CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 3+ Hours of SCARY Reddit Horror Stories to make you that little bit nervous to turn off the lights

Episode Date: January 25, 2022

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "My therapy patient is incurable" Creepypasta►19:00 "I was the cameraman on a movie made in the dead of night" Creepypasta►39:59 "I Came to Earth from Outer Space" Creepypasta►56:29 "The Clockmaker" Creepypasta►1:20:14 "My Mom Thinks She Has A Dog" Creepypasta►1:37:29 "I was a filmmaker working on government cover ups" Creepypasta►1:59:29 "The 4 rules to finding your voice again" Creepypasta►2:23:22 "My neighbour worked in Ғылыми қондырғы. I have heard his confession" Creepypasta►2:47:30 "Messages From The Dead For $400" Creepypasta►3:07:51"Creatures Disguised as Snowmen are Taking Over My Neighbourhood" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- 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-

I'm aftardom, why? I've been forgotten how a tooprikes. Doy! Toh. Tov? 16 times per day from out Brussels and in 2-hour. Now, from 19 euros, in place of 25. Book you tickets on NMBS International.com.

I'm just to have Amsterdam, for the maidses. They're 2 o'clock. Do you? Toad. Tov. 16 times per day from out Brussels and in 2-Hur. Now, from 19 euros in place of 5.com. Book you tickets on NMBS International.com.

It's like, I've developed. I don't know, I can't even explain it. Jason was skinny and tall. He sat on the couch in my office, his eyes sunken in, bags beneath them hanging like rotted fruit. I was sitting behind my desk in a swivel chair, a clipboard on my knee with a sheet of notes on top, a pen in hand posed to write. I was relaxed and calm, mainly because Jason reminded me much like my little. previous patients, nervous, just like the most, just like the most, I had cured before. I was confident that if Jason were like any of those patients, that he would be cured as well. All it took was a little bit of time and commitment.

To me, Jason was just another patient in my long line of successes and accomplishments. Could you try to explain it? I asked. I'd sound crazy, rubbing his I smiled at him, and he caught the drift. How many crazy have told you that they can see things before they happen, that they can see see the future? He asked, his head bent toward the ground, his hands rubbing up and down on his forearm and legs. I shifted in my seat, watching him, waiting for something else. But there was

nothing. I'd heard many stories. delusions, and much like this one. I knew. I was sure, that it was all fake. I've seen clients who suffer from disorders that can cause them to have those beliefs. I remember one client who had the belief that there were little fairies in his house that had disguised themselves as spoons. I replied calmly, adding in the example at the end to lighten the mood. But my example had no effect on him. Jason looked up at me, and he had the look in his eye, the one I'd seen in all my patients, that he was convinced his ability was not only incurable, but completely and totally real.

Have you ever cured them? he asked. Every client of mine has ended up in a much better place than they had been, I replied. Jason chuckled. I'm not talking about your clients. I'm talking about their delusions. about their delusions, their fantasies, Jason said. And I stared at him, my light smile gone. Have you ever cured them? Well, if they are better off than they were, that would either mean the delusion is gone, or at least kept at bay. Medications help with such things as does

therapy. I replied calmly and motioned at my office. Jason was quiet. Not for me, it doesn't, he muttered. medications. Yes, have you tried. Have you? Have you? Have you? I had my pen, many meds, just like you, as well. And so far. No good, he replied. With one hand, I checked the paper on my desk at his background. Inside, it was a list of all his medical background and therapy and medication. And there was none. It had no trouble This first appointment with me His claim of no No medical and therapeutic help Another fantasy and delusion

But for now I could go along with it To see if Jason would open up more Toward our session Did your previous therapists claim this as well That these medications didn't work, I asked Of course they did I see

What I was just saying I understand Okay I wrote some more down on my paper. So tell me about this power. You said, turning the subject back to Jason. He straightened up in his chair, his posture standing taller, flattening out his shirt and fixing his hair, as if he was about to give a very important lecture.

It started a couple months ago. I had a dream, and in the dream I saw a mug fall from a tape. table in a kitchen. The mug shattered and blood washed out of it mixing in a shattered glass. I woke up in a sweat, but thinking nothing of it. Then, a couple days later, I'm in the kitchen and my mom is washing dishes, and she sets a wet mug on the table counter. I remember my dream, but by the time I do, the mug falls, shattering on the floor. My mom hears this, and sees the mess and goes the big of the shards, and then she cuts an artery on her hand.

and the blood mixes with the shattered pieces. She almost bled to death before we could get her to the hospital. I wrote all of this down as he went, only sure to highlight the main points and plots of the story. I make a note to discuss this with his mother before they leave after the session, just to make sure if his story is accurate in its telling.

What you're saying is that your dream predicted what happened that day? The day of the accident, I clarified. Not just this dream. them. What? You've had multiple dreams. events have been predicted? Jason nodded.

Do you want me to tell another dream? Jason asked. It's entirely up to you, Jason, I replied. Do you? I looked at him. This is your time. You can choose whatever you wish to talk about, I explained. I know.

I'm not stupid. stupid, I know you aren't. I looked at him, he shrugged his shoulders. You don't believe me, Jason said. I never said that, I assured him. I can tell. I nodded. I'll tell another, he decided.

Okay, I said. Jason squinted at me and rubbed his hands on his pants and started to talk again. In this other dream, I'm inside a garage somewhere. somewhere and there's a chair and it is all surrounded by this lawn equipment. in the chair there is someone sitting and it looks as if it's a child. I tried to move the chair but I find I can't move at all and I see that in the figure's hand there is a shotgun and I watch as the figure slowly puts a shotgun up to the chin and pulls the trigger and brains and blood shatter up against the ceiling and all over me as well.

I wake up, he said quietly, saying nothing else. A sudden, started to flow over me, and I felt clammy and unkempt. Waves of heat washed over me, and I'd started to feel sick. There was something in the room that was warming up, building up. I urged the stand and leave overcame me for a second. I considered taking the trip to the restroom to get myself together, although I decided against it entirely. I became anxious to get on with my day. that sounds very serious, is all I managed to say, I wrote the dream down as much as I could remember. Do you have a wife?

Jason asked. I stopped and looked up at him. What's that? I asked, but I heard him the first time. You have a wife, Jason repeated. And he nodded. to my finger, a gold ring enclosed around. I do, a child, a child, he's eight. Jason's a good. Jason smiles and I took a deep breath and relaxed. I was unaware of how tense I'd become

under all his questioning. I started to think, but this might be more serious than I previously thought. That was when I remembered that I hadn't finished with Jason's second dream. So, what happened? What do you mean? I poised the child in your dream. He died by gunshot from what I'm interpreting, I specified. Jason smiled at me. Go on, he said.

It was as if he was the therapist now, and I the patient. Did anything happen, Jason? I asked quietly. He looked at me and leaned at me. forward toward me, like he might be sick. A couple of me, a friend of this girl is all up-upset and crying. She hadn't been to school in a few days. I'm a friend, so I ask her what's going on, and that's when she tells me that a younger brother had died in some sort of accident. I pressed on, and she says that he died because he'd gotten his dad's gun

out of the closet and fiddled with it. shot himself by accident. I listened to his story and it took me a moment to write all of it down. The thought that maybe Jason was right about the condition and that it was real passed by me, but I shook it away as soon as it came. No one can see the future, let alone in their dreams. But the way Jason looked at me, the way he told his dreams in that dull, motionless, monotone and yet vividness, how real it sounded. I shook my head again.

Then it also occurred to me that Jason could be lying about all of this. There had to be a reason why, though. There was no other explanation, except the impossible. Jason? Can I ask you a question? I asked. You just did, he replied. I smiled wanly, but I didn't feel confident.

I still had that awful dread that there was some power. he had over me, a power I couldn't quite see. Jason smiled at me, and then he said, I'm joking, go ahead. It was as if I was waiting for his permission. Are you lying to me about these dreams that happen in real life? Jason's face darkened, and then it went away, and he smiled at me and chuckled. I wouldn't be here if I wanted to lie, Jason said. I know, I'm certain, I'm certain, and what you know, and what you've told me, does it? All of the dreams, predicting in the future. Things like this don't happen in real life, Jason.

It's impossible, I said. He stared at me, studying me. You don't believe me, he whispered. I took a deep breath. I just want you to be honest. I replied. What if I am being honest? That all these things, really happen. Would you call me crazy? Would you think of me as the rest? He asked. Of course not. What do you mean by the rest? Jason was quiet.

What would you call me? He asked again. I wouldn't call you anything, I said. Really? Yes. He looked at me and smiled and then leaned back in the office couch. He kept looking at me. When I was young, You know that, he asked. I began to write. No, I didn't, I replied. What I have aren't nightmares. They're real and they happen. This fabric of reality around you and I in this room is the only thing that keeps us here together, yet separate at the same time. Only the dreams I have are able to break that reality. If only you could see these dreams, would your reality break?

And he stared at me still, his eyes emotionless, blank. A sense of dread began to fill me like nothing had ever before, as of a bucket of warm, brown blood had been poised over my head and poured inside me, filling up my arms and legs and eyes and head. What are you saying? I whispered. I don't know. What am I stared at him. Jason sighed. The only way you would be able to understand what my dreams are like is if you experience it yourself or if you were part of it somehow. You're still in denial. You think I'm lying that all these dreams don't exist. That's the fabric of this reality. Your unwillingness to believe, Jason said. You're saying I'm the one, and that the only way to break it, and that the only way to understand, I asked. He pointed at me, precisely, he said. Well, I'm afraid that's impossible, I added. How so? I can't experience the dreams you have. But I've told you them, you just have to believe. I'm a therapist, not a dream interpreter. And then he leaned forward and he looked over at my desk. He studied the pictures I had sitting there, a dozen or so, all neatly placed. I had them there like any man with an office would.

I was a good man. I never did anything wrong. That's your family, Jason said, nodding at the pictures. I glanced back at the pictures, my sense of dread still tingling. It is, I replied. Your wife and your boy? He said he was eight. turning nine next week.

What's his name? I paused for a moment. Braden, I lied. It was the only lie I told him throughout the session. Jason laughed as if he knew, and then he quieted again, as if there was something else on his mind he wanted to tell me. This was only our first session, but I felt like I could point out every small detail about him. Maybe that scared me. Maybe that

maybe that didn't. Maybe I saw what was coming and knew what was going to happen and I let it. Maybe. Sometimes, I just don't know. That's a nice name, Jason replied. We thought so, I added. You love him, don't you? Braden? And your wife, of course, Jason said. A flash of anger making me, making me think he had done something, but it went away. I wasn't being rational.

Something was happening. What's that supposed to mean? I asked softly. I had one more dream, Doctor. Just one. Jason raised his voice up above mine and he leaned forward off the couch but enough to stay seated.

I looked at him and he looked back. Care to tell me? I asked. I put my pen and lean forward, waiting. Jason smiled. I'm inside a car on the highway, and I'm sitting in the back of the car, and I can only look ahead of me, and not to the sides or back. It is very quiet, and I can't tell if it's light or dark outside. It's hard to tell, but from what I can see ahead of me is a young boy in a car seat, sitting down in its booster chair, and ahead of him is a young woman, who I can only assume as I watch the both of them, as they wait in this car. And then, out of nowhere, I hear a sort of screeching, and a black in and out, and then I'm on the ground outside on the road. I look to the side finally, and see a shredded car

with broken glass all over the place, and all across it I can see blood and other types of matter I care not to describe. I see this, and then I hear the screeching of the siren, like the sounds you'd hear where no God existed. My heart pounding in my chest like a drum. I wake up. He finished abruptly. He stared at me, and his mouth turned into a frown as he watched me closely. I think the boy got hurt, really bad, he said. You didn't see them in your dream I had. I asked. He shook his head. I should have seen it coming. Maybe I did. When was this dream? Jason rubbed his hands and swallowed. I told you a couple days ago, he said. I looked at my watch and saw at it's almost 8 o'clock in the morning. My wife and son should have been headed to school by then so she could drop him off. I thought for a moment that maybe my son would ever be.

a good day at school and my wife, I imagined that when I'd I'd kiss them and hold them and love them and cherished them. Then those thoughts went away and I remembered Jason's dream, his nightmare, his vision. My phone started to ring and I took it out of my pocket and it was my wife. I thought that maybe it was a good thing that she was calling, that she was going to wish me, and that I would say the same to her, that everything would be fine. But maybe I still had a chance that nothing had ever happened. I let it ring, not answering. Jason stared at me, and I looked up, staring back. And the phone rang, and rang, and rang, and rang, and rang. I was fine with the indignities of the indignities of

old age and the dull routines of the nursing home. until everything changed. The doctor did not don a black cap first, but he might as well have. He told me that the canter had spread, I was now in my spine. Then he handed down the verdict. A week, give or take. I was only half listening as he talked about how the medication available would help control the pain.

My mind was already elsewhere. I was getting out of a car. The landscape was flat, bleak. The heat was cruel and my mouth was dry. I could taste the dust carried on the desert wind and raised my hand to try and block out the blinding sun. Dusk was less than an hour away, but the light was still painfully fierce. I squinted at three men gathered around a camera and a tripod nearby, wondered how it would be possible to film anything in these conditions. Then, wandered over to say hello. I had been a cameraman for five years by that point in my life. It was a career I'd stumbled into in the army when I was attached to a film unit.

I was a grunt. I knew which end of the gun was dangerous and could carry equipment all day long. Then, while the unit was filming a wrecker in a village, the Viet Cong attacked. Seconds in, the cameraman was decapitated. His legs crumpled and what was left behind fell to the ground. I knew the camera was expensive kit, so I grabbed it, and tried to find the dead man's dog tag. But there was no sign, and I scrambled to cover. Later that same day, the unit set off on another assignment, and the mere fact I still had the camera made me its new operator.

The director shouted at me as if I knew what I was doing, and before long, I sort of did. It turned out, I had an aptitude for using a camera. This gig lasted for 18 months, and when I went home, I was hooked on filmmaking. The director went on to shoot a few made-for-TV movies and one feature, and never returned my calls. But I managed to scrape together enough work to make a living. It was a hobo kind of experience, always on the move, always hustling, and when a job came along, usually working long hours in garbage conditions. That's show business

I introduced myself I was looking forward to a four-week shoot at dawn the next day A set had been built A high street that could have run through Any small town from my view of it In the now failing light Apart from that

I knew nothing about the movie And that was fine by me As long as they paid me And I got to work a camera The rest of the rest of the rest of the The rest of the rest of the I'd chosen to sleep in my car to save money And from the way the sound guy itched at the angry red marks on his arms

I figured I'd chosen wisely There were no bed-books on my back seat I said good-night and watched them drive away Then settle down wrapping the thick wall and blanket I'd brought with me Around my shoulders I hoped my dreams would not be populated by headless soldiers but that was probably wishful thinking. I had not been asleep for long when I was woken by the sound of voices. I looked out of the car window and was surprised to see a dozen or so people heading in the direction of the set.

Night had fallen, but stars filled the sky, and I could see that they looked relaxed. Some were chatting, some smoked. One was drinking from a flask. She finished and handed the flask to a man walking next to her. She flashed him, as she did so, and my temperature rose a good, she was beautiful. I clambered out of the car, totally at a loss as to what was going on, and desperate to know a name. I stood there trying to rub an ache out of my neck and wondered what the best thing to do was. This was decades before mobile phones took over the world, and I had no way to contact the producers. There was no on-site security out here, I guess, I guess, there was any need. The camera had been

on his tripod, the sound equipment lying on the ground. As the newcomers paused next to these, I wondered if they had come to steal the kit, and was wondering if I should try and stop them or get the hell out of there. When the beautiful woman chanced to look around and saw me. She smiled at me. Wow. My legs and neither fighting, either, feeling, felt like an option then. So, I grinned like an idiot,

and waved. She wandered over. If I had been a screenwriter, I might have used words like Swade or Sashade to describe the way she moved. I definitely would have come up with a better opening line for myself, what are you? I mean, are you? But that's what came to my mouth. Ex- ex-soldiers can still blush furiously, I assure you. I was

at that moment in time. She hit me with a smile and said, I'm the leading lady on this motion picture. Who the hell are you? I opened my mouth, but my mind was a blank, so I closed it. All of the others were heading over by this point.

