CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 5 SPINE-CHILLING r nosleep Horror Stories to start off your Halloween

Episode Date: October 6, 2020

LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "Why I removed all the doors from my house" Creepypasta►16:30 "There's an online shop of horrors that only opens every 3AM" Creepypasta►42:52 "Don't play the game called "Sack of Knives"" Creepypasta►58:30 "My Most Terrifying Experience as a Lifeguard" Creepypasta►1:14:47 "The Winter Cellar" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

The festival season is Aangbroken, and that betekent mudder. And so, ging Kim to come to comason.com. com. On the look at a waterdict tent,

a comfortable luget, oh, so, knus, and lupart print regalarze. Miao. Now, he has Kim not for the modder, just like that

that's the dancing mottraman, there, oh, wait just even, has he now only modder on? Oh, yeah, only modder.

DROG blithe? Goar for. Find what you need to need on Amazon.com. My grandmother used to say her house was haunted. They're on the other side of the doors. If you listen closely, you can hear them, she'd say.

Her words weren't those of an afraid woman. They weren't filled with sadness nor despair, but rather joy. She'd tell me stories about the ghosts that stayed behind her in the house, and as she did, her eyes were always filled with longing and love. So, they're not bad ghosts? I would ask, too young to understand the complexities of good and evil. Of course not, sweetheart. They would never hurt you.

I truly loved my grandma, but I didn't visit her often. My mother wouldn't let me. To her, the house had an uneasy atmosphere, one full of malice, as if an unknown and frightening entity loomed over the place. It didn't help that we lived several hours away, making it difficult for grandma to visit us, with her advancing age and declining health. It made me sad that she lived all alone in such a big, old house,

but she didn't seem to mind it. I'm not alone, she would say. I love kept us together, even after he passed. I knew she was talking about my grandpa, her late husband. However, she mentioned several figures that kept her company, people, I assumed, were her own parents, and even some who could have been siblings. Back in her day, people remained at home to die,

spending their last moments with loved ones, comfortable at home in their own beds. Because of that, a multitude of different people had drawn their last breaths in a very own house. As time went by, my memories of the old house started to fade. I was too busy growing up, and my mother didn't care to visit her child at home. At the ripe old age of 95, my grandma passed away, peacefully at home, with a smile still lingering on her face.

Her last well-in-testiment arrived a couple of weeks later. By that time, I hadn't seen her in years, and the sight of the papers made me feel a bit guilty. There wasn't much of a personal message left behind, but it was stated that my mother would inherit all of her belongings, everything save of the house. house, which was left to me. Seeing as I was just in the process of getting married to my very pregnant fiancée, it would be the perfect gift to start a newlywed life. We moved in about a month later after spending what little money we had left refurbishing the place.

Unlike the warm yet mystical feeling the house had held when I was a child, it felt cold, eerie as an adult. Even with new furniture and fixed frames, the house. was still loud with creaks and strange whispers behind each closed door. My fiancé, soon to be wife Alice, also noticed the strange fog of weirdness looming over the house and my mother was still hesitant to visit. But when all things were said and done, my grandma had led a full and happy life in that house, and no harm had ever come to her, so we were eager to start our life together.

It truly turned out to be an idyllic place, perfect to raise a a child with lush green fields and vast forests surrounding the neighbourhood. We spent the next decade there, gifted with two children, a young boy named Alex and a little girl named Amanda. From the very beginning it looked like we were in the makings of a happily ever after. Alas, it wasn't meant to be. On the 3rd of September 2017, my entire family was killed in a burglary gone horribly wrong. I don't remember much from the night itself,

just that I woke up to strange sounds and a shattering window. I wasn't a particularly brave man, but if my family was put at risk, I'd do anything I could to defend them. I grabbed the baseball bat, I was planning to gift Alex for his 10th birthday, and went to investigate in the dark. Before I could even turn the corner,

I felt a sharp pain through my chest. As one of the intruders lodged a knife in between my ribs. I fell to the ground, unable to breathe, and unable to move my legs. I tried to call out for my wife, to warn her about the approaching men, to give her a chance to get the kids and run, but my lungs had filled it with blood, and I couldn't get a single, coherent word out.

There I lay, dying helplessly on the floor, as my wife tried to fight off the two men that had entered her house. She screamed as they stabbed her, quickly going from panic. to a gargle, to silence. Then, everything went black. I guess they didn't bother double-checking, or maybe the pool of blood I produced around me made me look dead.

