CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 3+ Hours of SCARY r/Nosleep Reddit Horror Stories to listen to while snug as a bug IN A RUG

Episode Date: November 28, 2023

#CreepsMcPasta #Creepypasta21,195 views • 22 Nov 2023 • #CreepsMcPasta #CreepypastaCREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "He only eats the best of us" Creepypasta►21:50 "If You Hear the Ice-Cream Truck at Night, DON'T go outside" Creepypasta►44:07 "I work graveyard shifts at a warehouse. There is one rule: Don’t turn off the lights" Creepypasta►1:09:35 "NASA's space capsule brought home more than just asteroid samples" Creepypasta►1:28:04 "I met a cute girl on Tinder but some of her requests are making me uncomfortable" Creepypasta►2:02:53 "We always burn liars here" Creepypasta►2:28:28 "Do you feel something crawling on you?" Creepypasta►2:41:23 "The Germans built six underwater bunkers during WWII. Some of them, are still active" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep ... ►"Personal Favourites"- • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher... ►"Written by me"- • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep... ►"Long Stories"- • Long Stories FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: / creeps_mcpasta ►Instagram: / creepsmcpasta ►Twitch: / creepsmcpasta ►Facebook: / creepsmcpasta CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only#Creepypasta #Horror #CreepsMcPasta

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has he now only modder on? Oh, yeah, only modder. Drove blithe? Goar for. Find what you

need to you need on Amazon.com. I worked as a social worker for 12 years out on the East Coast. I saw children who were mistreated, women that were abused, and plenty of others that had mental health problems, bad judgment or worse luck. So many people suffering and you get invested and try to help and then have to leave it at the job so it doesn't eat you alive when you go.

And for the most part, I was good at compartmentalizing that stuff. But then, five months before I quit and moved across the country, I met a young, traumatized woman. And everything changed. Her name was Hattie McGovern. And she was a college student who had been attacked the night before as she crossed through a park on the way to a neighborhood.

When I saw her, she was on the first day of three days of observation. She had injuries, sure, but there were largely cuts and abrasions to a scalp. And what she was saying didn't entirely make sense. When we were alone and I was finished telling her about the government services she might benefit from, I asked her if she wanted to talk about what happened. I'd heard enough from the nurse outside to know it would be wild, but I had no idea of the details, until she began to speak in a soft, hoarse voice.

She said she'd been halfway through the park, walking at a fast pace because she planned on taking a shower and then heading back out to meet some friends and was running behind. When she realized an older man was walking next to her, well, not next to her, she said, about 50 feet away,

traveling across the grass, stepping over hedges and sidewalks without slowing or even looking at where he was going. Instead, he was just keeping pace with her, step for step, and staring at her with a wide smile that made him look like a skull between his pale skin and his bald head. This freaked her out, of course, and she began walking faster. She didn't run, she said,

because she felt like it was kind of like running from a bear, You shouldn't show weakness or fear, but just get away before things went from weird to bad. So, she turned to look to where she was going and to see if she saw any people closer than her apartment complex a block away. There was none, and when she looked back to where the man had been, he was gone. That's when she felt her hand plunging into a long, blonde hair and pulling her to the ground. I'd known he was going to be something about her hair. Her injuries, other than a bruise on her throat, and a couple of other scrapes were all on her head.

Dozens of oozing places with a strange bald man had held her down and roughly cut off all her hair with a straight razor. Crying softly, she showed me a picture of her the week before. Long, curly hair, the colour of summer honey, framed her then smiling face. I passed her that didn't know what was about to happen. The version of her before me looked ten years older and broken in some fundamental way.

Sniffing back tears, she said that when the man yanked her to the ground, the breath went out of her. But she immediately started trying to get up and get away, that he had grabbed her by the throat and held her back down. But just for a moment, Just long enough that he could spit in her face. Hattie said it made no sense. But after he did that, she couldn't move anymore, not at all. The girl told me the doctors had tried to say it was shock or fear.

But she said that was nonsense. She was paralysed by the thick, foul-smelling wad he'd spat onto her face. And even him producing the straight razor from a hidden post. pocket didn't get a moving again beyond the hammering of her heart. He never said anything, just smiled as he began gripping handfuls of her hair and scraping them off a scalp. I asked her if it hurt, and she gave me a watery laugh. She said that sure it did, but that wasn't the worst part.

It was feeling so violated and having a part of her taken away. even more than the fear of what he might do to her after, that feeling had been the worst. When he had rolled her over to her stomach to cut the rest of her hair off, she felt the first tingles of movement starting to come back. Not enough to really move, but some small stirring twitches. She decided to wait, let it come back more, and then tried to run when the opportunity came, or he was distracted.

not that she was just sitting and waiting for him to do whatever he wanted. Every moment she was tensed to try and fight if she saw the blade coming for her neck or if he tried to take her clothes off. She just knew that she couldn't really move or fight yet and she wanted him to either go slow or just stop and leave her alone. He chose the latter.

When he had cut off the last of her hair he scooped up the pile next to her head and walked a few feet away out of a line of sight. She heard some kind of gasping, choking sound then, and while it took all her strength, she managed to turn her head slightly to see what he was doing. He was eating her hair. All of it.

Golden fistfuls were crammed in, one after the other, as he chewed and gasped, choked and swallowed. The sound was disgusting, but seeing it was worse. She said it scared her worse than before, though she couldn't have said why. And it was then, as she lay frozen and horrified, that the man suddenly let out a gasping groan and toppled over onto the grass. He lay there, twitching for what felt like a minute or two, and though from her angle she couldn't see his face, she felt like he was either having a seizure or choking to death.

She hoped for the latter, but didn't dare rely on that. Forcing her limbs to move, she got to her hands and knees and started to crawl out to the street. Everything felt weird and slow, but she started making progress, periodically looking back to see if the man was still out. First time, still down and twitching. Second time. He was sitting up and staring at her. It was at this point that she started shaking and crying harder.

So, after waiting a couple of minutes, I asked the question to prompt her. Did he come for her again? No, she said. They looked at each other. He gave her another smile. and she started crawling faster while screaming her head off. A guy was jogging down the other side of the street and came over to help.

When she looked back the next time, her attacker was gone, thank God I said, and she nodded in mute agreement. But I could tell there was something more. When I asked, she paused a long time before shaking her head. You'll just think I'm a crazy liar like they do. I had to reassure her that I wouldn't think any such thing several times before she finally told me the rest. When he sat up, when I saw him that last time, he wasn't bold anymore.

He had long, curly hair, blonde hair, just like mine. He ate my hair. and stole it from me. Over the next couple of months, I checked on her case. Hattie had moved back to Wisconsin to be with her family, and while her physical wounds were healing well enough,

she still had emotional issues she was working through from the attack. When I called her mental health counselor at a new college, she tried to talk very broadly and not give me any details. But toward the end of the conversation, she did let one slip.

The poor dear, it's so strange how a hair won't grow back. It was another month and a half before I saw the graffiti. I normally took a bus home to just two blocks from my work, but one day my normal bus line was delayed due to an accident, so I had the choice of paying for a taxi or walking further to a different stop. I picked the latter, and while the neighbourhood I travelled through didn't seem especially rough or dangerous, it was more run down than the places I worked or lived. More closed businesses and um-kent blots, and graffiti scattered along the walls here and there.

It was when I was nearing the bus stop that I had to walk under an overpass bridge that had colourful drawings and sayings, insults and boasts. yet among that riot of lines and squiggles one thing stood apart as though none of the rest wanted to be close to this single line written in simple letters of dark red he only eats the best of us a year earlier

I would have laughed at the line wondering if it was a social commentary or a line from a movie but walking through that patch of shadows as the words burned down at me from above, my mind immediately went to Hattie, and I walked faster until I reached my stop. When I reached it, I looked back, and that's when I saw him,

a thin, pale man with long, flowing, blonde hair. I might have let out a little scream right then, I don't remember. I do recall turning back to the street, thinking I needed to call a taxi or get someone's attention. When I saw the bus turning the corner a block down and I nearly cried in relief. Running to meet it, I jumped on as soon as the doors opened

and when I looked back, I saw no sign of the man anywhere. Heart pounding, I scanned my pass and took a seat in the middle of the bus. It was only half full. But the comfort of being around other people, even total strangers, was undeniable. I felt like a gazelle hiding in the herd from a stalking lion. The dramatic flare of the thought made me laugh. Wasn't I overreacting?

Had I really seen the man? Or had I just imagined it because I was tired and taking a strange route that made me uneasy? Glancing at my phone, I guessed my nearest stop to home. would be about 20 minutes away. After a moment's debate, I set my phone alarm for 15 in case I dozed off, though that seemed unlikely given the panic I'd felt a few moments before. I might not ever sleep. I woke up to words being spoken right next to my ear.

You have lovely eyes. I jumped in my seat and started to turn around when I froze. The evening had fully come on by now And the windows of the bus were all black With the growing night outside In the reflection of the window closest to me I could not only see myself But who had spoken to me

It was the old blonde man Leaning against my ear like a whispering lover In the reflection My terrified gaze found his milky eyes hanging like infected moons above his sickly, sickle smile. He held me with that look for a moment, before rasping out the words again. You have lovely eyes, my fear broke the spell this time, and I jumped out of my seat and rushed to the front,

yelling for the driver to let me out, let me out now, God damn it. Looking surprised and irritated, he pulled to the curb, even as my phone alarm went off. I was just two blocks away now, and I wasn't above running the entire way. So that's exactly what I did. I jumped off the bus as the doors opened, pulling off my heels, and running barefoot down the sidewalk for two blocks to my building. I never looked back the entire time, and it wasn't until I was behind my door and the deadbolt was thrown,

that I took a breath or dared to look back out through the people. I saw no sign of anyone out there, and when I went to my windows to look for any sign of the old man following me, I found none. Good. It was maybe a coincidence, but even if it was Hatty's guy, he couldn't have followed me all the way home,

not with how fast I was running. There was a knock at the door. Stifling, another scream, I crept back to the door, not wanting to betray. tray that I was home. Looking back through the peephole, I saw nothing. Maybe it had been a mistake, and the person had realized they had the wrong door and went on.

I waited for a couple of minutes, watching and listening for someone, and there was nothing. It wasn't until I turned to go into the living room that a new knock returned. This one more rhythmic and familiar. knock knock knock knock knock knock knock knock I gave a shudder as I realised I recognised what that was shave in a haircut two bits biting my lip I went back to the door and stared out again through the hole there was still no one out there that I could see not that I was about to open the door to fully check What if they were just standing to the side waiting for me to crack the door?

I debated calling the police but I wasn't sure what to tell them or if they'd even come for something so small so instead I called the building's handyman George told him I thought a creepy guy might have followed me into the building and now someone kept knocking on my door I asked him

did he mind coming up and just see if he saw anything He sounded sleepy and irritated initially, but when he heard the fear in my voice, he said he'd be right there. Less than five minutes later, there was a new knock on the door. This time, it was quickly followed by George's voice. Miss Castillo, there's no one out here now. I'm going to double-check the other doors, but I think you're okay. Someone did leave you something out here, though. I unlocked the door and opened it partway.

Left something? What? George pushed the item to the crack and handed it to me. There. That's for you, I guess. I think you're okay. But you'd be careful, okay? There are some bad things out there.

I noticed that he said things instead of people. But I let it pass. George, is something wrong. He looked a little paler as he forced a smile and shook his head, never raising his eyes to me. No, I think everything is okay. Just keep your door locked, okay? And let me know if you have any more trouble. I got to get back downstairs. I thought about reminding him to check the other floors, but then he was gone. Shutting the door back and locking it, I decided it didn't matter.

I had a feeling he wasn't going anywhere except down to his own apartment to turn his own deadbolt. That feeling only grew when I turned on the lights and looked more closely at what had been left for me. Maybe it had been a mocking threat or a warning.

But I knew what it felt like, a promise. So, the next day I gave my notice and moved most my stuff into an extended stay hotel. Three weeks later, I was driving a moving truck across the country to my new home.

The first thing I set out in my new house was the gift I got that night. I hate looking at it, but I need to see it, be reminded of it, like a head or heartful of scars or the red letter scrolled underneath a bridge. It warns me to

never let my guard down, to never assume that the darkness has nothing but empty fear waiting for me in its depths. Even now, I can see it on my mantle, gleaming a dull grey. I think it's made of pewter, and it feels very heavy and old the few times I've been able to make myself touch it. Not that I need to anymore. I still see it when I close my eyes. A thick-handled metal spoon with a deep, round bowl that tapers to a sharp edge on the outer rim. Not by initial design, but by use of wet stone or a grinder. It's more of a razor now, hard and cold and bitingly thin, shaped for cutting and digging. And I know without checking that if someone were to stick it into it.

my eye socket, they get sliced through the lid and scoop out my eyeball like a bit of overripe melon. My hands are shaking as I tell you this. I can't quite look at the mantle any longer, so I look out the window instead. It's not dark yet, but the shadows are growing fatter with each passing morsel of the day. I force myself to keep looking into the deepening twilight, and some nights I even tell myself I'm not still afraid. But the whisper in my heart is enough bravery or strength. It's the dreadful double-thrum of the gazelle's heart looking out into the darkness. Not looking out of courage, but out of terror and necessity and weak, trembling hope,

hope that when we look out into the darkness nothing looks back or is drawing near we'd all heard the urban legends heeded the warnings followed the rules to a tea well most of us that is

Christian and I weren't like normal kids we were always getting into trouble from playing hockey to shoplifting to going on joyrides we did it all we were without a doubt the most despised preteens in town

little did we know or that mischief would inevitably lead us to the worst day of our lives God I wish I could take it back people in my town were always very superstitious not like oh you spill the salt throw a pinch over your left shoulder

superstitious No, something happened here a long time ago, something sinister, something that still bears its burden on the townsfolk half a century later. You see, back in the 70s, kids started going missing. The disappearances always occurred at night. Always, and always in the same fashion. parents would lock their homes down tighter than Fort Knox only to find the front door hanging wide open the following morning The kidnappings were beginning to pile up at the same time that nightly reports

Of an ice cream truck circling neighborhoods began to flood into the police station Every time the authorities were called the truck would be gone when they arrived no matter the response time The strange thing was, We didn't have an ice cream truck in the 70s. Hell, we still don't. This has always been the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, and none of the families in town have ever owned an ice cream truck. Naturally, people began to associate the truck with the disappearances.

Obviously, people tried to catch the mysterious abductor behind the wheel. That's when the adults started going missing. No one who ever confronted the driver was ever seen again. The fear was beginning to reach a boiling point. People panicked, families with children started packing their things. Even some people without families at all were looking at relocating. And then, just when nearly half the population was about to split, it stopped. The almost nightly kidnappings, the sightings of the ice cream truck, all of it, the townsfolk never truly recovered.

I mean, how could they after that? Most families of the victims moved away, eventually losing any hope of ever seeing their loved ones again. Can't say I blame them. I wouldn't have stuck around after that either. The ones who did stay grew paranoid. So they did everything in their power to ensure that nothing similar would ever happen again. That unfortunately manifested into an extremely strict set of rules. Girls aren't allowed to walk anywhere alone.

The doors and windows to every house must remain locked at all times. And of course, no one is allowed outside after dark for any reason. The town shuts down well before some. as a not-so-subtle reminder. Growing up, I always thought the stories were nonsense. I thought it was just another lazy excuse for parents to keep a close eye on their children, to prevent us from causing mayhem.

I should have listened. Sarah, for the last time, I'm not sneaking out with you tonight. You know the rules? Kristen whispered, tapping the eraser on his pencil against his notebook absent-mindedly. Come on, this is the one rule we haven't broken yet. You spray-painted officer Dawkins Police Cruiser, and this is what you're afraid of. I'm not scared.

This is different. It's something sacred. You've lived here for just as long as I have. You should know that. He hissed, pretending to dial into Mrs. Huckabee's mind-numbing lecturer on mitosis. Aren't you at least a little curious? You can't seriously tell me you'd never want to. wondered about going out at night, there's got to be something more than they're letting on.

Sarah, I'm not going with you. If you want to risk your life by going out after dark, go right ahead. But leave me out of it. Christian said with a stern finality in his tone. I never seen him so serious about anything before. And that frightened me. Remodeled through the remainder of the class in silence. Christian gave me the cold shoulder all dead.

I was beginning to wonder if I'd overstepped. I'll give you some time to blow over. I had just finished cramming my textbooks into my locker when Christian approached me. I jumped, nearly dropping my backpack. I hadn't expected to see him again that day. What's up, dude? Thought you're going to make me walk home alone? He locked eyes with me, sending a chill creeping up my spine.

A bitter determination was scrawled across his visage. I'll go with you. I was taken aback. He'd been so adamant earlier. What changed? Are you sure? I mean, I don't want you to go if you're not comfortable with it. I'm sure.

I have to know, he said, averting his gaze. Okay, we'll meet at your house at midnight. Sound good? Yeah. Christian sheepishly glanced up at me, and you didn't seriously think I'd let you walk home by yourself, did you? I giggled, flashing him a grin. No, I guess I didn't.

Christian was seemingly back to his old self on the way home from school. I listened intently as he babbled on about his latest revenge scheme. He was planning on setting off a fart bomb in Becky Nelson's locker for snitching on him. I didn't care if I was being sucked. I looked into another one of his devious pranks. I was just happy that things were back to normal between us. I'm gonna make a pay, Christian hissed, smashing his fist into his palm.

Can't wait to see the look on her ugly ass face. Anyway, I'll see you tonight, I said as I trudged up my driveway. You bet. We waved goodbye to each other, and I watched as Christian continued down the sidewalk. Midnight couldn't come quickly enough. I giddly awaited nightfall.

I felt as though my heart would burst from my chest at any given moment. My adrenaline always spiked before one of our little misadventures. I was watching the time like a hawk. My parents had already turned in for the night, so I was left to my own devices. That was a dangerous game. My eyes were glued to the numbers of my phone screen. 11.58 p.m. It was so close.

And that's when I heard it. Clunk. Something hard pelted my window. My eyes grew wide and a smile inched across my lips as I raised to the source. Christian was standing outside. His arms cocked like a quarterback. Oh, there you are. Hey, he said, dropping the rock in his hand.