They still seemed very laid back and jovial, and my personal embarrassment continued to lead by a head over any kind of fear. One man stepped forward from a small crowd and held out his hand. I am the director of this masterpiece. Are you a new cameraman? Cox turned slowly in my brain. I am, I said, but I thought we weren't starting shooting until first light. The man frowned, and then, eased out of the lines on his face. Ah, he said, you are with the day crew.

The day crew? I asked. Yes, we are the night crew. Our regular cameraman is indisposed in jail, but assured me his cousin could fill in. I assumed you were him. No, I'm sorry, I said. A pity, he replied. Still, perhaps we can help each other. other. I was aware of the woman still standing there and noticed that she was looking at me hopefully.

Which is why, I said, yes, of course. Excellent, the director clapped his hands together. Then let's get to it. Scene one, take one, the desert at night, a high street under the stars. He waved his hands at the others, as if he were herding cattle, and they strolled off towards the set. The woman remained. I looked at her. I couldn't help her eyes were gentle brown. Her long black hair fell loosely over the pale skin of her shoulders. She wore a simple red dress and the faintest traces of makeup on her lips. You will make me look good when you feel me, she asked. I answered in all seriousness. Yeah, I promise. And then she winked and turned and satire. shade and swayed her for a while. I watched her I sighed. With what was left

my common sense, I had worked out what was going on by this point. I had heard of, but never worked on a night shoot. They were filmed after hours using the same set and equipment already in place for their mainstream production shooting during the day. This sliced a lot of the costs. Some of these movies were intended for foreign language markets, so more explicit and will be shown without clearance from the cast and crews.

for the day and night shoots. Usually, I carried the camera on his tripod over to the set, where everyone else was already gathered. I saw no real harming me covering for a short while. As soon as they had a proper replacement for the cameraman, I would step aside. Going without sleep for a night or two was no big deal for me, and I was confident the quality of my work on the day shoot would not be diminished. And there was no reason that producers me needed to know. I rested the tripod on the dirt at one end of the fake high street and waited

for the director to tell me where he wanted me to shoot from. The first scene was a long shot along the high street that ended with a woman walking into view. Next, the camera followed her as she went into the bar constructed at one end of the street. Many of these structures were just facades, less than a foot wide and propped up in the back. The bar was closer to a complete building. Old-fashioned oil lamps hung on the walls, providing the light as the woman ordered a drink and ignored the lustful look she was getting from the male actors in the bar. She was playing an outsider, and she shone in every scene we filmed.

When the director called cut once more and told us that was it for the night, I felt a wave of sadness pass over me. The woman had taken a flasked back out and was taking a long drink. I approached her nervous as a high school kid who'd never been on a date. Excuse me, I said. I was wondering if you would like to have breakfast with me. She looked around at the mucked-up buildings, the empty land beyond. Unless you've got a dinner folded up in the boot of your jalopy, she said.

I don't think so. Then she smiled at me again. Only, there was a sadness, and she reached out and placed the her cheek. You're sweet, but you're not for me. I wanted to protest, to say that if she got to know me, then maybe. But all I did was stand and stare, as she sacheted, swayed. It was still dark as she walked away, and the rest of the rest of the rest of the rest of the rest of the rest of the rest of the rest of course and the rest of day before i saw her again it was a day that dragged i did not impress the director on the day shoot it wasn't that i was tired it's just that my concentration was shot all i could think about was her and by the day crew and cast drove off to the digs, I was pulsing with excitement. The first thing I would do, I promised myself, was ask her name. It was crazy that I did not even know that. It would be a start at least.

My heart was beating way too fast as I stood and waited for night to fall, for her to appear. She was with the director this time and a man I had not seen before There was no sign of the other's. The man was young, slim. His hair was slits back and he had a crazy arrogance about him and his arm was draped over a shoulder. My skin burned with jealousy. The director acknowledged me and said, Bring the camera. I hoisted it reluctantly. The tripod's ungaining legs pressed against my side. Then I followed the three of them towards the set. One of the buildings that was more complete a room in which a plain wooden bed had been placed. White linen sheets rippled in the breeze

which entered through an open window. I was tense, felt sick as I set the camera up. I told myself I was being ridiculous. I had only just met this woman. I knew nothing about her. And yet I was in agony as the director produced three squat candles and placed them, lit them. in their flickering light, she lay down on the bed.

I tried to meet her eye, to see if she was doing this willingly or was somehow being forced, but she did not look at me. She gazed into the young man's eyes as the director instructed, tuck him in her arms. He kissed her on the lips. "'filmed them,' the director said. I snapped out of my days. He was glaring at me. I forced myself to set the camera running and looked into it. She was a dark, lithe shape against the white sheets, and she was alone. Mistified, I glanced up. The man was moving his body against hers.

I returned to the camera's view. He was not captured in its frame. "'What the hell?' I muttered and lifted my head. head once more to seem lingering over a neck to see his lips open and the sharp pale fangs reveal. With erectile speed he brought them down onto a flesh. Her back arched and she began to scream. Shock held me to the spot until I felt warm breath in my own neck and turned to see the director was close, close enough to bite. His fangs were bared and sweat coated his skin. Fear shut through me. me, breaking my paralysis and I stumbled backwards, tripping over the tripod, and ended up sprawled on the

floor. Where, a few hours earlier, my heart had been beating with excitement. Now it raced with terror as I looked up and saw primal hunger in the director's eyes. I tried to scramble away and felt the tripod pressing into me. I realized I'd broken one of its legs. I stared at the ragged, pointed edge and memories rushed into view. and black and black and technicolor, scenes like the hideous reality in which I was caught. I remembered what the heroes did,

how they escaped. I picked the tripod up, holding the broken wooden point forward, drove it into the director's chest. It was his turn to scream, an animal's howl that filled the room. Then he staggered backwards. He did not crumble,

into dust as the make-belief monsters had in those old movies. But dark lines had appeared in his skin. They spread rapidly, opening up like cracks, and his cries of pain intensified. I turned my makeshift weapon towards the other man. He was standing by the bed now and hissed, once more exposing his fangs. Then he began to back away. I did not follow as he slipped to the door and disappeared into the night. I rushed to the woman, she was sprawled across the bed, blood trailed from her neck and pulled on the sheets. Her eyes stared at the ceiling and a chest rose and fell as she fought to breathe. I lifted her up and, still holding the tripod to ward off any more attacks. I ran for my car.

After laying it down as gently as I could on the back seat, I started the engine and drove. I had to get us away from there. I drove through the night until the first traces of dawn began to appear in the horizon. She had been quiet till then, only as the daylight reached the windows of the car, she gasped and threshed around. I slammed on the brakes. I could see wisps of smoke rising from her skin, and, scrambling onto the back seat, I grabbed my blanket and covered her with it.

She became still, her breathing steadier. I began to cry, as I had become, your granddaughter is here. I look up, I'm back in my room, at the nursing home. The care assistant says again, Your granddaughter is here. I smile and put in my coat, and the care assistant props me up

with her arm as I walk down the corridor and out into the car park, where she waits. She helps me And we set off I tell her I do not want to return to the nursing home I want to die I say

Out there in the desert With you She does not reply Is focused on a driving And I do not press her for a response After a couple of hours drive We reach our favourite spot The desert is silent and there is nothing but the night.

I drag myself slowly out of the car. She unpacks two seats. A projector, the screen and sets everything up. Then we settle into our seats. Ready? She asks. Yeah, I answer. And she presses a button and the projector rattles into life.

Images fill the screen. The desert, stars high above illuminating, a lone woman walking into sight. It is a beginning only. The movie was never completed. I turned to her and smile, and for long moments cannot take my eyes off her. Her gentle brown eyes, her long black hair falling over the pale skin of her shoulders. She is wearing the same colour of dress as she did when we first met, more than 50 years before. The same trace of lipstick. Time, for her, is gentler, than any breeze.

At first, when I aged and she did not, the charade when we needed one, was that she was my daughter. When I moved into the nursing home three years ago, I introduced her to the staff as my granddaughter. I counted down the hours to a nightly visit. As the film progresses, she returns my smile. You're missing the movie, she says, and places a hand on my cheek. There has not always been this ease between us. After the night shoot, I would not leave her,

and I begged her again and again to turn me. But she told me each time that she would not inflict the torments of a new existence on me. The craving, the lust for blood, the addict's hell. She would not. She loved me. She loves me still,

The film flickers on the screen, the final few frames. She rests her head on my shoulder. Her voice is calm when she says, I cannot go on without you. I am not able to reply. My heart is breaking. I take a hand in mine. and we wait for the dawn.

it arrives a grip tightens as the first rays of sun reach your skin. And then I can no longer feel a touch and through my tears I watch as her ashes are carried away

on the desert wind. I'm just a few times to Amsterdam, eh? Why? For the maidses they're two-go-verser. Doy! To-o! With Eurocity direct, 16 times per day from out of 2 hours. Now, book you tickets

on NMBS Internationala.com. I'm just to go ahead. Why? I'm forgetting how a tooprake. Doi! Toe! With Eurocity direct, though? 16 times per day from out Brussels

and in 2 hour now from 19 euro in place of 25. Book your tickets on NMBS International.com. Every time I fall asleep, I have the same horrifying nightmare. A flashback. of what we went through. In the dream, we're back on Zangrath again. Everything is just the way it was, and my heart aches for reasons my sleeping mind can't comprehend. My wife and I are holding hands,

walking through the quiet streets downtown, window shopping and sipping coffee. And then, the ships begin to drop from the sky, massive skyscraper-sized towers, the twisted holes gleam in the twin sun's glow as they appear like fingers of an unseen gargain. from God, reaching down through the clouds. screaming erupts from all around, and I squeeze my wife's hands so hard, she has to slap my arm to make me realize I'm hurting her unintentionally. I release my vice-like grip, and she shakes her fingers out to regain circulation, still looking up with the sky with wide, horrified eyes.

Racing back to our home, we don't think rationally. All we know is that the things dropping from the sky are terrifying, and we're just that the things dropping from the sky are terrifying. And, despite the murmurs of those, it's hard to imagine that it's true. not invade in such grand numbers. They do not punch holes in the sky with ships the size of cities. My worst fears are found to be true, sooner than I thought possible, as we find out that

the aliens are not peaceful. When we get home, the news shows images of death and destruction. Weapons like nothing we have ever seen before. One clip shows a raygun annihilating a crowd of innocence, their flesh sizzling and smoking first, before slowing off and revealing gleaming white bone. The large groups of people turned to skeletons who stood unmoving in the poses of living men and women for an instant, before toppling over and turning into a scattered pile of bones. The streets ran with blood, and the screams echoed through our window,

as we hid for as long as we could in our apartment, watching the news broadcasts with increasing despair. bombs were dropped that turned metropolitan centres to wash. Other weapons spread disease and death through plagues and terrible viruses which spread more rapidly than I ever imagined possible. The invaders looked exactly like us, making it difficult to tell them apart from friendly forces. Their spies infiltrated the government and the military,

making our downfall even more complete. We never found out for sure if they were dissoned. disguising themselves or not. It had never occurred to anyone that if aliens did appear one day, they might look identical to humans. But they did. Even their languages sounded like ours. My nightmare always ends the same way. I wake up as I see my children's faces, blooded and lifeless, killed by creatures from another world who somehow looked just like us. They ransacked her home while they were scavenging for supplies.

My son and daughter By those monsters Bulting up right My wife startled A slumber as well The nightmare again Panting out of breath I nodded

My skin damp with sweat And soaking the sheep beneath me I can't sleep either She said getting up Opening the window shades I looked out of the stars As they passed by in the distance I'll never get you

used to that view, I said with a sigh, going into the smaller hopefully we won't have to. There must be a livable planet out there somewhere. The computer will pick up something soon. Regeter was always an optimist, even after all we had been through, she kept me going. But at that moment, I didn't want to hear it. I was in a rut and wanted to feel lousy. I wanted to brood about her children and her home were just stolen from us. Instead, I went into the small kitchen area to make instant coffee for us both, trying to distract from melancholy with caffeine for a little while.

The powdered milk was gone, and we were down to the last canister of freeze-dried coffee. I open it up, winting at the thought of life with other stuff. I felt like I needed it to survive these days, especially with a total lack of restful sleep I'd been experiencing lately. I was boiling the water. An alarm began to sound. Lights started flashing on the ceiling and a voice came over the PA system, speaking robotically. Proximity alert, hostile crafts detected. Proximity alert, hostile crafts addicted. Recommend evasive maneuvers. The alerts repeated again and again and I raced towards the cockpit where my wife was already in the captain's chair. She gripped the controls tightly and I strapped myself

next to her. It's them, was all she had to say and I knew exactly how much trouble we were in. My heart pounding in my chest, I took the turret controls and began to take aim and fired a few shots with amygoplasma rifle we had mounted on the hull. The attacks bounced off the enemy shields like ping pong balls. A second later, they were returning fire and the ship rattled violently. The harness

tug into my shoulders as I was throwing forward in my seat and it knocked the wind out of me as another impact came a second later and another. There's too many of them. My wife was making evasive maneuvers with sharp cuts

to the left and the right, testing the ship's integrity and pushing it to its limits. She'd been a pilot in the Space Force for years. If not for her military connections and a skills of flying, we would have died back in zangroth. I owed her in a stolen been given to her by a general in a final gesture of gratitude for a dedicated

years of service as the world exploded to pieces all around us and everyone tried desperately to escape from the invaders' brutal attacks. Take it somewhere far away from here, the general had said with his last dying breath, get as far away as you can. I was snapped back to the present from my reflections as a ship rattled from another brutal impact. Leave us alone. You took our children. What more do you want from us? My wife is screaming as she rocketed us through asteroid belts and around deadly quasars, trying to throw them off our trail. The sound of the ship's quantum engines being pushed to their utter limits made a roaring wail of noise all around us. I felt that my airdrums were part from that

horrible noise. If not from that, then surely the exploding blasts of missiles crashing off our shields would deafen me for the short remainder of my life. we aren't going to make it, she said, looking at the displays with desperation. I'm going to do something a little crazy here. Do you trust me? I nodded. Of course I did. There was no one else in the universe I trusted besides her. That was when she banked sharply to the right and began to head straight for a black spot in the distance. Nothing is truly black in outer space As you realize,

You've been flying at warped speed for long enough Every dark spot is actually a multitude of stars Shining back at you And as you draw nearer, you see them clearly One by one they emerge from the abyss But this was actually pure blackness I saw as we got closer There was no shortcut

This was a black hole for long death, the spaghettifing domain of a dead, honey, she looked at me. Her eyes, tears beginning to well up in them. It looked like she was about to apologize for something, or she wanted to. I never had enough time to finish my research. Remember, I had a theory about black holes, that if you fall into one, you won't be killed. Instead, you'll be transported somewhere else, far, What she was saying

sounded impossible. Despite my I was terrified. Everything I had ever heard about black holes told me that we would be annihilated by it, that we would be stretched out and spaghettiified by it, that time would stand still as we died a million deaths over an eternity of pain and endless suffering.

Medita? What if you're wrong? She looked at me, We'll die, I was about to say, That one death didn't involve being stretched out into And dying over a million years In a time void with no oxygen. But it was too late.

We were already getting close enough But it began to pull us in. The ship started to quake and shudder As the proximity sensors stopped blaring And new alarms began to sound instead. These ones sounded far more in some. They're leaving, they're not attacking us anymore. That means they know this thing, she didn't argue.