But, despite their best efforts at exterminating my family, I had somehow survived. I awoke as the ambulance rushed me to the hospital, and I cried for my family as they prayed me for surgery. I didn't know they'd all been killed yet. I still had hope. but that tiny amount of belief that my wife and children had survived was quickly extinguished. According to the police, the intruders were junkies looking for anything they could sell.

During the breaking, they'd been doped out of their minds and attacked anyone in their vicinity. Even as the police chased them down, they fought back, which ultimately resulted in them both getting shot dead. No closure, no coherent reason for their breaking, why they chose an our house rather than, the neighbour's vacant home, I was left with no good explanation, no justice. As for myself, the stab wound had been deep,

so much so that the knife partially damaged my spine, enough to leave me with limited use of my legs and left arm. It would take months of rehabilitation before I could even go back home to an empty house. Naturally, my mother wanted me to stay with her until I could come to terms with what had happened.

She had gotten old, but she still wanted to take care of me, help me through the trying times. She meant well, but in a morbidly depressing way. Staying at that house was the last connection I had to my deceased family. It was a place of love, filled with memoirs of a life brutally cut short. Though I felt more connected to them at home. I couldn't sleep in our old bed, nor our children's rooms. Instead, I slept in the guest room, one of the few places still untainted by tragedy. The next few weeks were spent in a haze of denial and anger at myself that I'd failed to save my family.

In just the span of five minutes, my entire world had been shattered beyond repair, and I saw no solace in the foreseeable future. The house still met its usual weird sounds, creaks, howling wind, and whispers hiding behind each and every closed door. They'd always kept me company, but in the past they'd been a little more than a vague presence, something to ignore, to push to the back of my mind. After the tragedy, they seemed to wake up, turning coherent and understandable. As I listened intently to the house speaking, the strange whispers started to take shape,

and before long I could actually understand them. One night, three weeks and a day after my return, I awoke to the sound of a voice coming from down the hall. I shot to my feet and slowly approached the sounds. It was someone singing. A beautiful, cheerful voice coming from inside her old bedroom. But it wasn't just any song. No, it was one my wife frequently used the hum as she got ready in the mornings.

Some old Italian verse her mother used to sing to her when she was a kid. while I never understood the words, it had always comforted me, even on the most stressful day. It had become a symbol of love, peace, when I missed every day without her. Alice, I said, starting to wonder if I was dreaming. I pressed my ear against the wood in disbelief at hearing my dead wife's voice. She didn't respond. She just kept singing. on the other side.

As soon as I confirmed it was her voice, I hopelessly barged in through the door, distraught to find it empty on the other side, filled with nothing but an empty bed, and a closet full of clothes never to be worn again. For a second I felt a grain of happiness, but it was swiftly taken away as a serene voice vanished in the darkness of night. I collapsed to the floor and cried for the first time since their deaths. I'd been so numb that my ability to feel had simply shut down, but the overwhelming emotion I felt from hearing my wife again

finally broke me. I fell asleep on the floor that night, and once I awoke, I convinced myself it had all been just a dream and nothing more. That heartbreaking belief lasted until the next night when I awoke to laughter coming from Alex's bedroom Alex, is that you?

I called out as I approached this closed door. The laughter, unmistakably belonged to my dead son. That, along with the sounds of toys being flung around and light footsteps running from the room, made me temporarily forget everything that had happened in the past few months. Alex? I said again, with tears in my eyes. But he couldn't hear me.

and once I opened the door I was met with another dark, silent room in the blink of an eye I was plunged back into reality alone and afraid as I felt his presence vanish

I thought back to my childhood spending time with my grandmother listening to her stories there on the other side of the doors always there if you listen closely you can hear them she'd say

the whispers I had heard since I was a kid. They were real, just too vague and hard to decipher. My grandma heard her husband because he was the person she loved the most in the entire world. That's why I couldn't understand. Now that the ghosts belong to my family, it became abundantly clear why my grandma loved that house so much. It was because she could stay surrounded by her lost loved ones.

