it for the media, but I know they're worried. I know they're getting my warnings and emails. And once I get out of this goddamn wheelchair,

I'll be sure to let them all have it for ignoring me. But another part of me wants to just hide, to crawl into some dark corner and hope no one sees me. I sometimes imagine here. Hearing the screws loosened from my bed, and I can feel myself falling as the springs fail. Sometimes I imagine the kitchen cupboards feeling loose, ready to fall out. I know it can't all be real. I know it can't.

But I also know what I saw that night. And now, I'm not so sure about anything anymore. Do we need another girl? I was used to him asking me questions, sometimes ones that didn't. even make sense. But this one surprised me. He looked at me with an odd glint in his eye that I'd never seen before, not even as a kid. He'd always been a quiet, withdrawn man, disinterested in anyone who wasn't my mother. But something about the sly tone of voice made me feel like I glimps some part of him I shouldn't have, and I struggled to think of anything to say in response.

In the end, all I managed was, what do you mean? He briefly, looked angry, but some kind of realization dawned on him and his features softened to a sullen disappointment. You net his boy, he asked. Yeah, I said, I've been looking after you the last few months. He turned his eyes to his frail legs before eyeing the beeping machine and the oxygen tank that sat next to the recliner. After a long pause, he sighed and his shoulders slumped. Do you want a cup of tea? I asked. He took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. Why not? he grunted before blowing his nose. He was only meant to be two, he said from his chair, and something in his voice made me look up from the dishes and gave him my full attention.

He sat, delighted, and staring at the mute TV. Three girls, he carried on, a trade with that thing in the basement. You know books will say things like rules, but that's just the waste of everybody's time. If these things followed rules, they'd be working like the rest of us. Something about that image made him laugh, and I realized it was probably the first time I'd seen him smile since moving in. What is it with people, eh? Acting like you make rules up for a world that we all know damn well will do what it wants when it wants. I remember thinking to myself, why two? Why does it have to be two girls? He laughed, and this time it wasn't so playful. What were we going to do once it gave us what we wanted, eh?

Give it back? No, it had us on the hook, and it knew it. It asked for a third, a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth. He turned in his chair and looked at me, and I realised he wasn't really rambling or trapped in some long-forgotten memory. If anything, he looked more lucid than he had the entire three months I've been caring for him. None of them were easy. No one follows anyone into a basement without getting spoofed.

None of them knew why exactly, but they knew enough. Hardest thing I ever had to do. With that, he turned back around and unmuted the TV, and I was left struggling to make sense of what he just said. If any part of it stood out, it was the mention of the basement, and without meaning to, I found my gaze slowly drifting towards a quiet little corridor that I knew led to the house's only cellar.

The basement door had always frightened me as a child. The whole house had been a culprit haunted labyrinth of ancestral figures looming down at me from ancient oil paintings. Everything was too old at touch. Every door led to a new room. Every action I took had my grandmother or mother shuffling after me and crying reproaches, eyeing me like I was about to step out into oncoming traffic. The greenhouse was full of broken glass that I could cut myself on. One room belonged to my grandfather's sister, who died at a young age of a penicillin allergy.

Another room belonged to his father's first wife, who spent a life going mad or writing children's fiction. A vase on one shelf might be older than America, another might be worth more than our family car. Everything was to be looked at, but never touched. And with every new visit, I was left with the impression that the whole damn house was a mausoleum

filled with disapproving ghosts. He never had to ask if the house was haunted. It was an inevitability. And on the nights when my mother made me stay over, I couldn't escape the feeling I was one wrong door away from stumbling into some Victorian specter's clutches. But the basement. I never got a lecture on the basement. No child wanted to go near that thing.

No story surrounded it. It only existed. The door standing alone at the end of a long, dark hallway with a single bare bulb that looked like it had been smashed on purpose. And for some reason, and I'll admit, I never got the courage to ask. Someone had sketched an enormous X across the ancient door in red duct tape, like some kind of modern-day plague warning. I had deliberately stayed away during my time as a carer, secretly thankful I hadn't been given a reason to go down there.

But, after my grandfather had mentioned some girls, and the basement, well, it wasn't a huge leap of imagination, right? My grandfather wasn't a loving man, and our family had been rife with black sheep for generations. Scandal followed us like a bad smell. Had it my grandfather's own aunt once abducted him and his sister for a whole afternoon, only to be found at a pier filling their coat pockets with rocks? I couldn't help but wonder what a lifetime of trauma had done to him.

The family graveyard was full of dates that spoke of tragically short lives. Could anyone be raised amidst all that and still be normal? I had to know. Not just because it was my family, but because I was stuck there. ferrying tea and food to this man and washing him down day after day. If he really had done something, if there was something down there that people should know about, then I might be the only person willing or able to do something about it.

So, with much trepidation, I went to the door and spent a few hesitant seconds tracing the duct taped X with my hands. It did not escape my attention that the tape was brand new, but without knowing how to interpret that knowledge, I pushed it aside and forced myself to turn the handle. The seal broke with an audible hiss and the air that rushed out stank of ethanol and compost.

Using my light, I took in the first few steps and saw that they were made of solid stone and a grooves worn in from a thousand feet. I hadn't seen anything like that since a holiday in Rome and I immediately knew that this part of the house must be somehow even more older than the rest. Heading further down, I found a certain. surprisingly mundane-looking cellar, filled with old moving boxes and spiders as big as my fist,

many of which hung dead and petrified in the webs. I did, however, noticed one archway, made of the same stone as the stairs, and went through it to find yet another room filled with the same junk as before, if only slightly older. It turned out the cellar was every bit as big as the manor above, housing dozens of large chambers, each separated by vaulted archways, made of ancient stone. The whole place was organised in a haphazard fashion

that made it all too easy to get lost, and I marveled at the way it seemed to never end. Not all the rooms were for storage either. One was an old workshop for a carpenter where his tools had rusted to the hooks they hung on, and the machine I saw lacked motors and wires. Another room was filled with glass files and distillation equipment were brewing some kind of alcohol.

Dark bottles plugged with corks, sat in crates, and not surprised they find that they were full of sloshing fluid. Another was a dark room for photo development. Only the cameras were so old, they had cloaks for the photographer to hide behind a metal plate's as big as my head. Looking through some old picture books piled up in the corner, I found a well-preserved picture of a young girl standing next to a grave.