Just released the controls as the ship began to skid faster and faster in looping arcs towards the black hole. The warp drive was still engaged and we sped toward it rapidly. I felt nauseated by the looping trajectory of the ship as time began to dilate and I started to feel stretched. My body warped and aching with strange pins and needles That quickly turned into high spicks and steel rods Of agonising pain everywhere As the darkness surrounded us We were plunged into blackness

So total I couldn't see an inch in front of me I didn't know if I was alive or dead The feeling of spikes being driven into my skin by sledgehammers Began to abate And was reduced to tingling and numbness I felt nothing for a long, long time as we seemed to float and a an eternity.

my thoughts became an endless which meant nothing then, suddenly, it was light again from the blackness. How the two of us or the ship managed to stay together under such forces and such incredible duress I will never understand,

despite my wife's attempts to explain the nano self-reparing technology to me. Suffice to say, if not for the fact that we've been gifted the most technologically advanced, we would not have survived. But the Pegasus took us all to the black hole, and we came out safely on the other side. We awoke, floating in a sea of stars, unfamiliar to our computer's navigation system. It struggled to recover by mapping out this new place with its sensors. Eventually, we had a rudimentary map

of this galaxy we had been ejected into, a spiraling fan of stars with so many chances and places where life could spring up. They won't be able to find us here, my wife said, gripping my hand tightly from the captain's chair. We began to search for a new planet once again. Scanning these new stars, we found a hundred worlds close to being able to sustain life, but none quite capable of it. Too hot or too cold, too large or too small, no water or no signs of life. But eventually, the sense of began to emit a gentle beeping sound, far different from the harsh cries which had alerted us of approaching enemies. The robotic voice spoke over the PA once more, and the computer alerted us to a new discovery. Class 7 star-faring civilization detected, do you wish to set a new course for this location? A few more times the message repeated before either one of us could speak. We were so shocked at what we had heard. We've been searching for a place, a place, a place, a place, and a chance to grow crops.

But we'd never imagined finding a new home among others. Perhaps we could be accepted as one of their own. A newly space-faring civilization would likely be progressive and accepting of other species. Oh, so we hoped. Yes, Computer, set a course for the location, please, Regina said. Hannah realized she had tears streaming from her eyes. We made it, sensing, sensing, Why are you crying?

I didn't want to lose hope. The engine was nearly destroyed going through the rift. If we hadn't found something today, we would have been left floating out here, aimlessly, lost in space forever. We would have frozen to death. We hugged as she shivered at the thought, and I did involuntarily as well. Well, let's just be thankful not just something. Look,

We weren't have to start from scratch living off the land. This is a real home. Let's hope so. By the time we arrived at the place we could see lights illuminating the dark side of the world. Regina made for that darkened area of the planet hoping we could land without being spotted in the night. The landmass right here, she said in hushed

tones as we approached. They look almost the same as the ones in Sangreth. Regina, do you see what I'm seeing? Look at all the water they have here. Or that clean water! I bet they don't even have to ration. She gripped my hand tightly as the craft began to blaze at the front from the heat of entry into the atmosphere. We landed quietly and undetected in a forested area north of a large city. After hiding our ship as well as we possibly could, we began to venture on foot towards the metropolis. It will take us, it will take us to get there, but we are still too to attempt bartering for a ride from an earthwilder, although we have encountered quite a few. At one point, as we walked down the side of the road, heading south towards the big city,

someone stopped their vehicle and rolled down the window to offer us a ride. We have been seeing signs which set Toronto 100 kilometres, Toronto 72 kilometres, Toronto, Toronto, as we got closer. You folks need a lift, the man said. He had a bushy red beard and short hair, wide shoulders and a thick neck. In short, he appeared quite capable of incapacitating both of us

and murdering us in cold blood. Or he could have also passed for my uncle. It was impossible to tell the difference I realised unable to speak. My mouth was hanging open and I backed away from the truck window, terrified for reasons I couldn't understand. the man drove off a few seconds later, as my wife was unable to suppress her horror as well. We were both somewhat surprised to find that you all look just like us,

and subsequently, just like the invaders who killed our children and brutalized our planet. In fact, we're both terrified right now that you could be the latter of the two species. One of your kind left this black rectangular device on a table and a food-eating establishment, and I picked it up and began looking through it, claiming it as my own, in accordance with Zangrath's finest keeper's laws. We're desperate, so we may need to sell it for sustenance, but for now I will peruse it for more information than your kind, to learn what type of world we have landed on. I sincerely hope It's a good one.

For as long as long as long as long as I have lived, a clockmaker's workshop. It was an our workshop. Although my dad did sometimes do deliveries for them as a side job of sorts. But we've rented the space upstairs for almost at least a decade now.

Although my parents can't tell me exactly when they moved in. Every day when I came home from school, the owner of the workshop, whose name has been lost from the clouding of my youth, was downstairs, tinkering with a complex web of the and sprockets. I didn't call him by his real name. He was simply the clockmaker to me, for reasons I'm sure you can deduce. Sometimes, before going upstairs,

I would sit with the clockmaker for a while, watching him demonstrate almost inhuman precision with nothing more than an array of small metal instruments. His work was accompanied by a constant ticking, his past creations hung proudly on the walls like a father would hang pictures of his children. The clockmaker didn't have a wife, nor any children, despite his old age. Although I always saw him as a grandpa-like figure growing up, and his warm eyes gave me the impression that he saw me the same way, a member of a family that was simply not meant to be. One time, after a particularly hard day at school, I returned home to find him in the the back office, studying a large grandfather clock, which seemed to loom over the cosy workspace.

He seemed almost entranced by his face, a slight smile lifting his weathered features. He was so entranced that he seemed not even to notice me entering, a slight hint of confusion coming over him as he smiled down towards me. He told me a story that day, while he sketched our plans for his next contraption of intermingled amalgamation of brass webs. It was a lengthy story, and I honestly can't remember most of the specifics, but it was about a young woman he met during his youth. The impression he gave whilst reciting the story was that of a love story, but his eyes creased downwards as he recounted a tale from his lengthy life. He had met her at a train station, after her hat was almost taken by gust of wind to an unknown land distant.

He managed to catch it, after a brief conversation, they boarded the train and rode the five-hour-long journey together. She was a university professor, travelling to give a lecture at a particularly renowned institution, although the clockmaker couldn't remember what exactly her expertise was. They talked the entire journey, with games of chess and tic-tac-toe, ensuring that boredom was kept at bay. Upon reaching the station They both departed And the clockmaker offered to escort To a planned lecture

She accepted And the condition that he stayed to listen to it Unfortunately A terrible accident would before the woman One which would leave her terribly injured Perhaps faithly so The clockmaker apparently never learned of her fate

As she was taken to a hospital to receive the best of treatment. His eyes seemed to well up. The inevitable torrent only being stopped when I grasped his hand firmly. It's okay. It was a long time ago. Just remember to cherish those who love. Our time in this world isn't infinite. His voice was hoarse, filled with the wisdom that an old oak tree would express if it could speak. I nodded, the ticking, matching the ticking. I have fun memories of the clockmaker and his during the early years of my youth,

but the magic and protection of childhood which allowed me to find enjoyment in every waking hour couldn't last forever. Although I didn't mind the ticking of the clocks during the day, it always made me uncomfortable to be around them during the night, especially while I was alone. Although, although, although, was simply not large enough, so, was downstairs, past the workshop. Ah, you always dreaded

having to go to the toilet during the night. Those incessant gears piercing the darkness with perfect regularity, reminding you that the march of time is insurmountable, no matter how old, young, poor or rich you may be. It wasn't the darkness, nor the eerie atmosphere during the moonlight hours, nor even the symphony of artificial order and timelessness, which covered the building in an unnatural state of movement, yet stillness. It was the thing that accompanied it. Perhaps thing is not the right term.

Even now with a clear, matured mind, fully comprehending it is a task simply too great for me. What I saw What I saw Or even begin to understand Turned the workshop A happy place Usually a carnival of unity And vibrant cohesion

Into a hellscape of dark dread Which seemed to seep in From every corner This all happened When I was around 9 years old It was late About 1am And I had the urge to go to the toilet

For context The upstairs portion of this building is split into two. The stairs lead to a small landing with a door. That door leading to a hallway connected to three rooms, all on the right-hand side. The first room was mine, the second my parents, and the last room was a combination of a kitchen, dining room and lounge. The door separating the hallway from the landing was thick enough to protect our ears from the constant ticking downstairs, at godsend all considering. Regardless, it was quite easy. It was quite easy. It was a easy to open the hallway door without waking my parents, opening the door

and the stairs beyond it gave way to the consistent ticking and talking of the chamber below. This wasn't my first time venturing downstairs in the darkness, and it wasn't an unusual occurrence. Yet, as I clambered down those rickety wooden stairs, something felt off, causing me to stop three steps from the bottom. I scanned the workshop, a vague outline of various clocks and timepieces singing their songs in the faint moonlight as moderate rain canvassed the door and windows. Nothing seemed out of place.

Nothing unusual could be garnered from the light which reflected upon my young eyes. Yet still, the thought lingered in my head. A thought of unease. Hello? My voice was almost silent, more of a little. of a whisper than a declaration of confidence. Of course, to tell the truth, I'm not sure what I was expecting when I called a greeting into the darkness, but still, in the moment, the urge overcame me. The only response was the rhythmic beat of the timekeeping devices around me,

a familiar sound which had never caused me discomfort before. Actually, it was rather reassuring. I continued down the bottom And once more Of course Nothing unusual reached my ears And I consider my mind To simply be the result of an overactive imagination The feeling remained however

Like an itch in the back of my head Tick Toc Tick Toc I moved towards the door opposite that of the front which led to the back office. I forgot to mention, but the clockmaker does not live in the same building we do. Instead, it resides in a small cabin located at the rear of the garden to the back of the property. The bathroom was adjoined at the office and was put in sometime before we moved in.

I opened the door more carefully than usual, having been slightly put on edge by the now past unease I felt. My own mind imagined monsters, or perhaps an oversized spider, will gobble me whole. A small lamp hung outside, over the back door, gave enough illumination to allow me to manoeuvre my way around the office and to the bathroom door, closely avoiding a nasty accident with a shoe rack as I did so. I greet open the door, pulled on the light, and went about my planned business. As I opened the bathroom A cold draught washed over my small frame

The room was no longer illuminated And a peculiar stillness seemed to hang in the air It took me a moment of concentrated thinking To notice Silence Silence, complete silence No tick-tucking, no marching of time Not even the pitter-batter of rain upon the windows

Pure, complete enveloping silence. The unending tsunami which crashed against my tiny mind cannot be described a bustling market filled with energetic salesmen and curious buyers one minute completely silent the next. Unnatural unimaginable implying that an event so great has occurred that an epicenter of emotion, activity and atmosphere has been overwhelmed and replaced with a husk of its former self.

The office remained the same, and leaves from what I could tell in the newly inky darkness that surrounded me. A stack of papers, plans and schematics remain in place, awaiting for further refinement and analysis. The rack of shoes eagerly studded attention for the moment of impromptu adventure, when their owners would put them on in a flurry of excitement to experience something new and wonderful. The old fatherly grandfather clock, watching over much like No, that was not right. My eyes remained locked, with a looming greatness, which had watched over

the cramped office since the dawn of time. It seemed to observe me as well, but not with the same dread that had crept up through my very being. It watched with indifference, as if I was another stack of paper or a shoe lying helplessly on the floor. But it was silent.

Everything was silent. Why was everything, silent. There were dozens of clocks. How did the rain stop? I took a deep breath in. The shock had slightly dissipated. Maybe the clockmaker came in whilst I was in the bathroom to turn them off. Or maybe. My young mind could not come up with any solutions I deem reasonable or logical, but one thing was certain. I didn't want to be there a moment longer. With long strides, I walked with purpose, towards the door, to the doorkship, gripping the doorknob,

as I took my final step. I opened it, and, without really thinking, I walked through into the workshop. Only, it wasn't the workshop. It was the office again. I looked behind me to find the bathroom door, closed behind me. I rubbed my eyes.

Was this a dream? Maybe I was sleepwalking, or still half asleep. without stopping beyond my first impression that impression. That impression, I repeated my previous action and tried leaving the office

to enter the workshop. As the door opened, I looked more carefully, finding the room beyond to be the workshop exactly as I had expected it. I entered the sound of the door

closing behind me the only interruption to my heavy breathing. I blinked and one, Once more, I was in the office. Of anguish formed on my face, confusion rocking my small brain as I began to truly panic. I darted towards the door once more, flinging it open with the desperation that comes from

being hunted and bolted through the door, colliding with the office's table as I ran inside. For a while, I simply sat, tears streaming down my face as a cacophony of nothing tortured my very soul. I sat, defeated before the looming time space which stood over everything else, as equally indifferent to my suffering as it was when I first left the bathroom. I scrunched up into a small ball, leaning myself against the clock for back support when I heard it. Tick, talk, tick, Tock, as faint as a whisper, yet the lack of any other sounds made it clear as day. I turned, looking up and into the clock's face as it stared straight back, its hands reading 124.

The ticking had emanated from deep within the clock's structure, deeper than should have been possible. Unlike most grandfather clocks, the pendulum was not visible from the outside, rather than having a glass viewing panel, there was instead a decorated, adorned with unusual visages, depicting warped figures and, looking back, equally warped faces. Some had facial features, some did not. Some were even carrying large objects on their back, rectangular and charcoal black. Something was driving me towards the clock, something unnatural. It was almost hypnotic, The vast web of

Working together perfectly To form a repeating tandem Ticking and Talking Which matched the unending flow Of the world which surrounded me I slowly undid The small bolt Which protected the innards of the clock

From the outside world And pulled the wooden door away from it Like a surgeon preparing a patient For surgery Looking inside that clock I saw countless Contradictions It was living

yet it couldn't be. A horrible hybrid of time. Life, perfected, perfected, perfected mechanical motions presented itself before me. The dark, pulsating mess of flesh and brass seemed to move and twitch at perfectly timed intervals. As it pulsated, gears around it turned, culminating in a tick, followed by a tock. Tick, talk, tick, tick. Even though my mind was young, and in the process of being ripped apart by an unknown horror which would send even the most stable of people into a deep recess of insanity and depression. I understood. It was alive.

The clock was alive. It was a fully functional clock. It's timekeeping exact and its timely chimes perfect. But it was still somehow alive. I stared for a moment before realised. the potential danger I was in, which caused me to start sliding backwards, still on the floor, until I hit the table behind me. I could see it all now, more than just a mechanical heart. Other bits of black flesh protruded from the gears, some of it convulsing, some of it

simply staying still. I looked up at the face, and somehow it seemed to smile at me. Not a benevolent smile But a almost insidious one Combining pleasure Into a convoying evilness Without thinking I slammed the door to the clock's inner shut Bolting the door

As I felt a possessive gaze fixated On the back of my neck I bolted up Not daring to look back At whatever benevolent force I decided to roar as reckoning upon me I almost fell over the table as I rushed it open, pulling it open, pulling myself inside.

With great relief, I actually found myself inside the workshop, its familiarity and relative normality, giving me a brief respite of soothing reassurance. Any sense of relief, however, was short-lived. The clocks were ticking again, louder, more voracious, most chillingly of all, completely out of sync with each other. Everything began to warp as fresh tears filled my eyes. Nothing made sense as my ears were bombarded with unrelenting, talking and the sound of heavy rain upon the windows.

Without waiting a moment, I picked myself up and began running for the stairs, wailing and screaming with last-minute energy of an injured wolf. I climbed for what seemed like hours. I climbed my vision, as I slowly began to lose consciousness. I'd like the next day, tightly tucked into my bed. I checked the time, giving myself a small dose of panic-fueled adrenaline as the sound of the clock finally brought me to my full alertness. It was past noon, meaning that I'd missed school.

I shouted for my parents, and to my great relief, my father answered my call. He explained to me, collapsed at the top of the door, just outside of our hall. My parents, assuming that I was either unwell or had spent the entire night awake, carried me to bed, and decided to allow me to stay home from school. As he spoke, I simply nodded. Was it a dream I had while sleepwalking? It all seemed so real, but perhaps, for the sake of my sanity, I convinced myself. that none of it really happened. After all, a living clock. Even as a child, I knew that clocks couldn't be alive.