Dude, you scared the hell out of me. When were we supposed to meet at your place? And why didn't you just text me like a normal person? Sorry, I got restless. He muttered, staring at his feet. My parents took my phone last week, remember? Oh, yeah, not sure how I forgot. Coming down, I said, cautiously climbing out and steadying my feet.

myself on the step-ladder that I'd strategically place below my window. I hopped down from the last step, landing in the grass with a soft thump. Ready? I said, eager to set off. Yeah, let's go, Christian said, taking my hand. I blushed and he quickly recoiled. Even in the dim yellow light provided by the street lamps, I could tell that his face was bright red. I'm sorry I didn't mean to do that

I just want to get going is all No no you could I get it There was a long awkward pause before Christian spoke up So where are we going I don't know I hadn't thought this far ahead Where do you want to go How about the park

Might be kind of fun with no kids around The park it is Lead the way I said, dramatically extending my arm. A big goofy grin plastered itself on Christian's face as he willingly obliged. We walked in silence, drinking in the scene around us. We passed by dozens of houses, their looming presence lending an unsettling air to the stillness of the night. The faint light cast an eerie glow that glinted off their windows, making my blood run cold.

Another strange thing I noticed was that it was deathly quiet The only sounds we heard Were our own light footfalls against the pavement And the blood rushing in our ears There were no noises from creatures of the night No bugs, no frogs, Nothing

We couldn't even hear any crickets chirping And that sent a chill down my spine I was sweating bullets by the time we arrived of the playground. Christian looked and phased, but I highly suspected that he was putting on a front. Don't get me wrong,

Christian was one tough cookie. But truth be told, I was the braver of the two of us. Usually, if I was feeling on edge, he'd be ten times worse off. We plopped down on adjacent swings. I cringed as the rusted metal swing set creaked and groaned under our weight.

Even though we were alone, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched, like something sinister knew we were there. I shuddered at the thought that something evil might be lurking in the darkness, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I told myself that I was freaking out over nothing, but I couldn't stop intermittently peeking into the shadow-veiled tree

behind us. I was seriously beginning to regret leaving the safety of my home. So, Sarah, is it just me? Or is this place? This town? Does it feel like there's

a presence? You know, like we're not the only ones out here. He kept his voice hushed, like he was afraid that someone else would hear him. Yeah, I feel it too. It's really creepy, I said, sensing the oppressive weight of that feeling slightly lift from my shoulders. It was nice to know that Christian felt it too.

Christian stared off into the mulch at our feet. He looked lost in thought as if his body was there, but his mind was in some far-off dimension. You know, I wasn't originally planning to come with you. there's a reason I chose to come out tonight. He sighed, a wary ambition written across his features. There was something he was hiding from me, but I could sense that he was slowly mustering up the courage to tell me what it was.

So, I know you've all heard the stories about the ice cream chock that went around abducting kids in the 70s, and I know that you think it's all a pile of steaming nonsense, but it's not he paused searching my face for a reaction how can you be so sure we went a life back then so my uncle was one of the children who were kidnapped my heart plummeted into my gut not for the fact that Christian was related to someone who was taken but that the stories were true Christian I'm so sorry. I didn't know.

It's okay, he said, interrupting me again. He was three when it happened. It's been decades, but I don't think Dad ever really forgave himself. He was only five at the time, but he feels like he should have done more. He won't tell me that, but I know. I can see it in his eyes. It still tears him up, even now. A tear began to trickle down Christian's cheek.

But he quickly swiped it away. I know it's stupid of me, but I just had to know if it was true, if that thing was still around. I was honestly sort of hoping that it would be. I know I don't stand much of a chance at killing whoever's behind it, but this might help a bit, right? He cracked a smile and flashed a sharp black switchblade. Yeah, I think that would help your chances a bit, I juggled. You know I wouldn't let you fight alone either. Hate a pursy bubble, though.

I don't think it will run into that thing tonight. Yeah, you're probably right, Christian said, standing from his swing. Let's go home. Works for me. I've seen enough. I joined him, and we began to make our way back towards our houses. We'd only made it to the street. When I heard it.

A jingle. The sound sliced through the silence like a rusty knife. It was slow, melodic, but something about it was... Wrong. Christian and I glanced at each other, eyes wide as sources. My heart thumped furiously against my chest as it grew closer. It blared the tune of London Bridge's falling down, intertwined with the sound of a jacket. the box cranking up, sending waves of panic rippling through me at every interval.

And then, it slowly rolled into view. A white truck rounded the corner to the street we were standing on. A comically large pink ice screen cone was perched atop it, facing the sky like a rocket ready for lift-off. The windows were tinted to the point that I couldn't see who or what was behind the wheel. I wanted to run, to scream, to hide anything, but I was paralysed with fear. The truck crept closer and closer, dread seeped into my bones. I didn't know what to do. Eventually, it passed.

I gawked at it, drinking in all the different selections pasted on the side. And then it stopped. directly in front of us. The music cut out, bathing the night in that all-encompassing silence. My breath hitched in my throat, waiting for something to happen. Without warning, the back doors of the ice cream truck swung open. I looked at Christian. His horrified expression had melted into one of curiosity.

He began to make his way toward the open truck. His legs moved like. the head and mind of their own, dragging himself closer and closer. To this day, I don't know why, but I didn't even try to stop him. No. I joined him. I can't explain it. But there was something alluring about that truck, something that effortlessly took hold of me

and pulled me in. And I was powerless to stop it. We both tentatively walked closer, coming to a halt directly behind it. I peered inside, my mouth agape. It was spotless. A sparkling white interior with rows upon rows of freezers shined inside. He boasted every flavor of ice cream you could imagine. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to step into the back of that truck

and try every variation of ice cream had had to offer. Nothing bad would happen. He was just an ice cream truck after all. Christian stepped in before I could react. He turned back to me, outstretching a hand to hoist me up. I didn't even have a chance to take it.

The door suddenly slammed shut, locking Christian inside. I'll never forget the look of abject fear on his face in that split second before the doors closed. I was ripped from my stupor as the ice cream truck floored it down the road. Its tires squealed as it went, leaving me standing alone under a street lamp. I broke down, fat tears streaming down my cheeks as I bolted home. I couldn't lose, Christian.

It was the only real friend I'd ever had. I burst through my front door, spewing nonsense to my parents, as I crumpled to the ground of their feet. I didn't care if I'd get in trouble anymore. I just wanted to find a way to bring my friend back. The police were called. Christian's parents were notified, and a search party was assembled. I don't think I need to tell you that they didn't find him.

Christian is still missing to this day. I was never the same after that. It didn't matter how much time passed, how many therapy sessions I attended. how hard I tried to forget. That image of Christian's terrified face is still burned into my memory. But there's something that chills me even more than that look of pure dread scrawled across my best friend's countenance. Something that I still can't comprehend.

When I peered into the back of that ice cream truck, there was no one behind the wheel. So, why am I telling you? this. Why now? Well, my son went missing last night. I awoke with a start next to my snoring husband. A sinking pit of dread sank into my stomach when that horrible tune met my ears. London Bridge is falling down. I raced to the front door. It was wide open. I watched helplessly as my baby boy climbed into the back of that truck. I couldn't even scream. I was rooted in fear just like I had been on that night two decades ago.

A surge of panic coursed through my veins like venom. Because as the ice cream truck sped away with my child, I noticed that the window was rolled down. And I swear, for a split second, I saw Christian wink at me from the driver's seat. The festival season is aangroken, and that betekent, mudder. And so, ging Kim to Amazon.com.com. On look to a water-dict tent, a comfortable luch bed, oh, so, knus. And lupart print regalards.

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Find what you need to have on amazon.com.b. I've always preferred nights. Something about being up while everyone else is asleep feels great. That. And I can't sleep. Ever since my fiancé passed away, sleeping became a luxury I couldn't afford. I used to lay in bed, tossing and turning the entire night.

My eyes would be bloodshot. When sunlight peaked through my blinds, I rose up and off my bed like a zombie. Melatonin never helped. I guess my body grew an immunity to it over time. I mean, why wouldn't it? I'm surprised they didn't overdose taking ten pills a night. Herbal teas that help you sleep are rubbish. Nothing but a waste of money

Don't even get me started on those intense sleep routines Shut off all electronics slash artificial light 30 minutes before bed Don't eat an hour before bed Read a book And whatever nonsense they have you do That may work for some people Sure as hell didn't work for me

I even resorted to counting sheep Well, my version of counting cheap Imagine millions of alternative realities where Vanit was still alive. I laid awake, smiling like a fool up at the popcorn ceiling. My imagination got so vivid that I would see a silhouette in the corner of my room for seconds at a time. I wanted nothing else but to believe it was really her, to believe she came back just to say one last proper farewell. The logical part of me knew that what's dead will always stay dead.

The other part of me found loopholes in that saying, What's dead may never truly die in my mind. The sleepless nights and hallucinations took a toll on my mental health. I contemplated ending things many, many times. Maybe I'll be with her in the afterlife I thought. She's waiting for me. Thankfully, the logical side of me one, and I attended therapy.

My therapist was, and still is, the kindest woman I've ever met. At first, I thought she was getting paid to act nice to me, pretending to care about my feelings. But no, she truly listened and understood. When I told her about my sleep problems, she recommended that I get a graveyard shift job. It never occurred to me. I live in a big city, the city that never sleeps. There are overnight jobs everywhere. The perfect solution.

I could just sleep throughout the day. I applied to every graveyard job I could find online. Some rejected me, saying my work experience at a grocery store wasn't enough. A few called me in for interviews, which went bad, I guess, since I never got a reply. Only one job was willing to take on an inexperienced employee. It was a warehouse job for a well-known grocery store in my area. The pay wasn't too bad. Plus, I had to start getting experienced somewhere.

I got word from my new boss that two other people were starting on the same night as me. That was somewhat relieving. I wouldn't be the only new guy. I always got stupidly nervous before starting new things A job, college, the gym, everything I feared the unknown My mind would cope by imagining every possible scenario By the time I pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse

I thought of 175 scenarios that could go down Blue moonlight shone down on the warehouse It had a grey steel exterior with a ton of light poles lining the sidewalk. It was as if they wanted to recreate the sun with how many light poles there were. Just thinking of the electricity bill made my head ache. Maybe the absurd amount of black coffee I drank

played a part in that. I glanced at my malfunctioning radio which displayed the time. 11.45. The closer it got to 12, but faster my heart beated. I pulled down my car's sun visor and looked in the mirror. Only then did I realize how dilated my pupils were.

Damn, I drank too much coffee. They're going to think I'm on drugs and fire me. My overthinking got interrupted by a sudden knock at the window. I jumped at the sound, nearly jumped out of my own skin. My head hit the car ceiling with a thud. to my left, I heard some giggling. I turned to see a woman's face smiling. Her eyes were caramel-colored and hinted at joyfulness.

She had thick eyebrows like mine, yet hers were well lined. She wore the yellow company polo, also like mine, but hers fit her body perfectly. Mine was baggy, since they didn't have a men's medium size. Braclets rattled on a wrist as she waved. I felt extremely bad. How did someone as beautiful as her end up homeless? I cranked down the window of my beat-up car

and gave her an awkward little smile. Ah, hey, sorry, I have no money. This is literally my first day. Huh? She tilted ahead at me and looked around as if I were talking to someone else. She looked back at me and smiled with realization. please just some change would suffice sweet sir she giggled my cheeks burned up and i stammered i'm so sorry i smiled and scratched the back of my head i even noticed her yellow polo jeez i'm stupid

i take that as a compliment she backed up giving room to open the door and get out being mistaken for a homeless person is a a compliment, I stuttered like a fool. This was not one of the scenarios I expected on my ride here. Of course, she balanced herself in a concrete planter. I leaned against my car, struggling to find where my hand should go. In my pockets, crossed. homeless people are the freest of all. But they don't really have anywhere to settle down, I said.

Look around, she spun ahead. exaggeratedly, like a pirate ship navigator. They can settle down anywhere, as long as they don't get kicked out, of course. She hopped down and stared me in the eyes. I, yeah. My eyes started back and forth, averting eye contact. Hmm, are you Raphael or Remy? I'm...

Wait, let me guess. Hmm. She stroked her chin. Rafael? That's me. Let's go, she celebrated, as if she had won the World Cup. I knew it. You don't look like a Remy.

How so? I don't know. The curly hair suit someone named Rafa. As soon as she said Rafa, I wasn't there anymore. In my mind, I was running through an open flower field with Vennit being backlit by the rising sun. Rafa, she called. out, sounding close yet so far. Raffa, her voice was as soothing as a warm blanket fresh out of the dryer. Raffer! Her voice sounded like a million screeching insects.

Raffer, she said, the woman in front of me. She glanced at her watch. Should we get going? It's 1150. Don't call me Raffer. I turned to walk to the warehouse. She chugged to catch up, bracelets jingling, and walked next to me. Why? Just don't. I look down at her shadows. We approached the huge metal doors. Two cameras glared down at us, red lights blinking. The woman next to me waved to the camera and yelled out,

Hi, we're the new people. I'm Karen. He's Raffa. The metal doors clicked and unloaded. locked. Karen skipped forward, pushing it with all her might. She held her back against it and waved me ahead. Thanks, I said. The door shut behind us. The warehouse was lit up like a fire.

Numerous fluorescent lights hung overhead, buzzing like millions of invisible flies. Looking around, there didn't seem to be any shadows. Tall, shadowless shelves lying the end. entire interior, resembling a maze. Two shadowless people walked around this maze, pulling electric jacks with loaded pallets. The beeping of forklifts reverberated through the warehouse, overpowering the lo-fi music playing in the intercoms. No one paid us attention, except for a big bald guy marching towards us with a clipboard under his armpit. He wore a yellow

company Polo, same as everyone, but his was stretched to its last string because of his muscles. Go ahead, clock in, then follow me. He said as kindly as his deep voice allowed him. He pointed at the wall where we had just ended from. There was a wall-mounted tablet awaiting us. Karen skipped towards it and punched in her employee number from the car they gave us new people. I punched mine in out of memory. We followed her new boss, navigating through the maze-like aisles. You two work in the far corner, helping hand-stack pilots since you haven't taken the test for the electric jack usage. Goddam, OSHA, he grunted.

We arrived at the far right corner where a tall lanky man with bowl-cut hair was already stacking boxes. Here you are. He pointed at the two empty pallets, next to the two. of the bowl cook guy's palette. If you have any questions, feel free to call me on that intercom there. He pointed at the wall behind the pallets and towers of boxes where a land phone was mounted. If you need to use the restroom, it's located on the far left. If you do use the restroom, never, and I mean never, turn off the lights.

Got it? Yes, sir, said Karen, standing with the shoulders pinned back like a cadet. I nodded Very well, he said Off you go We walked to our pallets Karen took the middle one I took the one to the right

Furthest from the bowl cut dude Stocking boxes left and right Got tiring for my back Just a few minutes in I looked at Karen and the bowl cut dude Who I assumed was Remy They were quick to stack Karen stacked a pallet neatly

Putting the bigger ones to the bottom for support and the smaller ones to the top. Remy valued speed over neatness. He was on his second palette. I copied Karen, neat and quick. When Karen finished the first palette and it was taken away by someone with an electric jack, she decided to make small talk.

Remy, right? Right, he said, not once looking up from his palette. Nice to meet you. I'm Karen and he's Raffa. She pointed at me. Nice to meet you, co-workers, said Remy. Karen took the hint

and looked at me with eyes that said, He's a jerk. I smiled, reassuring her, I knew what she meant. Time passed slower than a sloth walking underwater. Then my second palette was stacked. I got the sudden urge to pee.

The absurd amount of coffee wanted out of my bladder. I'll be back, I told Karen. If the bus stops by, let him know I'm in the bathroom, please. Got it. You won't turn off the lights, Remy cut off, Karen.

You won't. Of course I won't. I looked at him, confused. I knew you were a worse. He shrugged. I played along with his little game. Curiosity killed the cat,

I replied. Good thing I ain't no kid. cat, he said, finally looking up from his palate. He had a deep scar across his right eye. Straightening up his body, he was even taller than I imagined. At least six feet three inches. He towed over my five feet nine inch self. He sure as hell towed over Karen.

Whatever you are, curiosity will kill that as well. His eyebrows forward. Gotcha, I thought. His expression turned straight, and he went back to work on his palette. I felt a presence behind me, knowing full well it was the boss based on Karen's smirk. I turned around. The boss glared down at me. His resting face gave the impression of being mad all the time.

Off somewhere, I suppose. Bathroom, sir. Restroom, he corrected. Yeah, that. Very well, he said. stepping aside to let me pass. I walked away, feeling his stare dig into the back of my neck. Chill shut up all over my body.

I entered the bright and narrow hallway in the far corner of the building. There was only one unisex bathroom, odd for a building of this size. I twisted the doornob, pushing the door open and stepping in. It was the cleanest bathroom I've ever seen. The chestboard-looking floor reflected light as if it had been freshly waxed. The two mirrors reflected a 4K-like image of myself, maybe even 8K. It was as if there was another me staring back instead of a reflection.

I quickly did my business and washed my hands. The soap dispensers actually worked. It amazed me. As I was on my way out, I reached for the light switch out of instinct. I stopped myself, remembering this wasn't my apartment, and I didn't have to worry about the electricity bill. The thought occurred to me at that moment. Odd, I thought. If they didn't want anyone turning off the lights, why not remove the light switch completely?

It sounded like common sense to me. Maybe they never thought of it, or maybe they have, but decided against it for some odd reason. I shrugged and continued to the door. The door swung open. It banged against the wall. The thought reverberated in the small bathroom, the floor rumbled with angry footsteps. I looked up. It was Remy.

He marched right up to me, grabbing my shirt and twisting it. You think you funny, huh? Smart ass. The door shut behind him. The stitching of my polo shirt tared slowly. The ripping sound was the only thing I could hear. It infuriated me. My blood boiled. I grabbed his wrist, digging my fingernails into it.

He let go of his grip and let out a grunt. With my other hand, I grabbed his palm and bent it back. He squirmed around. Don't move, I said. I'll break it. With his free hand, he swung. It was a haymaker, a sloppy punch. I had plenty of time to duck. I ducked, letting go over his wrist for a second,

and countering the left hook to his liver. He grunted, and his body struggled to stay upright. I grabbed his wrist again, bending it back even further. Don't test me, I'll break it. He let out a yelp, looking around for an escape. There wasn't any. I could break his wrist at any. He reached for the lights.

He managed to flick the switch. But the light stayed on. The buzzing of the fluorescent light grew loud, as loud as a boiling teapot, louder than that. I let go of his wrist and clamped my hands over my ears. It was a poor attempt at blocking out that deafening screech. The lights flickered, slowly.