Each night the voice is continued Next in line was my daughter Amanda I heard her jumping up and down while she talked to her stuffed animals pretending there were real creatures out on adventures She sung to them with a voice as beautiful as her mother's And I listened while holding my breath That night I never opened the door I just sat there listening to her play around

smiling as I was once again living in a house full of life. It quickly became a nightly routine. I'd sleep during the days, and at night I'd huddle up outside their bedroom doors with a blanket, just to listen to them go about their lives, not knowing what terrible things had happened to them. Days, weeks, and even months passed, and I lived my life vicariously through them, unable to let go. It wasn't a great life, but it was a great life. but it was all I had I couldn't stand to lose

my connection to them so I kept at it my wife was the first to break a usual nighttime routine she had usually awoken me with the sound of her singing or by telling bedtime stories to our kids but that would all come to a crashing end on that particular night

I was jolted awake to the sound of her terrified screams I shot to my feet and instinctively called out for her On the other side of the closed door, I heard a struggle, demanding that someone stay away from her. It was an all too familiar memory when I struggled to forget. It was the moment the killers entered our room to murder her. I burst in through the door, knowing full well that I couldn't help, but that I could at least

end the nightmare. As usual, once the door had been opened, everything felt silent. I heard cries come from Alex's room. He'd been awoken by Alice's screams and wanted to find out what was going on. His cries were quickly shut up as one of the intruders entered his room

and slit his throat. I heard a short whimper before he too fell silent. Last in line was Amanda, but I quickly opened the door before I could be tortured by the sounds of her frantic screams as the intruders ended her life.

Following that night, night, I decided to leave the doors open. No matter the fact that I'd never hear my family again, I just couldn't face their deaths for a third or fourth time. Alas, once nightfall came, the doors were inexplicably shut and the ordeal started all over. The screams of my wife and children, they cries as they realized what was about to happen to them, my failure to save them. It all crushed me. In the end, I had no option left, but to remove them. But to remove move each door from their hinges to win the nightmare once and for all. Only the bathroom and guest room doors remained.

It worked. Without a filter between the real world and the past, I had nothing to listen to, nothing save the deafening silence of an empty house. It was an impossible choice. To live peacefully without the comforting voices of my family. Never again would I hear them die, but I'd also be left alone, forever. Then I heard the sound of someone crying.

I was headed to bed when I heard a familiar voice sobbing through the guest room door. It wasn't my wife, nor the cries of a child. It was me. I'm sorry, I couldn't save you. I stood, speechless, too terrified to even open the door. But I was quickly brought back to. my senses when I heard a gunshot from the other side, followed by a quiet thump. And then nothing. Until that point, the house had always spoken to me with voices from the past.

But then, something more sinister had approached, something that hadn't yet happened. I didn't go to sleep that night, nor did I dare to enter the guest room. I simply sat at my kitchen table until I passed out from a haze of exhaustion and alcohol. And once daylight arrived I removed that door as well Whether what I heard behind that door Is my ultimate destiny Or if I can somehow survive this nightmare

Remains to be seen I can't say I haven't thought about ending it all But for now I've removed every single door from my house At least It's finally quiet Nightmare boutique That's such a tacky name

I know but it's real Oh God Is this where you buy human body? parts and gore videos. No, you're thinking of the dark web. This is more whimsical, huh? How do you even get in? It's a 10 character combination of numbers and letters.

After that, at dot com, easy, but only at 3 a.m? Only at 3 o'clock AM. Ding. This is my floor. Okay, take care. I'll text you the link later. Bye. Was the voice reenactment really that necessary?

burst out laughing. Yep, of course, I replied. Now come on, would you please give me the combination? All right, all right. But Aaron, you know these are all just office rumors, right? No way this actually works. That was true. They were all just rumors.

Not very convincing ones either. But, if I'm going to be totally honest on why I wanted this, it was simply out of pure curiosity. I just wanted to have a little spooky fun to get my spirits up. in time for Halloween. It's because I wanted to. That's it. It wasn't dictated by destiny

or orchestrated by malevolent higher beings. No, I refused to believe that what happened to me was fate. But the longer I ponder, the longer I question, why me? Why did I have to get stuck with this thing? The phone call with Rod

ended around 2.45 a.m. On my right hand was the key to eternal happiness. A beer. On the left was the link written down on a piece of napkin. I had 15 minutes to decide if I wanted to go through this potentially terrifying and life-ruining idea. I was about 50-50 about it, mind you. A bottle later and it was a solid 100. I had nothing to lose. My parents hate me for not taking business. My girlfriend left me for trying to pursue voice acting and my dog got swallowed by a snake last month. So, it was a