It was dated in 1968, and to my surprise, I recognised the young girl and the name on the tombstone. It was Michael, the name of my mother's brother, and the Povey's child must have been my own mother. A photo taken at a funeral as some kind of remembrance, perhaps. I had vague memories of a dead uncle somewhere. The only problem was I'd met an Uncle Michael and more than a few birthday parties. So it made little sense that it was his tomb she stood over. I waved the discrepancy off and moved on.

Maybe I was just misremembering my uncle's name. after all I'd only met him three or four times one after another the rooms went on and after a good hour I was no closer to having explored them all this became especially clear after I found an old stairway descending to another level these steps were as worn down as the others and looked every bit as old and when I showed my light down them I damn nearly had a heart attack as a young girl became visible in the beam

for a moment she was a featureless child slumped against the wall halfway down the stairs until my eyes adjusted and I realized I was only looking at a doll I breathed a sigh of relief and nearly went down there to pick her up but I faltered at the last moment

the darkness lurking at the foot of the tunnel was as thick as water and I had a strange notion it wasn't empty the science around me seemed unusually heavy and I couldn't escape the feeling my eyes and ears was sensing something and my brain hadn't caught her. Any boyish curiosity I'd felt while exploring was gone in an instant,

and I was painfully aware of the vast subterranean space that surrounded me. Looking behind me, the flashlight picked out a thousand wire shadows, painted by box after box of long-forgotten knick-knacks. Could I be sure I was alone down there? I tried to laugh the idea off. What could be lurking in those shadows, I asked myself. For the fact I didn't have an answer, only unsettled me further. and before my mind could begin filling in the blanks, I decided to leave.

I took one last look down the stairs and froze when I saw it empty of everything but dust and stone. The doll was gone. I ran to the exit. When the doorbell rang, I jumped and my grandfather let on a little chuckle. I had an inclination he knew I'd been rummaging around. in the basement, but I couldn't be sure. Maybe he just found my newfound nerves amusing. Ever since coming back from that damn basement,

I'd struggle to shake up an insipid paranoia. That'll be Elizabeth from the village, he said. Brings me food now and again. Cakes, that sort of thing. They're good. Go let her in. I did as he asked and went to the door, and found a young woman standing on the other side.

Hello Alex, she said with a beaming smile, sliding past me and into the kitchen without another word. Oh, hello, I said. And in trying to clear my thoughts, I found myself going to the usual polite refrain in this kind of situation. Would you like a cup of tea? Yes, please, she said. I made her a drink or you both filled the silence with small talk. She augly unpacked several brown boxes from a plain brown bag, dropping more than half of them and picking them up with stiff fingers.

Opening one that had fallen, she laughed and offered me a battered custard tart that I gleefully took and ate. Sorry, she said, I've always been quite clumsy. But as I ate and we continued to speak, I couldn't help but notice that something was off with a young woman. It wasn't that she dropped the odd box, or even that the tea in her hands shook so badly that half of it ended up in the saucer. It was the way she began to grimace with every small moment. motion, tightening her lips and exceiling squealy breaths like she was in tremendous pain

and doing everything in her power to ignore it. And the longer we talked, the worse it became. She began to sway from side to side and a movement became stiff and rigid. When she'd finished spilling a tea, I offered to take a cup from her pale and shaking hands, but she waved me off and tottered over to a nearby counter with all the difficulty of someone walking on ice skates. Once there, she turned to face me with a girlish grin and went to speak, but instead slunk suddenly to the side, her ankle twisting unnaturally beneath the skin. I couldn't keep the expression of shock from my face, and it only grew worse when she caught me staring,

and gave a flirtish wink from where she lay, bent over the counter at an impossible angle. Like a click of the fingers, she snapped back upright, and I winced at the sound of creaking bones. Sorry, she giggled. I'm just a little nervous. He talks a lot about you, the third. Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself upright and leaned against the counter

and what I think was supposed to be a friendly pose. She even pressed her ear to her shoulder, coquettishly, before going to say something, but the pose lasted barely a second as her elbows bent inwards like a piece of straw and she hit her head against the marble top. I rushed towards her, instinctively trying to help, but I stopped when I realized the hysterical squeal she let out

won't cries of pain, but rather laughter. Sorry, she said, putting her hand to her mouth as she cackled. I'm such a mess today. I've waited so long to meet you. That looked painful, I stuttered. Are you okay? Oh, it's fine, she cooed, as she tried once more to balance on her feet. It's just a condition. Your grandfather, angel that he is, oversaw my treatment when I was just a girl.

Is that right? I asked. He's a generous man, don't you think? She looked like a drunk person trying sincerely not to laugh, and I had a distinct feeling that she thought this was some kind of joke. As if to confirm this, she raised one arm and pointed at me with finger guns while pulling the trigger and winking. Snap! Without any warning, her arm broke in two, dangling halfway between a wrist and elbow.

Looking down, the girl muffled a chuckle that slowly turned into winging and hysterical laughter. With a flick of her elbow, the armory set, and she appeared suddenly sober. Hey, she said, want to see something really funny? She collapsed screaming, eyes wide open, mouth agape, a whole party turning into a mess of crumpled bones. She lay in the floor, looking like someone had draped a rubber sheet over a model village, and the sight turned me sick to my stomach. Then, without any warning, she snapped up into a crawling position and came howling at me like a moth to firelight.

I'd barely taken a few steps back when a hand latched around my ankle and squeezed unnaturally hard. I was still trying to figure out where one part of her started and the other ended, when she was already using the other hand to clawed deep couches in my leg. The pain, at least, helped me get my priorities straight and I lashed out, kicking her so hard I heard teeth clack. But it didn't slow her. Not in the least. She just spat out a few and grinned at me with a bloody mouth. I switched tactics and tried using my hands to pry a grip away,

but only succeeded in letting it tear the back of my right hand to ribbons. The scratches hurt so bad, I snatched a nearby kitchen knife from the counter. I had this notion I'd cut a hand right off with one clean swipe, but the blade hit bone immediately and flew out of my hand. I still hoped that the deep cut would hurt her, but if anything, her expression told me she considered it. a funny little joke. That hand has to come off, I thought, as she continued to shred my calf and ankle.

I threw myself after the knife, but she had my one-leg pin so well that I fell over. With cat-like ease, she twisted her broken body upwards and over me as I dragged myself backwards. She was visibly delighted in my revulsion, but whatever her play was, she didn't seem impatient and she sat upright, savoring my attempts to reach the knife. I kept expecting her to stop me. but after only a short few lunges I managed to wriggle within reach of the knife. By the time I twisted back around and drove the knife into her face, and realized she'd been expecting the attack.