After that, my life continued as normal, almost. I avoided venturing downstairs during the night, wherever the cost, although a few times where I had no choice were remarkably uneventful. I developed a slight fear of clocks, and I would grow very uncomfortable if the teeth. ticking of a clock grew too loud. But beyond that, I simply placed the event in the furthest reaches of my mind. I'm 16 now, almost an adult, and going through a bit of a rebellious phase. Honestly, up until yesterday, the dramatic dream I had as a kid had been forgotten, and I had almost gotten over my unusual fear of clocks and timekeeping. However, what I saw yesterday, dug up those memories, causing newfound dread that I've only experienced on that particular night. I came home

from school yesterday, and in the hopes of avoiding my dad, who I knew would be in the front workshop preparing for his next delivery, I decided to try and sneak around the back to pick up some cash and grab some lunch with. Thankfully, the foliage around the building provided ample cover, allowing me to move into the back garden without a single soul knowing. As I approached the back door, I noticed the window, sitting in the office with their back against the table. It only took me a moment to realize, it was the clockmaker, leaning back whilst facing the immortal grandfather clock, which I had almost cleansed from my memories. The clockmaker didn't make my life his business, so he would probably take little notice

if I simply ducked in and out to grab what I needed whilst avoiding my dad. before opening the door, I heard his voice seep out the half-way-window. I'll have to replace it soon. It's getting old. Rotten, I would say. But, don't you worry, dear. The folks upstairs have a healthy young-un. Kind and sweet as a buttercup raindrop, I would say. A shame, really. A shame. His voice had an unusual youthfulness to it, yet it was accompanied with an element of spite, which seemed out of his character. This by itself was surprising. To my shock, her voice replied, sending the events of seven years ago into the forefront of my mind. It was not a human voice,

nor a voice at all really. It was a series of ticks and talks which somehow carried meaning, actual meaning. The pitch and tone of each chime shifted ever so slightly. somehow forming words of my mind without a morsel of my will entering it. The clockmaker suddenly seemed alert, turning his head to look at me standing outside the window. His eyes were no longer those of the clockmaker I knew. The warmth drained and replaced with a coldness and smoothness of well-shined brass. He seemed neither angry nor surprised, although I could easily senses his intention from a mere glance. I ran. I ran, I ran, filled with unending dread and hopelessness. I ran, knowing that any distance will be transcended on a level

I could not comprehend. I ran. I consider this to be my last testament, and will perhaps. I know that no matter where I go, I'm doomed. Nobody can. help me. It was not a dream. It was a moment. ...tick, tick, tick, t'clock. The time I have will soon be mine no longer. With perfect precision, it'll be given to another, a being greater, yet lesser than the human soul. Time is insurmountable. and it is marching right towards me. I'm just to Amsterdam, for the maids, they're two hours.

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DROG blithe? Goar for. Find what you know-noddhap On Amazon.com. My mother picked me up from the airport in the dark hours of the morning. It had been a long flight,

and an even longer year. When we finally pulled into the driveway, the ranch house I grew up in looked like a little black shipwreck sticking out of the fog. Why is the kitchen light on, I wondered. Mom lives alone. We're here, boy. Oh yes we are. My mom shouted as she opened the door. That's hard, I thought. Is she talking to me? I rolled my luggage into the dark hallway. I didn't really need a light. after all, I knew the jet lag was hitting hard, and I barely managed to hug in a simple conversation before I had to drag myself off to bed. I heard mom's muffled voice from the kitchen as I drifted off to sleep. It was a sweet, co-ing sort of sound, the tone of voice you'd use

with a baby, or her pet. By the next morning, I'd forgotten all about it. I jugged black coffee, and chomped on cereal while my mother and I tried to plan our visit. We'd always been close, but since I landed my dream job teaching in Japan, we only saw each other about once a year. We had to make it count. Well, that should be fine, my mom responded to the day trip I proposed, as long as I'm home in time to let Cooper out. Sorry, Cooper?

Another thing about being away from people for a long time. differences that you might not notice otherwise, like ageing, like, really stand out. And they tend to be changes for the worse. I felt a pang of guilt looking around a place. It looked more small and worn down than I remembered. Oh silly, you know, mum winked. Cooper, the dog. I, uh, I didn't know you'd gotten a dog.

There it was again, that first. feeling of time slipping by. Really? Mom scrunched up her eyebrows. I thought, I mentioned it. Well, I'm sure you'll meet him while you're visiting. I hope you two get along. I do too, I thought, frowning. Truth was, I didn't really like dogs all that much. And I was pretty sure that feeling was mutual. I know how attached some people get to their pets. But when I look into a dog's forward-facing predator eyes, my first thought is, creatures like this, use the hunt and eat creatures like me. I peered out the blinds at the dead grass and leaning shed outside. Two shining stainless steel bowls glinted in the winter sun.

So is Cooper out back or... Oh, I don't know. He comes and goes. I squinted at something across the way. A missing pet poster stuck to a telephone pole. It was for a cat though. As I got us packed and bundled up for our day trip, my eyes fixed on a new addition to the house I hadn't noticed in the dark. Either it was a black rubber dog door built for a big dog.

My eyes fixed on a new addition to the house I hadn't noticed in the dark either. It was a black rubber dog door built for a big dog. Each time it rattled in the wind, a shiver ran up my spine. When we finally pulled out of the driveway, I realized that I was actually relieved to be leaving my home behind without a sign of Cooper. We arrived after dark, hungry and tired from too much driving with too many stops. I went straight for the kitchen to prepare dinner, and I was so focused on chopping vegetables that at first I didn't notice the strange sounds coming. from the living room. There we go. Who's a good boy? Leaning, leaning, I saw my mum bent over in a rocker, making a stroking motion. Cooper, I figured, odd that I hadn't heard him come in. Mom and Cooper was

still at play when I finished the jambalaya. Or so I thought. But when I turned the kitchen corner, my mom was staring dead ahead at the TV. There was a program on about a pair of kids who'd gone missing from a playground a few blocks away. Uh, mom, I ventured. Can I help with Cooper? Thanks anyway, dear. My mother nodded and took the steaming ball out of my hand. But he just ran off.

I'm sure he's around here somewhere. He comes and goes. Yeah, you mentioned that. I was beginning to feel uneasy again, but I still couldn't say why. You don't you think it's kind of odd that he hasn't come out to, I don't know, greet me or something? You're the first new person Cooper's known besides me. Mum sighed happily as she dug into a dinner. Maybe he's just shy.

That may have been true. But for the first time, I found myself unable to relax or unwind while visiting home. and it was all because of this unseen, unknown presents that just might pop up at any time. Where does Cooper usually hang out? I asked after a few hours of movies, snacks and what's new with everybody, chit-chat. I think I'd like to say hi.

It makes sense that a shy dog would hide in the basement, right? I tried to reassure myself as I descended the stairs. The scuffed up wood brought back childhood memories In those memories, I always seemed to be running up them, terrified of what I'd see, terrified of my shoulder. But I was an adult now, standing with my shoulders square at the bottom of the steps, ready to turn on the light. And there was nothing to be afraid of. Right. I gave the chain a tug.

The basement didn't seem like it had changed at all since I was a kid. same dented, rusty cans, a smell, a smell, and wet fur, cooper, I whispered. I felt like a fool. I tried again, a little louder. Cooper, here boy, Cooper! The cellar's damp and chill

sank into my bones as I waited for a response. Nothing. With a sigh, I clicked off the bulb started of the stairs, and heard something large, padding around in the dark. With a start, yanked on the light chain. Again, nothing. But I'd heard something out there among the cobwebs and covered furniture. I was sure of it. I waited a solid minute before heading back, defeated. The movement started again when I was about halfway up, That is, just as far as the upstairs The one downstairs

This time it wasn't just skittering around It was charging The bulk of something much heavier than I was Made the wooden steps creak and groan in the pitch blackness behind me I ran as fast as I could But even so, I felt hot panting breaths on my shins Before I burst into the light of the kitchen Mom looked at me curiously

"'he,' I gasped. "'I guess, "'I guess, "'theirred at the basement, huh?' "'Without a word, my mother "'turned back to the blue glow of the TV. "'Apparently, there was no sign "'of the two missing children.

"'Although I went to bed early that night. "'I couldn't sleep. "'I kept waiting to hear movement "'from the basement or the rubber door flap. "'I'd almost drifted off "'when.' I got my wish. The clatter of the flap, the clack of pause on a hard surface, coming down my bedroom hallway.

The sound got closer and closer, then seemed to pass right through my locked door. Whatever it was. It was in the room with me. I sat up straight and turned on the light. I could hear its steps all around, and it sounded too big to hide. So, where was it? It was only when my instincts made me look up that I saw the muddy porporints

being tracked in circles on my bedroom ceiling. The chill ran down my spine, that scared pre-sense that comes from being watched by unseen eyes. The invisible thing at my ceiling stopped. Then, growled. What the? I ran out of the room, heavy paw steps fast behind,

I cried out to my mother, the growling behind me deepened. then stopped. Mom sat up and put on her glasses. Oh, she smiled, I see you've met Cooper. What? I weased. I heard panting and the sound of a wagging tail scraping across the floor.

What the hell was this? I watched invisible paws sink into the carpet as the panting thing patted over to my mom. Its growls, as, as, my mother scratched this belly. Who's a good boy? My mom cooed. I crept closer. Mom? I didn't know how to begin.

Do you see anything? A snarl and a chomping sound cut me off. I felt, rather than saw, that something big had sprung to its feet before me and raised its tackles. I had a set of invisible jaws just snapped by my hand. Oops, my mother cautioned. It seems like it's still not used to you. I backed away until I was in the hallway, ready to run, then shouted,

There isn't a dog there. I don't know where you've got there, but it isn't a dog. Don't be silly. Of course, Cooper is a very good boy. Yes, he is. The pleased yipping and whimpers resumed. It was more than I could take. I went back to my child at the door and locked it.

Not that it would do any good. When the noises finally stopped, I assumed my mother had gone to bed. I tried to keep any darker possibilities out of my mind, because, as concerned as I was for her, the truth was that I was too scared to check, too scared of what might happen if I ran into that thing alone in the dark of the hallway, without my mother's apparently particularly of influence. I sat up in bed, and an open pocket-knife clutched in my fist, not like they would do much good against invisible creature with claws longer than its blade, and try to stay awake and vigilant. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember was the

sag of my bed as something heavy clamped close to me. My nose was overpowered by a reek like damp fur, but I didn't dare to move. For a couple of seconds, with cupers, sweeping across my face. Then, it spoke. Do you want to see me? The voice was guitaral and gravely, like if a bear could talk. See you? I don't, I just, what are you? I whispered, what do you want? Do you want to see me? It repeated. I screamed.

I heard my mother's hobbling footsteps and felt awful for waking her, no matter how horrible the cause. The thing lowered its voice to a growling whisper as my mom fumbled with the door. If you say yes, you can't take it back. Cooper, my mom put her hands on the hips. get down from there, I'm sorry, he's just He's just not used to other people,

Mom What does Cooper look like to you? Well, honey, my mom scratched the head I mean, he's hard to describe Like a standard dog, I guess Why? Why would you ask me that? Well, I stammered I, uh, can't see him

Can other people see him? Can other people "'D. "'Deads, "'then, how would I know? It's not like "'for walks at my age. "'What do you mean you can't see him?' "'My mom stalled. "'That's just ridiculous.'

"'Come on, you must have noticed "'that something's off,' I pressed. "'Like people look at you funny "'when you call him or play with him outside. "'Or when the mailman "'or Jehovah's Witnesses or Girl Scouts "'or whoever comes to the door, "'they just act like he isn't there.

right. The thing beside me didn't like this line of conversation at all. I felt it gently, placed a paw, the size of a dinner plate on top of my stomach. Even with all the adrenaline running, I recognized that signal for what it was. A warning. One of those claws would open up my intestines like a sharp knife slicing through sausage. I don't know what you're talking about. My mom snorted after a long pause. But I could tell that I was onto something. She couldn't see Cooper either. My mind flashed back to those stainless steel dog dishes out back, to the missing cat sign, to the two kids who'd vanished in this very neighbourhood. Mom, I chose my words carefully. How did you find Cooper? What does he eat?

One day I just heard him on my doorstep, whining. and wagging his tail, so I told him, mom put a hand, and he's not expensive, if that's what you mean. Unlike you, when you lived under this roof, Cooper takes care of himself. Are you sure Cooper doesn't get into any trouble? What do you mean? My mother's expression changed to one of genuine worry. Honey, you're scaring me.

You don't want to scare Mom, do you? The thing snarled, that only I could hear it. As it did, it took his claws into my stomach, ever so slightly. Nah, I faked a smell. It was just a bad joke. I'm just tired. I'm sorry. Well, my mother looked at me, uncomfortably.

If you still don't feel right in the morning, I can call Dr. Strauss. You know, the one you talked to when you had that incident back in high school. Did you know he's still practicing psychics? high a I think he went to class with his daughter, she's a doctor now, you know. I felt the invisible clapping impatiently and my

very exposed belly. Um, I whimpered. Yeah, okay. I'm just going to try to sleep now and, it looks like Cooper and I are getting along a lot better, huh? You sure are, my mom finally smiled again.

It was a tired smile, though. The years of care-worn wrinkles I'd given her were clear, even as she switched off the light. Good night, honey. Feel better in the morning. We had the lights off and the door closed. I was alone in total darkness with my mom's special pet. For a time, the heavy mass beside me just lay there, breathing heavily, its claw holding me firmly in place. After my mom's touching footsteps fell silent, however. It nuzzled close.

A huge, A huge, Licked the side of my face Oh A muck and growl Histed into my ear Who's a good boy? There are a lot of things about being old

That are absolutely garbage Every day, a new part of me Seems to hurt And I have one speed Slow But there is a sense of liberation I finally feel free to tell the truth After so many years, I can't begin to tell you, I can't begin to feel.

The first lie, the one that began it all, came in a small, winnless room in an anonymous-looking office block. I was fresh at a film school. I was ambitious, bursting with ideas. I was ready for success. I was also thousands of dollars in debt. I needed a job. and when I saw an advert my depressing

my depressing views, or serving burgers and fries faded it was described working with a new company based in a city near my home the starting salary was sweet more than enough for me to begin digging myself out of my financial hole

and candidates had to have experience working on documentaries as I sat in that small room I thought of the film scripts I had written of the dramatic short I directed, of the way my imagination had always been praised by my tutors. I was all about the fictional. The door opened and two men walked in.

They both wore beige suits and neither had a necktie. I could not decide if I was overdressed or underdressed in my denim shirt and skinny black tie. I thanked me for coming today and beige suit number one began the interview by Asset. How would you sum up your filmmaking? I am all about the documentary, he smiled. I was acing this. Bayes suit number two then asked

How can you describe your most recent filmmaking project to us? I thought back to my short. Girl meets boy, boy meets alien, love is strange. Then I answered. I recorded the life of a young man over the course of a man over the course of 24 hours, I wanted to show the truths that society forces men to mask, their insecurity, their pain, their weakness. I was pretty pleased with that off-the-cuff fiction.

I gave myself nine out of ten. It looked like both beige suits were impressed. Bayesuit number one asking, how long was the finished film? Bayesuit number two falling straight afterwith. Is there anything you did not include, any truths that were too raw? thinking on all ten of my toes I went right back to them

90 minutes No The faces fell as one Two mouths drooped Two heads leaned forward And both made notes Damn I thought What had I said wrong

90 minutes was long for TV But would be acceptable in an independent cinema It must have been my second answer I smiled, putting myself, putting my The other side of the imaginary camera for once, putting my acting skills on the fore and said, Of course, the truth is relative. One eyebrow perked up, another followed. Tell us more, they said in unison.

So, I did. I talked and I talked, and I talked. A few hours later, I was signing a contract. It must have been 20 pages long and I was shown four different places to sign, which I duly did. I was thinking of the beer I would drink that night. The car I would be able to get on higher purchases the next day, the girls I would impress. I was only vaguely aware of one of the bay shoots gathering up the contract's papers and placing them in a suitcase. He left one sheet on the desk.

Helpfully, I picked it up and held it out to him. He shook his head. That's your copy, a reminder. I grinned as if I knew what he was talking about. And after shaking hands, I left holding my piece of paper. I read it on the bus back to my apartment for something to do. It had my signature on the bottom. On the top, it read, official secrets act.

I felt queasy by the time I went home. I did not want to spend the rest. rest of my life in prison, so made a solemn promise to myself that I would do as a piece of paper instructed and never breathe a word about what I did for my new employers. Not sober, not drunk, not trying to impress even the prettiest girl into bed. My lips were sealed no matter what I was asked to film. No problems here, I told myself, and began to drink. The next morning, the bus rattled and swayed as I headed back to the office for the first day of the first day of my new job. I hoped it would be an easy one. A few introductions, a gentle brainstorming session,

an early finish. I got off the bus and went to reception. I signed in, was given a security pass and told to report to the parking lot out the back. I headed there and my heart sank when I saw one of the beige-suited men from my interview loading camera equipment into a truck. He waved at me and said, look lively, we need to be in a location, with cameras rolling in an hour's time. I swallowed down bile. Great, I said. The suspension and the truck made the bus seem like a smooth glide over greenfields. The throb in my head became a jackhammer, and my stomach bubbled and cramped and felt like it was going to go full erupting volcano on me at any moment.