The rhythm they had resembled laughter. How in the world were lights like to? laughing at us, mocking us. The screech grew even louder. I felt paralysed. I wanted the dash for the light switch. I couldn't. Somehow I knew if I let go of covering my ears,

I would be deaf for the rest of my life. I groaned and yelled. Either me or Remy called out for help. Maybe it was both of us. I couldn't even hear my own voice over the sound. My eyes started left and right, and I froze my gaze on the mirror. It was warping, rippling like a portal from a game. He called out to me, called out to us, she called out to me.

For neat, I felt a presence in the rippling mirror. Her voice overpowered the screeching, offering me an end to all my pain, present and past. Yes, I thought, I want it. I judged the mirror, hands still clasped over my ears. It felt as if I was knee-deep in quicksand. My bones were stiff. The only way I could continue forward was if I waddled. So I did.

I stood in front of the mirror. My reflection and I were the only ones in the world. It or I smiled. My reflection rippled and morphed into something else, someone else. A neat. A sky-blue eyes stared at me, full of life. A thin eyebrows scrunched together as she smiled, the face she always made. She could never truly be mad at me.

She had to smile on the rare occasion she was mad. She wore a heavy eyeliner. When she used to cry, the tears left black streaks. I remember that was the cutest thing ever. Vanit was so sensitive. I didn't deserve her, a stubborn man like me. Out of instinct, I reached out to touch a cheek. I stopped.

I heard faint voices calling out to me, but I wasn't there anymore. I was in an open flower field and Vinit was close now, closer than ever. All logic escaped my grasp at that moment. What was logic worth compared to Vanit? She was priceless. My fingers were within an inch from her cheek. She blushed, hocking her lips to the side, as she did when I would caress her hair. I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder.

Two heavy hands. They clamped down like a vice grip and yanked me back. I fell down. head banged against the floor. My vision was hazy. I laid against the cold tarth floor, staring at the flat ceiling. Where was I? Not my apartment.

Not my popcorn ceiling. Blurred faces hovered over me. Faint voices called out my name. A bald-headed man waved frantically. Bracelet covered arms hovered over my eyes. I tracked them back and forth. For neat, I murmured. Karen, a faint voice said.

Karen, you new co-worker. The blurred face smiled. My body got lifted up and placed on a soft, thin bed. My eyes were fixated on the blurred figure who said her name was Karen. I smiled. My vision went dark. When I awoke, I found myself staring up at some blinding lights. Four still walls surrounded me.

This isn't a hospital, I thought. Voices spoke and hushed whispers. I heard my name a few times. He's awake, said Karen. He survived the test. Can we keep him? Keep me? What?

Hmm, said a deep voice. Very well. I suppose he did prove himself worthy. Yes, Karen celebrated. She came into view, looking at the same. down at me with caring eyes. Okay, things are going to get real crazy now, she smirked. What?

I murmured. Can I tell him, Dean, please? Karen looked back at the boss for approval. He nodded. We're fighting a war against the mirror dimension, and you're a part of it now, she grinned. Oh, damn, I said, I need some sleep. Dean and Karen laughed. A contagious laugh.

I couldn't help but laugh myself. Dean's smile vanished. No, but seriously, we need your help. My eyes rolled back and my vision went dark again. And that's my story. How I came to fight for our reality against the mirror dimension. Karen was right. Things got crazy real fast.

We're on a break from fighting now, so I figured I might as well share my story. Our story. I never truly forgot about Phineat. That's a fight I don't think I'll ever beat. Fighting helps me postpone those emotions, but they're bottled up, ready to burst at any moment. Karen, she helps me out a lot. I'm truly grateful for her. Even for her boss, Dean.

I guess you're wondering what happened to Remy. Well, he got swallowed up. Whatever he saw in that mirror managed to lure him in. I don't blame him. Vinita almost succeeded in luring me. I dread the day I have to face her again. But with Dean, Karen, and the other co-workers at my side, I have a better chance of beating it.

Until next time. Make sure to stay away from mirrors in the dark. I have a better chance of beating it. It was supposed to be an opportunity for science. Instead, it brought us an unspeakable horror. Everything started out perfectly normal, with a capsule detaching from the spacecraft exactly on schedule. Tracking its progress as it entered the atmosphere,

we watched through infrared cameras as it streaked through the sky over the west coast at 27,000 miles per hour. With its heat shield keeping the payload safe from the heated plasma created by its re-entry, the capsule was able to safely descend back to Earth. After two minutes of falling, the atmosphere managed to slow down the capsule to 1,074 miles per hour. At that point, the capsule. The capsule deployed its drogue parachute to further reduce its speed, entering a special use airspace over Utah. We kept track of the capsule and triangulated its position using radar. Sitting in a helicopter that circled the landing ellipse, I tried my best to scan the skies for any sign of the capsule.

To say that I was excited was an understatement. This mission had been years in the making, and now, two years, 11 months and four days after collecting samples from an asteroid, we would see the return of the capsule and its precious payload. As a member of the recovery team, I would be among the first people to see and touch the capsule after its return to Earth. It was a great honor, and although my role was small, I knew I was playing my part in a a larger system.

Main shoot deployed, the spacecraft command team called out on the radio. Looking out of the window of the helicopter, I began searching for the shoot and smiled when I spotted it. It's there just to our east, I called out to my team leader. Descending at 11 miles per hour, the capsule hung under its main parachute as it went through the final moments of its journey. Moving closer towards it, we circled the descending capsule

and watched as it made a touchdown. Once the capsule was firmly on the ground, we then descended and landed a few yards away from it. We were joined on the ground by three other helicopters which contained the safety team and the environmental sampling team. The first person to approach the capsule was a military officer.

Since the landing zone was in the middle of the Department of Defense Test and Training range, there was a small possibility that there were unexploded ordinance on the location. Luckily for us, none were detected, and we were given the green signal to approach. Following our carefully rehearsed procedure, the environmental team moved towards the capsule and began testing the air around it, as well as marking and taking sound. samples of the ground. Meanwhile, us in the recovery team brought a metal crate and placed it on top of a cargo net that was connected to a nearby helicopter thanks to a long line. The crate will act as a cradle for the capsule during its aerial transport back to the airfield,

where our temporary clean room was. Once in the clean room, the capsule would be dusted off, and the sample canister removed and placed into a nitrogen glove box for nitrogen purging. Getting close to the capsule and looking down on it, I couldn't help but smile. This object had travelled billions of miles in space, saw things humans can only dream of seeing, took samples from an asteroid, and now it was back on Earth. truly was a marvel and a great accomplishment for space exploration. However, I didn't let my awe and admiration distract me from my task. Following procedure, Dan and I, my partner for this part of the recovery, moved to stand next to the capsule, before gently lifting up the

hundred-pound object, making sure not to drop it. We took our time carrying it towards the crate. was at this point. I noticed something strange. While lifting the capsule, I thought I heard a tapping sound coming from inside it. This surprised me, since I knew that it wasn't supposed

to be making such noise. However, as suddenly as it started, the ticking noise immediately stopped, making me wonder if it really happened, or if it was just my imagination. Seeing that Dan didn't react to the sound, I decided that it was most likely just my imagination. Keeping quiet about it so that I won't embarrass myself, I return my focus to my job and slowly load the capsule to its crate. Once it was secure, we then began tightly wrapping a tarp around the capsule and sealing it with tape.

With that done, we secure the cargo net and signal that the capsule was now ready to be. for transport. Within a few minutes, the helicopter took off and slowly lift the capsule into the air. We watched as the capsule and his precious cargo hung under a long line as the helicopter carried it back to the airfield. With our job done, we began packing our gear and heading back to our chopper, leaving behind the environmental team to continue their job of collecting ground samples around the the landing zone. By the time we arrived at the airfield, the capsule was already inside the

clean room, where technicians will clean and open up the capsule so that the curation team can purge it with nitrogen and protect the sample canister from possible contamination. With nothing more to do, us in the recovery team moved to one of the nearby hangars that was temporarily converted to act as our break room. grabbing food and taking a seat next to Dan, I gave him a quick pat on the back and congratulated him for our successful recovery. Just like the rehearsals, I told him with a smile. Yeah, he said cheerfully, before suddenly frowning. There is something bothering me, though.

This piqued my interest as I raised an eyebrow and stared at him. What is it? It's the capsule, he said. I'm not sure, but I thought I heard something from it. Heard something, I muttered. Was it a tapping sound? Dan's eyes immediately widened as he nodded. Yeah, you heard it too?

I did, I told him, but I shrugged it off when it stopped. I ignored it too. At first I thought it might have been loose samples within the canist. the shaking as we moved it. But then I heard it again. After we wrapped the capsule and got it secure on the cargo net, I swear I heard the tapping

again. I don't know if you heard that too. You were busy going through the checklist at the time, but I heard it. I don't know. I'm not sure if it's anything of concern, but it just seems odd. Maybe I'm just overthinking, but

the rest of what Dan was about to say was cut off. when the sound of a sudden commotion occurred on the other side of the hangar. Turning around, I saw that one of our team members was being tackled by a man who wore a white biosuit. Seeing the protective equipment on the man, I quickly realized that he was from the curation team. But what he was doing here and why was a mystery. Getting up and moving towards the scene, I saw our team member frantically attempt to get the other man off of him.

him, but to no avail. The other man seemed to be stronger and kept him pinned. Reaching the two first, Dan quickly grabbed the man from behind and lifted him off our team member. As he did so, the other man struggled and flailed his arms as he gave out a hiss that never thought a person could ever make. Rapping his hands around the man, Dan did his best to keep him restrained, as I move forward to help him. However, I suddenly stopped in my tracks when I saw the man's face. The man's eyes were wrong, and they were bulging out of his socket. In fact, his eyes looked too big to fit in his eye sockets, as they were stretching them to the point of tearing. Standing there, frozen in sudden fear, I looked on with horror as these unnaturally large eyes

stared at me. I was only snapped out of my catatonic state when I heard Dan's struggle and call out for help. We need to pin him on the ground, Dan said. He's fighting harder than I expected, and I don't know if I can keep this up. Returning my attention back to the situation, I nodded my head and moved towards them. By that point, the other members of the team had arrived, as two of them began helping the man who was attacked. Meanwhile, another one was rushing towards a nearby exit, shouting that they'll call the security team. Focusing my attention on the attacker, I took a step forward and prepared to grab the man's arms, which continued to flail around. However, before I could put my hands on him, I suddenly

jerked back when I saw a spider-like legs sprouting out of his eye socket. These legs then helped each eye pop out of its socket, allowing it to crawl on the man's face. Letting out a curse, I stared in disbelief as his eyes crawled away, leaving behind a deep, empty void where they used to be. However, they did not remain empty for long, as a new pair of eyes crawled out of its depths. This pair soon exited the eye sockets too and crawled down his face as they followed the path the previous two took. Meanwhile, the initial two pairs crawled down the man and were now moving to Dan's arms, which was still wrapped around him. At that point, the man was still flailing his arms and struggling from Dan's grip.

However, the moment he felt the eyes crawl up one of his exposed arms, he immediately let go. What the hell? Dan remarked as he saw the two eyes that managed to get on his arm. as they crawled, I couldn't help but notice Dan wensing in pain as they moved on his skin. In an attempt to get them off, he used this free arm to swat away the pair going up. However, this only resulted in him letting out a hiss of pain as the eyes remained on his arms. It seemed like their long spider-like legs were stabbing the skin of his arm, making it difficult to get them off. Seeing him struggle, I moved up to try to help him, but was immediately blocked by the man

whose eyes still released these unnatural little horrors. Standing in front of me, and with eyes crawling all over his body and staring at me, I felt frightened and unsure what to do. Then, without warning, a couple of the eyes leapt from the man and headed straight towards me. I was lucky enough to react quickly to this. this, resulting in the eyes landing on the concrete floor. However, these little creatures were persistent and quickly turned their gaze back towards me. Slowly backing away, I felt that there were only moments away to make another leap.

But before they could do so, John, another member of the team, brushed forward and began stomping on the eyes. As he did this, though, the remaining eyes that was still crawling. and the man leapt on him, landing right on his head. Moving his hands on his head, he tried his best to pull them off, where their legs had dug into his skin, making it impossible. Screaming in pain, John was helpless as the eyes began crawling down his face, before settling on his eyes.

Borrowing themselves in, they broke through his pupils and planted themselves inside his sockets. It was a terrible sight Which was only made worse by John's screams They're in my head They're borrowing into my brain This was mixed with Dan screams Who I heard calling out for help

At that point I ran I feel a shame for abandoning them But what could I have done Those creatures were too deadly And too horrific I wouldn't have been able to help heading towards the nearest exit I ran as fast as I could or praying that the eyes wouldn't catch up to me

By then most members of the team were running away also and some having already fled including the first one who was attacked Reaching the door I allowed myself to make one last glance towards the horrors behind me I wish I hadn't on the floor with Dan and John both of whom had their faces covered by their eyes. John was still screaming in pain as a stream of them forced their way into his eye sockets or Dan was silent and unmoving.

Not wanting to see any more of it. I turned around and ran. I wasn't sure where I was supposed to go, but I followed the other members of the team who were fleeing the scene. Eventually, we met up with the military security of the airfield and informed them about the situation.

In response, they quickly dispatched teams to search the various facilities all over the airfield while ordering us to stay in the security building. As time passed on, more people from around the airfield were gathering into the building. Talking to some technicians who arrived after us, I learned from them that the clean room was a bloody mess. Passing by it on their way to the security building, they saw the large bay doors open and various parts of the capsule, including the sample canister on the floor. This brought a chill of fear through me, as I realized that something must have came out of it. I then remember the tapping sound that Dan and I heard.

Once military security was certain they got everyone they could find, they then did a headcount to see who was missing. Among those who weren't there was Dan, John, and the entire curation team. as well as five other personnel. We were then held in the building for a while, as military and NASA personnel from other facilities were discreetly sent into the airfield

so that they wouldn't attract outside attention. As far as everyone in the public knows, the transport aircraft that arrived was part of the team that was tasked with transporting the sample canister to Texas. One by one, all of us who had been in the air, airfield were examined by a team of medical professionals, stripped of our clothes, and checked thoroughly. They wanted to make sure that none of us had those parasitic eye creatures on us.

After we were cleared, we were forced to sign an NDA. I say forced, because we were threatened by government officials to do so. If we didn't sign, or if we revealed anything we encountered that day. They said that they will make sure we will lose our jobs and any credibility we have in society. I signed it because I knew they wouldn't let me out if I didn't.

However, I'm not keeping my silence. NASA says that the recovery of the capsule was successful and that the samples are secure and safe within their nitrogen filled boxes.

But this is a lie. They're trying to cover up the truth. What really happened was a disaster. Out there, there are dozens of individuals walking around, filled with parasites. So if you see someone with bulging eyes walking towards you, you must run the other way. The festival season is a-bebroken, and that means,

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just like the dancing, moderm man there, oh, wait just even, has he now only modder on? Oh, yeah,

only modder. DROG blithe? Goar for. Find what you need to know on Amazon.com. com. I'm never quite sure

if I was just stupid when I miss the signs, or if I'm just a normal person. Sarah was very sweet on the surface. She ticked all the boxes, even if she was a bit awkward. But so what? People are awkward. I tried to look past the little things. I mean, we can all be a bit weird, can't we? Especially when we get nervous. But Sarah was odd in a way that, in hindsight, Maybe I should have taken more seriously. On their own, all the little signs seemed quite innocuous. At the start, she was very hands-on during dates, pinching and grabbing and winking.

She'd make these hilarious innuendos and constantly towed the line of what was and wasn't appropriate. I like a woman with a dark sense of humour, and she had that in spades. But she pulled away if I tried to reciprocate And I realized early on that intimacy Wouldn't be on the cards for a long time And I was fine with that I wasn't in a hurry And yet she continued to send mixed signals

She'd ask for photos almost every night Girls don't normally ask for full length It was weird and taking a good picture wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. I always thought I looked weird in that kind of full body vertical picture. But she was always happy with what I sent. She had a lot of requests. One was to see me lying on the floor, eyes closed, arms to either side of my back.

She liked that one. One time she made me do a strip tease with a white sheet, slowly pulling it down in one picture after the other. This went on for the first month, I'd say. I sent her pictures. She sent me some. We talked a lot about what we each wanted. It was kind of fun and kinky,

like we were taking turns being each other's long-distance model. And as a guy, I don't usually get to enjoy the feeling of being a promiscuous object. I normally feel like my sexiness is tied to some kind of performance. It was novel and exciting to be valued as just a physical being. I never really figured I had an exhibitionist streak, or that that was something that women wanted much of. But she did, and I didn't dislike it. During all this, we continued to meet up once or twice a week for food. It seemed like we had a little thing going that might one day become something real.

We never did spend the night together. First time I thought it was going to happen was after I sent a photo of me lying on my kitchen floor, the white towels freezed my ass the whole time. An hour after I sent the photo, she appeared on my doorstep without warning, hair soaking wet and smelling of booze. As soon as she saw me, she grabbed me, guided me to the sofa, then climbed on top and started kissing me, hard. She was handsy

But it never went past over the clothes stuff Just hot Heavy and Well Not all that good Do you ever wonder if some people are bad At intimacy stuff Because no one tells them the truth

It was like she was trying to suck the air out of my lungs I've had better kisses off my dog She got a lot of points for enthusiasm Don't get me wrong I've never had anyone grope me and touched me with such raw passion before but whenever I tried to match her energy I got the sense she didn't really care for it

she never reacted or moaned or gave off non-verbal cues to be like do that more it was all about her touching me never vice versa after maybe 20 minutes of this over the clothes fumbling she asked me to lie down

on the floor. I had no idea where this was going, so I did. Can you hold your breath? She asked as she looked down at me. All of a sudden, I felt very small and there were lots of thoughts going through my head. I'm pretty sure there was nothing I wouldn't have done for at that moment, although not necessarily because I wanted to. It was just an intensity to a stare and shrunk me down until I was the size of an ant. So, I held my breath. I held it so long my lungs burned, and my head swam until I couldn't do it any longer.

When I opened my eyes, she was looking down at me with so much hunger in her eyes. I actually got a little scared. Admittedly, I sort of liked it. She paused for a moment, drinking. me in and then said she had better get going. She had work in the morning. We kissed at the door and a hand roamed all over my back. I was cold by that point and her hands felt so warm. I swore something was about to happen, but she simply left me standing there. It was

confusing and frustrating. So much so, I almost didn't call her back. But she had a kind of commanding energy about her, a deep awareness of what she did and didn't want, that it was just enough for me to keep replying to her texts. After that night, I always laid on my kitchen floor when she asked for a photo, but it never really had the same effect of getting her to my doorstep. Still, she became a regular fixture in my life, and pretty soon I hoped we might get close to something a bit more serious. I looked for signs that she thought the same thing, but the going was damn slow.