She looked positively delighted and thrust her head onto the knife, the blade entering vertically into her open mouth. She held her jaw rigid as it ground between her central incisors, letting out a delighted squeal as she stole my jab with a clenched jaw. She could have easily stopped me. Her hands were free, but she just kept leaning into it. I tried to reverse the direction, but she was having none of it. With one short, sharp effort, she gave a final thrust and plunged a knife into the back of her throat,

where I felt it tear through thick muscle and cartilage. Her arms went slack with a final blow, but she continued to convulse and lean further backwards. Carefully, I slid out from under her, grimacing at the way her seizures caused the broken bones to rub together like broken shards of glass. She remained kneeling in a half a bright position, blood pulling in her mouth as she twitched and groaned as if in awe of the kitchen ceiling and its cracked plaster work. She always was an odd one. My grandfather stood in the doorway, looking at the scene with a tilted head. What the hell just happened? I gasped, already shaking at the first signs of shock.

Just an early draft, he said, kicking the heel of her foot. come on we need to drag this one back where it came from took a while to make them come back right he said as he watched me roll the brown sack down the basement stairs by this point i was hardly surprised he had a waterproof body-sized bag on hand if anything i was secretly thankful but out of the two lizzie here was the best of the bad lot first one came out with the wrong soul lizzie well she was put together in a funny way but for the most part she had all the right pieces

At that moment the bag slipped from my fingers and both my grandfather and I were left a grimace and wince at the sound of Lizzie's mishmashed skeleton tumbling down the last few unforgiving steps

It sounded eerily similar to someone dropping a sack of plates She was one of the girls who brought down here Wasn't she? I asked when the bag finally came to a stop The second

He answered How many were there In the end it got nine, but the bargain began with two, he replied. When it was over and we got what we wanted, we used it to bring back the first two as a kind of practice. When you're able to have kids, you might understand one day. I would have done anything for mine, anything, and, well, I did. He gestured to the broken bag that lay at my feet. Just leave it there, he said.

She'll make the rest of the way on a moment. own. He turned and went back upstairs and I followed. Don't forget the X, he said as he handed me the duct tape at the top. Won't anyone come looking for her? I asked. Lizzie, he cried. She's only resting. You come back once and after that it doesn't stick. You just get worse. If anything, we've given the village a chance to rest easy for a few nights. Lizzie is well known in the area for not being kind to children and pets. came back from what i asked as i stretched to roll out and apply the first bit of tape he didn't reply instead he looked at me like i was an idiot what about the other girl i asked where is she they're all still down there rotting away yes he said we only brought two back well three counting he stopped like he just let slip a terrible secret

For a moment, I thought he tried to steer the conversation back around, but instead he went quiet for a little while before speaking up in an almost broken whisper. It didn't eat the kids, he said, idly playing with some loose wool on his jumper. You can't trade a soul, but you can ruin it so badly its creator won't take it back. That's what it wanted. We flat out refused torturing them, but in the end we compromised in starvation. That meant we had to live our lives upstairs, or knowing they were down there, going hungry, cold and alone. That was exactly the kind of stain it wanted to see growing on our souls.

So we starved them, and after it gave us the knowledge we wanted, we went down and brought a few back. I thought we could have our cake and eat it too, see? Only it didn't really work out. Lizzie was the best of the bad lot, but even then, I'm not sure we ever should have let her out. Jesus, I say,

there's another one like her? I asked, realising the important part of what he was saying. Oh no, he sighed, no one was like her. The other one was much, much worse. The first basement level I'd explored weeks earlier had been a dusty tomb like place, filled with junk going back a century, but the second level down felt positively inhuman. The walls were bare stone that lacked any sort of finish and shone chalk white in my torch. and soil stamped into dry paths that constantly diverted into curving tunnels that I lacked the bravery to explore, and the air was hot and fetid, so that at times I was worried I wasn't walking along a dry tunnel at all, but rather had stumbled into the gullet of some grotesque monster buried in the hills.

This was a place where people did secret things, that much I was sure of. Every now and again I'd find a little alcove filled with bizarre paper trinkets and pressed flowers, but no sign of who the tribute had been left for. In one empty room I found a plain robe, in another there was a scythe, and one wall was covered in what looked like cave paintings. Throughout it all I was terrified, but nothing I'd seen was remotely dangerous.

The things I occasionally found tossed aside or hidden away were all ancient. Whoever had held them and used them, they'd come and gone a long time ago. But then I found the room with hay in the floor and the dripping atmosphere immediately terrified me. The sight of it caused my breath to catch in my chest and my heart to stammer.

Far from fresh, the soft padding on the floor reeked of pee and mould, and the walls were smeared with tar-like mess. The jam on the stone entrance was also smeared with long finger trails of blood, and the floor by the entrance was disturbed by dozens of strange drag marks. Sheeplessly flicking the light from side to side, I glimpsed a bundle of old toys in the corner. I say toys. There were sticks and stones

and cariously painted bundles of old cloth. But something about them made me think of toys anyway. Maybe it was the chains that lay broken on the floor and the unmistakable realization that it was here my grandfather must have left

at least one poor victim to starve to death. And of course there was that all too familiar doll sitting right beside them, both tragic and terrifying. I felt shame looking in there.

That was my found. family's legacy staring back at me. And for the first time since descending, I began to wonder if I had it in me to see this through. I had to wonder, what would this thing want from me? That was when I heard the giggle, and it felt like the world was going to fall out of my stomach. For a second, I was paralyzed with fear as the skin across my body tightened,

and blood rushed to my head so quickly I felt faint. For the first time since descending, I actually dared to think of how I was going to get out, and a whole new type of panic took hold. Every tunnel looked the same. Not that I had any choice in my route. There are only two doorways in the room and something lurked in the tunnel I'd just come from.

It took away out of sight when my torch came close, but I caught a fleeting glimpse of pale and leathery skin and an unnatural silhouette. Once again, a giggle rang out in the dark and I was forced to back away towards the nearest exit in the hope of putting some distance between myself and that thing, To my relief, it did not chase me, at least not with speed. I began to walk quickly down one tunnel after another, picking branches at random,

and it always stayed just out of sight behind me. I started to think it might be afraid of the light, but I didn't want to bet on that fact. I just wanted to get away from it, because every time I glanced back, my light caught a little more of it, and I saw something straight out of a damn nightmare. He might have looked like a child once. But something else had gotten into her.

The head was too large, by far, easily as wide as my chest. And God, if I couldn't stop thinking that his mouth was large enough to make a serious go at swallowing me whole. At the very least, it might be able to work its jaws around me, given enough time. Perhaps that's what she wanted to do, I thought. Perhaps she'd catch me and trap me and leave me there to whittle away sometime before she came and began to choke me down like a snake swallowing its prey whole. When I turned back once more, the thing stood its ground against the light and chuckled.