If there's an event in my life that would truly embody the phrase, screw it, this would be it. So, as instructed, my lights were off and every point of entry inside my house were closed, as to not invite any evil spirits in, which I think was just a bunch of ratas, considering why would they even need an open window to get inside? Anyway, I waited for the clock to strike three and bask in the ominous environment I set myself in. I got to say, waiting for a shop full of evil trinkets to open during the devil's hour was becoming less of a funny display of courage, a second slowly trickled away. The link was already typed on the address bar. A few moments later, I realized that I wasn't really that drunk to

proceed with it, so I chickened out. I was, however, drunk enough to mistakenly press the enter key instead of backspace. I looked at the clock and thought, how convenient it was that I accidentally pressed it exactly at 3 a.m. I felt my heart took a dive into my stomach. My fingers jumped away from the keyboard

like I was grounded by a live wire. My body was frozen, conflicted if I should wait for the browser to load the site or simply slam my laptop shut. I wouldn't be telling this story in the first place if the latter happened now, would I? The site was the stuff of nightmares

In which no one should even be allowed to speak It used comic sands I was appalled It looked like it was a half-assed elementary computer project After the teacher taught HTML 101 once The background was a tired picture of a dark wooden board Giving it a cabin in the woods kind of vibe The buttons were bright orange

And little bats fly out when you hover it On the homepage it said Nightmare boutique in Times New Roman Underneath it was a nifty little welcome blurb Welcome children of the night This is Lady Wimlock's nightmare boutique We offer all sorts of magnificent artifacts and spells Of various power and purposes

Puffs and potions the scare incantations You can buy anything, no limitations So my child set your doubts aside Explore these horrors, take a look inside The go button below the passage was blinking erratically, almost alluringly, hypnotising. It must be the alcohol, but I don't remember my hand returned back to my mousepad and moved the cursor to click hit.

The next thing I remember, after reading the blurb, was a long catalogue running down the screen. I scrolled, amused at everything that was listed. The poppus page, the knife of Jack the Ripper, Mr. Area 51, Nightmare Clause, Faye Nits, and Feed Me Seeds. odd names paired with odd pictures of things I've never really seen before love potions, monster poisons, silver bullets, the wooden stakes it was a horror weirdo's wet dream

there was a filter at the side where you could set it to spells potions, artifacts and all that stuff alphabetical was also an option good job on the developer on that part but of course I went for the most sensible filter there was Buy price. And at the very top right of the list was Barbara the love doll. It cost $9. I haven't really been getting any action myself, so I might as well.

But considering the nature of the site, which was selling a bloody knife, I had a feeling it was completely unsanitary. So I looked at the next item. An egg. But it wasn't just any egg. The name attached to it was errands. At first I was completely in shock, but later I remember there was a software now that takes your computer's name and uses it for maximum creep factor.

This company was very sneaky and impressive, I thought to myself, surely that effort warrant a purchase. Also I was psyched to see Rod's reaction when I show him I bought something from the site, which is an overpriced egg, which just further cements the fact that I'm not good at making smart decisions. So, I clicked on the $10 egg and hit buy. I waited for the page where I was able to put my payment options, but it never loaded. Instead, the site closed.

Well, that was just one big bunch of bulk. Knock, knock. I stopped mid-sentence. I've never turned my head that fast before. I got up, fixated at my front door. Who's there? I asked from the safety of my dining room. I got no response

I walked towards the door with legs wobbling like my 90-year-old grandma I pressed my ears against it only to hear horses galloping away from my house I stepped back in shock bracing myself

before laying my hand on the doorkn You can do this Aaron Come on I made little hops to shake the fear away I quickly open the door Like how one would rip off a bandaid The cold wind swung on my face outside there was no one

but there was something a large parcel about three feet high and two feet wide on top of the parcel was a sticker to Erin Hemingway from the Nightmare Boutique God's name is happening and muttered to myself as I frantically

went back to the dining room and refreshed my laptop the site can no longer be accessed I opened the fridge and consumed a whole picture of water sharing myself wet in the process. I must be dreaming, I told myself. I went back to the living room and checked on the front door. My alcohol tolerance must be getting weak,

but I swore I saw the box move. I slapped myself in the face, confirming I wasn't asleep. I took a deep breath and marched to the front door and dragged the package inside the house. I grabbed a box cutter to release the packing tape. I took my right hand inside the space between the two flaps of the box and I held the blade on the other.