By the time winter rolled around, we'd been on and off for six months, and just about the only thing that actually changed was the way she kept holding my hand. She'd take my cold hands between her own and hold them against the cheek, her neck, maybe even a chest. At times it was quite nice. It took a while. But I managed to swing her around into another home visit. You can guess what I was hoping for.

But she actually made her spend most of her time out on the balcony watching the stars, cuddling together in the freezing cold. She made me give her my jacket as well, even when I offered to get a one from inside. It had to be the one I was wearing, and she wouldn't let me replace it. By the time we went back in, I felt like I was close to getting pneumonia, and the shock of the warm air left me feeling dizzy. Lie down, she begged me, lie in the floor, I have an idea. I was shaking by this point, the tips of my fingers ice blue. When she came back over, she had a glass of red wine.

She stood over me, warming the glass in her hands, before giving her. giving me clear instruction. Sip some, she said, and keep it in your mouth. Close your eyes, don't open them, and don't swallow the wine. I don't even like wine, and I was pretty irritated by the whole thing. But there was a tension in the air, something about her electric anticipation that infected me. I didn't know what was happening. And in the past, when I felt that way, it sometimes led to me having new and

exciting experiences out of nowhere. She kissed me, pushing her tongue into the lukewarm wine until it dribbled messily out of the corners of my lips. At the same time, and in one swift motion, she pressed the heel of her hand into my diaphragm and pushed so hard that the wine gushed out of my mouth and into hers. I started coughing. She did too. My immediate reaction was that kind of irritation you can't hide. It actually ticked me off. It was surprising in all the wrong ways, and given what I maybe hoped was coming,

it just meant all their disappointment turned into outright frustration. All I'd wanted was a normal kiss, some sign of basic, normal affection. Did she even realize how terrible I felt to freeze my ass off on the balcony so she could feel like some gentleman was given in my jacket. I pushed her off me, gently but firm. Let's not do that again, I said, choking at the words.

What were you trying to do? Nothing, she cried. It was nothing, just something different. She seemed sincerely regretful and sorry. But I was half naked, horny, irritated, and freezing cold. I didn't ask her to do. leave, but she clearly sensed the changing atmosphere and made some excuse. I wiped myself down while she went to the toilet, and when she emerged, I greeted her with

her handbag and keys. I didn't even walk her to the door. Instead, as she looked at me with a sort of sad pout from the door, I simply ignored her and began to mop the kitchen floor. Looks like a damn murder scene, I grumbled. She may have said something before she left, but I didn't look up until I heard the door close. After that, we didn't speak for a while. Now, this is a very typical thing for me to do, but over the next few days,

I did a little retrospective on our dates and realized I'd been the one putting in all the work. It was always me. escalating, asking for dates, phone calls, trying to move things between us forward. I figured if there was any chance of a real relationship, then she'd have to just come back and apologize and explain her behavior and be the one to reach out for once. Of course, at the exact same time, I couldn't get her out of my head. Maybe she'd just been clumsy, I thought. Maybe she was nervous.

I couldn't get my head around the wine thing. It seems so random. I'm more familiar with the usual BDSM stuff people like. If I could have pinned her actions down to some specific kink, I could have more confidently figured if we were compatible or not. But without more information, I was just well and truly confused. I wanted to like her, but if there was no chance of us working out, if we were just incompatible,

and I wanted closure. As it was, I didn't have a clue what we were, or what the hell we'd been doing. Either way, when she finally text, asking if I'd like to pick her up after work, I agreed. I wanted closure and, maybe I imagined it,

but something about her tone seemed a little contrite. Her feeling was reinforced when I met her in the parking lot of the hospital where she worked, and I found her sitting on the hood of her car in a breathtaking red dress. As soon as I was out of the car, she took my hand and told me she'd set up a little date for us, something special, and that she'd finally make it all up to me. The way she kissed me, the way she guided my hand along a waist. There was something so utterly different about it, so committed, that I immediately knew she wanted. I wanted to go the hallway.

I could just tell she'd finally made a decision. A threshold had been crossed, and I wanted to go see where this would lead. She didn't work at the hospital itself, but rather took me off to a building on the same grounds. It was a quiet little red brick thing, just two floors from the outside, and I wondered what it was exactly that she did. Inside there was a chemical smell that was pretty overwhelming, but at first glance it seemed like a simple GP office. There was a little reception area with one or two chairs, a small countertop with some computers and a bunch of back offices.

This was after hours, so no one else was there, only a few dim lights in the reception area. Everywhere else was dark. She quickly disappeared upstairs, telling me she was going to slip into some. something more comfortable, and I settled down for a short wait. At least she locked the door behind us, so no one else could come in. I took that as a good sign, but I still felt pretty uncertain. Where were we? And why the hell did she pick this place for our date?

I tried to sit down, but it felt too strange, like waiting for the dentist, so I stood and shuffled around a bit instead. listening to the mothled thumps of whatever hell she was doing upstairs. Outside, it was starting to get dark. Fewer and fewer cars were going past, and it was raining heavily, all of which made that little room feel even like a lonely little corner of the world. Well hidden and out of the way, even though the hospital was clearly visible with heavy traffic not far behind it.

There was much else to do except so. snoop, and I quickly noticed the door had been left slightly ajar, like someone had forgotten to shut it. It was the only door I could reach without climbing over something. So, my curiosity got the better of me. I approached it and got maybe two feet away, before I realised it was the source of that damn chemical smell. Once I realised that, I had to take a look inside.

just so I could know for sure what the hell it was. I tried pushing it open an inch or two and peeking inside, but it was pitch blackened there, so I pushed it open a little further, and using my phone light, I saw that there were a set of stairs going down into a basement. More thumps from upstairs told me she wasn't going to come down any time soon.

I had time to check. So I went down a step, and tried seeing if that helped. But there was nothing. So I went down another, and then another, until suddenly a set of automatic lights came on with a loud thunk, and the rising wine of fluorescence coming to life.

I'm not sure what I expected, for what I saw. At first, it left me dumbstruck, but then... I don't know. It was a sterile, room with white speckled tiles, a few countertops running along the walls covered in silver instruments I didn't recognize. One wall covered in a regular grid of metal cupboard doors

and three steel slabs in the center of the room. One of them was occupied, a vaguely human shape covered by a white shroud, a lone foot of a man sticking out at the bottom. Something about the strange colouring and texture of the skin immediately let me know he wasn't having a nap. That and the tow tag was a pretty obvious clue. It was a morgue.

She worked in the morgue and it was here of all places she'd decided to set our final date. My initial reaction was the one to go upstairs and confront her. Get angry, let it out and just leave after making her unlock the door.

But something stopped me. I can't say for sure what. As quickly as it came, the anger left me, and I was left with a kind of horrified curiosity, an idea I couldn't even put to words in the privacy of my own head. Instead of turning around and leaving, I waited a few seconds to make sure she wasn't coming down right behind me, and I began to descend the rest of the way.

The walk to the body felt like a ten-mile hike. Every step was too loud. Every breath, a nervous shivering exhalation that felt like it might burst into a gasp at any moment. I was terrified. I couldn't help but imagine that faceless shape turning to look at me or sitting upright in one smooth motion. I quickly realized why.

ghosts are stereotypically portrayed as walking sheets. Someone must have had the same thought I had. The imagined scene of a shroud-covered body moving swiftly towards you in the dark. Hell of a time for my brain to play those kinds of games with me. But that curiosity drove me on. I couldn't walk away. Not now. Before I knew it, I was stood by the body, and with a shaking hand, I pulled back the sheet. He looked like me, vaguely. I think we would have probably been a close match before the bloating. Same hair colour, same face shape, same ethnicity, age, so on.

For a moment, I considered the idea that maybe Sarah was just a very weird woman. People get desensitized to this kind of stuff all the time. And to her, the building we're in might just be a nice empty place to bring a date. But that body on that slab, I don't know how to describe it, but it sets something off in me. A kind of slow, rising dread. I'm not sure why I did what I did next, but I couldn't stop thinking of that strange night where she pushed against my chest and sent wine dribbling out my mouth. so utterly bizarre but

maybe I placed my hand against the man's cold flesh heeled to the diaphragm and applied pressure he animated like a puppet a brief gasp of air followed by curdled blood flowing out of his mouth black and yellow and red

pallets platelets and plasma separated with time into a thick soup When the smell hit me, I couldn't help but be sick. And as I hunched over the nearby drain and emptied my body of all my vomit and bile, images of my time with Sarah flashed through my mind. The photos of me nude lying on the white tile floor, the use of the blanket to cover my chest,

a fixation on my cold hands, a night spent freezing on my balcony, filling my mouth of wine and forcing it back out with a shoved to, the chest. I looked to the body and quickly understood how and why she discovered what happens when you apply pressure to the chest. The image was crystal clear in my mind. The mental image of a slender frame straddling the bloated man before me was as unpleasant and inescapable as nails on a chalkboard. Unable to shake it, I hunched over once more and was sick again. This time until my eyes watered and there was nothing left but saliva and bile.

I felt violated. I wanted to leave. I no longer felt angry or confused. Instead, every moment of the last six months fell into place and a pattern emerged that terrified me. She wasn't meandering or clueless. Everything she'd done had been moving towards this one. One night with me here, locked in this place, with no one to call for help. I'd blundered into what might just be the most dangerous situation of my life.

And now, I was too deep into the trap to just blindly panic. Underground and in a room with only one exit. I had to be careful. She was up there somewhere, maybe clueless about what I'd realized. Maybe not. She seemed small enough, but a cursory glance at some of the glinting blades on the nearby work surface told me she didn't have to be a bodybuilder to hurt me. Any one of those razor-sharp instruments could work its way into the meat of my neck with very little effort. Sooner or later, she'd realize where I was.

Sooner or later, this plan of hers had to have an endgame. I looked up the stairs. If she came down from the top floor, she'd see the lights from this room, and it would be obvious to anyone where I'd gone. I was torn. Do I go up and pretend I saw nothing? I thought what's about having to go up there and lie my way through some awkward encounter. Oh, I'm feeling a little unwell. I have to skip, polite smile, nod.

Could I stomach even that brief exchange? and that's if she bought it, and it required that the next step of a plan involved me conscious or alive. I thought of her attacking me out of nowhere with a scalpel, silently dragging it across my throat, letting that surgical blade bite into cartilage. She was small, but so what? I had no idea what she was planning or where she was lurking. Walking into an ambush and toughing it out didn't seem like the best thing. of plans. What I wanted was distance. I just needed a door or a window. I just had to avoid

her. My first instinct had been to get out of the basement and I wanted to go with it, but the strange sounds coming from upstairs made me think she might have finally come to find reception empty. Terrified, I looked around desperate for some way out, or maybe even a good hiding spot. Just about every bad idea you can think of went through my head, including swapping myself out for the corpse. I nearly laughed at the stupidity of it, but my attention had been pulled to the mog drawers, and, with a sinking feeling in my gut, I slowly realized there was nowhere else in that room large enough to hide a person. Michael? The voice was muffled and distant, but I could tell she was.

was finally looking for me. This was really fast becoming a now or never moment. With a deep breath, I pulled at the first drawer I saw and felt bittersweet relief that it was empty. I wasn't sure I could go through with this,

but at least it hadn't been already occupied. With a rising gorge, I climbed inside feet first, slid myself back into the darkness, try my best not to think of a pair of cold hands. snatch my ankles and then quickly pulled the door shut. I'd barely heard a click when there came the sound of footsteps down the stairs. They stopped halfway and I clearly heard a hiss,

damn, under her breath before turning back around and returning upstairs. She must have figured I'd seen the bodies and run off somewhere else. Wherever that might take her, it had at least brought me time. I opened the door using the internal latch, while pushing aside morbid questions of why that feature was even necessary, and stepped out as quietly as I could onto the tile steps. After that, I scaled the stairs as silently as I could manage and made my way to the door at the top of the basement. She had thankfully left it a char once again. Bit of a habit of hers, I assumed, and peaked through into the darkness beyond. In the time I'd been in the basement, the sun had fully set,

and now there were only the lights of passing cars to illuminate reception. Bright amber lights with hard edges swept across the room, one after the other, with strange irregularity. They made for an unpredictable insight into the room's components. A chair, a computer, a countertop. I had to squint and wait patiently for a few that. to go by before I realized one of the back office's doors were open and there was the sound of frustrated footsteps coming from within.

She was distracted and this was my best chance of getting out. I tiptoed out of the basement and listened carefully. She occasionally hissed an angry refrain to herself opening what sounded like cabinet doors. Why are you doing this, Michael? she whined, and I was surprised that she sounded not malevolent, but sad and pitiful, like an upset teenager. She was genuinely confused by my reaction. For a brief moment, I dared to wonder if my imagination had gotten the better of me.

Right there on the counter was a bottle of wine and two glasses. Maybe she really was just intending for a normal date, and I'd made it. connections that were never really there. But in my mind, I saw that corpse bloated and bloody once again, and ultimately decided I was better safe than sorry. A quick check of the front door showed it was still locked. And so, with nowhere else to go, I went off another floor, careful to stop every step or two and listen for signs she had changed course.

Thankfully, I was at the top step by the time. I heard her to leave the office and enter another. Come on, she cried. Why are you being like this? I wasn't sure what my game plan was. I figured my best chance was a window I was already trying to start tearing the top floor apart when I was stopped dead in my tracks by what I saw.

There were a few rooms in the top floor, but only one of them had an open door and the lights turned on. What I saw inside hit me so hard I stopped dead in my tracks and led out a gasp It was covered in plastic wrap Top to bottom Floors, walls and ceiling

A small white table had been set up in one corner And on it lay three open pill bottles A hacksaw and several scalples Seeing all that stuff Getting such an unfrored sight into what she had planned. It all made my damn skin crawl. That and the bottle of lotion made me want to be sick. Suppressing the urge to gag, I decided none of that really mattered because, and this wasn't a great surprise. She had picked a room with a large and easy-to-open window. I pushed

the side of plastic sheeting and opened it to find the drop below was anywhere near as bad as the thought of spending another second in that damn room. I began to climb out, got one leg through, carefully balancing, so that if I fell, I'd minimise injury.

When I heard a sound by the door, the crinkling of plastic, the gentle glide of a door, I turned and saw her standing in the dark hallway beyond. It was hard to see, but she wasn't grinning like a maniac

or waiting with a night. knife. More than anything, she just looked disappointed, maybe even frustrated. In hindsight, it made sense. She'd spent a long time setting this up, not just the room with a plastic sheeting, but the entire relationship had been built carefully around that night. I expected her to crack, break, come at me screaming and slashing with some hidden blade. But she only shook her. head and quietly mewed. It's not my fault, I considered a reply, but found none to be fitting. I jumped and landed safely below with a bit of a knee-shaking thump, nowhere near as bad as the shin-splintering worst-case scenario I kept imagining. Then, with a deep breath, relishing the

smell of fresh air, I ran as quickly as I could towards the hospital. and the lot when my car waited. You know, you might not be too surprised to learn this, but there wasn't actually much I could prove when it was all over. By the time the police visited the morgue, it was apparently back to normal. Her side of the story was that I'd insisted on visiting the morgue out of curiosity and got upset when she didn't want to stick around.

It was kind of hard to prove anything else. I had no injuries, no evidence of intent, or anything else other than a suspicion of some pretty messed up behaviour. In the end, the best the police were willing to do was hook me up with a lawyer who dealt with restraining orders, and he told me I need some evidence of actual harassment. Well, that, and the main gist of his advice, was actually for me to stay away from her because,

if anything, it would be a hell of a lot easier for her to convince people I was the problem and not the other way around. I didn't have much choice in the end, except to move on. And all told, I was just happy to have made it out alive, even if the thought of her out there made me deeply anxious. I had to assume she'd go looking for another target since I'd whist up, although I hoped that maybe the close encounter with me would stop her from trying again. As for me, I deleted my Tinder profile, having decided that internet dating will never be a thing for me again.

But, the nightmares persist, and I often think of her standing there in the doorway. She didn't look half as upset as I might have thought. The whole thing was like I'd been a bit naughty. There she was, an aspiring murder moment away from executing a plan that had. been months in the making, and she'd stood there like it was all nothing but a minor setback. It just didn't make sense. And, like everything with Sarah, I struggled to move on from this peculiar behavior, until I got an answer.

Well, today I finally got it when I woke up and felt something strange by my feet. I pulled back the sheets and saw something that made my heart sink and a cold sweat form on the back of my neck. I was wearing a toe tag, I think I might have underestimated her patience. And I am starting to appreciate just why she found that night in the morgue to be a little more than a setback. On the tag itself, my name is scrawled on one line. and on the date of death below she had simply written in just a few days

Jackie was a werewolf Pete was a vampire though he kept referring to himself as a Dracula just to annoy me and I was a witch though admittedly the outfit was just a half-ass modification from my initial idea of

Girl Gandalf after my older brother Kevin set fire to my beard the week before. We were too old for trick-or-treating, and we knew it. But that was part of the point. After a five-year hiatus on free candy because Halloween was for babies,

we'd come back around to the idea that so long as we leaned into it being a prank slash game slash social experiment, instead of just teenagers begging for candy that we could just drive to the store and buy. It was cool again. The idea was this. We would drive up to every house,

not hiding the fact that we were old enough to do so. Beat and I were seniors, and Jackie was home from the first year of college, and between his beard, her tit to my height, no one was mistaking any of us for children. That being said, we had a rule that we had to dress up in legit costumes and couldn't act weird or assholy when we went up together candy.