I swore it had some insight into my panicked thoughts. Those speedy black eyes were mocking me and my flight. But what else could I do except to keep going? I kept hoping to find a way out, some sign of my passage into the Warren tunnels. But my pursuer picked up its pace and I was no longer able to walk briskly from one turning to another. Each time I looked behind me, it lingered in the light for longer and longer, until at last, and no longer hid at all, but instead bore down towards me in full sight of the torch, and I was forced to turn and sprint for my life.

Those black eyes had fixed me malevolent hunger, no longer playful or happy to bide its time. I got the strangest sense who was angry at me. It was not a good thought to have. What I'd seen spoke of gangly but muscular limbs, that clutched at wall, ceiling and floor, as if there was no difference. And even though I counted no extra limbs, the way each arm and leg had grown and bent to new shapes left me feeling strangely arachnophobic. I thought then of what my grandfather had said.

One came back with the wrong soul, he told me, and I began to wonder, perhaps, if that was what he meant. I didn't have time to mull this idea over. I came at last to another tunnel and just as I went to lift one foot and spring past the threshold my remaining leg was caught and I was sent slamming into the floor with dizzy speed

I got a good view of the tunnel ahead and was surprised to see steps leading even further down but time was not on my side and I had to scramble forward to my hands and knees even as that thing began to pluck and tear at my shirt my hands managed to grip the first step just as the creature flipped me over and I was left staring into its eyes.

My grandfather was right. She was much, much worse. She, it looked wrong, all wrong. And in an instant, I realised I was looking at the victim of a cosmic joke. A soul of a chittering thing put into the body of a human and tossed back into the world of the living. It was a bundle of pain that walked the very flesh it lived in. twisting its breaking point as it fought to act on instinct that simply couldn't function in that kind of body. Somehow it already warped its host into something utterly inhuman, and all too quickly, my sympathy was overridden with disgust.

In the brief law where it stopped its assault to look down at me, I kicked out and pushed myself past the arch and went tumbling, head over heels, down the stony steps. The last thing I remember was it crying out after me. I don't remember finding it, the thing that can teach you anything. That doesn't surprise me, but I can't help but wonder how much time was lost wandering down there. All I know is that after I was thrown down to the next level, my experience is blurred and my mind's ability to stitch one event into another turned to mush. Some of the images felt like I lived them a decade ago, wondering or struck into a vaulted cavern that rivaled any theatre I'd ever been in.

for example, while other memories are recent and clear, albeit disjointed. Did I spend a desperate few hours trapped in one dead end, sobbing hysterically, or was it a few days instead? I have fleeting memories of scraping algae from rocks and looking condensation on my fingers, just as I remember laying in an alcove, overcome with despair, messing myself freely. But I couldn't have possibly been down there that long. Hours, perhaps, but not days. At least that's what I tell myself.

What is clear in my mind, at least, is finding the thing. I still struggle to see it whole, or even in pieces, but I'm left with the impression of a tree, something that shimmered in the dark, iridescent with a blue and purple sheen of exposed membranes and glistening organs. It was huge, filling the largest subterranean chamber I'd ever seen right to the very top. and pushing veins into solid rock. But then there was a sense of space again behind it, of roots buried in unseen places that existed just beyond what was plainly visible. I have no real way to describe this aspect of it,

except to say that it seemed like it had folded itself into a space too small to contain it. Just thinking about it makes my eyes hurt. When it spoke, my ears bled, and yet it wasn't a god. it wasn't interested in being worshipped. Oddly, I think it just wanted to chat. It asked me about things. Sometimes they were mundane, like how a clothespeg was used to fix items to store washline.

Sometimes it asked about technology, about the past, even about people who, it seemed, it once knew. When I finally worked up with the courage to ask it for the gift I'd come down seeking, it emitted a sound that I guess I can only describe as a laugh. Why would you want that? It asked, its voice, a boring worm in my head. That door still remains open to you, just as it does for all the others. That's all I remember of the first thing that lived down there.

After that, there was Elizabeth, then light, and then my mother. I wish you would stop chasing this nonsense. I woke to the sound of my mother's voice, fresh from some feverish nightmare where I had been trapped in a wooden box. I found myself no longer in that dream, and instead, now lay in my bed while my mother sat at the foot of it. She looked down at me with both her approach and pity. Michael, I stuttered. You brought him back. Oh, you poor silly thing, she cooed.

Michael is alive and well, and always has been. I saw the photo. view by his gravestone. Michael was the name of more than one brother, she said. You know this. My father remarried and his second wife had an existing son who later passed away. He'd been sickly his whole life and died at the age of 15 when I'd barely known him for more than a few years. But your uncle, my brother, is two years younger than me and has never seen an illness that couldn't be cured with antibiotics.

I don't understand, I said. Who did you bring back? why did Grandpa go through all that misery, if not to bring back his dead son? He did it, for me, she said, as she reached out once more and stroked my leg. I never should have let you come here, but it was all but impossible to get you to stop. At least you have a kind of life here, I suppose, looking after your grandfather. He's supposed to keep you safe, but, well, I can't ask more of him than I already have. He promised me a miracle, and to the man's credit, he delivered.

And ultimately, he was right about letting you stay here. At first, I was terrified you'd get too close to that thing and start to lose your memory. But now, I see that might be a good thing. You might finally forget your own funeral. I never imagined myself as a homeowner. Like a lot of people in my generation, I saw having a house of my own as an impossible pipe dream. dream. And besides, I didn't want to get tied down or take on even more debt. But the house on 242 Mortuary Lane changed all that. Of all the cringy, cliche things I did after my last

breakup, the only one that doesn't hurt to think about was applying for a job in a town on the other side of the country. It was a Hail Mary. But all I wanted was to get out of the toxic mess I was in and into a place where I didn't know anyone, and nobody else knew me. A fresh start. The video connection must have been bad enough that the interviewer couldn't make out my hungover eyes or hear the quaver in my voice, because I got the job. Although I was intimidated by the high-paying responsibility, I took to it better than I'd hoped. My new co-workers were kind, quirky people who helped me to meet people and come out of my shell,

and soon I'd fallen in love with the town we all called home. I was so sure about my new life that I started looking for a house to buy after only one year. I soon discovered that rent is astronomical in this idealic little Pacific Northwestern town and real estate prices are sky high. Even with my high salary, I doubted I'd ever be able to save enough for a down payment

while also paying rent, bills and my student loans. Every place I found was either so expensive or so shoddy that it became a sort of dark game among my co-workers to see who could find the worst house for sale. When I first saw the ad for the Morbury Lane House, my first thought was, Okay, what's wrong with it? The split-level ranch house with a white siding and a hardwood deck was located in a semi-forgotten neighbourhood sandwiched between the more developed parts of downtown. Nothing suggested that crime was a problem, and the price was so low that I was sure someone had forgotten a decimal point. I booked a walk through immediately. The place was solidly built and spotlessly clean.