To this day, I do not know how I did not project off on it, but I made it. I was left unpacking the equipment while beige walked up to the house we had parked outside and pressed on the buzzer. We had already buzzed through a tall security gate and driven up a winding driveway. I paused, wiped sweat from my brow and silently cursed bros of beer everywhere and looked up at the house. House was actually an insult. This place was a mansion. It was three stories high with an ornate pit. pillars on either side of the door and looked immaculate.

Heaven help any bird, they dared crap on these walls, I thought, and followed beige through the now open doors. My arms loaded with the tools of the filmmaker's trade. Inside was even more impressive. Wooden floors polished within an inch of their lives, paintings that looked like they belonged in museums, and statues. Real for goodness statues.

I almost fell over a trailing cable I was carrying while gauping at one of a semi-naked lady playing on a lute. Eventually, we reached a massive room with a mahogany table at its centre. A white-haired man was sitting at it, pouring over a sprawling pile of paper. Bage stood silently. I tried not to drop anything. The man, thankfully from my aching arms, looked up. A familiar smile spread across a familiar face. I am not going to go as far as the name the man I now recognised.

I do not think it would be fair to his family, but I will say that beige nodded differentially and said, Good morning, Senator. And a fine morning it is, the man replied, and emerged from behind his desk to come and shake hands with both of us. He wore a white suit that probably cost more than the camera and sound gear I now placed on the floor. Whoever did the floors had possibly also given his face a polish. He sparkled and chuckled, So, you've come to show the good people of this state how I spend my days? We certainly have, Bage replied and turned to me,

as if I knew exactly what was meant to happen next. The senator saved me. Shall we start with a shot of me doing work at my desk? He said. It was one of those questions which really really, wasn't a question. Bays grinned. Sounds perfect. Now, up to speed, I began to set up the equipment. The rest of the day passed in set-up after set-up as we recorded a senator, meeting visitors, chatting with his head gardener, making an important phone call, mimed and from three

different angles, and standing looking thoughtfully out the window. We had brought no lighting with us, And when beige and the A shot of him, closing a folder He had just signed And putting the top on his gold fountain pen Would be fantastic I had to point out the light levels would not work Bage glared at me

But the senator looked wise An expression I'd seen slip on and off his face With a remarkable ease all day And said Tomorrow is another day And that As they say was a wrap. I was left to pack up and manhandle everything back to the truck. A couple of hours later I was back on the bus, a snoring man drooling on my shoulder. I was smiling from ear to ear. I was a professional filmmaker.

So what if it was a vanity project? It was a beginning and I day dreamed all the way home about my first feature opening in the years to come and the Ray Review. that would follow. Maybe, the senator might want to finance it, or point me in the direction of his with a hearty recommendation that, this young man is hugely talented. He always ensures I was beautifully lit. I woke early the next morning and arrived at the office before beige. We returned to the senator's mansion, but it turned out he had called away on urgent business. We took some exteriors And then set off As we took off

As we headed I did not recognise I asked beige We would be filming Channeling the senator He looked sage And he replied Son

One lesson about working for the government Is not to ask questions If you need to know When you need to know Someone will tell you Makes life much simpler I assure you. To tell the truth, stupid, I not realized, I not realized, I was working, I had not working for the government. The official secret act document I had signed and not specified

this, and my head had been packed with too many other things to work it out for myself. The new startup in the advert had been baloney then. Not a problem, I decided, because I was a professional filmmaker. What sweet words those were. After about 30 minutes, we left the main road and followed a track through verdant countryside until we pulled up next to a small river. We need to get a series of close-ups of the water, Bays told me. We want to capture its natural beauty. Can do, I answered and got out the equipment. The water was crystal clear and rich with darting fish. The sunlight glinting of its surface was perfect. I gave beige a thumbs up and, shot in the can, we were soon back on the move.

We stayed on quiet roads until we reached a high wire fence topped with curling steel barbs. An armed security guard stepped out of the booth and asked to see RID before opening the gate to let us in. From bucolic to barbed wire, I thought, but kept my mouth shut. No questions I remembered We passed through two more Before we reached our destination I recognised it from news articles It was a new power plant

funded with multi-millions from the government It was about the ugliest thing I'd ever seen And my good spirits dipped As I was asked and filmed a series of exteriors Next came an interview with the plant manager conducted as he took us on the tour of the inside of the and steel monstrosity. With that wrapped, we were heading back to the truck when I noticed the small river running behind the plant.

Absentmindedly, I wandered over to it. I was sickened to see the water was filthy and a dead fish floating on the surface. I realized Bage was standing behind me when he said, When we get back to the office, you will let it in the other river. I spanned round. What he was asking was appalling. He smiled and said, Mom and Pop and Junior don't want to see dead fishes in the evening bulletin when they are hoovering up their meatballs, and much preferred to think their taxes are making the world a better place. They'll sleep much better. He stepped closer to me, almost touching, and added,

Do you see? It was another, was a question, wasn't a question. And I did not argue. And from that moment, I was complicit. I told myself, that I was doing this on my terms, that I was gaining experience and making contacts and building up a portfolio. But in truth, I was part of a machine that covered up unpalatable truths with sugar-coated films. I recorded government officials supervising the handing out of food parcels in a poverty-stricken district, all filmed out and a lot near the actors playing the grateful

of the aid. I shot a film about a government workshop with a long-term unemployed learnt new skills. From their glazed eyes, I could tell they'd been given dope before the camera rolled. These and many more left me feeling disgusted with myself. By the time we rolled up back at the Senator's mansion, I'd almost forgotten that first day of filming. I drapezezed inside. carrying the equipment and wondering if he knew what was happening. with his power and reach, I decided. Maybe it was even his idea.

I set up in the grand dining room as I'd been instructed. Bezier told me we were here to film the senator dining with his wife. We were going to capture a simple scene that families across the state would recognize and then he headed off, telling me who was going to let the senator know we would be ready for him, in ten minutes. I glanced up at the ornate candelabra and worked out my angles, so it would not be in the shot. Perhaps I could edit in footage of a lethargic lava lamp later to make the scene look more down to earth. I smiled bitterly. I was checking the sound levels when she walked in. She was beautiful. Her dark, arborne hair was loose over her shoulders and she wore an elegant black dress.

I stood there, feeling very naive and young, as she made her way, to a drink's cabinet. She started to pour a drink. I'm not going to ask you if you want one, she said. I know it won't be allowed. She turned then, and sipped on a drink, and I noticed the bruising around her eye, the cut on her lip. I assume with some clever lighting and editing, you can make these disappear, she said. or do I realised, I had been staring, embarrassed. She smiled sadly,

poured herself another drink. I suppose you think I'm pathetic, she asked, the wife living off a wealthy husband and putting up with this. She reached up and touched the mouth. I don't think that, I managed to say. I was shocked and angry. She looked into a drink, swirled the amber liquid around. It's not always been like this. He was sweet and loving when we first married, as his career soared, he had changed.

He was always ambitious, but now he is driven by pure greed, for the finest food which he gorges himself on, for the best wines which he drinks until he passes out, and for pain. He smiles when he hits me. He smiles his favorite smile, which he turns on for the cameras and the crowds. She lowered her hand. It's wrong. It shouldn't hit you. She finished

She stood there in silence. I felt lost. What could I do? Suddenly I knew. I reached out, took the camera off the tripod and hoisted it onto my shoulder. It's time for people to see the truth, I said. I wanted to expose the senator, but for me to do that she would be exposed as well. She looked at me, and I waited for her answer. And then, we heard the scream.

It was a man's voice, crying out in terror and pain. Neither of us hesitated. We ran towards a sound. It's coming from my husband's office, she said. I turned the camera on. I did not know the new aberration the senator had committed, but I was determined to capture it on film. I followed her into the office, heard a gasp, saw her body stiffen in shock, before I saw it too, dark liquid pulling on the floor. It was blood, I realized, in a trail that led out through the open French windows into the garden. The camera is still rolling, I followed the trail. Watching the footage afterwards, as I stepped out onto the camera began to shake. the image blurs and then it comes back into focus.

And there it is. The man I called beige. His suit stained with blood. The flesh of his neck and his face has been ripped open. Skin and muscle is being pulled upwards and torn away by a creature from a nightmare. Its skin was drawn tight across its bones and its eyes were sunken hollows. Its mouth hung open, and its teeth was ripping at the remains of the dead man cradled in its arms. Its white, blood-splattered suit hung off its frame.

And still, the camera rolled. I was not even aware I was holding it until she put her hand on my other shoulder. We have to get away, she whispered. I could not reply. I could barely breathe. Fear held me rooted to the spot. Before he sees us, she said. He, I thought, her husband, the thing he had become. I began to cry as a terror of what I was witnessing washed over me in cold waves.

She took my arm and led me away, and all the while the creature gorged and bit and slavoured on its human feast. After this, what happened has stayed with me as moments. The camera had run out of film My memory shows me flashes The truck starting with her at the wheel Road signs slipping past A motel room Me lying sobbing in a lap

Then we drive on to a new place A new anonymous town As we ran away This was 40 years ago And every day up to her death last fall I thought how grateful I was to have met her We never married We lived as a couple

Everything We made our home A cold, Where on winter nights I learned of ancient legends Of men corrupted And transformed Of creatures whose hunger

Can never be sated I did not pick up a camera again Though I kept my old equipment in a shed Along with wheels of film I am going to carry everything out of the woods and burn it now. It is time to rid myself of the past. I am an old man. I am tired

and I want to be able to close my eyes and rest without remembering legends made real. My wife, Lacey, was in a car crash in April of 2020. Well, not so much as a car crash as a car winging her at a crossroad at 54 miles per hour. She hit the pavement so hard it fractured part of her throat and collarbone. Her left arm broke in three places. It was brutal. As I stayed with her and a family in the hospital, we had plenty of worries. She had a serious concussion and we were anxious it might lead to something permanent. The doctors kept talking about the use of a left arm and a fine motor skills. It was only one single nurse who touched upon what would turn out to be the most permanent damage. At first, the doctors just told her not to speak.

We were told she had to rest and regain her strength, so there would be no speaking for weeks as her throat healed. She also had to wear a sort of neck brace, this awful looking metallic thing. She was in desperately low spirits, but so very thankful. for everything we did. As the weeks turned into months, most of her fractures and broken bones healed, but not her throat. Lacey still couldn't talk no matter how much she tried. I remember once when we stood in the kitchen, I looked her in the eyes and told her I loved her, and all she could say back was this wheezing whistle. She had some sort of panic attack and locked herself from the bathroom, trying to scream. We went through lots of trouble trying to restore her voice,

hour after hour of strenuous exercises. She even had a few minor surgeries. At one point, Lacey started drinking this sort of home remedy from something she learned online. She got stomach cramps for about three days afterwards. No wonder though, most of that recipe was just rosemary, olive oil, and some bull-crap flour extracts you could order online. The result was always the same. Lacey locked herself in the bathroom and cried, a parade of disappointment. I grew impatient seeing a despair over and over,

so I joined her in a hunt for a treatment, but it had to be something guaranteed. I couldn't bear to see her disappointed again. Trying to find something to restore a broken voice is close to impossible on my Just sorting through the scam's a full-time job. Whenever I had a few minutes over at work, I would post in forums and check search alerts. I had to open a second email account just to handle the sign-up spam.

I got sent to a few earnest responses, but most of it just linked to dead ends or holistic nonsense. There were a few genuine responses with links to articles, experimental treatments and upcoming technology. Nothing was accessible realistic. It took me It took me three weeks to get an email that I cared to read all the way through.

It came from an auto-generated email account but somehow got through my spam filter. It read. Don't worry, I know what you're going through. I know someone who can help. Don't be alarmed and follow these simple steps. One, plant and care for the seeds. Two, welcome the guest.

Three, Four, Don't, At first, I didn't think It was strange, but anyone who's been online for any longer period of time know that people like to make stuff up all the time.

I just put it aside and thought no more of it. That is, until three days later, when there was a small white envelope dropped on our doorstep. Inside, There was an unmarked Of seeds

I considered I couldn't The bathroom door Again Lacey was crying The sound of a broken throat sniffling over the sink broke my heart

As so many times before I opened my mouth to speak But couldn't bring myself to do it Even if there was close to no chance of this working I had to try I would do anything I just wanted to make her

I just wanted to hear her me sunny bear again cutest nickname I've ever had so I planted the seeds in our flower bed in the front yard watered them and cursed myself

for being an idiot seeds turn to sprouts that turn to storks from the storks came buds and from those flowers came these radiant royal blue sunflowers it took less than a month

month, and even though they were smaller than ordinary sunflowers, Lacey loved them. She tried to bring a few into the house in a pot, but they kept dying. We decided on just leaving them be outside, letting them grow and cheer us up whenever we left the house. Not that we went outside much. 2020 was one hell of a year. One night, Lacey and I had a bit of a fight. She got easily frustrated whenever I talked too much, as she could.

couldn't effectively so when ever she would it frustrated having to keep my a short leash usually we could

about anything at any now I had to walk on eggshells no wonder I started spending more time soldering knickknacks in the garage

we could barely be in the same room anymore as I was repairing our front door lamp I noticed a shadow on our driveway. It wasn't technically on our property, but it was clear they were observing me I couldn't make heads or tails of the frame, but it was clearly a normal-sized person, possibly wearing a large coat.

Can I help you? I asked loudly. There was no response. A brisk wind rattled the flower bed, which reminded me of the email I got way back when. It takes so little for the most obscure crevices. I think, I'm supposed to welcome you, I said. If not, well, have a good night. As I started walking back to the front door, I kept talking. It was just nice to talk again.

But just, you are welcome, just to clarify. I took one more look back of the shadow on the driveway, only to notice. It was gone. Over the coming days, Lacey by the window. A few times, I would ask her what she saw, but she would just sigh and walk away. Soon, I just stopped asking. Several times a day, she would stand by the front door or look out the window. Every time she'd look in the same direction as where I'd seen that shadow of a person standing in the driveway. And yet, there was nothing there. Not that I saw. It was by now we started in separate beds. She had expressed how she felt pressured and sort of intruded upon, and that she wished for us to

find her way back to each other with love rather than obligation and a sense of must. I couldn't blame her. Marriage takes work, and she wouldn't be happier if I've forced her to do something she would. was uncomfortable with. Instead, I started sleeping in the guest room. She would still be kind enough to make the bed while I was at work, so not all was lost. There was warmth between us still. I didn't even think about the third item on the list. Listen to the song. What song? It didn't make any sense. yet I found myself thinking about that list more and more. I'd done two things on it, it hardly took any effort at all. It was almost as if it was being done to me, rather than the other way around.

But there was no song to listen to. At least there wasn't, until I started listening to Lacey. I don't know how long she'd been humming it. It was that kind of droning background noise that is. had just always been there. She could still hum and hit all tunes, but I had no idea what the song actually was. So one day, I just kissed her on the cheek and asked her about it. No idea, she responded with her Texas beat chap. Nursery rhyme? It kind of had the tune for it, calm and a bit melancholic, music boxy in a way. There was no way to just search for the tune,

But I couldn't stop thinking about it. Hell, if I were three points on a four point list, I might as well go all the way. I started humming it too. In fact, I hummed it so much, I started to make up words for it in my head. At one point, journal and shower, I stopped to put it all in writing just to see what lazy would think. I wrote, You're my friend, I'll sing your tune, a setting sun to rising moon. I ask you, buddy, won't you be a sunflower too? I showed it to her as soon as I got home. To say lazy didn't care for it would be an understatement. She just stared at the paper. She was lost for words in more ways than usual. I tried talking to her, but she was growing hysterical. Again she locked herself in the bathroom, crying harder than usual. This time I took it pretty hard.