I was ready to shank whatever was inside the box if it decides to pop up. My heart was racing and my face was a waterfall, but I still opened it to see what was inside. It was an egg. A huge one, bigger than an ostrich egg, but not as big as your typical chair. I tore down the box to make sure I wasn't just mistaken. The egg was on a black stand with an in inmate.

intricate design, one with tentacles almost wrapping the base. I knocked on the egg to make sure it wasn't made of plastic or metal. It was made of an actual shell. I started to chuckle. No, I'm dreaming. Yep, I'm definitely dreaming. I walked out the living room and went upstairs, convinced that none of what happened was real.

And then when I wake up, I'll be spending my Saturday as usual. Now, if you've never experienced waking, up in the morning, only to be greeted by a three-foot-tall egg cracked open with its content aside nowhere to be seen, then let me walk you through it. At first, it was a feeling of disbelief, knowing that everything that happened before you went to bed wasn't just a fever dream. Next, you feel a sense of awe, amusement at the size of the thing. Then you feel kind of worried, thinking whatever came out of there was no chicken.

Last is the pure terror of having to look around on where it went. only to hear something growling inside your living room. I backed up to my kitchen when suddenly, yellow glowing eyes peaked from underneath the couch. I took my eyes off of it for a split second to locate my knife when I heard it scuttle away. Out of panic, I was only able to grab a spatula to fend for myself. It was a blur, sipping across the room, climbing the walls and ceiling. I fell to the floor, praying for some kind of divine intervention to save me for whatever was running around my house.

It was then it decided to stop under my dining table, allowing me to see the monstrosity much clearer. It was like a baby, if babies came from hell. It had bluish-gray skin, almost leathery, went up close. His bold head was disproportionately bigger than its tiny body.

His hands and hind legs each consisted of three sharp fingers. His eyes were yellow and beady, patterned with a lateral pupil like ones of a frog. The winning feature It had big, vertical slits On its face for a mouth

Stretching from its forehead Down to its chin It took a couple steps closer Eyes locked on me Interestingly enough It pulled back The moment it almost went outside The shadow of the table

Not a fan of sunlight I told myself I was curled into a ball In the corner of my kitchen Pointing my wobbly And useless spatula At this monster I waited for it to lunge at me

and feast my brains and in it, when the most peculiar of things happened. His lips, if you want to call it that, slowly opened, separated, revealing layers upon layers of pink flaps. I couldn't help but notice that the sharp teeth

were only just starting to protrude out of its gums. Saliva started to drip down from its mouth and, in a raspy but high-pitched voice, it spoke. Papa. I called him Bulby. Yes, I gave the little turd her name. It was all because of his absurdly bulbous head.

I know that keeping it was multiple levels of wrong. Some people might even think that the first real thing to do in that situation is to upload a video of it online. Be rich for discovering this horrendous monster. But the reason I have for not doing so is all thanks to the first word that came out of its disgusting mouth. As I said, I don't really have the most enviable life. and to be able to hear someone call you papa like you mean something,

kind of has a certain effect if you're placed in my position. I cared for ballby for quite some time. I didn't really struggle to figure out what it can eat. I just started throwing cheap steak and he devours the damn thing in seconds. It was awkward at first, but he eventually figured out that he was supposed to throw the ball back and not puncture it with his claws. Eventually, I had to teach certain things only special to him.

Apparently he hates the sunlight, but he doesn't burn like a vampire. I still had to leave for work in the morning, so I made sure to show him places in the house he'll have shade, like the closet, the bed, the attic, and the basement. It didn't take long before I noticed he was growing exceptionally faster than any living species I know of. Every time it feeds, his limbs grow longer and his body grows larger, slowly matching the size of his once massive head. Having him grow each day was certainly quite a shock He started out quite

Cute at first With very childlike features But as he grew older The more I get to remind myself that Bulby Isn't just some new creature It was a creature I got from the shop of horrors And he did quite a fantastic job of reminding me just that It happened at night

He was living under my roof for about two weeks I woke up to the sound of shuffling on my wooden floor. I can never get used to the usual bumps in the night with Bulby. I keep forgetting that I was living with a monster. Blalby, what was that? I cried out. I got my flashlight and checked under my bed. No monster. I walked out of my bedroom, only to notice that the attic door was slightly open.