The friendly agent explained that it had stood vacant for a few weeks since the death of the former owner, an older woman who lived alone. Apparently there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding a death. She had simply drowned in the bathtub. I wondered if that was the reason for the spotlessness of the place. It was as if the cellars had wanted to scrub away every last memory of the former occupant and her death. The hair and the back of my neck stood up as I peered into the darkness of the bathroom. Would I really be okay living in a place where someone had died recently?

I told myself that I was being silly, that in my countless moves from apartment to apartment, I had surely shared a space with the newly departed dozens of times. Suddenly, I wasn't so sure about all this, until I walked out the door and turned around to look at the place one last time. I imagined myself walking in the door after a long day of work, homely golden lights spilling out from the wide windows, maybe a dog or a spouse to greet me at the door.

The agent grinned and held out the paperwork expectantly. He already knew. A few weeks later, I was moving in. My finances were pushed the limit, signing for my first mortgage felt like signing my soul away to the devil, with slightly worse consequences if anything went wrong. But as my pen hovered above the dotted line, I reminded myself that I'd never find an opportunity like this again. It warned to my heart that several of my co-workers volunteered to help me move in before I even got around to asking them. Like big kids, we skidded down the vacant hallways and socks, built stuff with my heaps of cardboard boxes, and shared Peter

while we stared at the bare living room wall and joked about how I could redesign the place with a hot slice in one hand and a cold beer in the other the laughter of friends reverberating to the empty rooms it felt like all was right in the world I'd finally made it

dude my manager exclaimed wiping his hands on his pants I think he might have a leak he'd just come from the bathroom frowning I followed him back down the hallway. Sure enough, a steady, drip, drip, drip, resounded from the bathtub forcet. No matter how I fiddled with a knob, nothing happened, until finally the dripping stopped of its own accord. I resolved to call a plumber in the morning, and before long, I was awaying my

friends out the door from the first party in my new home. Exhausted from the tension and efforts of the day, I collapsed onto my clean sheets without even getting undressed or taking a shower. Contentment washed over me as I drifted the sleep in the blue night, watching the ceiling fan's spin in slow circles above. A light was on in the bathroom. How strange.

I went to investigate, my footsteps echoing down the long corridor. It was the dripping again too, but this time the drops sounded like they were splashing in water. I pushed the door open. The bathtub was half full of beautiful, clean, aquamarine water. It looked so pure and warm. A light steam rose from scrubbed white surface of the tub.

Forgetting my concern about who or what had turned on the light, I reached down with my hand. The water was perfect for a bath. The fat wrinkled hand that grabbed my neck from behind was bloated to twice the size of what a normal human hand should be. With irresistible strength, it jams my head beneath the surface of the water. The more I splashed and fought, the more oxygen I lost. Until finally, I was taking deep gulps of bathwater.

The hot liquid was pouring into my lungs. I awoke with a start. The house was silent. No lights, no drips, no horrible dead hands. Just me, with my hands on my chest, soaked and sweat. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water, trying to shake the horrible dream from my mind. The sweet, crisp liquid was delicious and brought me back to my senses. It was normal to have nightmares in a new place,

especially after I made such a big deal about the previous owner's death. I was letting my own head mess with me. After another cool glass of water, I returned to bed and fell into a dreamless sleep. It took me about a week to realize I was. was subconsciously avoiding my own bathroom. I usually worked out at the gym across the street from work and showered there. I brushed my teeth in the shortest time possible and took care of other necessities in the smaller, toilet and sink-only bathroom on the lower floor.

I didn't think they were still having nightmares about it, but maybe I just didn't remember them. Maybe I didn't want to remember them. Something had to be done. I went to the local store and bought the Gordia. the most garish stuff I could find. A hot pink shag rug, a lime green shower mat, a cow-themed fluffy towel set, and for some reason, a bunch of tiny cactuses.

Once I decorated, I drew myself a hot bubble bath and sank blissfully into the warm water. I closed my eyes and sighed. If this was facing my fears, it wasn't so bad. I splashed around in the bubbles until I got bored, then went to the sun at the sunbathing. drain the water. As my eyes opened, I swear I glimmed something grey and swollen, floating just beneath the bubbles. When I swirled them away, however, it was gone, whatever it was. I tiled off, content with my conquest. I was feeling so confident, in fact, that I'd hopped back under the dating app I'd give it up on a wall back and sent a few messages. To my surprise, I soon had a date.

After a few beers and a long walk around downtown, we ended up in bed at my place. I had never had anyone's stay at the night at my home before, and even though we just met, it felt good to fall asleep with them, nozzled up against my chest. I woke some time in the night, however, to find them gone. I brought myself up on one elbow and scanned the blue dimness of my bedroom. Had they just left? I crept to the window and opened the blinds, peering at it. out into the lush, lamp-lip suburban street.

Gricking floorboards made me spin around, a shadowy figure leaned against the doorway. Hey, my date purred. Hey, yourself, I gasped. You scared the hell out of me. You could have told me a grandma lives with you, you know. They mentioned as they came back to my bed. My blood turned to ice.

What? I whispered. Yeah, they snorted. I almost walked in on. her in the tub? My eyes locked on the blackness beyond the open bathroom door at the end of the hall.

A shape, somehow darker than darkness itself, loosed out from the doorway. Although it made no sound, it looked and moved like a crawling, bloated human corpse. Eyes like pale bulbs glared at me, full of hate,

before lumbering off down the stairs. You're all right? My date asked, oblivious to the horror behind. them. Yeah, I murmured. Just a little spout. I quickly shut the door. I pulled the covers up high, snuggled close to my date and closed my eyes tightly like a child, afraid of what I might see if I looked again. In the morning, the floor outside the bathroom was soaked. When my date left, I did too. I didn't have it in me to stay home alone with a shadowy horse.

ways and nothing to break the silence except the sound of dripping water. Instead, I went to the library. I'd always looked down on the crazes who believed in exorcisms and psychics. Now I was looking them up online. First priest I asked about an exorcism laughed and hung up. The second told me I was paying a just price for a life of sin. The third, an older man with an Irish accent, who was much more kind. He suggested I put up a crucifix, place a Bible,

under my pillow and pray each night before bed. And if that didn't work, call them back. Most of the psychics, oddly enough, had busy or disconnected numbers. One wanted payment just to talk to me, another promise that she could cast out the demon without leaving a trailer, if only I'd mail $200 to a Pio box. Once again, the third time was the charm. Chanting and bird song were in the background sounds on my next phone call.