Just talk to me, pounding at the door. Just use the damn app. No response. Lazy, you've got to give me something to work with. Just please, just make an effort. I'm right here. You're the one locking the door. I'm standing right here.

I'm with you, please. And yet, despite all the pounding and all the yelling, the door stayed locked. A paper slid out from under the lyrics. It was the lyrics I made up with a song with a big screw you written across it in an eyeliner. That night I was near the breaking point. We were getting into November and even the blue sunflowers were getting dry.

I took a two-hour walk through what was quickly turning into a harsh storm blowing leaves into my face the entire way When I finally got to a nearby bar, I decided to take out my and whatever number of drinks it would take me to calm the hell down. Right next to me were two guys who worked at the steel mill about half an hour's drive south.

I'd seen them around town, but we never really talked. Still, after living the life I'd lived for the past few months, I wanted nothing more than to talk until my throat was sore. They seemed eager enough to keep the conversation going, if nothing else, at least we could complain about work. Three drinks in, I started

talking about Lacey and a condition. One of the brothers just nodded along, but the other just looked at me curiously. As I stumbled into the topic of the strange email had gotten, he just stared at me. I've heard that, he said. Ain't that the Silver Tong game? The brothers looked at one another. You're right, the other brother coughed, like George. That takes me back. Apparently, the Silvertone game was some of their kids who wanted to be great singers used the play back in the 1910s. It was a local topic of conversation, sort of a forgotten superstition.

Now that they mentioned it, I could vaguely remember hearing about it. The first rule, to plant and care for the seed, was not meant to be so literal. Originally, it was about daring kids and drink as much water as they could. The second rule, was a metaphor for breaking a rule. Kids weren't supposed to welcome guests into their house, so to welcome a guest was shorthand for doing something you're not supposed to. The third rule, to listen to the song, was to sing a specific nursery rhyme where others could hear it.

who knew of the game would recognize you, but most adults, they grow up. Then there's the fourth one, said the now drunk second brother. Don't pick the white one. That's still the same as it was back then. But what does it mean? It means what it means. Don't pick the white one, he shrugged.

When the devil comes to give you a new tongue, don't pick the white one. It looks the most like silver. it ain't. I stepped away to text lazy, but I got no response. The wind was picking up outside, and I was starting to worry about getting home in one piece. The brothers were calling at a night, but they weren't in any condition to drive. They had an Uber coming, but they were going the other way, so we said her goodbyes. I was left standing in the parking lot, not knowing where to go or what to do. Finally, I just started walking. The walk turned into a jog, and the jog turned into intermittent sprints. I thought hit me. I hadn't followed the rules. I hadn't swallowed any sunflower

seeds. I hadn't broken any conventions or done what I was supposed to do. I wasn't the one who started to sing the other song either. Lacey did. Had she done all the same things, but the right way. If so, she was on the final step. What had she'd be doing? I was getting worried. I knew who's all superstition, but the sunflower seeds had showed up on our doorstep. There had been a stranger there watching us. Lacey had been acting strange lately, and she'd been locking herself on the bathroom more frequently. Had we been doing the same thing without telling one another? I got back home around midnight. my hands frozen stiff. My heart was pounding, and I didn't even know why. I was getting anxious.

I fumbled from my house keys as I walked up the driveway, only to realize the front door was open. I don't know at what point I started saying, no, no, no, no, no, to myself. But there it was, repeated like a damn Harry Krishna mantra. Lacey, I called out. The house was quiet, except for the wind forcing itself through the cracks in the front door. I hurried to the bathroom, only to see it was still locked.

I pounded on the door, but it was useless. I ran out to fetch my tools, only to see a shadow standing in the driveway. I don't know if it was the same thing that I'd seen before, but there was one difference

between this time and the first time I'd I'd fixed the light. I'd above the front door. As I hit the the intruder stepped out of the shadows. I'll never forget the sight of this woman. Easily six-five, but all hunched up in a

crouch. She had this wild bush-like black hair that pointed in all directions. Her skin had this metallic grey and blue tone with a dry and hardened texture like cracked leather. At first, she had a face, as it was so thin, I could see more of her skull than her features. Her eyes were completely covered in grey, and her pale lips were attracted in a forced smile. She was emaciated beyond what I thought a human could survive, and wearing nothing but a large

fur-like coat. I could see the edge of a bare knees, feet and elbows sticking out. was something on the inside of a cloak. Tongues. My mantra continued. Her face barely moved, but it didn't take much for me to realize her mouth that curled into a smile. I started backing away into my garage.

She started sprinting towards me. I slammed the door down and pressed a lock. I stumbled over my workbench, knocking over tools and cables. as I reached for the lock on the side door. As I picked it shut, I picked up the biggest wrench I could and stepped back into the middle of the room. I could barely hear the wind outside as my heart swallowed all sounds. All but one. Sunny Bear, are you there? It was a voice. It took my reptile brain a few seconds to recognize it. I hadn't heard it in so long. That was Lacey's voice

Now I was the one I was the one hearing my loved one trying to get in But It wasn't her It couldn't be That thing out there had to be something else That couldn't be my Lacey Still no one else called me

Sunny Bear No one That's not you I said It can't be you It's me, open up. No, you're not thinking straight. Tell me. It's It was howling outside, drowning out my thoughts. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it turning my stomach. I was going to be sick. Tell me what you wrote. No response. I knew

it. It felt like an eternity, but it must have been no more than ten seconds that passed. Come out, she'll get a new one, the lacy voice said, slowly shifting pitch. I don't trust you. She chose the white one, you know. The voice had turned venomous and dark, only keeping a vague cadence of what used to be Lacey. What does that mean? You'll see, sunny bear. Just go away. You'll never hear her again.

No more whispers. This ticked me after no end. My mood swung from a complete tear-drenched panic into a stomach-acid-fueled rage. I swallowed my thoughts, feeling my dry-tonged stick against the corners of my mouth. I tightened the grip on my wrench as I opened the side door. Nothing. I hurried inside the house and, using the wrench, managed to break the bathroom door. There, on the floor, was Lacey.

Her tongue was swollen and white, her eyes blank. She wasn't breathing. I just fell to my knees, dropping the wrench. I took her into my arms, just repeating the same thing over and over. No, no, no. I had to try something. I fumbled my phone out of my pocket and dialed on speakerphone as I started giving a CPR. Every breath I blew into a mouth tasted of foul copper, but there was nothing I wouldn't do. I could barely register a conscious thought as I screamed for help.

I don't know how long we stayed on the tear-stained floor. All I know is that after an eternity it passed and as I heard an ambulance rolling. up on the driveway. Lacey gasped for breath. As we locked eyes, I smiled. We didn't have to say a word to communicate. Yes, I love you too. Large parts of her tongue had to be removed. It was some sort of of infection that spread to her mouth and she was in a serious condition. Her blood levels were all over the place. Still, she eventually recovered. Today, Lacey's throat is fine. She still can't talk, but we're doing better. The trauma is there, but she's seeing a regular therapist and working through her diagnosed PTSD. Still, I'm not sure that I trust the therapist. Dr. Jane gives me some

creepy vibes. Lacey and I are doing fine. There were so many things that can be said without words. And when the need rises, you've started to adapt to new tools and tricks. Whiteboards on the fridge for good morning greetings, just mouthing I love you as I leave for work, an earnest smile when I get back home. As I suspected, Lacey had been following the same rules as I had, but she had a bit more context.

She ordered the same type of sunflower that kids used to eat the seeds off of back in 1910. the obscure, she bought from a collector. for the second rule, she wasn't supposed to do. She started smoking in the bathroom, and the song. Well, I didn't know what it meant. Singing it in front of me was part of the game. The only problem was the fourth rule, not to pick the white one.

Recently, I had the courage to ask her about what really happened. that night why she chose the white one and why she allowed herself to be tricked. It was the rules not to pick it after all. So how could she fall for it? That's the trick, Lacey told me. They were all white. The festival season is aangibroken and that beteked mudder. And so, came Kim to come to combson.com.b. On the water-a'noughted tent, a comfortable Oh, and lupart-regalards, meow!

Now, Kim, not just like Kim's more to make about the muddur. Just like that's-dancey-moder man there, oh, wait just even, has he now only modder on? Oh, yeah, only mudder. Drogh-blyver? Gare for.

Find what you need to know-gapet on amazon.com.b. The winters are brutal here. Even though I live in the city, Just about every night, someone freezes the death. A good chunk of those throwing boiling water and watching it freeze videos are from here. Even if the sun is out, it still hurts to breathe. When the sun goes down, it hurts to exist. As soon as it gets dark, Fahrenheit and Celsius slam into each other in a horrid marriage of

minus 40 degrees. The air turns into crystallized pain. No one walked slowly after sundown. He was staring at the rusted wheelchair ramp of my housing block, shivering beneath a pile of rags. I had forgotten one of my gloves at work and the overfilled bags I was carrying were cutting into my swollen hands. I was worried about losing my fingers, but I knew I couldn't live with myself if I let an old man freeze the death.

Hi, Mr. I don't think we've met. I'm Alexi. Can I help you up this ramp? Stay away. Oh, I don't want anything. We just hate to see a new neighbour freeze the death. So, how about it? Can I help you up this ramp? No response. Too proud to ask for help. Yet, when I grabbed the handles of his wheelchair, he didn't resist.

He just grumbled. I'm pretty apt with wheelchairs and strollers, and it wasn't the first time that I forgot my gloves at work. But, pushing the old man up the harder was harder than it should have been. While we waited I made a quick note, I made a quick note, to talk to the building manager

about the rusty ramp. Which floor will it be, mister? Out of his rags, the man produced a crumbled piece of stained paper. He tried to make sense of the handwriting. Ah, floor seven. Looks like we're neighbours.

Yes, seventh floor. The elevator creaked and groaned with his usual strains and dragged us up towards the of the complex. With the stinging pain fading from my eyes, I got a chance to look at the stranger. White air with a consistency of spider web, skin and bone and stubble, a discomforting amount of swelling over his right eye. So, Mr. New Neighbor, are you around these parts? No. Are you from here? No. I'm born and raised right here in this winter wonderland. Quick tip, don't ever turn that

radiator knob lower than the maximum. It's a nice little home that we have here, but the heating system is back from the Soviet days, tends to leak as soon as you tamper with it. And boy, oh boy, are those things no fun to fix? No response. I was used toward folks being suspicious and quiet, but from my experience, once you talk for a bit, they tend to open up. My new neighbour Like the other I've met All that kept us The elevator ride The choking

Of metal Here we are 7th floor He passed me the keys They were covered in rust But they fit the door A stove A bed

A window The bare minimum for survival All the Soviet built housing Projects have a sort of melancholy about them But there was something especially desperate about that cramped room. An aura of dread and mildew flowed through the air. Then again, there could have just been the old man. As soon as I opened the door, my new neighbour wheeled himself

to the window. Well, like I said before, my name is Alexey. Nice to meet you. The old man didn't turn away from the window. Outside, the world was still. Nothing but a collection of snow-covered panel housing and flickering lamplight. I, uh, uh, work in a supermarket and they let me take food that's past its due date. There's nothing wrong with the food. Just can't be sold. We'd be ashamed to see it go away, so I bring it back to the folk over here. Quite a big hall today. What are beans? Would you like... I have nothing to give in return. Leave me. I've not come here to make friends. I've come here to die. I left the man two cans of beans on the stove. The weather was significantly kinder.

Having a day after the I went to talk to the ramp. We still had to wear scarves around our faces but the icicles and the railing were starting to melt. As we cleared the ramp, we spoke of spring. Above my unit lives a single mother with a particularly noisy yet adorable infant. When she saw the newly cleaned ramp,

she was ecstatic. All of a sudden, the daily struggle of getting the apartment complex was gone. It felt nice to know I'd managed to improve her life, if only just a little bit. Yet, she was not the neighbour who I was most concerned about. The mailbox for the old man's unit didn't have a name on it. Neither did his door. When I rang the doorbell, there was no answer. I pressed down on the bell for a bit, just in case the old man's hearing was bad.

After about 30 seconds, he acknowledged me. If you're here to rob me, I have nothing. Not here to rob you, mister. It's me, Alexi, your neighbour. I've brought you more food. No response, but the door wasn't locked. He sat facing his window, just where I'd left him. The cans of beans, however, were empty.

Me and the building manager clean the ramp. Should have no troubles going up and down on your own. If you have one company for a walk, I'd be more than happy to join you. Why? Walks of strangers are pretty fun. The neighbourhood is a lot of concrete, but I think it has a certain charm to it. There's an abandoned hotel nearby where students get together and play jazz from time to time. Once it warms up, I'll be happy to take...

Why do you help me? That dread. That sense of discomfort was still in the air. But it wasn't as prominent as the evening prior. With the sun shining, the laughter of children, the world seemed a bit more welcoming. Why do I help you? Because it's the right thing to do. God knows we have to help each other. There's a cold world out there. An aspiring saint. Helping those in need makes you feel powerful. It makes you feel special.

I don't think I'm special, mister. I'd just like to help. I think most people are like that. His wheelchair creaked like a chalkboard as he turned around to face me. His unkind eyes regarded me as if I were a maniac. Something had changed in his face from the day prior, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Most people want to help. Are you truly so naive as to believe in the goodness of mankind? What are the wars? What of the orchestrated famines?

What are the men who forced Mayday parades through clouds of radiation? I shrugged. I try not to think about that. Don't see much of a point in it, Mr. The Soviets are in the past. If we all work together, we can build a better world. The swelling that once existed beneath his right eye and now moved to the left, leaving behind dark, diseased skin.

If you would have witnessed what I've witnessed, you would know how foolish you sound right now. All your thoughts of human goodness and charity dissipate in the face of reality. Man cannot rule over man. of a man. Staying in power requires an iron grip, and that grip, that cursed strangle of rule, will squeeze any semblance of humanity out of the ruler. If you would have seen what I've seen, you would know that no amount of charity can save us. What have you seen, Mr. Markarov, Dr. Konstantin Markarov. The swelling around his left eye pulsed, causing him to grit his remaining

teeth. The man had introduced himself, but he clearly needed to go to the hospital. I was about to offer to take him to the nearby clinic, but before I had a chance to offer my help, he spoke once more. I have seen unspeakable horrors processed through flawed human systems. I've seen good men fall into despair in the face of this horrid reality that swells beneath a side of stability. My name is Constantine Markarov, and I have worked. The children outside went silent. The lights in the same way they did before the blackouts of the 90s. The swollen flesh and Markeros' face throbbed as if it was trying to reach past his skin. My name is Constantine Markov, and I have worked as the chief scientist in Ilionandiri.

Saying the words clearly drained the man, yet for all the weaknesses in his voice, the throbbing of swollen flesh in his forehead strengthened. With each shivering pulse, it seemed as if the infected skin was about to force his skull. I immediately grew worried for the old man. Dr. Markrov, your face. May I take you to the clinic? I have a friend there. I'm sure he would happily inspect you for free. The growth on your face looks...

No. The rapid heartbeat and the old man's face died down. The screech of rusted iron, he turned back around to the window. Down below, the neighbourhood children. were riding old plastic bags down a snowy hill. Please, please, have not come here, a charity case, I've come here to die.

I thought of saying something, but I didn't. Instead, I just left the man another can of beans in the stove. The structure was said to be hidden in the forest that neighboured our housing projects. In educated circles, the structure was known as the building formerly known as the United People's Institution of Science. around campfires and the village pubs, it was known as Illinois'di. When I was young, my uncle used to tell us stories about it.

He described the place as an old Soviet science facility that dabbled in knowledge beyond the scope of human understanding. He spoke monsters and curses and forbidden knowledge. I listened to his stories in rapt attention, but even as a child, I considered them to be fiction. As an adult, I considered it to be the by-products of a way, a way, a way, a way, after talking to Margrave, I wasn't so sure. The man was old, but he was not mad.