Just polite trick-or-treating as to do anything else would affect the bet. Because this is where the game part came in. Before we got out of the car at each house, we would each bet whether that house would give us candy or not. The odds were always in favour of yes. Most people might get irritated at older teenagers coming for candy. But so long as we were polite about it, it was hard for them to get past their default position

of honouring Halloween customs. So, the scoring worked like this. If you bet a house would give us candy, you got one point. If you bet that a house wouldn't give candy and you were wrong, you lost one point. But if you bet a house wouldn't give us candy and you were right, that was worth five points.

so long as he didn't do anything overtly rude or whatever to make sure things went your way. Sarcastic tone of voice was okay. So were fake accents. But you couldn't say or do anything that was really impolite or highlighted our age beyond her obvious appearance and ability to drive up in the first place. No, thanks dude. Got to get back to the wife and kids now or any kind of thing. In other words Reasonable lying was fine So long as it was done courteously

When we were done for the night Whoever had the most points Got to divide up all the candy And best of all They got to pick the first three things the other two ate Didn't matter how gross or sketchy They had to eat it if someone gave it to one of us during the night Had to have high stakes after all

So far, Pete was somehow ahead. He was a good guesser. He always had been, and it was irritating. I was only two points behind, but it felt like we were running out of houses as we moved further and further out into the dark countryside. That had been part of our plan. Go out to places that had lights on, but were more remote,

as they were less likely to have many trigger-treaters. They'd also be less likely to have candy at all. But most of the houses with decorations and lights on gave up something, even if it was from their own private stash. Jackie was one point behind me, though I still thought her strategy for the evening was dumb. She was voting no candy on every house based on the idea that five points, when she was right,

would override the one-point losses the rest of the time. I tried to point out that we were only stopping at a house that looked like decent candidates to begin with, and that always voting the same wasn't really playing the game. But she wouldn't budge. And I hate to admit it, but her strategy hadn't totally sucked so far. And one no-candy house would put her back in the league,

That's why I complained when she started turning onto the driveway at the end of CR-13. She giggled as she completed the turn and gave me a grin. Her fur-covered face, green and sinister, in the meagre light of the dashboard. It has jack-o' lanterns out the fence gate with burning candles in them. That counts his decorations in light. Pete gave a groan. Damn, Winnie, she's right. Jackie had started down the driveway that was paved,

but with thick hardwoods on both sides had obscured the way forward as the path curved to the right. Irritated, I shook my head. It's supposed to be decorations on the house, not a mile away at the road. This doesn't count. Jackie shrugged. Well, we'll see then.

If the house is dark or has no decorations, then we'll turn around and leave, I'm not trying to cheat, but I'm not turning down a good prospect either. Sighing, I slumped back in my seat. Fine, but I wouldn't be surprised if there's not even a house back. Oh my God. That last comment had been from Pete, and I didn't have to ask what he meant. We just rounded the last corner, and instead of more woods were just an empty, overgrown field,

there was a large antebellum mansion with brick walls of dark grey and tall white columns that line the front like long teeth. We saw most of this from the sweeping light of Jackie's headlights, but they weren't the only things lighting up the night. Behind the hulking shadow of the house, I could make out the shifting orange glow of a fire. And up in the porch, there were four more jackalantons to match the ones in the ones. out on the road. Jackie turned and gave me a satisfied smile as she pointed first to the glow of firelight behind the house.

Light! And then the pumpkins on the porch. And decorations. I sniffed. I mean technically yeah, but does this place look like somewhere we want stuff from? It's dark and creepy. They probably have a bucket of razor blade candy in there.

Pete laughed. It's Halloween. This is the kind of house we should be visiting, and isn't the Razorblade thing more of an urban legend? Jackie shook ahead. No, that happened to my cousin once, but it's okay because I confidently bet we will get no candy here. I rolled my eyes. What a shocker. Bold strategy there.

She squinted at me. If you're scared, just say you're scared. I floated my middle fisted. her around in front of her, as I did a waving ghost voice. Screw you! Just don't come crying to me when I give you a poison candy bar covered in rat turds to eat. Snorting, Jackie turned off the car and got out. Come on, sore losers, it's Jackie's time to shine.

I bet no candy too. I couldn't see her face as we approached the house, but I could still hear Jackie smirking. Decided to back a winner, huh? Smart play. Won't help you in the end, but I respect you for acknowledging my awesomeness. Ah, whatever. Pete, what's your bet? Candy.

These people have to be loaded, right? If they're even... The porch light came on as we started up the steps. Home. And then under my breath. Damn. Pete was already on the porch. grinning back down at us.

Always bet on the Dracula. Turning, he walked over and rang on the ornate doorbell next to the equally intricately carved black door. Far away, we heard a small bell chime. This was a weird house. Everything about this felt weird. Why couldn't they see that? I was about to suggest we just give up the game

and declare Pete the winner. when the doors locked clicked and it swung open. On the other side, a dead woman stood smiling at us. Pete must have been right. Whoever these people were, they had to be kind of loaded because her costume was movie quality,

not because it was over the top or really elaborate, but because it was so subtle. The blue dress she wore was faded and curled. at the edges, with what could have been age or rot, and her skin had a faint blue tinge that stood out in the porch's overhead light, but wasn't cartoonish or overdone. The only other sign that she wasn't just an attractive middle-aged soccer mom was a left ear. Her long, dull brown hair was artfully pulled over her ear on that side,

revealing a gnawed stub instead of whole flesh. Damn, you look awesome. Pete was right, though it was hard to tell from his lingering gaze on her breasts if he was talking more about a zombie outfit or her generally being kind of hot. Jackie apparently thought it was the latter, as she nudged him in the ribs and stepped forward, holding out her open briefcase. Trick or treat, oh! I stifled a sudden nervous laugh.

The briefcase thing Jackie had brought a briefcase instead of a normal trick or treat bag At first Pete and I hadn't understood why But once I saw how she was betting Against candy every time It made more sense She thought using something that wasn't halloweony or immature Would tilt the scales towards annoying someone

So they wouldn't give us anything I couldn't say for sure if it had worked but at the two houses that had told us we were too old, they both looked at that damn thing. Still, it didn't seem to matter to this lady. She just gave a soft laugh as she looked at each of us in turn. Well, well, I appreciate the compliment, and I accept the commencement of bargaining as well.

Still chuckling, she took a step back. I have all manner of treats in the kitchen, and will brook no tricks on the table. this holy night. All I ask is that you tell me what you are before you pass my door. Suggested back down the hallway to a kitchen, there was dancing with yellow candlelight. I shot Pete, a concerned look. Ma'am, we don't normally go into people's houses. She nodded. I understand, but I just finished cooking, and I'm afraid I have too large a variety to bring out here.

Shrugging, she started to close the door. But if you refuse, he offered treats, we can close the back. Pete stepped forward. No, no, ma'am, we're happy to come in. He glared at me. Forgive my friend. She's just the sore loser. The woman smiled widely at him as she moved the hair behind her other, perfect ear.

So glad to hear it. Her face suddenly became more serious. Now, what are you? Pete hesitated a moment and then bared his plastic fangs. To be fair, they are expensive and looked good, other than being a different shade than his actual teeth. I, madame, am a Dracula. I expected the woman to laugh or look angry, but instead she just nodded. Very well, you may enter our home. Pete stepped in as she turned to look at Jackie And what are you?

Jackie had lowered a briefcase again And even through the tufts of fake brown hair glued to her cheeks and forehead I could tell she was worried too Still, she wouldn't quit playing So long as one of us kept going either So giving another small howl she stepped closer to the door I'm a werewolf, ma'am. Very well, you may enter our home.

The woman looked at me. And you? I started to speak, but something held me back. This woman wasn't right. I couldn't say what the problem was with her, and I didn't know enough to make the others leave. But there was a weight to everything the woman was saying and doing. As though this wasn't some kind of campy Halloween roleplay,

but part of something real and serious. And she was still staring expectantly at me. Heart hammering, I stepped forward. I am a girl dressed up as a witch. I was supposed to be female Gandalf, but my Jag brother burnt my beard. The woman stood me for several moments before smiling again. Very well. You may enter our home.

Closing the door behind me, the woman led us back to the kitchen. It was massive, eight burners set into a large wooden island, and a long table along one end filled with a variety of cookies and candies and muffins and cakes, along with candied apples and pumpkin tarts and other dishes that I didn't recognize. Holy crap. I mean, dang, you've got quite the spread in here. The woman chuckled. Thank you. We don't get many visitors out here, and my boys are finicky diet, so I always wind up overdoing it.

But it is Halloween after all. Please, take what you'd like. I felt a stab of panic and leaned into Jack's ear. None of this stuff is wrapped up. It could have anything in it. You can't eat this stuff. Pulling back, she gave me a frown. How's that different?

to anything else. You think someone can't rewrap candy or inject something through a wrapper? And how often do you get to try fancy stuff like this? Pete leaned into the conversation. And don't think I didn't notice your whole I'm a girl dressed like a witch thing. You've lost. Give it up. Don't mess up the best meal I've had in like ever.

You grinned at our host. So like, how much is okay for us to take? It all looks so good. She beamed at him. As much as you want, of course. There are plates and bowls at the end, so feel for you to sample here, and I can make you bags to take with you as well.

As I said, I have far too much. The woman frowned as Pete reached towards some kind of potato fritter piled on a platter near the table's edge. Oh no, that's not for you, though. Pete pulled his hand back and looked at her questioningly. Oh, sorry. She waved her hand. Not at all.

It's just that I prepared those with garlic, and I wouldn't want you to get sick. Pete stared at her blankly for a moment, and then let out a loud laugh. Oh, right, yeah, I guess I should have a selective diet. He picked up a small crystal glass, containing what looked like dark layers topped with whipped cream. Is this okay for me, you think?

The woman nodded. Yes, of course. Blood moose with a bit of caramelised baby fat for texture. She picked one up and handed it to Jackie. This should be good for you as well. Glancing between us, Jackie picked up a spoon. Sure, thanks. It looks delicious.

The woman turned and patted my arm. All the food on the left side of the table is meat-free, my dear. I gave a slow nod. Well, I mean, I'm not a vegetarian, but the cookies and muffings look great. I pointed toward Pete as he was eating the first bite of his moose. But those don't really have some kind of meat in... Pete spat a dark wad onto the floor as he began to wretch. Lady, what the hell is in that?

When he looked up, he didn't look at her, but me. his eyes watery and fearful. She frowned. Just as I've said, congealed blood, quite the favourite of your kind. He was hardly listening, hocking and spitting, as he tried to get the taste out of his mouth without trusting any of the various drinks on offer as a way to clean his palate. On his fourth spit, one of his fangs flew out

and landed in the middle of a plate filled with bat sugar cookies. What is that? The woman's tone was icy. Look at me, show me your mouth. Pete stared at her, slight jawed, his lone fang still dangling there. What the hell are you talking about? The woman's expression darkened as she turned to Jackie, who would set her own moose back down.

And what about you, the treat not to your liking? Ma'am, this isn't funny. We're just going to go and... Let go! A host had grabbed Jackie's arm, gripping it hard as she pulled her closer. You answer me now. Are you truly a werewolf? Stepping forward, I'd just shove her away from Jackie,

but she didn't budge or even look my way as she held my friend tight. Jackie was crying a little now, and she shook her head. Of course not. It's a costume. It's not even a good one. And werewolves aren't real, you crazy woman. Let me go. The woman did as she was asked.

After a fashion, slinging Jackie in Pete's direction, and sending them both careening into the nearby wall before tumbling to the floor. I moved to help them, but then the woman was in my path. And you? Are you a girl dressed as a witch? I could barely breathe as I squeaked my words out. Why, why are you doing this?

Answer me, now. Yes, yes, I'm just a girl dressed as a witch. She nodded, giving me a satisfied smile. Very well, you have maintained the covenant that your companions have broken. You may pick any treats you like from the banquet table. We just want to go. Go? They can't go.

They've broken covenant. and on a holy night no less there would be no falsehoods in this house or in my family's bargaining her eyes went to jack-in-beat even as shadowy figures began to approach between the flickers of candlelight one looked like a dragon

another a twisted skeleton while the third was a ruby mass thick with clawed tentacles the woman looked at them lovingly before giving me a warm glance my boys The glow behind the house had been a large autumn bonfire

stacked high with wood and mounds of coloured leaves that somehow never fully burned more long timbers of wood lay to one side and it was two of these that the monsters bound Pete and Jackie as they thrashed and screamed

I think I could have left before then but I couldn't abandon my friends even if the woman wouldn't let me intervene to save them. I did try once, but after that, a firm but gentle grip bore down in me heavily enough that I knew there was little I could do but shake and cry and tell them I was sorry. This seemed to trouble the woman somewhat, and as a monstrous offspring finished lashing my friends down, she spoke to me again.

I hope this doesn't seem cruel to you. my family passed her the Amago some time ago but we are still old-fashioned we keep to the ways of bargain and palaver and we especially revere Halloween as it's one of the few times the world drops some of its pretences I had no idea what she was talking about but maybe if I talked to her

I could convince her to let us all go pretences she nodded that the world is safe that monsters aren't real and that the truth that laying the dark can't hurt you despite my plan to calm down

I could hear the angry panic in my voice we were just wearing costumes that's what Halloween is about why are you punishing us for it she frowned not you just them you are honest and lying is certainly not

what Halloween is about. That's just what fearful people have told themselves and taught their children. Another lie. A lip curled, the gums around a teeth dark and withered in the bonfire's light. And we always burn liars here.

I turned as I heard a fresh set of screams. The horrors of the bonfire had picked up the timbers Pete and Jackie were tied to effortlessly, swinging them up into the dark October sky, before pitching them down into the roaring heat of the flames. I let out one last scream, letting my painful cry fill the void left by the fading of their dying breaths.

I squeezed tight, I slumped to the ground, wanting darkness to take me, begging to wake up and realize this was all some terrible nightmare. I felt something shift, both in my head and the world around me. And when I opened my eyes, the night had turned a day. The remnants of the bonfire were still there, but no sign of any bones or bodies. And when I turned around, I saw the house was gone as well. Instead, it was just a large clearing, empty, except for the large pile of smouldering wood and, next to me.

A large jack-o'-lantern painted black. and made of some kind of red-fired earth. Joking back a fresh sob, I reached over and pulled off the stem lid and looked down inside. It was halfway filled with candy corn and chocolates, and resting on top of the sweets was a small note on orange paper, pulling it out. I read what was written there. Don't forget your treats. Happy Halloween. The festival season is

Aangbroken, and that betekent modder. And so, ging Kim to come to Amazon.com. On the look to a waterdict tent, a comfortable

luggetable lus, and lupartprint regalarze. Miao. Now, he has Kim not for the

modder, just like that's the moddermann there, oh, wait just even, has he now

only modder on? Oh, yeah, only modder. DROG blithe? Goar for. Find what you need to

I woke up at the sound of a woman's voice asking me a question. The voice was familiar, but only a little. Had I just met her? Where were we at? I was on a bed, wasn't I? Had we? Screwed everything up when the railroad closed down the line through Tulson. I don't know if that was true or not.

Other than big shipments, that were too heavy for planes or trucks, did anyone use trains anymore? Either way, it was five years to the day that they ran the last train down the track that the killing started and no one could leave town anymore. They called it the death train, which made no sense for a number of reasons. First of all, it wasn't a train. It was Harvey Stark in his old conductor's outfit. riding around and Jeff Humboldt like he was a prize ball.

Stark was a little guy, sure, and Jeff was built like a brick house, so he could tote Stark around on his shoulders with no problem. If that was all it was, people would have giggled and went about their day. But Jeff had on one of those strap-on headlamps, and Stark had that whistle he would start blowing when he felt the need to warn someone that the train was coming. Except, instead of a train, it was a 400-pound naked man, shave clean and slick with sweat, a machete in each hand, and a hard on him between, making goddamn train noises while the little asshole on his back

tuted that horn and spurred him on like a prized stallion. You'd think people would see it coming and run away? But no. The first three or four just stood there. staring in confusion as the pair master blasted their way toward them and started hacking them to bits. By that point, the police had tried to stop them, but nothing put them down or even seemed to hurt them for long.

The cops had fired until the train turned its glowing eye on them, and then even the ones that tried to run got run down. The next day, we found 40 or so bloody and deformed bullets in the street, Like the old death train had just crap them back out. Maybe it had. But none of this made sense, did it? I didn't live in this place. And yeah, I knew and remembered all this stuff.

But what kind of nonsense was it? And had it really happened to me? Or was it all just a dream I needed to? Wake up, man. I'm trying to give you a chance here. I gasped as a small hand slapped me across my face. What? Jeez, what's going on?

A small lamp turned on next to me, and I saw the girl sitting on the edge of the bed. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at me. I remembered her. She was cute. I'd met her at the bar and, snap out of it, okay? You awake?

You with me? I felt myself wanting to go back to sleep. but fought the urge. She might slap me again. I'm awake. You hit me. Rolling her eyes, she let out a sigh. Do you feel something crawling on you?

My eyes widened, as I realized I did. Panicking, I began frantically brushing off my chest. What is it? Get it off me. I don't see anything. She nodded. Oh, it's there. We just can't see it. or touch it this early. But you've got bigger issues.

What you were just in? It's called a Hatter's dream. It's not a normal dream. And if you let yourself, you can get trapped there. Lose your mind there. I stared at her. What? How?

Why? She started to speak and then lowered her gaze before she went on. The short version is that I roofed you. We didn't do anything. I just drew on you. She gestured to a spot in my arm. It was a small black circle connected to a black rectangle that flared out at the bottom. What?

You drew? What is that? The woman gave a little laugh as she held up her hand to show a similar, more refined tattoo on the back. It's a keyhole. I'm not much of an artist. Just made it with a marker and... well, a bit of my blood and spit mixed in. I pushed away from her as I sat up more in the bed.

What the hell? What are you sick with? Her expression was unreadable as she met my eyes. Me? Nothing now. I mean, thanks to you. It's not like a normal disease. It moves around but doesn't leave anything behind.

You give it with a keyhole and, um, the spit and blood thing. I started shaking my head. You're crazy. She laughed again. No, I don't think so. Not anymore. It stopped crawling on me as soon as I put myself into the drawing.

But my father was crazy. He was crazy for nearly two years before I'd listened to him. I saw she was crying now. He told me these stories about a madness he'd found. Not a problem with the brain or the mind. But a living thing had hunted and crawled from person to person until they were drained dry. When I finally got desperate enough to have him back, I started to pay attention, and it didn't take long before I believed. He wanted me to help him escape the hospital so he could find someone to give it to.

But I knew that would never work, and I could see his grip was slipping. She wiped her eyes. So I finally convinced him to teach me what needed to be done and give it to me, just for a little while. He made me promise to find someone cruel, an evil that deserved it, but... How do I know? And I couldn't stand feeling it on me, knowing that it was burrowing into my brain. I shuddered.

She was right. I could feel it still, like a faint breeze that wasn't there. Not just on my chest. but in the dark behind my eyes, rustling around, feeling for cracks and wounds to exploit. Jeez, stop! She grabbed my hand. No, I need you to understand so you have a chance. I didn't do this to mess up or ruin your life.

It's not personal. I did it to save me and my dad, and you can do the same thing that I did, and maybe you can find someone that actually deserves it. just stay awake get tons of caffeine or pills or whatever I grabbed her own back clenched my teeth why don't I just put it back in you she shook her head and she waved her other hand again it won't work

dad says it won't take the same keyhole twice standing up she pulled away and stepped to the other side of the room still I figured you'd be mad that's why I'm going to leave before the drugs wear off enough for you to chase me. I tried to move my legs, and she was right. They were there, and I could feel them, but everything still felt loose and liquid below my waist. You asshole!