I could practically smell the incense to the phone. The pleasant young woman had a smooth, reassured voice and promised to meet me the same evening for a reading of the house. If she couldn't solve my problem, the visit would be free, she said. Apart from earth-tone clothes and some tasteful jade jewelry, there wasn't much of the stereotypical psychic about the woman waiting in my driveway when I returned from the library. She looked more like a professional art instructor

than a hunched crone in a shawl who played with crystal balls. With a smile she shook my hand Her name was Amy We took a seat on the stoop while I told my story Amy was a good listener I've never been around bad ones to know the difference She seemed to be taking mental notes as I spoke I was neither too judgmental nor too believing in responses

When I'd finished I stood Went inside and held the door open for my new psychic friend It was eerie the way Amy stood perfectly still on my porch Like she was preparing herself for something She took a deep breath And the shadow of her hair hid her face And she stepped inside So the bathroom where all this started

It is right upstairs I began leading the way up the carpeted steps When I turned however Amy had frozen again Like she was a statue in the middle of my living room I sighed the knee waited. Amy? I asked finally. There was no response. I trudged back down the stairs, worried that she might be having some sort of attack. Her eyes were closed. It was difficult to tell if she was even

breathing. Amy, I bingered again. I reached out to touch her arm. The screen felt loud enough to shatter glass. And it kept going. long after Amy should have worn her throat raw or run out of air tears roll down her cheeks from wide open eyes I shook her slapped her and with that didn't work dragged her out of the house the moment Amy's feet touched the porch her face returned to normal she backed away

tripping from my open doorway I'm sorry I'm sorry she whimpered I can't Amy what's going on I called after her, alarmed. What happened? I can't. She shook ahead, walking dizzily toward her car.

She locked herself inside and started the engine. You need to get out of this place. Greyish black smoke poured from the exhaust of Amy's second-hand car, and she peeled out, clearly eager to get as far away from me as possible. I was left, standing helplessly in the driveway of my apparently cursed, or haunted or something else. Fear turned to anger when I went back inside and walked through my empty rooms. This was a good house.

That psychic's freak out was probably either a joke, a scam or a bid for money. What I needed to do was surround myself with light, noise and people I trusted. I suggested a party at my place that very night in the chat group I shared with my friends and coworkers. I tied it up and ordered some pizzas, glaring defiantly at the bathroom more often than not. If the ghost thought that he could handle my drunk office buddies, it was welcome to try. I was surprised and heartened by how many people showed up, but I noticed that a lot of them

gave me these lingering, worried stairs. Maybe all this business with my new house and its unwanted guest had affected me more than I thought. Carol, my boss, pulled up in a pickup truck with a football table in the back. DeMarcus brought karaoke. Before long I was less worried about the dead old lady and more worried about a noise complaint Clattering, curses and tone-deaf voices brought the house to life

And yet I was filled with a feeling of foreboding I drank more than I should have The wall I leaned against was smooth and cool beneath my hands Why hadn't I always walked like this But the hallway swayed The bathroom felt like an infinite distance away The bathroom door was closed, but the lights were off inside.

I opened it with my body and plunged through the darkness for the toilet. I ran right into wet, bare skin. I shrieked, jumped back and threw on the light. I think Carol and Demarchus caught half-naked in the middle of their trist were more scared than I was. We all blushed and stood in awkward silence until I raised a hand to my man. mouth to hold down a wave of vomit and pointed out. The bedroom's down the hall, I groaned. I'm gonna.

When I woke up, someone had laid me on my side on the couch. My mouth tasted cut and dry and sour, and the darkness seemed infinite. The digital clock flickered in the blue night. I heard the sound of running water from the kitchen. I staggered in to find Demarcus bent over the sink, drinking water straight from the tap. Have you tasted this stuff? He garbled. It's delicious.

Once you start, you can't get enough. I grunted. Without looking back a second time, I opened the fridge and chugged some whole milk, a cure from my college days. It was probably just a myth, but I was counted on the placebo effect. The tap was still running when I went back to sleep.

The next thing to wake me was a piercing scream. clutching my head I stumbled over the kitchen and the source of the sound Carol had a hand over a mouth, sobbing Demarchus, or what was left of him, was still drinking water. His belly was hideously distended, liquid feces covered the floor around him, but his dead lips were locked in a vice grip around my foreset. Even so, the water that escaped ran down his bloated body to join with a lake that used to be my kitchen.

Then, it was my turn to scream. Carol was already in the phone with the police beside me. She even stayed with me when they arrived, and during the brief interrogation, Mitch might have been what saved me. I was in shock and could barely even answer their questions with a yes or no without her help. I won't go into the details of the cleanup,

the investigation, or how it took some vacation to visit my parents for a few weeks. I barely remember it anyway. The only thing I remember clearly is seeing the marcus' twisted, waterlogged body each time I closed my eyes. Terrified as I was

by the presence of my house, I had to go back. It was that, or declare bankruptcy, and lose the life I'd worked so hard to build. With everything that had happened, I'd accidentally ghosted, for lack of a better word,

my date from the app. I'd had a lot of sleepless nights The thing since then And I realised that to date They were the only person Who had actually seen the presence in my house With that in mind I sent them a long apology message

Explaining what had happened And asking for their help I knew that I had no right to expect a response But I got one anyway Call me The message said And included a contact link Alex wasn't the name they'd given me on the app

and the number on the app wasn't what I remembered either but the photo was the same I was impressed Alex agreed to meet me at the house when I arrived it felt good not to walk into that cool shadowy silence alone I looked around nervously as we sat down on my couch the place reeked of industrial cleaner

I could swear I heard a dripping noise but the truth was that I was afraid to leave the room and go in search of whatever was making that sound. At first, I only thought it was targeting me, or that it would go away over time, I admitted. But after what happened to DeMarcus, drip, drip. What was that, I wondered, Alex held a chin, thinking, We're both in a lot of danger, they finally said. If you brought me over here thinking I could get rid of whatever.

this is for you, you're going to be disappointed. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before, but I do think it prays on people when they're alone, when they're vulnerable. I figure it got your pal de Marcus while he woke up drunk and thirsty in the middle of the night. It tried to get me while I was half asleep going to the bathroom. So, maybe if we face it together, drip, drip.