My pupils took some time to adjust to the darkness, but eventually it did. Within that crack was Barb his head, upside down, looking at me with its glowing yellow eyes. Every hair in my body stood up as I hurriedly opened the lights. He retreated in almost the flash, slamming the attic door shut. My neck was suddenly covered in a cold sweat. Hands were shaking at the sudden sinister atmosphere inside the house. Bulby? I timidly cried out his name.

I slowly approached the attic door and pulled. it down. I thought I finally adjusted to the life of having an adopted monster, but it was like I was back in square one. When I climbed up, the moonlight shining from the attic window was enough to locate Bulby, limbs spread wide, hanging from the ceiling. What I couldn't see, however, was the crunching noise I was hearing ever since I got there. I foolishly shine my flashlight at Borby, with no preparation whatsoever to what I was about to see. He was chewing on an arm. I severed human arm.

Not just any arm, though. The size made it obvious it was of a child. Blood was smeared all over his face and was dripping down to the lumps of crimson flesh scattered on the wooden floor. Directly below him was the head of a child, one which I recognised, despite having a large chunk of its head bitten off like an apple.

It was Oliver, the only son of the Dancans, my neighbour next door. Papa, Bobby spoke in the same raspy voice, but this time deeper and unsettling. It caused them to drop the arm and flop on the pool of blood,

splattering some on my feet and pyjamas. He climbed down from the ceiling and approached me, lowering its head. He was asking for me to pat him. I did so almost immediately, but not for the same reasons why I did it when he was only a child. This time, it was from fear.

I had no experience in training a monster to not eat humans. It's simply not as easy as dogs. Every night he hunts and grows. Every night a new kid in the neighbourhood goes missing. Little Sally, little Tim, and even not so little Andrew who weighed tons. He still managed to consume like cotton candy. Now, you might judge me on the next set of things I did, but I trust you understand why.

For example, accidentally stabbing him with a knife or chopping some steak It didn't work for his skin is as tough as diamonds Also, I accidentally showered my boy with gasoline and set him on fire He shrugged it off like a dog after a bath I have come to terms that Balby is in fact immortal If he does happen to have a weakness It wasn't readily available for me to use And so I thought

If there's going to be a place where I can get a weapon to end this monster's hunting spree, it would be the same store it spawned in the first place. Yet again, I browsed the Nightmare Boutique, and believe me, they have lots of suggested items for me to use. Given that I had no full information on what Bulby is or is capable of, I needed something that would surely get rid of him, no matter how you look at it. I couldn't trust poison, I couldn't just bullets, so I bought a page from a spellbook, one that would certainly get rid of him once and for all. Unfortunately, it was a spell that required two people, two blood offerings.

Luckily for me, I know the best person to help me with a job. You named your vagina monster after a Pokemon? Rod shouted from the other line. No, what? So, are you in? I asked him. I don't know, man, sounds intense, Rod replied. It was pretty obvious.

He was scared and overwhelmed just by the sound of his voice. The loud footsteps gave away him pacing around his apartment too. I really don't know what to do, Rod. My voice cracked. Kids are dying. I had to mop their guts in my attic for a week now, and it's just too much for me to handle. My eyes were starting to well. I feel like I don't have anyone to turn to at this point.

There was only silence between the phone call after that. Then, Rod let out a deep sigh. You have me, Erin. Remember that. I didn't have any doubts if the ritual was going to work. The monster in my attic was enough proof that whatever I get from that accursed sight must hold some value.

Rod winced while cutting his hand. Couldn't blame him. They made it look so easy on television. We drew half of the circle where Bulby was going to stand. We lit the 13 candles and put it around and must wait for midnight to come before activating the spell. We would have to put out all of the candles when he's in the middle of the circle.

If all of that sounded crazy, I'm with you. I should have checked the description before I got this thing, I mumbled. Yeah, not to mention how they somehow managed to charge you from your card without you ever sharing it to them. Wait, what? I was a little surprised by Rod's answer. Uh, nothing, he nervously smiled. So, where's this monster of yours?

Do you really want to meet him? I smiled. Rod simply faked a laugh before swallowing his spit. He was sweating ever since he got inside the house. I proceeded to turn off the lights, only leaving the warm orange glow of the candles from our living room. Bulby, I shouted out. It was like a nightmare.