The woman nodded. Yeah, I guess I am, and I am sorry. Good luck. And then, she was a little. She was gone. It was another 30 minutes before I could get up and walk to the door. We'd been in a cheap motel room, not far from the bar I remembered going to. But this late, all the buses were gone, and taxes were few and far between.

I wound up sitting on a bench for nearly an hour, waiting for a ride chair to come, dipping in and out of strange dreams the entire time. I debated calling the police, but I wasn't sure what to tell them. And it was embarrassing. Drugged by some cute but insane woman that drew on me and made up some bizarre story. I decided to just get home, get some sleep, and decide what to do the next morning. Except I didn't wake up the next morning. Instead, it was three days later.

I was laying in a bed covered with dried pee and feces, and I was so dehydrated that I had to crawl to the bathroom to drink out of the toilet because I couldn't reach the sink. I remembered where I'd been. It wasn't just one place. Some of the time I was back in the town that was being terrorized by the death train. Other times I was underground somewhere, crawling through a tunnel littered with wrappers and bits of candy. I spent several hours in a building with fleshy walls that bled when you touched them and groaned with every step you took. Something lived in those walls and was after me, so I had to keep moving despite the stink and the noise and the blood. On and on through one terrible thing and then another.

And the entire time, my unseen invader was crawling all over me, probing me and lightly biting, as though testing the flavor of its newfound meat. I say all of this, because I want you to understand that I believe you now. And I want you to know that, like you said, it's not personal. It's not going to work. I already told you.

I laughed a little, turning on the headlamp so I could see better in the darkened room. I finally found her hold up in after weeks of. of tracking her down. I disagree. I've given it a lot of thought. I can still give it to you. I just need to get rid of your little keyhole.

She was crying hard now as she tried to pull free from her restraints. It's a tattoo. He made me get a tattoo so I couldn't get it back after I got rid of it. I grinned at her, stinging sweat streaming into my eyes. but that was okay the pain made everything sharper just like the machete I made it extra sharp for a clean cut

I pulled the blade out from my rucksack and she began to struggle harder then he should have told you to put it somewhere less expendable no no no I could hardly hear a screaming as a piercing whistle filled my ears. Raising the blade in both hands,

I took a small practice chop before lining up the final cut. It would all be over soon. And would I miss it? I'd be lying if I said I wasn't too minds about it. Tightening my grip on the sweat-sliked handle, I let out a bellow as I brought it down.

It wasn't as terrible and musical as the high-pitched thrilling in my ears. But it still felt right. Chew, chew, chew. Ball shake. The secretive mechanisms of the machine rattle all around us, muted like distant thunder. The six of us are gently rocked,

highly conscious of the reverberations. It sounds so far away, Zeman mutters in his thick Polish accent. I lock up at him. Kim responds with an uneasy chuckle. I was just thinking the same thing. The two smile at each other. Reassurance, I think.

She glances at me, then adjusts her weapon. I reach her hand to my forehead to rub away her thin sheen of sweat. Before embarking on this particular mission, I did not admit to the others the intensity of my claustrophobia. I grimace and look around at the windowless inner walls of the submarine and I try not to think about the enormity

of the weight of the water above our heads. The weight growing heavier and heavier by the minute as we sink deeper and deeper into the depths of the Atlantic. Ten minutes still docking, wobbles a distorted voice through the overhead speaker accompanied by a dim red light. An unseen cloud of anxiety flows to the cabin like gas,

and I scratch my jaw, discomfited and unsettled. It reeks in here. It smells like rank, stale pool water and sweat. Sweat with metallic undertones. Siman slides off his glasses, then rubs them on the material of his military fatigues, to little success.

He mutters something to himself in Polish as he pushes them back up onto his nose. The six of us have very different backgrounds. But what we share is our common station, a NATO barracks at the edge of Germany. Nearly time now, says the man to my left. Blaine, a Scotsman who lives in my quarters. Let's get this show on the road, shall we? I raise my eyebrows at him and give him a grim half-smile, but no one replies directly. To his left is Rudy, an American keen to tell anyone who will listen about his German heritage,

despite having O'Reilly as a last name, which I get some personal amusement from. I'm married to a German myself, a wonderful woman called Nina, but the only actual German natives amongst us this evening. are Kim and Mani. Kim's a good friend of Nina's, though we're not actually particularly well acquainted. I see her around the barracks, but we don't have much in common. When we speak, we tend to speak about my wife,

which aside from the army is our only real point of shared investment. Kim sometimes jokes that she knows Nina better than I do. I'm not sure how I feel about such jokes. But she's nice enough. Beside her is the other German, born and bred, and that's Manny. Currently snoozing, Manny's an old boy, a grandson, in fact, of one of the men who helped from the... Installations were about to visit.

He's sleeping for now. Not sure how he manages it, but he's a trooper. I look down at my boots and reflect on the objectives at hand. Exit the submarine, enter into the bunker, gather intel, report back. Simple enough, I suppose. But the bunker is one of several. A relic from the Second World War and kindly left behind by the Germans near unreachable at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. There aren't many pictures of these bunkers.

and of the pictures that do exist, it's difficult to determine scale or size. But by all accounts, the bunkers are monstrous things. Massive installations of concrete and metal, and God knows what else, spread in a rough half-circle around the entrance to the Mediterranean. Earlier today, the six-vus flew out from Gaila Kirshan, transferred to submarine at the Lysa on Naval Base, and it's been a long, miserable ride west from there. Every team that goes to the bunkers

reports back the same thing. That there are no major threats. There's nothing to be found of interest. And since they're causing no environmental damage and pose no strategic threat, NATO might as well leave them be. Operations out into the ocean to destroy and clean up the wreckage are expensive.

and time-consuming. And let's face it, there's always something more important to deal with and some forgotten concrete halls at the bottom of the sea. Some busy-bosy NATO penpusher must have noticed the bunkers were years overdue a visit, I guess,

kicked up a fuss, and so the papers were shuffled and pawns moved around the board. And here we are. On the way down. Down. into the deep. I try not to think about the tight, metal confines of the submarine.

I pray that I will be afforded more space to move and think and breathe when we're actually inside the bunker. The little red light by the speaker flicks back into life, and the jumbled voice comes through once again, this time louder with a whip-like electronic crackling. Five minutes to go, it says as I start with alarm. Mani is frightened out of his sleep with a gasp and a raspy exclamation. He splutters out a name that I do not recognize, one that means nothing to me.

Friedrich! He calls out into the gloom, jumping to his feet in panic. I hear some of the bones in his legs click as he does so. Jesus, Simon mutters, reaching a hand to his chest. Scare the life out of me. The eyes in the submarine regard Mani, wearily. This is not the first time he has had such an outburst. Friedrich, Manny mumbles again, looking around the vessel at his fellow passengers, expression glazed, confusion marked across his face.

Kim reaches up for his arm. The dreams again, Manny, she asks, gently beckoning him back down. Annie just stares at her for a moment, then relents, slowly sinking back onto the bench, rubbing at the grey around his temples wearily. Yes, apologies. I don't know what comes over me. They've been getting worse. What was it this time?

Kimmy asks him. He shakes his head. It's already fading, but I believe it was similar to before. The people I saw in the dreamscape were none that I've actually met. I do not recall having ever seen them, not in this life. In my dream, however, I knew them. I knew them all. They were important to me.

We were in a field of long grass, and there was a young man, Friedrich. He was going to war. Kim chose a cheek a little as she considers this. I don't think I expected him to come back. Manny says quietly, as the submarine rumbles. I knew that it was being sent to his death. They're connected to your grandfather, Kim says with self-imposed certainty.

I'm sure of it. That's why they're getting worse. Ever since you volunteered to come on the mission, your subconscious knew you'd be getting closer to him, to his place of work. Load of bull crap. Rudy chimes in, his hair flopping as he leaned forward over his gun.

Kim, you got to start. stop with this supernatural nonsense. It's all in your mind, Manny. In fact, Kim, you hit the nail on the head just now. It's all in your subconscious, man. Just let it go. It'll be some repressed German guilt or something. He chaps a finger towards Manny and throws his brow.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. You aren't guilty of any kind of World War II crimes, just because his granddaddy was an SS officer or whatever. Mani sighes, wearily. He reaches his hand into a pocket and produces a handkerchief, which he used to dab his forehead. I'm well aware of this, he responds dryly. My grandfather was not in the SS, but I appreciate your passion on this matter.

Damn straight, Rudy replies, leaning back in his seat. Blaine and I exchange a look. I can empathize at least a little with Mani's interest. internal struggle, regarding his German grandfather, I mean. My wife shares his burden, as her own great-grandfather was a colleague of his. They both work together in a close capacity, I am told, or at least that's what the records indicate. Prepare for docking, crackles the voice to the speaker, and for a second or two the light in the

submarine falters, shrouding us all in temporary. prairie, sickly darkness. I suppress a shudder as we get ready to disembark, and the rumbling all around us wavers intermittently between louder and quieter, louder and quieter. The sounds of the engine rise to the greatest volume since we left the port at Lisbon, then fade to a soft and steady background murmur. Lane rises to his feet. check this place out then, eh? The first bunker. Reckon will find anything fun. Zemann joins him,

stretching as he does so. I doubt it. They recon this place every what, 10 or so years, and they've never brought back anything interesting. I doubt we'll see any more than a collection of dusty World War II ruins. You don't find that interesting? I ask as I prepared to disembark. morbid sure but not even a little interesting Zeman makes a noise of disgust and mutters something to himself I find no interest in the droppings of vermin he says and turns away the cynic in me sees Simon shoot a quick glance at Mani

before he does so and this cynical part of me is keen to interpret it with dark thoughts but that would do the man a disservice Zimon is a good fellow, hardworking. Blaine heads through the narrow inner body of the submarine towards the ladders, and Zeman follows on behind. Behind him goes Rudy, flicking his hair from his face, and he's followed by Kim and Mani. Mani places a hand on my shoulder and gives me a tired smile as he passes me by. I return it, then, with a deep sigh.

I say goodbye to this room in the submarine for now. I'm looking forward to a little more space to breathe. One by one we ascend the ladders and out through the circular hatch in the submarine's roof. I allow in a great long fall of air as I do so, squinting through the darkness as I fumble for my torch, switching it on and joining its yellow gold beam with the others. We stand on the cold metal roof of the submarine, half visible, protruding like an iron whale from the black waters below, lapping hungrily at its sides. Ahead of us is a steel rail and a vast concrete platform that extends into shadow. The bunker from the inside has the look of an enormous hangar.

Kim taps my shoulder, then gestures up towards the back of the hall. closer to the ceiling, and I follow her gaze and raise my light. Our beams fall upon a colossal eagle carved into a sheet of rock, itself embedded in concrete. The eagle is angular and cold, as it sits proudly upon its logo. Seaman crosses himself and spits into the water, before taking a few long steps and leaping from the edge of the submarine's roof to the concrete platform, his boots scraping against the side. He hauls himself up with the aid of the steel rail, and we listen to the sounds of his boots against the ground as he looks for the mechanism which will release a bridge for safer passage. He was in the file, so it shouldn't be too hard to find. I glanced down into the water below. The smell of salt is thick in the air.

I am unable to keep from my head the fleeting thought of a sudden slip, of tumbling down into that dark and quietly rippling water, and softness a dark mask to conceal the terror of its icy depths, an unforgiving pull hidden away beneath. I shiver and look away. A few cold moments pass, and with the eventual rattling of gears and springs, a bridge begins to extend from the sight of the sight of the side of the moment of the moment's.

of the concrete out towards our spot on the sub. Lane tests it first, and then one by one we cross, joining Simon on the platform proper. We begin to cross the floor, making our way towards the gridded double doors at the hall's far end. At present only gloomy rectangles in the distance. I feel very small in here, even as a part of a team of six, I can't help but feel. Insignificant, dwarfed by the intensity of this deserted layer. This is a sick place, many says in a low voice. His eyes flashed momentarily, as a straight beam

of light passes across his face. Do you feel it, Oliver? After a beat, I nod in agreement. There is something wrong here. Something on a level I can't quite grasp. Just yet. I glance up to the eagle as we walk beneath it. This is no passing fancy historical sight. Are you all right? I ask him. Yes, he replies.

For now. I don't know exactly why many volunteered for this mission. He's the only one who volunteered for one thing. The rest of us was simply ordered. I think he pulled some strings and cashed in some favours, convinced the brass he'd be of use, given his knowledge of, an experience in decommissioning former German World War II sites and places of... Relevance.

It's true what Kim was saying earlier as well. His grandfather was prominent in World War II. Vanished without a trace one day. There's no record of his death, but he did work down here. At least for a time that much is known. One of the first recon teams down to this bunker recovered some old files. Mani's grandfather was one of the listed names found within. You reckon we'll find any bodies?

Flane calls back over his shoulder. Just a little too loud for the environment. I cringe, but Rudy replies, undeterred. I should think so. I find myself a nice skull to the environment. take home as a souvenir. We reach the metal double doors at the end of the hall, and with a look round the group, Lane presses his shoulder against them, and forces one open. We slip through the gap in formation, checking down the long, dark corridors that branch out before

us and beside us, disappearing into the void on our left and to our right. No, Mani says, his voice echoing down between the walls. The reports made no notes of anybody's found, German or otherwise. Whatever they were doing here, they didn't stick around. So then where did they go? Simon ponderes aloud, arcing his weapon around as he steps into a deserted room nearby, perhaps once used for briefings or meetings. They wouldn't have just vanished into thin air.

We might see a by, Kim says. The group looks at her. A man was killed during the last expedition. A soldier, French, I think. Oh yeah, Rudy mutters, rubbing his nose. How'd that happen again? Freak accident, right?

That's right, Blaine says. That's what I was talking about, really. Apparently the poor bugger got knocked clean cold by a falling pipe. Might have been a ceiling panel. or something actually, but whatever. The report read that he was faced down and drowned in a puddle. When the rest of his team found him, they didn't have the capacity to remove the fallen material,

so they were forced to just leave him down here. Don't believe he was ever recovered, since were the first guys to walk these corridors in over a decade. So they just left him down here, Simon asks. That's cold, inhumane almost. I don't think they had a choice, sigh, Kim says, nudging his arm. Maybe we'll have to leave you down here. Hey, not funny, he says, but he chuckles as he does so.

I'm not particularly amused myself. To tell the truth, I feel sick. Unless they're hiding it better than we are, it's possible that only many and myself are actually comprehending the weight of the monstructural. of this place. The others haven't really thought about it, I don't think. But we're in one of six bunkers. This particular one is the easiest to reach, supposedly,

so it's the one that command keeps sailing their teams to. But something of this size, something as massive as this, hidden away in the darkness at the bottom of the ocean. It's hiding a secret, a terrible, frown. frightening secret. And I don't even know what it is. The place is cold and chills ripple across my exposed skin as I glance from left to right, peering into the shadows of the open

doorways as we walk the length of the central corridor, deeper into the middle of the complex. Strategically, a bunker like this would be better off in the Mediterranean, surely. Shallower waters for easier construction, position between Italy and Libya, for instance, for maximum tactical value. But the Germans took the time and trolled to construct it out here, in the Atlantic. And for what? Why would they do this? Where did they go?

And what exactly did they leave behind? Silence falls across the group. There is no sound but the clamping of our boots. The long low breaths of my comrades echoes round the walls. At the very edge of my hearing, a noise shivers fast down the length of the hall. My heart rate quickens and my ears sharpen. The simple creak of an old structure, I should think, but it almost sounds like whispering. An almost imperceptible whisper at the very threshold of sound.

It's so faint, however, that I decided not to bring it up for fear of looking like an idiot, but I share another pointed look with Kim just beside me. She heard it too. Maybe the others did as well. I glanced to my left as Blaine pulls his mask up and around his nose and mouth. Simon crosses himself and man he rubs his forehead. I see that it is covered in beads of sweat. We press on.

We'll head to the central room, then we'll split into two teams. Blaine says through his mask. We get this bunker checked out. We reconvene. He's met with murmurs of assent as we pushed through another set of double doors, smaller this time, and step into some kind of lobby. Mani produces a map and unfolds it, and it becomes clear that this lobby will, if we continue, head through the complex's centre.

We are halted, however, by the strength of our own sudden awe. We stand in the entrance to a wide room with a high, domed ceiling. The walls around us are covered, much to our surprise, in plaques and paintings, and in the room's middle is a now dead fountain. The centerpiece of which is a colossal statue, or series of statues, depending on your perspective. I crane my neck, struck with disbelief. The statue depicts three men of varying age, with expressions solemn and eyes pure white. A long and fish-like serpent carved from the same foundation winds itself between and around them,

way up towards the ceiling, its jaws wide and. teeth sharp. A dark circular symbol can be seen on the foreheads of each of the three men, stark against the relative paleness of their stone skin. Dishwat Sonny, Mani mutters, taking a step towards the shadow. He is hauntingly small by comparison. The black sun, Simon repeats, staring up at the centerpiece with horror. What does it mean? asks, glancing around the group. And what the hell is this thing anyway? It ain't in the damn report. You think at least one of the teams would have mentioned seeing something like this. The Black Sun was one of the many symbols used to lies by the SS. Many replies, still staring

up at the great statues. It has been employed by many cultures, but in this instance, it was the symbol of the Vivalzburg Castle. He turns to us. the dark home of the German World War II foray into the occult, led by none other than Heinrich Himmler. German occultists, Rudy responds. Then he puts out a hand and makes a dismissive gesture. No, no, come on. Don't messing me with that suminatural nonsense again.

We're dealing with people here. Just ordinary, evil people. He shoots another lockup to the statue of the three men. and the creature. Well, he falters. Maybe not that ordinary, but you catch my drift. Zeman grunts and shakes his head.

Not ordinary, and not people. This place is the husk for a den of long-dead rats. Look, come on, man. I get you hate him. You aren't alone in this, but open your eyes. Rudy throws an arm out to the statues beside him. You aren't even a little impressed, or at least, I don't know, curious? Seaman scoffs then walks away, turning his back to the statue as he continues his passage

round the perimeter of the room. I take another long look at the statue, then head around on its left-hand side, the opposite to Simon. I come up alongside Blaine, admiring a painting, and I stand beside him. I read a little plaque on the wall, one celebrating a visit made this bunker by Himmler in 1941, and then I consider the painting. It is housed in a frame of dark, rich wood, which is comprised of a host of grim, swirling colours. The scene, despite its lack of vibrancy, is vivid and powerful.