Elin Yondri existed, and he worked within his confines at some point. That was not what kept sleep away from me that night. It was the old man's eyes that But not only was that But that, that, That was the stories I heard about it, were true There was no doubt in my mind That Markov had seen something unearthly

In his previous work The whole night through, all I could think of Was that throbbing mass of flesh stemming from his skull. I spent most of my morning thinking about it too. I tried to figure out the source of the injuries the way that something that. yet, yet,

was pained empathy. Thoughts of swollen followed me to my morning shift, where they metastasized into a burning migraine. By the time I got back home, I could barely think straight. I put aside the leftover groceries for later and settled down on the couch for a nap. I thought that after a bit of rest,

I could go hand out the leftover food and check and mark it of. yet sleep refused to come. instead, I laid with stinging pain and nausea rolling around there was tenseness in the air,

like the kind that festeres up when a fight is about to happen. I lay there, sick and anticipating something I couldn't put my finger on. I came to the door before I had a chance to press the buzzer twice. Markov's strange growth

had shifted once more. Now, it was sitting in between his eyes, making his face look like a highwayman mask made of bruises. Alexey, I'm not long for this world. I appreciate your help throughout my short time here, but there is one more favour I could ask of you. Seeing the poor brown man dragged all of my attention away from the migraine, of course, Dr. Markcroft, how can I be of help? Take me to the roof. The roof? I don't think it's very safe there. You could easily... He looked sicker than before. Much sicker than before. A reason for why he would want to take me to the roof immediately struck me.

I'm not looking to jump if that's what you're thinking. No, Alexie. I merely want to see the sunset one last time. I fear my body will not make it through the night. I can take you to the clinic. Surely they can help you there. I much more qualified than any doctor at any in this provincial town. I know the nature of my injuries, and I've made peace with them.

Now please, neighbor, would you help me make my way to the roof? Beyond us stretched an infinitely repeating collection of cement coliseums. Below us in the centre of each of the circular panel houses, children played. The laughter echoed below us, a reminder of joy in a sea of brutalist architecture. See, doesn't the neighbourhood, doesn't the old man? The old man, my attempt at small talk. He just stared into the steadily reddening sky, lost in his own thoughts.

I've been part of something horrible. What do you mean, Doctor? I've been part of something horrible and for decades I've stayed silent. I believe that what I did was for the greater good. I believed my work at the facility would usher in a new era of humanity. I believed that what I partook in was a necessary evil. But now that I sit here, now that all is done, I always had doubts.

On a primal level, I knew that I was doing something wrong. But I've always denied myself the clarity of thought. I... The mass of flesh beneath his forehead started to pulse harder than it ever had before. Even past his bruises, the old man's skin. was turning the colour of the growth. The growth on his forehead was completely foreign to me,

but the look in his eyes was familiar. In my younger years, I volunteered at a hospice. Constantine Markarov had the same look in his eyes of the soldiers brought back from the war. He had done something horrid and needed a chance to confess. I would not rob him of that right.

What have you done, Dr. A sharp wind. The light, The light To seep out of the sky. With each moment The mass of flesh

In Marquharov's forehead grew more frenzied. The old man's speech came through choked gasps Yet he refused to give up. Parasite When I worked at the United People's Institute of Science

I was tasked with the study of a parasite found in the nearby step profoundly fascinating organism, capable of communication with other members of its species across the world. Indestructible, highly intelligent, physically decentralized. The more the organism grew, the closer it was to its descendants. The more dangerous it became. Yet, the scientific potential of this organism was limitless.

I kept on telling myself all that was needed was more research. I kept on telling myself that the parasite's potential could be harnessed The pursuit of knowledge blinded me It made me skip safety protocols It made me reckless with my own flesh The Soviets were not the only superpower in possession of the parasite Across the iron curtain A certain Dr. Gross was enlisted by the Americans to study the

We communicated He I Markrab's entire body had flared up with a red pulse of flesh. A post of steam rose like a boiling kettle from beneath his scarf. Take a time, doctor.

Take a deep breath. I'm here to listen without judgment. Tell me what you need to get off your shoulders. With a deep, shivering groan, he continued. Chaos. When the satellite state started to fight for their independence, when the walls started to crumble,

there was chaos. Gross and me used this chaos to transomers. support the Western breed of the Soviet Union. The Soviet the Soviet of the people's science was doomed to fail. Yet, with a Western breed of the organism, all of that would be irrelevant. The day the package arrived, the day the two halves combined into a greater hole. That was

the end of the United People's Institute of Science. That was the day Elenion de Rie was born. For years, research continued under my the parasite's leadership. We were making progress. We were gaining valuable information for the good of mankind, but... The military. They left us alone for years. But once they realized the power that we held, I sacrificed my body to science. I sacrificed my body to the parasite to keep the institutes safe. The military incursion was taken care of quickly. They stood no match against. They were not prepared. They couldn't be. But my body,

It refused It used me to give back control Above us A chaotic galaxy The streets had gone silent It was far too cold to be outside Even past my thick gloves I could feel my fingers going numb

Yet I knew that the shaking man in the wheelchair Needed to speak It used me It used me to hunt, to grow, Dr. Dr. Dr. Dr. You're shaking. Please, let me take you to the clinic. Or, if not that, let me at least take you back downstairs. You're not well.

You can leave if you need to, but I cannot go yet. It hasn't happened yet. What hasn't happened? The organism. It grew inside of me. It fed and killed and grew. and when my body could no longer hold it. It spread. Where did it spread to? The old man didn't respond. He simply sighed. The throbbing beneath his flesh was starting to calm. The lock of tortured guilt in his eyes simmered down to resigned acceptance. Alexi, do you truly believe in the goodness of mankind? Yes. He sat in silence, his skin grown paler by the second. I guess, what's done is done. Thank you for all of

your help. May you one day find forgiveness in your heart for what I have done. We all make mistakes, Dr. Markov. It's part of being human. Everyone deserves forgiveness. I don't. An explosion cracked the silent night in half. The housing projects lit up in the twin flames of rocket. rising in front of the projectiles moved with dizzying speed towards the sky, as freezing as it was outside, a flow of windows open beneath us to see what was happening. Did those rockets come from the facility? The old man did not respond. He simply watched. Even past the disease bruising on his face, I could see tears gathering at the edges of his eyes. The parasite spread throughout my body It could be contained no more

Now it will spread The rockets flew higher and higher Making their incursion on the starry sky It wasn't until the sound of the thrusters Had completely disappeared That they changed their trajectory Each went in a different direction Drawing a line of white smoke through the black sky

Growing smaller and smaller until, Two tiny, in the sky down bits of fiery debris over the earth. Dr. Dr. Is that where the parasite spread

to the rockets? The old man did not reply. He was no longer shivering. His skin was bloodless. Dr. Markov? His eyes were still dripping tears and looking at the sky. Yet the man wasn't breathing.

I took off my glove, with my gloves as much warmth as I could, and slid them behind the old man's scarf. My fingers were numb, but the lack of a pulse was clear. The old man was dead,

yet, just as I was about to pull my hand away from his corpse. I felt something. Up through his neck. Something moved. Something squirmed. Something was making its way up, towards his jaw. Markroft's head dropped to the side, his lips parted, and something horrible slid out.

My fingers shook so much that it took me a couple of tries to dial the hospital. When the men finally arrived to retrieve the body, I let them into the apartment complex, but I refused to go with him to the roof. I couldn't stand to look at Constantine Markraft's shell of a body again. It reminded me far too much of it. A horrible, A horrible, It crawled out of his lips and dragged itself to the edge of the roof.

I fear that the things survive the fall, that it still lingers somewhere in the bushes below, that it is waiting for another victim somewhere in this housing projects. The image of that monstrosity of flesh crawling through the places with the children play haunts me. Yet, there is another image which cuts my sanity much more. Somewhere in the stratosphere, two giant rockets carrying

a horrible load, exploding. The thought of that flesh raining down on Earth of Markov's experiment being sewn across the planet without warning. That is what truly haunts me. You'd be surprised at what people would leave behind nowadays and you'd be even more surprised and how much you can make off people's negligence. I make some extra money by purchasing abandoned storage units and flipping the contents inside. Most of the time you'll find trash like old clothes and busted furniture.

But every now and then there'll be some treasures. Just the other month I found a box full of old Pokemon cards and you won't believe how much some of those can go for. As with this whole COVID stuff going on, A lot of storage units have been left abandoned. I went over to another city, about an hour away, to check out a few units. I'm good friends with the owner of this really old lot. A short plump fellow named Mark, who took over the family business,

and he sometimes gives me a head-up when somewhere available. So I hopped into my truck early one Saturday and made my way over. I met Mark near the entrance, and I followed him towards a small group of people standing in front of one of the units. Now, I'm sure you've seen some shows on TV about stuff like this, and to be honest, it's pretty accurate. About five other people are outside of the steel garage store. It's early, we're freezing her asses off, and we're trying to make a quick buck. Mark pops the lock and rolls the door open to reveal what's inside. We're all able to examine the unit from the outside. We can't touch anything unless we buy it. This unit has some cardboard boxes, some decent looking wooden chairs and a few plastic bags that were stuffed.

We all quickly glance inside and think if we want to actually bid on this thing or not. My gut was telling me that this was probably going to be a dud, so I passed on it. The next unit had a few good-looking golf clubs that could fetch for a good price, but that wasn't what I was looking for. A couple more units, and I was thinking, I probably wasted my morning, until we got to the very last unit. When Mark opened up the unit, a blast of dust and stale air bursted out. We all glanced inside. There were a few things that caught my eye like some old dolls, an old wooden table with chairs, and a huge armoured cabinet.

Bingo. That was what got me. A massive things like that probably held all sorts of stuff. I'll spay the details of how the bit went with a back and forth of offers. I can assure you that I got the unit and all for $400. I was sure I could make my money back and then some. It was around noon when I left the group to check out the unit I'd bought. I opened the doors and started the sift of the small stuff before hitting the bigger things.

There are a few things like some plates and silverware that could sell pretty. well, a bag full of really old business suits and some broken appliances. So far, but my eyes were on the armour. It was a beautiful piece that stood over six and a half feet tall. It was dark brown, like looking into a forest as the sun went down. It was made of what looked like different types of wood. This was a good sign. It means that this was definitely an antique.

were no signs of any manufacture label. This was probably handmade, definitely handmade, with very asymmetrical points. I placed my hands on the handles of the door, and pulled. My heart was racing with anticipation. The wood grown lightly as I opened the armoured doors, like someone awakening from a deep slumber. I looked inside to find a rack with a long sheer white dress inside. I carefully unhooked it, examining the condition that it was in. It was a lovely dress that would have accentuated a stunning woman. I placed it back where it came from and began to rummage to the drawers. The top drawer was empty. My chest tightened, as I thought of the money, I probably lost on this unit. Opening the drawer felt like opening the lid to a crit. I had to use a little more strength

to remove it from its holding. Jackpot Inside of the drawer Anate wooden jewellery box Oh, it was a beautiful It was a little bit bigger than a shoebox With an intricate carving

of a field of flowers on top of it On the side of the jewellery box There were more carvings of small rabbits playing on a field of flowers I know it sounds a little bit silly But the craftsmanship was truly astounding Such detail in the animals made them look so lifelike. I lifted the box out, ever so

from the drawer, and placed it was locked. It was unlocked, so I slowly opened its lid to find a diamond ring affixed to a gleaming golden band. You know how in cartoons when a character opens that treasure, and they are covered in an angelic light? That's exactly how it seemed to me. I jumped up and let out of yes this ring could easily sell for thousands after a few minutes of patting myself on the back I realised that that was just the tip of the iceberg there was more to the jewellery box

I calm myself and began to open the rest of its stores and panels I admit I was a little bit disappointed when I couldn't find anything I was being a bit greedy I lifted the box again to examine it closer. That's when I noticed the top part where the jewelly was held was raised a bit. I set my fingernails along the edges of the inside of the box

and I was able to lift the part where the jewelry was held. Inside was a secret compartment with a single cassette inside. I laughed a bit as I grabbed the cassette out from the box. I see antiques all the time but whenever I'm surprised I'm surprised every single time. At least, at least, the old jewelry box and cabinet can still be used.

A clint of metal shone in the corner of my eye underneath the cassette was a pale silver wedding band. My lucky day. I put it to the side and continued to go through the rest of the unit. It wasn't a bad hall at all with the rings. Some vintage-looking business suits, the white dress and the furniture. I was definitely going to be in the positive after selling all of this stuff. I was able to get Mark to come down and help me haul the important stuff into boxes and packed under the bed of my truck with the promise of a few beers later. Unfortunately, the amois was way too big for my truck, so I'd have to come back for it.

I had spent a few hours that day dealing with the unit, and it was already late in the afternoon. Before I thought I thought I thought I thought I thought To listen to listen to my way home I asked Mark if he would happen to have a cassette player lying around somewhere He grinned and sure enough he had a few stowed away Quote Just in case I wish I could have been more appreciative

But he charged me fifteen bucks for one Convenience fee he said with a cheeky smile Ashole I hopped into my truck and made my way back home thinking about my contacts that could assist in flipping this stuff. , while I was at a stoplight, I popped the cassette into the player, making sure it was rewound and pressed play. The tape began to whir and clicked to play.

I couldn't hear a thing. Maybe it was just an empty tape. Eventually, my brain switched to water pilot, and my body began to go through the motion of driving itself home, my mind completely blanking out. That was when I started to hear something. It was a faint whisper right behind my skull. The voice was so light that it was almost drowned out by the sound of my truck's engine.

Drive off. I get my eyes on the road and felt my hands ever so slightly veered to the right. My truck took a dip as it began to go off the road and onto the grass and dirt. I let out a surprise gasp as I quickly straighten the wheel back towards the road. my shoulders stiffened and a bead of my forehead. what the hell was that? I slowed down and pulled safely onto the side of the road. I opened the car door and... When did it get so dark?

I looked at my phone to see that the hour drive home had turned to three. Where the hell am I? I took a moment to gather myself and to make sure everything was okay in the bed of my truck. I sat back down onto the GPS and pulled up the GPS on my phone. Not only did I turned around in the opposite direction. I squeezed the bridge my nose and rub my temples. I thought that I was just tired or something. Yeah, just tired from a long day.

I turned the keys in the ignition and my truck cranked to life. I set the directions onto my phone and continued my attempt to return home. I felt my stomach twisted inside of me. I hadn't eaten anything all day. I wanted to hurry and get home already. The roads were completely empty, so I stepped on the gas a bit, accelerating in a desperate attempt to shorten the trip.

I stared forward, and that was when I heard that something again. I held my breath so I could focus on the noise. Faster. Faster. It was as if an icy dagger I heard those words. It sounded a young woman's voice, but in so much pain,

so much sadness in a tone. I tried to lift my feet off the gas pedal. I wanted to slow down and be more careful after hearing that. Maybe it was just some intrusive thoughts popping into my skull. My brain tried to tell me to ease up on the gas, but I couldn't. My feet began to sink lower onto the pedal. 65, 72, The number. The number. I couldn't move my

Higher and higher. I couldn't move my foot off the gas. 83, 88, 94. My truck's engine was revving up. The sound of it was blowing in my ears. The boxes in the bed of my truck began to shift and move around. I glanced into my rearview mirror to see one of the boxes. The top flaps of it were beginning to move up. All the boxes were secured. tape down, but something

of it was pushing its way out. that was when the top of the box flew open, and all I could do was stare with my jaw dropped to the floor, as something grabbed a hold of the edge of the box to lift itself out. 98,

102, 107. The shape was illuminated by dim beams of moonlight. I saw thin fingers, white and long, on the edge of the box. The head came next. The neck was shown down The neck was shown next And purple grooves indented

As if a snake had wrapped itself around them Then the torso came to reveal A beautiful sheer white dress That fit tightly on a figure To show every line and curve that she had The same dress I had found And packed up inside of that box The woman stood up

My truck was going faster and faster her, but she stood impossibly still, aside from her hair that was now flowing behind her. When I saw her face, that was when I lost it. I wanted to cry, scream and vomit all at the same time. Her face was a deep purple and swollen, and the skin was cracked, tearing. Her eyes were completely red, with one of her eyes hanging by a fleshy thread out of its socket, or the other one throbbed. dark brown bile was running down the corners of her mouth and onto the white dress. Die, die, die, those words came out clear as day.

I looked back onto the road and I could feel myself slowly lose control of the steering wheel. I continued to try and lift my foot from the pedal, but it was as if it sprouted claws and was digging itself into my foot. I couldn't do anything. All I could do was give my dad. down wheel steady on the road. I turned back to look to my rearview mirror and the woman was gone. I was fully convinced I was going crazy. Then those thoughts shifted to the idea of me dying as I heard something thump above me. I looked forward again to see those fingers on the edge of my glass. She was clambering above me.