He first revealed his head, adorned by his wide, glowing yellow eyes. His long limbs then stretched out from the darkness of the second floor. It had an incredible length. that it managed to skip the whole set of stairs. Bulby crawled out, with legs on the ceiling and hands on the wall and floor. He tilted his head, looking at Rod, who was very much a new person to him. Aaron? What's he doing? Shh, don't make any sudden movement.

Bulby approached us, wary of the strange circle and candles in the middle of the room. He walked past me, more interested at my friend. He crouched down to meet. face to face with Rod. Aaron? What? He whispered, almost crying. Although frozen in fear,

he was shaking like a small dog after a cold bath. Stay calm, I told him with vigor. But Balby had a few tricks he wanted to show Rod. He started to open his mouth, revealing thousands of his rotten

and sharp teeth. Rod let out a blood-curdling scream that would have surely awakened the neighbors. This only got the monster rolled up as he shrieked as well, prepared to attack. I instantly tried to grab its arms in an effort to stop it from crushing my friend's school. With its godly strength, he simply flung me to my kitchen, making me crash on my dining table. It was a bit hazy, but I saw Rod making a run for it. He tried to reach the front door, but the monster simply grabbed him and flung him to the staircase.

Something came flying off of Rod's pocket and slid its way in front of me. me. When the smoke from the debris cleared, it became apparent. It was a knife. Give it, Rod struggled to speak. It was probably the adrenaline, but I grabbed the knife and threw it back at him. He stood up holding the knife against his throat. Dude, you are so dead. Rod grinned and started screaming something. But before he could finish what he was screaming,

we grabbed him by the neck and lifting him up. Rod was getting more purple every second. Bulby was not going to prolong it any further. I ran around and tried to stab it with a knife that fell from Rod's hand. Irritated, Bulby slammed Rod to the ground, making a bone-chilling, cracking noise. He suddenly turned his attention to me. As I backed away slowly to the living room, he grabbed my torso and lifted me up. My lungs felt like it was going to collapse any time soon.

It opened its mouth and revealed its sharp teeth once again. tears rolled down my face as he drew my head closer to his mouth. At that point, I gave up. I was ready for it to devour me. And suddenly, it stopped. He was sinking. I could feel it as well as we slowly got lower in height. I looked down and saw Rod, a son of a gun, with snapped legs, smiling at us.

The candles were all put off, and Rod was blowing the remaining ones to activate the spell. Bulby trod me to lift himself out of the black hole below him, but instead it only ate him up even faster. Moments of struggling later, what's left of him was his Bulber's head, although it too would soon be devoured by the hole. Before he could disappear, he let out the same words in the same raspy voice. "'Pah, pa,' he cried out. "'Not a lot of things can do it, but hearing it still. on quite a bit. When my living floor was back to normal, kinder, I crawled my way back to Rod, seeing his

legs all crumbled up. We did it, he told me, almost masked by the sound of police sirens coming from outside. Yeah, you hold on there, buddy. We'll get you to a hospital, I smiled at him. I entered the hospital room, seeing my pal Rod, lying down with his legs drilled with metal and propped up from the bed. I laid the fruits and flowers beside him Sissy

He chuckled Say wasn't that the jacked the rep a knife From the boutique? I told him Trying to adjust his dextrous So I can lend my elbows on his bed more comfortably Yeah dude He coughed What does it do

Maybe a story for another time He laughed What happened to him anyway Is he dead Nope I responded That son of a gun is practically immortal I had to be creative creative

How Well if you can't kill it Contain it But I wasn't able to shop for a monster cage So I did the next best thing Which is Send him stranded in the past He's someone else's problem now

Rod paused for a second Wait How far in the past Not sure, pretty far A playful smile painted across Rod face. So you mean to say you sent to Hellspawn who was sensitive to light, hides in closets and under beds who was an appetite for children back in the past? Uh, I simply chuckled from confusion.