Are you hearing that? I blustered. Hearing what? Alex asked. You're really freaking me out now. I stood and stormed over to the stairs. That sound, like water droplets. I pointed an accusing finger at the second-story bathroom. It's coming from in there.

I didn't dare go alone, and Alex knew it. They held my hand while we walked down the hallway. Dripping became louder and louder with each step I took until I thought I'd go crazy from it. But Alex clearly heard nothing. Eyes shut tight, I gave the door a push. The bathtub was full of pristine, crystal clear water. One by one, droplets made ripples in the glittering surface,

which seemed almost aglow with its own soothing light. As soon as I saw it, I knew that I had to plunge my head into it. The cool, clear liquid would wash all these bad thoughts. It would leave me pure and clean and innocent. like a cherub in the perfect porcelain beneath the water there were no shadows the next thing I remember

I was dragging myself on the hallway carpet soaked from the waist up I was fighting screaming doing anything to get back into the bathtub and Alex was doing all they could to stop me you're drowning yourself he screamed

as I finally came back into control of my body for a while we both lay there, panting, the open door of the bathroom looming hungrily at the end of the hallway. Finally, Alex broke the silence. Dude, have you thought about just getting rid of the bathtub? That was exactly what I did. I had to go into even more debt to do it, but by that point I was willing to pay any price. I found myself hovering around the workers as they did their remodeling, full of guilt.

For what I hadn't told them, and what I was afraid might happen. Night I spent at Alex's place, we started seeing a lot more of each other since they'd saved my life. Shours I took at the gym. The way water blasted from the showerhead that swelled down the drain, still filled me with the kind of nameless dread. But the racket of the locker room and the presence of other people helped. So did, shutting my eyes. When I did, it was harder for my brain to imagine a grey, bloated female corpse. standing right behind me in the shower box.

Finally, the job was done. The workers hauled everything to some scrapyard when they left, leaving no trace of the room where the former resident had met a sorry end. Life returned to something resembling normality, and while I continue to shower in the gym, I've been able to come to terms with the strange events at 242 Morrill Lane, enough to write about it. Until this evening, I thought I'd be able to be.

put it all behind me. Around sunset, a junky-looking pickup truck pulled up in front of the house. I could hear its rattling exhaust from the kitchen. The driver and a few ragged passengers got out, pulled a tarp off of something and started unloading it onto my yard. It was a bathtub. Her bathtub. With horrified glances at the thing they'd just dumped, the trespassers sped off. I don't know if they bought it.

stole it or scavenged it. I don't know how they came to know its origin. But it's back. I find myself looking over my shoulder, out the window at it while I type. The darker it gets, the more shadows seem to flood from the tub toward my front door. And I'm afraid of what I'll see in my window if I look away too long. A swollen, drowned face, round and rotten as an old pumpkin. a mouth bleeding an endless flow of water.

Now that the moonlight is touching it though, there's something beautiful about that old tub. The way it sits there, bone white on the lawn. It looks so peaceful. I think I'll go lie down in it, feel the pale light to my skin. After all, it's been such a long time since I've had a proper bath. This happened a long time ago when I was just a kid. My parents and I had just moved into our new house,

and I spotted her neighbor for the first time. Absolutely the oldest man I'd ever seen. In reality, he probably wasn't really that old, maybe in his 70s, but to a 10-year-old at that time, he seemed ancient. I remember wondering if his skin would fall off of his arm and onto the ground beneath him. I even imagine that his skin actually did come off

and he kept having to replace it. Looking back, I think his children own the house he stayed in and they would come by every once in a while to check on him. But for the most part, it was just him and his nurse. His age isn't the only thing I know I've exaggerated in my mind. Both of our houses sat at the edge of a massive lake, so big that you couldn't see the opposite, shore. The water was always calm, like the lake was sleeping. The story of us moving in is pretty

boring. Basically, all the typical fighting that happens between adults when they have to move cardboard boxes. I got tired of listening and snuck out of the house. They didn't notice. I purposefully went down the dirt road the opposite way of the old man's house, just because I was already a little nervous about being near him. There was another house. There was another house less than a quarter mile away that I planned to just stroll past when someone called out to me Hey there

I heard an odd voice In my mind I thought the old man had already found me Thankfully it was another one That didn't seem quite as ghostly Hey I said You and your parents just moved into that next house

He asked Yes sir Welcome welcome Welcome he said your parents are about the first people to really even think about buying it, I bet. I didn't say anything, but it's like he heard the question I wanted to ask. Oh, of course, I guess they might not know. But then again, how couldn't they?

He said, isn't that what parents are supposed to do? Make sure their children will be safe. What are you on about? I asked. You haven't heard the stories? He laughed. Well, I'd say go on home and I'd say. gone home and ask a daddy, but if you all moved in, he probably didn't hear them either. What stories?

Your other neighbour, he said. His proclivities. You'll see tonight if you stay awake. Just keep an eye out your window. I ran home. My parents are still going at it over a box labelled kitchen. That should have said dining room. The rest of the day went by quickly, and the mystery of our

what the other man had told me rattled around in my head for hours. Finally, it was night-time, and I never left my window. I could only assume that whatever I was supposed to see, it had something to do with the lake. It didn't take long. I caught a glimpse of a light moving slowly across the water, a small light headed out from the shore to what I imagine was the centre. It had a slight rhythmic pattern, like it was pulled. over the water instead of sliding at a constant speed. I went outside, and although it was still dark, I could finally just see the light for what it was.

A small boat, a kayak, and the old skeleton man, nearly as thin as the paddle, moving out into the lake. On the back of his boat, a lantern hanging just above the water. His pace was painfully slow, and it took ages for him to move the paddle from one side of the boat to the other.

I couldn't imagine the strain he felt, pushing it through the water. I thought it would be hard for him to even push it through the air. I watched for a while. As slow as he was, he was steady. He came to what I guessed was the centre of the lake and stopped, hovering over some unseen goal, the paddle placed across his lap. The boat set up.

and the last repuls of his final strokes reached the bank of my feet. Then the water was calm. The lake had fallen asleep again, ran home. I don't know why. I felt like I was about to see something I didn't want to see, and it became a little too much too quickly. I imagine anyone would be a little scared, standing at the edge of the lake in the dark by themselves.