Her face upside down was now peering at me. Her mouth open and those words crowed out of a crushed throat. die, die, die, die, the dark brown fluid was pouring out of her mouth and onto my glass, obscuring any other vision I had. Spider-webbed cracks began to form in front of me. This thing was smashing its head to get to me. A noise finally came out of my mouth, a mix of fear and awe. Moments later, her head came crashing in as a mouth clenched onto the steering wheel.

I felt the car jerked towards the right, and I felt a felt that. an impact. I braced myself for death. Then the airbag deployed and smashed into my face. It all happened so damn fast. I grogly opened my eyes and my body was aching. I coughed and it made my head feel like it was going to burst. That was when I noticed my truck was completely flipped over and I was upside down. The blood that rushed to my head made me feel nauseous. I snapped back to reality as my eyes began to frantically dart around. Where did that woman go? The night was dead silent. I tried to free myself, but I was too weak. A click noise echoed throughout the air beside me, and I looked over towards the cassette player. I don't know why, but as I looked at the cassette rolling inside the clear

plastic panel, I felt sadness and fear like it was the end of the world. A man's voice emerged from the player. It was smooth, and deep, and almost comforting. Hey, sorry, it's already, work's been long, work's been really laying into me lately, but I promise I'll make it up to you. Just let me know, and I'll get you whatever you want, okay? I'm sorry about the way I acted the other night. I hope you can forgive me. It's just, you are questioning me every damn day with, where am I going and who is I with? Look, let's just let this fall under the bridge, all right? I'll be home tomorrow night. I love you, as soon as the machine clicked off. Well, it was light out for me too apparently. The rest of the events are broken in my head. Fragments of memories like someone on the phone, an ambulance coming, my body on a stiff bed, to me lying in the hospital all wrapped up like a mummy.

The first things that came out of my mouth were food and where's my stuff. The things that came from the unit were still intact, and were in safekeeping. Some time had passed, and... I can still see that woman, creeping around, behind me, and at the reflection. And at the foot of my bed. I hadn't told her soul about what happened that night, until it was brought up by my therapist.

Yeah, I was still fully convinced that I had some kind of breakdown, until he finally got me to talk about it. It was just so vivid, The woman, her face, I finally pulled out I finally pulled out the audio again to hear that man's voice So I did some digging

It took a while but I finally had a lead Surprisingly Bunny Is not an uncommon name like you would think So that was a bust Then I remembered Mark A few drinks in and he um Let me into his files to look up records And who owned the unit last

So one thing led to another and I found her name That name eventually led to an address As soon as I got my info I gathered the rings The dress, the cassette and the jewelry box and headed over as quickly as possible I followed the GPS towards my destination And I wanted to cry as fear washed over my body Even though it was daylight now I realized I was passing the area where I had cried

crashed. Was I being back to this address that night? An hour or so I parked in front of an old that was probably built in the 70s. I grabbed this stuff and hurriedly ran to the front door. I didn't know what I was expecting. I just felt like I had to be here or something. I knocked on the door with my arms full of stuff,

looking like a lunatic. The door slowly creaked open and through a crack I could see inside the home. whom was an elderly woman. She looked at me with white eyes. I couldn't blame her. She asked me what I was doing, so I explained to her a bit of what happened. I bought a unit recently. There were some things in there that I thought would be valuable to Martha Bailey. When she saw what I was holding, I saw a lip quiver and a tear rolled down her face. She told me that her mother owned that unit but dropped off those things because she didn't dare to her and she didn't dare to her.

Her frail hand clutched at her chest as she stood there and told me what happened to her sister, Barbara Bailey, aka Bunny. Bunny. She was married to a man who said he loved her and would give her anything she wanted. On the outside you'd think they were the perfect couple, but that was far from the truth. Apparently been abusive. Cheated on her every chance it would get. Well, she finally confronted him about it, but

he was mostly unfazed. He had money, lots of it. And if he were to leave, she would be left with absolutely nothing aside from embarrassment and heartbreak. So Barbara, Bunny, she took it upon herself to end things one night.

The man was on his way home to patch things up, like he normally did. She had enough. She wrapped a rope around her neck. The old woman burst into tears as she slammed the door in my face. I could hear a wails of pain beyond the threshold of the piece of wood between us. I didn't know what else to do. So I went back to the unit and dropped the stuff back, everything back to where it was, and slammed a garage door shut. So the creature was two days ago, on my way into work. It was early morning, around 6 a.m., and I was driving down the street when I saw the strangest looking snowman I'd ever laid eyes on. It was taller than an

ordinary snowman, made of four large round boulders of ice instead of the usual three. It had extra arms as well. Six sticks came off from his thorax like giant insect legs, three sticks on each side. crooked and knobby. Two more branches were protruding from his face, like warped misshapen mandibles. It had a wicked grin with sharp teeth made of jagged, broken stones. Wow, what can a creepy-ass lachky kids build a snowman like that? I asked myself aloud, picturing Calvin from Calvin and the Hobbs and his demented snowman escapades. Only, this was not funny. It was highly disturbing for some reason. I couldn't put my finger on.

The effect was terrifying, like a giant, a totem of ice, made for a malevolent frozen god. And worse yet, its gaze seemed to follow me as I drove past in the low light of the morning. Surely just my imagination, I told myself. Tired eyes and not enough sleep. But still, I glanced in the mirror and saw its head was turned in my direction. when I had been certain I had been facing the other way before. I shuddered involuntarily and continued driving, feeling like a dark cloud was following me for the rest of the day.

On the way home later, I was pleasantly surprised to see the snowman had been taken down. I realized I had been holding my breath as I turned into the street I lived on, oddly afraid as I approached the house where the snow creature had been constructed. Maybe the kids' I thought to myself. Either way, I was glad going. Continuing I backed into my house,

then looked up, and froze when I saw the exact same snowman was now on my neighbour's front lawn across the street. His head turned so it was looking straight at me. Its extra legs and arms appeared to be waving, making it look and alive. I got out of the car, eyeing the

across the road suspiciously. Hey Jordan, said a weasley voice to my left as I set my feet down on the slick driveway. Cards off guard, I slipped on the black ice. After pinwheeling and sliding for a few scary moments, I recovered my balance by grabbing onto the hood of the car with both hands. Turning, "'I looked at "'bying there,

"'whening up "'and ironing up "'and ironed me strangely. "'I realised "'I had made a high-pitch yelp of fear "'when he had spoken "'right before my awkward little dance "'on the ice.

"'You're right? "'Fine,' I said. "'Just surprised me, that's all.' "'He laughed "'as if that was the funniest thing in the world. "'Got a show last night,' "'he said. "'His words punctuated.

by the punch of a into the wood once in a lifetime, you ask me. I said, what show? He laughed again. The northern lights?

Didn't you see them? Better than a movie man, I'll tell you. They say that sort of thing doesn't come along very often, not this far south. I had to get to bed early for work. It must have missed it. It whistled softly. Oh, that's a treas of.

tragedy, once in a lifetime. They said so on the local news this morning. I had always found Bill's voice to be slightly annoying, like a weasel or a field rodent of some kind, although it did match his facial features and mannerisms. He moved quickly and constantly, jumping from project to project as if he didn't have any real job, just housework. His Christmas decorations were already the nicest on the street, and yet he was still putting more lights up. Meanwhile, we'd been too busy to even put up a wreath or a Christmas tree. He had a giant snowblower parked just inside his open garage, which I loathed with a passion. He was out every morning at 6 a.m. using it, even on weekends. His driveway and sidewalk were always immaculate and free of snow. Ours was usually the opposite of that.

Hey, Bill, do you see that snowman across the street? I am. asked. He turned on the ladder, just slightly to look over his shoulder, then went back to stapling. Thwack, thwack, thwack. Yeah, it's a snowman, so? I could have sworn, I stopped myself, realizing how crazy it all would sound. What? Nothing. Just had a long day. I must be imagining things. I'll talk to you later, Bill. I began walking inside and he called after me. Oh, by the way, don't we get to shovel the walkway on your side. I saw a bylaw officer out earlier. Wouldn't want you to get another ticket like last week.

Sure, thanks Bill, I said, trying to maintain my composure. He'd probably called him himself. After a 12-hour shift, the last thing I wanted to do was go back outside in the cold and shovel the icy walkway under a scrutinizing gate. Bill always acted friendly, but it was well known, for various reasons and relentlessly gossiped about everyone. I went inside and found my wife was laying down in bed with a headache. She had left a note out saying she wasn't feeling well, and I'd have to make my own dinner.

After popping a frozen pizza in the oven, I went out to shovel the sidewalk, spreading salt in the driveway, so it would hopefully melt by morning. As I looked up from my work, I couldn't help but notice the snowman again. And it was closer this time. Yes, it almost certainly was. Almost at the street now, as if approaching me very softly. I shook my head and finished with shoveling, then returned to the warmth of the indoors. My pizza had been forgotten, and the house was beginning to fill with greyish smoke

and the charcoal smell of cheap burnt pizza dough. After airing out the house, I made a can of bed, feeling slightly hungry, my mind running through a strange idea over and over again. The thought seemed ludicrous, far-fetched and bizarre, and yet I couldn't stop circling it. My dreams that night were terrible, but I forgot almost everything the second I woke up. left only with the uneas of knowing I had been chased in my sleep by something cold and evil, with too many legs and beady black eyes. For eight hours I relentlessly slumbered and fought a demon in my dreams, and so when I rolled out of bed, I was still exhausted and my eyes refused to stay open without a concerted

effort. Coffee helped, as it always did, and I ventured out into cold darkness and scraped off the car for my morning drive to work. Suddenly, suddenly, wide awake, when I looked up to see the reflection of the snowman creature from across the street, standing right behind me. My heartbeat was suddenly hammering hard in my chest, and I actually dropped the ice scraper from my hand. I turned around and saw the thing had been standing just inches away. Certain that it had not been there a few moments before, I began to feel shaky and sick with fear. Getting into my car without turning around, I gunned the engine, not wanting to break eye contact with a snowman. The black charcoal eyes stared back at me, as the engine began to rev and I drove away, unsure what else to do.

Would anyone believe me if I told them? Driving down the street, my rational mind began to make up excuses instantly. You were so tired, you just didn't see it in the dark, my brain told me. Snowmen don't move themselves. It's just the local college kids, playing pranks and the neighbors. Living snowmen, that's ridiculous. These things don't happen in real life. The day passed quickly while I was at work.

We were so busy that I didn't even think about the snowman for most of the day until I was leaving and getting in my car to drive home. I had fully convinced myself at that point. It was all just the kids playing pranks that I'd just been tired and hadn't noticed they moved the divide into the divide between my house and bills. We live in the semi-houses that are connected together in the middle, so we share this small, narrow lawn between our driveways. I pulled up to our house, the evening light now completely gone and replaced by the darkness of night.

My stomach was rumbling with hunger after a long day at work, and I began to park. Then I stopped The snowman. The snowman Now. It was right It was just It's just a driveway, blocking it so I couldn't park. It's just college kids, I told myself,

and parked on the street instead. I walked back to the house, feeling uneasy as a snowman glared at me, appraising me as I came closer. The creature's head was lowered like a bull about to charge, and I could barely make out his eyes looking right at me, hateful, hateful, the effect was terrifying, making him look demonic and malicious somehow.

Something else caught my eye. For the first time I'd ever seen, Bill's driveway was not perfectly cleared of snow. His sidewalk likewise had a few inches piled up on it. This was very strange, considering how meticulous he was. with his household upkeep. There was also something else too. His garage door was slightly and the light was on inside. There was a sound coming from the interior that I didn't like one bit. It was like the sound my cat made when eating wet food, sloppy, snarthing and dribbling. I couldn't help it. Despite my fear, I was overwhelmed with curiosity and needed to see what

was making that horrible noise. It sounded large and inhuman. human and I needed to know for certain if my suspicions were correct. walking past the hideous snowman I pulled open the garage door and gasped, horrified at what had been revealed behind it. The usually well kept garage was in disarray. Shovels, axes and saws had been knocked from their organised places and were strewn everywhere. Bags of salt and soil had been spilled and the light bulb hanging from the ceiling was off

his axes, crooked and flickering, and at the centre of all of this was Bill, or at least were remained of him. He had been eviscerated and disemboweled, the top half of his body now completely separated from the legs, his torso were cavity of mangled flesh and ruined organs. Surrounding Bill were several of the snow creatures, now horizontal and standing on all six legs like giant insects. They were feasting on his visceral organs. They acted like a pack of wolves, tearing him apart and rending flesh from bone, snapping at one another greedily as they fought over the choicest muscles. I saw Bill's eyes were still open, and he was blinking.

Somehow alive, despite all of this, his mouth making soft bubbling, gurgling sounds, as blood poured out from between his lips. Then there was a soft, crunching noise behind me. and I spun around to see the other snowman creature from outside. He was crawling up behind me like a giant spider, creeping so quietly across the snow. I had barely heard it. It saw me and hissed the warning to the others, who likewise turned and hissed like cats.

They began to skitter across the cement floor towards me, as the other one did the same, even closer to striking. Terrified, I searched the nearby space for a weapon. A snow shovel caught my eye, and I grabbed. it and spun with it in my hand. It made contact with the face of the creature, just as it was leaping in my midsection with his branch-like arms outstretched. The feeling was like taking a swing at a brick wall, and the handle rattled and vibrated in my hand painfully after the impact. But it seemed to do the trick. The creature's teeth were crooked and its head deformed from the blow, and he made a noise like an injured dog as retreated and ran from the house. The other three creatures were momentarily stunned by

my attack on their lookout, but they regained their composure quickly, seeing I was outnumbered. They raced toward me and panicked, throwing the shovel at the one in front like a javelin. The blade of the shovel cut through the creature's face like a knife through butter, exposing its eleanoid brain matter. A fountain of green blood began to splurt like a geyser from his exposed brainstem, and it crumpled dead to the floor. Two of them were left, but I was without a weapon now, and they sensed their opportunity. They moved towards me, and only had a few moments

of a way to respond. They were far too quick to outrun. I never make it to my house or my car. Then the snowblower caught my eye. I remembered when Bill had bought the damn noisy thing. He'd bragged about it for months, showing off its features to anyone who would listen. He was particularly fond of the push-button start mechanism. No more pulling a starter cord over and over in the freezing weather Jordan, this baby is top of the line, he told me, demonstrating it with no other options, I grabbed it quickly and pulled out the choke, then tipped it over and hit the green start button just as the creatures dove at me, the jaws wide open and

dripping with blood. I wretched my feet between the base and lifted the snowblower up a few feet into the air with all my effort. The creatures had never encountered anything like a snow blower, I guess. since it caught them completely off guard. one of them jumped right into it, sending green blood jetting from the top of the machine and spraying it all over me and the ceiling above. I was left with just one of the creatures who no longer seemed to like the odds

after having seen me murder three of his friends. It escaped out the carriage door, and I was left alone in the cold, breathing heavily and feeling utterly exhausted. Bill took one last shuddering breath himself, I was completely still after that. I stumbled out of the garage, feeling like I'd fallen into another world. I looked around and saw I was alone. Drembling from fear and shaking from the cold, I was about to pull out my phone to call the police. But then I heard the soft crunching sound again, this time not just from one place, but from all around.

Following the sounds, But dozens of the From all around From every direction In by the calls They flooded the street My house was blocked by one of them And more moved in from the other side

But the way to my car was still clear I ran to it as fast as I could Opening the door and climbing inside quickly I started it and peeled out of the parking spot just as they surrounded my car and began to hammer on the windows, their branch arms squealing and scraping across the glass. Fleeing the neighbourhood, I got to a safe spot and called my wife. There was no answer. The local police weren't picking up either.

I'm trying to sort at my thoughts now, trying to figure out what to do next, but it seems like no matter what I do, the outcome will be the same. These things multiply too fast. They're too strong and too quick. I hope my wife is okay. I'm building up the courage I'd try find her. I wish more than anything

I'd stay to fight just so I would know she's alright and so that I could give her this message. Christine, if you're hearing this. Bill said we can borrow his snowblower. The festival's season is

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