It depicts a churning sea, an enormous feels as if it feels as if it is vivid and powerful. an enormous feels as if I'm there myself. In a way, I suppose I am, here in this bunker at the bottom of the ocean. The waves are grey and black and tinged with the darkest of blues, frothing angrily as they crash and cascade into and over each other.

At the paintings far left is the silhouette of a shadowed city of ruins, protruding faintly from the surging sea and lost behind the spiraling clouds overhead. I'm vaguely aware of a low conversation taking place between Simon and Kim somewhere far behind me, but in the moment

they are overwhelmed by the impossible roars of these silent waves. A light out stands at the far right of the painting, its beacon and eye, and the flash of painted gold looks out over the storm and casts a lone, solemn beam towards the fallen city.

The lighthouse, upon closer inspection, is comprised of bodies. Hundreds and hundreds of broken bodies intertwined with torturous new purpose. It's awful, isn't it? Blaine murmurs, and I'm snapped back to reality with a blink. Yes, I reply,

after a beat. Glancing down to the little silver tag embedded in the painting's frame. The Eintausen, it's called. Or in English. A thousand. Awful, I repeat. But still. Aye, Blaine Grunts.

It's a quality painting. There's a pause. Not something I'd ever hang up in my bloody bedroom, though, personally. I chuckled dryly, and we move on. Our footsteps are heavy against the concrete below. Rudy made a point just now, I say out loud as we walk. Lane waits for me to continue. He said that the statue, this whole room actually,

is entirely omitted in the reports. This is meant to be an uninteresting, unassuming lobby. Instead, it's filled with intricate paintings and giant statues. Why wouldn't this have been mentioned? Seems obvious to me, mate. Plain replies, because despite what Simon says, this stuff is interesting. And when somebody finds something mysterious and interesting,

everyone in their grandma wants to come and have a look. He hoists his gun a little higher, clears his throat. I'm guessing that this was all omitted because the recon teams decided they didn't want people coming down here. I swallow. and why would they do that, hmm? I ask him rhetorically.

Why wouldn't they want anyone else coming down? Why keep it all so cryptic and silent? Blaine shrugs, couldn't say. There's something wrong down here, I mutter. I'm sure of it. Something very, very wrong. And every part of me hates this place. I, Glane says,

I've started feeling a little like that myself. It's getting worse, actually. The deeper in we go. I nod. We're going to find something terrible down here. I finish. But to this, Lane says nothing. Leaving the statues and the defunct fountain behind,

we push through the doors at the hall's opposite end and head through into a long, wide room with two simple doors. We are joined by the others. The door on the left has a plaque that reads, Their control arm, and the door on the right is marked only with the same symbol on the foreheads of the stone giants. The black sun.

My stomach turns as a look upon it, and a wave of cold nausea passes through me. My heart rate quickens, and I roll my shoulders, attempting to release some built-up tension. Mani brings a hand up to his head and gasps and the group turns to him. Mani, Kim says with a concern. Are you all right?

Mani pats a hand and steps away, a little closer to the control room. I keep seeing, he falters. I'm seeing in my head what I can only describe as flashes of memory, but the memories are not mine. He gestures to the control ram door. There is a man in there, he says simply. Ben looks back at us. A dead man, I believe.

He rubs the side of his forehead. And I've also come to believe that I was wrong earlier. I no longer think this place is entirely deserted. He points to the door. A man's last memories are held behind that door He strides towards it Manny Rudy calls out

Wait But the man does not He approaches and grabs the handle Swinging the door outwards into our corridor And shines inside his beam of light He steps into the room And we follow him inside Christ

Blame mutters as we enter I guess he's found your German skull, Rudy. Why didn't you go and grab it up? Rudy doesn't respond. He simply looks down at the sight before us. A skeleton surrounded by dust and empty cans slumped back in a chair against the wall. The bones are wrapped up in the threads of an old German World War II uniform. None of this is supposed to be down here, Rudy says eventually. why do command keep all this stuff from us? It's not command, Blaine replies, echoing our earlier conversation.

It's the recon teams. The recon teams write the reports. So why omit all this? Rudy says as he throws up his hands. I don't get it. This ain't no ordinary bunker, and I think we've all realized that by now. Kim ignores him. What is it, Manny?

She asks, as the man. crouches down beside the skeleton. Mani regards the remains of the skeleton. He looks down to the brown banded book on the desk beside him, and he considers the iron cross on the front of the uniform. A hint of a chain could be seen spilling from one of the front pockets, and Mani reaches over to take hold of it. Hey, should you be doing that? Rudy asks, but Mani continues and slowly He draws from the uniform a golden locket in the shape of an oak leaf. He turns it over in his hands. I know this man, he says simply,

What do you mean? Kim asks. His name is Hans. He has a wife and a young son, a son who was no older than 11 or 12 at his death. I don't suppose he'll be that young anymore, manny. playing grunts, giving the skeleton's boot a light kick. A cloud of fine white dust burst out into the room. I imagine he looks like his father here. Mani sits the locket on the desk, and Kim reaches out to open it up.

Inside is a picture of a square-jawed soldier with closely cropped hair. Beside him is a woman dressed in the style of the 1930s. The picture in the locket's other half is of a young boy. The couple's son by the look of him. Jeez, Rudy murmurs with dismay, looking from the picture to Manny and back. Mani! Mani! How did you know that?

Mani stands back up with a small grunt, his legs creaking as he does, and he takes the churnal on the desk up into his hands. It begins to carefully leave. leave through the pages. Even though it likely belonged to a monster of a man. It begins. I can never bring myself to be anything but gentle when it comes to books. I was instilled into me a deep respect for the written word.

He cautiously turns to the first page and points to the name that has been written in the front margins. Hans, it read. Yes, Mani says quietly. This is him, Simon and Blaine have begun to rummage to the room, searching through papers and charts and various records. Most of the files have been emptied, and those that remain seem to detail only the structural side of the complex, aspects of the engineering and the architecture, though nothing can be found about the purpose of or meaning behind the intricate statues in the central lobby. as Kim and Rudy and I talk lowly amongst ourselves and as Mani begins to read through the journal

Ziman takes a little time to skim through a letter he finds amongst the others ducked away on a shelf He snorts and shakes his head Then holds the paper up for us Look, take a look at this He says slapping the paper down under the desk beside the skeleton Have a read, he says before jabbing his finger onto a couple choice lines.

This was written by the German commander of the bunker, he says, by my guess, and it's directed at our little rat hands here. What is it? asks Kim as she leans over to read. It's a promise, a false promise, that they will return for him. Simon mutters, a promise that his comrades will come back for him when they're able. From where? Blaine asks, and Simmon shrugs. It does not say, does it matter? It was clearly a lie.

He kicks the legs of the skeleton a little harder than Blaine, and the skeleton slumps lower down in its chair with another accompanying cloud of dust. They clearly lied to him. He did his duty like a good little soldier and stayed behind us who God knows what, and they forgot all about him. and he died alone in his chair at the bottom of the sea.

He got off lightly. Simmon grimaces and kicks the thigh of the skeleton as hard as he can. And with a shower of white mist, the skeleton crumbles and collapses into a pile on the floor. For goodness sake, what do you do that for? Rudy splutters and coughs, idiot. Don't talk to me like that, Simmon retorts, then leaves the room shaking his head. Man he waves a hand around his face, dispersing the dust, squinting as he scans the pages of the mysterious journal.

Simmons' guess seems to be right, he says, as he turns the pages of the journal. This man's job was to keep the power running. He was an engineer, and was, it would seem, tasked with repairing and maintaining the system, to prioritize where the energy should go. He points to a passage written near the bottom of one of the pages. You can read this, Manny, Rudy asks. To his credit, the journal is written not only in German, but in intricate cursive. Mani nods, of course.

He points again to the passage, and I do my best to read what is written as Manny continues. Here he begins speaking about a necessary diversion of power, and how he dislikes how cold the bunker has become. He also makes references to fixing and repairing. What kind of guy was he? Rudy asks. He was full of pride, Manny says, as he carefully turns the pages.

It says he was one of several volunteers for this role. He was happy to do his duty. It gave him purpose. We are quiet for a moment as Manny turns the pages. Hands expressed in this journal his excitement at being reunited with comrades, that despite the loneliness, he knew that they would return for him when all was ready, that he too would see the truth, that he would keep the power going for as long as they needed. Wait, hang on, Blaine interrupts. This guy kept the power on? For how long, and for what? Why exactly was he keeping this place active? There is a pause, and Blaine looks around the room. Is it still active?

To this, of course, we have no answer. That's a good point, though, says Kim. Does it say what the purpose of the bunker is in there, Mani? Does Hans write about why he had to keep the power on? Mani chooses tongue in thought. He flicks through another couple of pages. His writing is somewhat critical. In that regard, perhaps he feared that the journal would anger his superiors, a potential breach

of state secrets. He writes only that his work, ongoing, was to protect, he points to a sentence at the bottom of a paragraph. Despite the calligraphy, the words are quite clear. The Eintausen, Manny reads aloud. And it chill shivers across my body. The festival season is aangbroken, and that betekent, modder. And so, came Kim to Amazon.com.

On the look at a water-dict tent, a comfortable luch bed, oh, so, knus. And lupart print regalearze. Miao. Now, Kim, he doesn't care more to make over the modder. Net so as the dancing the modderman there. Oh, wait just even. He has he now only mudder on?

Oh, yeah, only muddur. DROG-Beliver? Go for. Find what you need need to knowdh contact with Blaine. Mani, I begin, but the man continues. He grew angry, many mutters, turning page after page, scanning them as quickly as he can. Hands, he grows impatient and becomes guilty because of his impatience. He is frustrated, anxious.

Yes, here he noticed fear. he expresses true worry for the first time, worry that they will not return for him before his supplies are exhausted. Mani's eyes start from left to right across the page. We watch him do so. I find that my heart has begun to pound and eventually Mani turns to the final entry.

Mani regards us one by one and reads the passage aloud. I resent what I have done. Many reads, And I now question if I have been made a fool, and if my superiors were either unable or unwilling to return, it matters not which is the truth, but they demonstrate the same ends.

And besides, it is too late. This is likely to be my last entry. What could have happened? If, as promised, my life was destined to be part of something truly greater, then I would have not been left behind like this and forgotten. I have given everything to the cause, and now the end approaches.

I will not be granted a passage to the truth. Maybe I deserve this fate. I once considered Dianthousen to be animals. Perhaps they still are. Vermin and of a lower standing than myself. But even if this were true, to do what we have done, even to animals.

No animal deserves such torment, surely, human or otherwise. I cannot shut the project down, even though it might force my comrades return. I do not know what they face. I cannot betray them, not now. I have come too far. And so, as this is the path I have chosen, I don't doubt I'll be made accountable for my crimes. Not in this life. If not in this life, then the next.

To shut the project down would be to admit that it was all for nothing. And I cannot do this. I must do what I believe to be right. Mani finishes reading aloud, then closes the journal with a dull thud, placing it back on the desk. Deandtowson, Kim repeats, aloud. What could it be? I have a theory or two, Many begins,

but he is again interrupted. Zeman leans around the open doorway, his expression dark. No need, Mani, he says, I believe that I have found it. He disappears and hurriedly we follow on, leaving the control room behind and catching Zimon up as he passes through the second door, the one marked with a black sun.

We step into an enormous room, shrouded and flickering green and watery light. Simmons strides to the room's middle, and his shadow is thrown out long behind him across the floor. Oh, Kim murmurs, a breathing growing shallower and shallower beside me. Oh no, oh no! My eyes widen, and I take a step forwards, caught in the clutches of terror. Blaine swears and Rudy does likewise, running across the room to catch up with Simon. Despite the cold, Mani is now sweating profusely, and I can seem shaking in the corner of my field of vision. But each and every one of us stares at the tearing centrepiece of the hall.

There is no statue. We stare at a monstrous, translucent box of thick glass, refracting its green inner light across our faces, across the walls, bizarre and ever-shifting shapes and shards. It bubbles softly, it whers, and pipes overhead creak warily in the darkness. It is a tank of sorts, filled to the brim with an unknown green liquid, and inside drifting like wraiths

as if caught in the wind are hundreds and hundreds of bodies they're nude, warped their eyes are completely blank shimmering green through the liquid through the light

their mouths hung open and figs with expressions of shock or of silent horror perhaps bubbles form across their skin many of the drifters have developed tendrils or frills that float behind them like the arms of a jellyfish I look at the faces behind the glass it's difficult to make them all out

but I get the strong impression that some are old and some are young some are male and some are female these are people from all walks of life and here they are drifting in the shimmering green light of the tank, way down here with us, beneath the waves. The Ntowsend, many whispers, the tank thrums and whirs,

the bodies within drift aimlessly across and around in the fractal green light of the water. Although, it won't be water, of course. It'll be something else, some other substance. I step closer to the glass, my heart hammering. I've never seen anything like this before, of course. None of us have.

I peer into the tank. I study as best I can the faces of the corpses within. Oh, are they corpses? I squint. They make me feel ill. The distortion of the glass and the light and the liquid makes it difficult to tell if the people inside are breathing, but they certainly don't appear alive in the traditional sense.

Their expressions are fixed in place. Dark veins have crept up their host's neck and have begun to streak across their faces. Whenever I think I can see a twitch in a muscle or in one of those mutated veins, I am met with a doubt that it was perhaps nothing more than trickery in the light. Watching them all drift by, it makes my head spin. I release a breath I'd forgotten I was holding and retreat with a hand on my forehead. This is it, right? Rudy says, turning back to face the group, looking rapidly between us.

This is the thousand, the entousand. I think about the painting I saw back in the lobby, and I meet the gaze of Blaine beside me. It's clear his thinking about the same thing. Rudy swears and runs his hand through his hair. I didn't sign up for this man. Simon unclasps and raises his weapon. He takes a step forward. Hey, hey!

Rudy calls as voices rise around the group. Wait, many bellows, his voice cutting through the clamour. An uneasy quiet holds the group in check for a moment. and Manny speaks. That's all just calm down. We are trained professionals. Act accordingly. A frown flickers across his face,

and he winces, furrowing his brow, a sweat begins to leak down past his hairline. Mani, Kim says, reaching out. But Mani gently shakes his head, walking towards the tank. What does it do? Kim ponder's aloud, her eyes wide.

I mean, what's it for? There was a painting in the room with the statues, I say to her and the group. It was called The Thousand. It showed a lighthouse made of people looking out over a storm. And there was a city, Lane adds, as we approached the nearest glass wall of the tank. Or at least, I think it was.

hard to tell ruins really dark and broken spires there was a painting with the same name on the other side of the hall too see my nads it showed a ruin from above and the layout of the ruin was the same as the black sun

the alien green light reflects off his glasses and obscures his eyes the shape was surrounded by six golden eyes we reached the edge of the glass a large metal panel had embedded here, easily taller than myself, and is connected to a series of pipes and mechanisms, many of which feed through the floor.

A plaque of gold and black has been screwed into the panel. It depicts a faded brown photograph alongside a name, and what appears to be a handprint alongside a list of details written in German, the name. is that of Mani's grandfather and he reveals this to the group. Damn, Rudy mutters, this is insane. Blaine grunts, I see some resemblance, Manny. Perhaps a little, Manny says,

his eyes scanning the information recorded here, though personally I've always felt I take more after my mother's side of the family. He reaches up a hand and places it against the handprint of his grandfather and instantly recoils with a gasp clutching his head. He catches his breath, then furrows his brow looking up at the tank. This thing is an insult to humanity, he grunts, a tumour. Almost every fibre of my being wants to see it destroyed. But yet, there is something else as well.

"'What?' Kim asks. "'What is it?' "'I keep seeing,' "'Many begins, then falters. "'I keep seeing glimpses of the water, "'as if I am in there, amongst them. "'I see myself through the glass, "'distorted, just quick flashes.'

"'Simond sucks some air in through his teeth. "'I think we shut this down. "'I don't know why it has been kept active for so long, this disgusting secret. What are we even suggesting here? Is many able to see through the eyes of these bodies in the water? Are they alive? His final word echoes around the room

and is lost to the thrum of the old machinery. He clenches his jaw, then repeats himself. I say we shut it down, and I say we shut it down now. The tank was built by the enemies. What more do your people need? you think it's something to be preserved. He turns and begins the stride around the side of the tank into the watery shadows thrown by the structure's eerie light.

Kim hurries after him. Wait, Simon, don't you think we should wait and try to work out what it's for, or why it was built? Blaine turns to us. I think I might go back and grab that journal. Couldn't make much sense of it myself, but many can read it. he might have missed something important. But as he makes to leave, we hear Zimmer call his name. Blaine, he shouts back through the darkness.

Got another skeleton here. I think it's the one you were talking about. We head over, ask tiny specks in the glow of the green tank. And as we approach Zeman and Kim, we find them standing by the side of a skeleton. A skeleton adorned in Western military fatigues and sprawled across the floor. We consider it for a moment. This ain't one of them, obviously.

Rudy murmurs, crouching down and running his finger around the collar. He lifts an arm to look at the sleeve. French, he says, this will be the guy from the report. Wait, Kim mutters. No, that can't be right. The report read that he was killed by a fallen pipe right, drowned in a puddle. Blaine and I take a step back, and we cast the beams of our torches around the surrounding area. A few of the beams are raised to the high ceiling above.

There is no sign above of any disconnected piping or panelling, nor is there any sign of something having fallen. Aside from the skeleton itself, the ground. is unmarked. There is also no logical place from which a puddle might have formed, or from where such a puddle might have leaked. This guy wasn't killed by no falling debris, Rudy says. Take a look at this, guys. He lifts his torch and the light falls across the skeleton's head. It illuminates a single hole, the size of a bullet, in the back of the skeleton's skull. Shot in the back of the head. Zeman murmurs, anger rising in the back of his voice.

All right, enough of this, he shouts, standing straight up. Enough, enough of this ridiculous murder mystery. He chaps a finger towards the tank. That thing makes me sick, and I'm shutting it down now. He takes his weapon in hand and strides past the skeleton back towards the tank. Hey, hold on, Kim says, reaching out for his sleeve, but he shrugs her off. Rudy positions himself in the man's way. For God's sake, man, just calm down.