I also felt like I needed to tell my parents. The next morning I try to do little detective work first, he asked. Have you heard anything strange about our neighbour? The old man, he asked. I nodded and he sat there for a minute with a strange look in his face. We should have told you, he said. Your mother and I talked about it for a long time and decided that we shouldn't. But we probably should have.

What is it? I asked. My dad shifted in his chair, and when he spoke again, it was almost a whisper. People think that he killed his wife, he said. They said that he kept her in the house, cutting away at her, and each night, piece by piece, he took her out to the lake. Mark! My mom only yelled my dad's name when she was really mad. Why are you telling him that?

She said. My dad laughed and kind of shrugged to me. My mom came around the table. Don't listen to him, honey. He's just trying to scare you because he thinks it's funny, she said. I would have usually thought it was funny too. But in this particular case, I didn't. Is that true?

I asked. My parents looked at each other. And my dad could finally hear in my tone that the jokes were landing poorly. That's what some people say, honey, my mom said. They really don't know what happened to his wife, but your father and I are sure that he had nothing to do with it. We actually met him before we moved in. We talked with his nurse.

We wouldn't bring you somewhere that we weren't absolutely sure you'd be safe. I felt better. But even if there wasn't some dark purpose, I still wanted to know what was happening. My parents had a kayak of the room. It was way too big for me. but I at least knew how to use it. I figured if the frail skeleton man could operate one.

Surely I could too. The second night came quickly at our new house. My parents had still been arguing over all the great complexities of the cardboard boxes. It seems like when they're exhausted, the day goes by faster. Once they were down and out, I made my way towards a lake shore with my family kayak. I was nervous but excited. I couldn't remember doing anything like this in the past, and I think deep down everyone wants to solve some kind of mystery. I waited for the old man to do what he had done the night before.

He moved out into the lake one stroke at a time, until, after a long time, he came to a rest. I slid my kayak into the water and moved towards him. I had still been debating on whether or not I should call out or sneak up. The latter option felt strange, so I just settled for paddling loudly so that he would know I was coming. I was secretly proud that it didn't take long for me to reach him, and he didn't say anything to me when I arrived. Excuse me, I said, realizing that I had deepened my voice when I said it. He didn't even look back. I thought he would have been looking up at the stars, but he was looking down, straight down.

over the edge of his boat, down into the water. I glanced down, but I couldn't see the lake at all. What are you looking at? I asked. Listen, he said. Try to keep your boat still. This was the first time I had heard him speak, and he had a strangely strong voice. It didn't have the wispy quality I'd expected.

I steaded my boat and tried my best not to me. move at all. We sat side by side on our kayaks for a few minutes. The water had turned into black glass on all sides of us. No ripples or any noticeable motion whatsoever. Sleeping. Okay, he said, that's good. Can you feel it?

Can I feel what? I asked. The lake is talking to us, he whispered. He slipped his hand down the side of his boat gently into the water. He looked at me for the first time, and motioned with his head. I quickly conjured up plenty of images in my head of being dragged down under by thousands of tiny hands, but I dismissed them.

I slid my hand into the water as well and waited. You'll feel it, he said. I did feel it. The lake was humming. It felt like any sort of. he was passing through my hand, always there, but stronger at some times than others. It had a beat, but it varied. Here comes the big one, he said.

Suddenly I felt my hand move, and a boat shook slightly as a small ripple moved out across the lake, starting from a point right between us. I pull my hand out of the water. It was numb. What is that? I asked. I told you, the lake is talking to us, he said. It talks to me every night.

You're the first person that's been out here with me in a long time. What did it say to you? What? What did it say? I don't know. I just felt some vibrations in the water or something. I don't know what it said. Oh, he said.

I think you can't hear it yet. What did it say to you? you? He smiled. It told me a story that I really liked, he said. We sat in silence for a few minutes, and then he actually did look up at the stars. What was the story? I asked. About 40 years ago, I actually lived in that house with my wife, and we took little boats like this out here all the time, almost every day. He looked back towards the house. I was a bit of romantic in those days. I wanted to surprise her, so I brought some air mattresses, maybe like six of them.

I blew them all up while she was away at work and built a raft of them, covered in blankets. It was so janky. I was surprised that it could even float. When she got home, I told her we were taking sail. We stayed out in the lake all night long. We woke up around morning and paddle back. probably have stayed even longer if my wife didn't have to poop. He laughed on his own, then his voice trailed off, and he just sat there.

She died, he said to me and to himself. I just come out here to remember and hear the stories. His hand drifted down into the water, and he closed his eyes. honestly I'm surprised he came all the way out here I'm sure someone told you by now that I killed her he said did you I asked no he said

and I believed him if you ever really want proof he said you can ask the lake the lake remembers everything that's happened out here and I'm sure it'll remember tonight too I placed my hand back in the water and could feel the hum again. He sat there together for a while.

Him listening to what I imagined was another story while I tried to hear anything at all. I think you're not old enough to need memories yet. One day, I think you'll be able to hear it, he said. Okay, kid, you'd better get home. I'll probably stay out a little longer. I didn't say anything, but listened. When you get older, make sure you come back here.

The lake talks and you can talk back to it. If you believe that, then you also have to believe the lake needs someone to talk to, just like me and you. Make sure you come visit, even if it's just to say hey. I gave a little wave and started my way back to shore. I didn't know if I believed anything he had said. Everything that happened kind of felt like a dream. When I was in my room,

again, I could see the little lantern out over the water and surprisingly fell asleep quickly. I had a short dream about being an air mattress salesman. When I woke up, both of my parents were in my room. My mom was sitting on my bed. What is it? I asked. Honey, something terrible's happened, she said. I knew what it was. I ran to my window.

and the shore of the lake was a handful of police officers and medical staff. They were looking out over the lake and pulling some kayaks and canoes towards the water. I looked further out. The Allman's boat was still in the centre of the lake. Empty. It looked like it hadn't moved since I left the previous night, but he was gone. The children of the old man eventually sold the home and another family moved in. We stay there much longer than I think my parents originally intended, right up to when I left for college.

I remember the old man, but honestly, I think I forgot most of what had happened that night, until I found out my mom was sick. It happened quickly, and right before I graduated, she was gone. During that time, I thought of little else besides her and the lake I grew up on. people say they wish they had more time but I think what people really want is to truly remember the time that they had for each moment I remember with my mom

I'm sure there were thousands of others I can't recall if I could remember them now isn't it the same as getting to see her again that's why I'm going back to the lake I remember the old man and I think he just wanted more time with his wife I just hope that it talks to me. I could talk to him.