What the hell's the matter with you? Got a screw loose or something. What would you know of this? Simon snorts, trying to shove his way past. You don't understand a thing, no matter how much you try to pretend to. And what exactly is that supposed to mean, huh? Rudy challenges his voice raising. Wayne attempts to get between them as an argument breaks out,

leaving Mani and myself beside the skeleton. We look at each other. There are all manners of curiosity in that plaque, he says to me, after a beat, alongside my grandfather's picture and his name. It listed his blood type, other statistics that I cannot discern the meaning of, relating, I believe, to, activity,

in different parts of the brain. Mani, I say to him, rubbing my jaw. Please, be frank with me. Do you know what this is? Do you know what these bunkers are for? Mani shakes his head. I do not, but I'm groan in confidence that the people inside the tank are alive. I believe that the dreams of which I'm cursed.

Well, this might be a long shot, but... I think they might come from the dream. drifters inside the tank. Goose bumps ripple across my skin. So what do we do? I ask. Is someone right?

Do we try shut it down? I think we have no choice, Mani replies. So how do we do it? I ask him. The guy who wrote the journal said even he couldn't do it. I believe that the fellow in the control room

was constrained mentally, Oliver. Mani says to me, not physically, and we have access to technology they did not. Controlled explosives for one thing. We can't use an explosive, Mani, I tell him. We have no idea what the stuff in the tank even is. If we use too much and we break the glass. Of course, of course, Mani interrupts.

I'm not a fool. There will be a way to open the panelling. There is a power keeping them locked up shut. How can you tell? There was a light coming through the cracks, but there was no keyhole nor slots for screws. I think there may be some kind of magnet keeping the panel connected to the body of the tank, or at least something on the inside. So all we need is a way to open the panel, have a look inside.

And even as I say the words, I notice for the first time the position that the skeleton beneath us is actually in. He sprawled across the ground, yes, but he was clearly heading in a certain direction, off to the side, towards the great pipes at the room's edge. I raise my torch, and I step around the poor forgotten soldier, walking in the direction that he'd been heading before he was shot. Mani accompanies me, and at the very edges of the room nestled between two in the north. enormous pipes and rattling with a faint whir is some kind of ancient power box a generator of sorts and this thing actually has a door locked up tight I look at Manny and he nods and takes a step back I raise my weapon and fire two quick careful shots into the door side It cracks open, and the sounds of the argument behind us cease at once. The hell are you guys doing?

Rudy calls over. And after a smattering of boots and cold concrete, we are joined by some of the others. All right, good. Now, hold on a moment. Many says, as he pulls open the busted door with a clank, examining the inside of the generator. I've seen machines like this before in my career. Not identical, of course, but similar enough.

Just give me a moment. We're shooting these things now, Simon shouts over. He remains across the hall, bathed in green, as he stands by the tank. So much for waiting and using caution, I guess. Why don't we just blow the hell out of this thing? Look, perhaps we're all getting carried away. Wayne cuts in. Are we actually considering destroying the tank?

We don't know what it is. is. Now, I don't know why the previous Rekong teams decided to keep it a secret, but they obviously knew something we didn't. Perhaps we spent a little more time looking around at least. We should report this, Kim says. Let's just get the hell out of here and tell command everything we know. Got it, Mani mutters to himself as he makes a decision, then reaches out and flicks a switch. He unplugs a cord, then pulls down on a lever on the right-hand side. There is a low-grown that rumbles throughout the bunker. The green light flickers momentarily,

and with a cloud of dust and a metallic clattering, I see the silhouettes of several panels falling from the side of the tank. Now, many says, rubbing some dark grease from his hands, let's take a look at what we're working with here. As Blaine suggests, there is clearly more to learn about this place. We take a slow and measured approach to this. We have no idea what we're working with, so we consider every juncture with caution.

We cannot rule out simply giving a full report to command, but there must be a reason as to why we've never heard about all this before. He looks between us, from Blaine to Kim to Rudy and myself. Now, I have some theories. regarding the people in the tank. I catch a movement in the corner of my eye, and I see the silhouette of Zeman working hurriedly away in the freshly exposed inner mechanisms of the great green tank,

formerly hidden behind the panel. Hey, I mutter, then a little louder. Hey, Zeman, what are you doing? Zeman does not respond. He simply slams something into place and then makes a break for it. Here is over to us, his expression hidden in shadow. Simon, Kim begins, as a low beeping becomes suddenly audible.

Simon, she repeats a little more urgently. What have you done? The man comes into view, and as the shadows swim across his face and the reflected green flashes over his eyes, I catch a glimpse of his expression. A wide, manic grin, eyes wide and filled. He tilts his head as he runs and presses a finger against the ear closest to the tank. What follows is the sound of an explosion, loud and sharp and clear, cutting through the murmur and

whir of the bunker like a blade. Shadows of metal and rubber, and God knows what else, burst with a sudden force from the place that Zimmer was tinkering, and the green of the tank begins the falter. I grimace and wince as a low ring begins to chime in my ears. I push my way past the man and run towards the front of the tank. The entire panel, with a picture of Mani's grandfather and the information alongside, has been blown to shreds. Staring into the dark hole that Zimmon has blown in the mechanism of the tanks. Filter? I'm not sure what it is, but looking inside.

at the steadily grinding gears, the deflating pumps and the leaking ooze and grease and fluid. It's like locking into the open wound of a monstrous dying animal. I retreat, looking up in shockers from this fresh wound. A dark, thick sludge begins to leak into the glowing green waters. Many gasps aloud and collapses to his knees, holding his head. Kim rushes to his side As the rest of us watch the sludge disperse And blow out like a slow, toxic cloud

Throughout the water The drifting souls It seems to me that they try their best to avoid it For as long as they can In the manner that a jellyfish might try to avoid A beam of light In its slow and meandering way But one by one

They are enveloped And the green liquid turns steadily grey, and then black. I watch in horror as the hundreds upon hundreds of bodies begin to melt. They lose whatever sense of orientation they might have once possessed. They are washed against each other, and where they touch, they dissolve.

There's no other word for it. Pieces begin to break away, sinking slowly and sickening to the base. the tank where they are gradually lost to the darkness. I hear a scream and I wheel around. Kim clutches to Manny as the guy begins to shake. Manny? Blaine asks, squatting down to grab the man's shoulder. Manny! Simmon watches on, his grin now gone. He has paled and I can see his chest rising and falling as he looks at our seasoned comrade. Mani opens. his mouth as if to speak, but instead comes only a rasping breath. Clear liquid begins to pour

from his eyes, liquid that turns quickly grey, then red. It pours over his uniform, staining it and splashing across the floor. His eyes roll up into his head, and seconds later, the seizing stops. He slumps to the concrete ground. utterly lifeless and just like that. He's gone. Manny? Manny? Blaine shakes the dead man's shoulder. Rudy crouches down behind him.

They test his breathing, but there is no response. Damn! Rudy shouts, jumping to his feet. What the hell have you done, Zeman? What have you done? Zimmon only shakes his head, stuttering. No, that's not possible. How could these things be connected? You acted too soon, idiot!

Plain barks, shoving Siman in the chest. What the hell are we supposed to do now? Manich, I mutter, looking down at the body of my friend. One minute, he was more or less just fine, I guess. And now he's dead. He's done. A terrible groan rises from the black. black sewage-like tank before us, and the hairs rise up across the back of my neck.

I look up to it and realize that despite the decay that now seeps through the tank, the glittering green light is not entirely gone. I can still see traces of it above us, reflecting faintly against the edges of some of the pipes. I can see it tinging the edges of the great steel girders and beams. that support the ceiling. I can still see more light, I say to the group. What if there's another tank? Another tank?

Rudy splutters. Oliver, Manny is dead. Who gives a damn? We got to get out of here. But I ignore him. Heart pounding, I stride round the edge of the tank. I ignore the calls of the others as I head deeper and deeper into the gloom.

Towards a slither. of that same green light, spilling through a crack in the far wall. This hall, it seems, goes further than we had anticipated. The illusions formed by the flickering shadows distorted our perceptions of the distance. Hey! Comes a voice from behind me, along with quick, heavy steps. Hey! It's plain, and he takes a breath as he catches up to me, striding alongside.

You're right, he asks. Sure, I reply grimly, head spinning. Where are you going? He asks me. And I gesture to the slither of green light through the crack at the room's opposite side. What there? He notices it for the first time. Oh, damn.

What do you think it is? I don't want to think about it, I reply as I stride on. The shadows rippling around me like the water of the accursed tank. I clenched my fists. I just need to see. I need to see it for myself. I hear the pounding of footsteps behind us. Rudy calls for us.

But still I march onwards, through the dark and secretive haze to the crack at the back of the hall. Another door. Doors, doors, doors. I shove right through it, and the echo of the creaking metal scratches painfully through the air. I step out onto a gridded steel walkway, suspended high above a long, wide floor way below. The floor extends into the far distance, and I cannot see the back wall. My boots clang against the steel as I walk to the edge.

The fall to the floor below is blocked by a sturdy wall. guard rail, I take in the view and, with a long, low breath, the cold, stale air in my lungs is gradually released. To my left and embedded in the concrete of the wall, and very partially obscured by enormous steel beams supporting the roof, is a colossal stone monolith. The thing is ancient, cracked and heavily water damaged. Across its body, however, are visible a collection of long-forgotten glyphs and symbols. This thing is far older than this bunker.

Far, far older. That much is obvious. Perhaps by hundreds or thousands of years. I could not say for sure. Was it transported here, perhaps? or is the bunker built around it? Six, enormous and disembodied eyes are carved onto the top of the monolith. And in the middle, stacked almost like a totem pole, are a series of crude faces,

outlines really, with eyes and mouths. The only real additional features are lines carved around the outside edges of their eyes. wrinkles or crow's feet if you will the face at the top has a multitude of wrinkles beneath this face a long series of markings like veins or roots have been carved and they creep down to connect to the face below this face is more angular

the wrinkles beside the eyes are fewer and it too has root-like veins and as with the others they slither down to the face below. The lowermost face is the roundest. It has no wrinkles besides its eyes. And below this final face are more incomprehensible glyphs, a series of symbols that mean nothing to me, unknown shapes and twisted signs.

Blaine steps up to the railing and puts a hand upon it. He gives them on Lith only a perfunctory glance. Jeez, he says as he looks out over the scene below. We are joined by Rudy and Ziman. Below us at regular intervals and extending away into the gloom are more of the same tanks. Great green glass boxes, connected via pipes, all whirring and hissing,

full to the brim with drifting souls. There must be hundreds, hundreds upon hundreds of these monstrous devices, perhaps even. One thousand, Blaine mutters. He points to a plaque embedded in a control panel to our right. It reads, The N thousand. The N thousand, Rudy repeats quietly. So, they didn't refer to the people in the tank. He falters and Zeman finishes his sentence.

It refers to the tanks. We consider this in silence, and a long, low whisper echoes from the tanks and down the hall towards us. Below the plaque of the enthousand is a passage written in German. I take a step towards it and scan my eyes across the words. From Vatasum Son, Lut for Blut, it reads, and I read it aloud in English. From father to son, blood for blood, I pledge my soul, and I will open the eyes of the souls of my lineage. We will guide the way for the fatherland and our place in eternity.

As I read these words, it is almost as if I can hear them. repeated back to me, spoken proudly from the hearts of rows of devotees, stark in their dark uniforms against the cold, pale walls behind, standing tall in the shadow of the trio of statues, ringed by Leviathan himself. Vision is fleeting and passes as quickly as it came. There is a heavy silence that follows, a silence filled by the flow of the gross. drones and size of the tanks below. Of de nine thousand. Zimmon walks past me.

His boots clank against the metal as he heads towards the console to our right. I don't fail to notice the presence of a large box, similar to the one that man he disabled, connected to the controls. Zimann, stop! plain orders, but Zimman does not. He turns to us, and I see his face. face is streaked with tears. The atmosphere freezes around us. Into my horror, he raises his gun.

Please, put your weapons down, he says. What the, Zimant? Blaine cuts in, just in his grip, so as to better take hold of his gun. But Zimmon rattles his own and suddenly shouts, his voice like a bell ringing to the darkness. Put your weapons down. He bellows. Now, slow. Any motion that I deem dangerous and I will fire. Rudy takes a step forwards. Zimon, what the hell's gotten into you?

Just... Zimmon swings around his gun, cocks it. I will not ask again. Rudy winces. He curses under his breath. But he does as he is asked. as the rest of us remain motionless Rudy carefully unstraps his weapon

and slowly lows it to the ground Zimman's eyes are fixed on his every movement Once he has done this Zimman gestures to Blaine and then to myself and the two of us do likewise and place our weapons on the ground I'm sorry Zimman mutters before stepping towards us

and with a few sweeping motions with his feet, he kicks the guns off the side of the platform, where they fall into the shadowed concrete far below with a clatter. What the hell's gotten into you, Zemin? Blaine asks. You couldn't have known that what you were going to do would kill Manny. You acted bloody recklessly, but it's not your fault Manny's dead. But we've got to just stop for a second to process this,

all, mate. Work out what it all means. We're clearly dealing with something way beyond our pay grade here. You're not thinking straight. I have to shut this thing down now, Zemin tells us. I realize that this is something that I must do. The nine thousand, I need to shut the whole thing down. Rudy tries to cut in again, as Ziman speaks over him.

They are alive in those tanks. The man says, adjusting his glasses with shaking hands. They're alive. Mani was connected to them, right? He could see their dreams. He was connected to the tank through the sins of his grandfather. His whole family line is cursed, and that's not my fault. It's not.

It's theirs. Zeman throws out a hand and gestures to the bunker as a whole. He rubs a hand across his brow, and in the corner of my eye, I see a small, subtle motion from Rudy. Without moving my head, I look his way, and following his deliberate glances, I notice that the man still has a pistol, attached to the back of his belt, and out of Zimmons' direct line of sight. Rudy gives me a pointed look, and I nod, almost imperceptibly. Just don't do anything stupid, I tried to transmit to him, though whether he is. interprets this or not, it is difficult to say.

Zimman continues, These tanks are the products of the enemy. What cruel promise do they serve exactly? Nothing that will benefit humanity. I am sure of it. The people are trapped. I have no doubts in perpetual suffering. So the cages in which they are held need to be shut down immediately.

And this is something I'm going to do. I took a look in that box that Manny disconnected. I can work out how to finish this. Zeman, I chime in, raising my head. The tank he destroyed was, as you said yourself, connected to Mani. There's something horrible by the way these tanks work. This mantra, the connections. I've heard of various images flashed through my head.

Three statues, the black sun, the terrible painting and the concrete hall. I see the ruined city in the waves. and the shining eye. I shoot a glance over the monolith embedded in the wall to our left at the veins and roots that connect the faces. I repeat the words on the plaque. From father to son, blood for blood, I pledge my soul and I'll open my eyes to the souls of my lineage.

We will guide the way for the fatherland and our place in eternity. My throat has gone death dry, but I continue. Simon, what if what you did killed Manny's son as well? What about his brother? Does the man have any cousins? How far does this thing go? And even as I speak, a terrible cold thought strikes deep into my core. I think of Nina, my wife.

And I think of her heritage. Many worked alongside Nina's great-grandfather. Was he too involved in this project? I turned to look out over the rail and down at the tanks below. Is a picture of Nina's great-grandfather marked into one of these tanks, alongside a handprint and a blood sample, and God knows what else? I feel the blood drained from my face, and my line of reasoning falters.

My words die in my mouth. Siemen scoffs. What are a few lives when weighed against this, Oliver? He shouts back. This is sick. This is the work of rats. Blaine tries to speak again. Just don't be rash, Simon.

The previous recon teams chose not to report on this. They left the tanks unharmed. Shouldn't we at least consider their reasoning? Take a little time to think as a group? But you don't get it, Blaine. Simmon chokes, that's exactly the point. He mutters quietly to himself in Polish for a moment and wiped his eyes beneath his glasses. If I dither and delay, then my mind might be changed.

I might be swayed to a decision that goes entirely against my moral compass. If every single recant team before us left the thousand standing, then logic suggests we'll do the same, right? Right? But... But I can't. I just can't. It's not right. So I have to shut it all down before something changes my mind. Once it's done, it's done. Simmons starts rambling. He bases up and down. He spits over the rail.

The energy in his voice renewed. Whatever it is, whatever it's for, it's done. It ends here. And he spins on his heel and strides to the master console. He fires a series of of bullets into the box and tears the metal door from its hinges. Zimon, wait! Blaine roars. As a ringing echoes in our ears, there is a sudden clamour and then a sharp, fiery burst. One final bullet is released from its chamber.

I swear in jump in shock, as a hole appears in the back of Zimmons' head. A cloud of blood erupted. He grabs through his forehead and splatters across the console. He collapses at once. All motion control instantly lost as he slumps against the controls, collapsing ungracefully onto the ground, where he twitches and lays still

as blood pools steadily across the metal and drips and leaks down through the metal grates. My chest rises and falls, adrenaline coursing through me. I turned to Rudy in utter disbelief that he would resort to such drastic measures so recklessly. But I am shocked to see that Rudy's pistol remains firmly in his belt. His hand poised beside it, as if preparing to draw. But the pistol nonetheless remains affixed.

Rudy looks at me, then past me, and I turn around to follow his gaze. and there in the doorway is Kim she stands cold and silent in the darkness her features illuminated in that ghostly green jaw clenched and eyes fierce in her hand is a rifle she slowly lowers it back down and she releases a long calm breath with clouds around her face in the cold solemnly we retreat back to the main lobby there is a sickness here that much is plain our minds are not working as they're supposed to it is as long as we can bear in the shadows of such evil and we eventually decide as a group to leave the nine thousand operational we do not know if this makes us heroes or villains or neither but we We just don't know the true extent to which these machines are connected to the people back home. It is not a decision that fills me with pride.

We have no idea to what purpose the tank's continued existence supports. Besides the hint given by some vague and cryptic clues, we do not know why they were built. We do not know what happened to the people who worked here. And we do not know where they went, nor how exactly we would find them if we wanted to. But what we do know is that both Manny and Zimmon died the same way as the fallen French soldier.

The report will read that they suffered tragic accidents, crushed by fallen debris. We can't have command sending sizable task forces down here. Not yet. anything could happen and as it has been proven the balance is the delicate one if command learn the truth

then the power is taken resolutely out of our hands we'll have no say in what happens next and what happens next could be monstrous our official reports will note that the bunker is dangerous when disturbed that lives will be put at risk if attempts are made to form

only decommission and deconstruct it. But with that being said, the bunker, as per our exploration, is otherwise a non-threat and is of no particular interest, no need to send any more recon teams down any time soon. That's for sure. The bunkers are better off left alone. We judge back to the dock of the submarine in silence. To me, it comes down to one simple fact. I can't risk losing Nina, so the machines will stay operational,

and the thousand will continue to drift, hidden away in the dark, at the bottom of the sea.