Erin bloody Hemingway. How does it feel to officially be the boogeyman's father? We both laughed out loud. Well, I'm not sure. Although if the time comes that I do tell this story, and least kids will finally know that his name's Bulby. It knows what you hate, and it hates what you love. I originally heard about sack of knives in one of my medieval literature texts. The class had sounded interesting out of my options that quarter, but two weeks in, I was already wishing I'd taken another round of poetry or creative writing. Part of it was the professor, who was chronically dry and boring, as he gave a canned lecture

he obviously regurgitated for the last 20 years, but most of it was the language itself. It was so archaic and hard to read, and I already knew I sucked at foreign language. Some of the books were modernised, but most were just littered with footnotes in tiny block paragraphs longer than the text they were explaining. And of course, when I finally saw something that sounded cool, there were no notes to be found. It was in the middle of a story fragment about a village, that fell under a curse of some kind. People were going crazy, maybe, or their cows were all dying.

Hell if I know. The accompanying woodcut made it look bad, though. Still, it was kind of boring and dumb, and I was about to give up when a phrase caught my eye. If I wasn't wrong, it read as sack of knives. Like I said, there was no footnote, and when I went to the index, the term wasn't listed. I looked on the internet, but there was a word of the internet,

but there was nothing about it there either. My interest was already waning, but then an idea occurred to me. The professor of the class was always telling people to ask if we had any questions, be it after class or during his student office hours. No way I was doing that, but maybe if I fired off a quick email asking about it, he would think I gave a demo about his stupid class. I wasn't sucking up, but I didn't mind a little padding in case I tanked on an essay at some point. So, I looked up his faculty email and asked him what the term meant before putting away my books and heading out to Jeff's party.

I literally didn't think about it again that night. The party itself kind of sucked. It was one of those deals where there were too many people for it to be fun, so my little social circle wound up just hanging out together, even though it was in my friends, Jeff and Madison's house. They were both grad students, and Jeff was in a foul mood about his thesis getting shut down. This led me and the other groups to take in turns moaning about people that were being assholes, bosses that were unfair, boyfriends and girlfriends that were unfaithful or controlling, parents and siblings that didn't understand our individual and collective plight.

We were all drunk and only half serious as we took turns trying to melodramatically one up each other's woes, and by the end of the night we were all so exhausted from laughing so much that I wound up falling asleep on their floor. When I got back to my dorm room the next morning, I saw I had an email. Greetings, Mr. Holden, so glad to see you're taking an interest in the peculiarities of our medieval friends from the distant past. The phrase you referenced is actually quite interesting. It refers to an obscure pranking custom that was common in parts of Europe for a time. It went as follows. A group of friends or like-minded never-do-wells would gather together and put names, or, given the extreme,

extremely low rates of literacy, other identifying marks or objects in a sack or satchel. Either way, the idea was that you are identifying a target for the prank, usually an enemy. Once everyone had put a person in the sack, you all drew one back out, your own excluded, of course. I say, of course, because the purpose of the sack of knives was to harass or even hurt someone you hated without it being tied to you personally. These were typically small communities where most everyone knew each other, and the risk of being seen and recognised while journeying to or from breaking someone's fence or poisoning

their feed, was significantly higher than it would be today. If someone saw an enemy lurking around their property, and suddenly their cow got out or their chickens died, well, it would immediately be suspicious. The sack of knives provided a measure of protection from such scrutiny, and generally it was limited to small pranks that wouldn't raise too much higher, though. there were always exceptions. Once the pranks to finish some act against their target, they would go back to the sack,

usually hidden in place everyone in the game knew and put a stick inside with the name or identifier tied to it. This symbolised the knife they used to kill their friend's enemy. The game wasn't over until all the sticks and artefacts were in the sack. I believe there were variations of the rules over the years, but generally no winner was ever specified.

I suppose their indirect revenge against those they hated was reward enough. I thought about responding back, but decided against it. It was cool of him to respond so quick, but there was a difference between getting some brownie points and becoming pen pals with a lit super nerd. Laughing at the idea, I closed my laptop and got ready for work. It was a week later when I mentioned the sack of knives that Jeff and Madison over dinner. I brought it up as a funny story,

but the more I described the email, the more interested they became. Before I knew it, they called up Paul and Allison, two of our other friends who, based on earlier party conversation, had clear axes to grind with someone. They brought along their friend Marty, who had just been fired from an internship for smoking weed in the parking lot. I tried to put the brakes on before people came over and we got into some weird party game,

but Madison wasn't hearing it. She said it was the best idea she'd heard in months that it sounded cool, fun and very interesting. But the key, she noted, was having enough participation. Winking at me, she turned and smiled at Jeff. It's like that Hitchcock movie, right? Three days later, I was carving the words whore into the hood of a stranger's car. We'd use a knock-off purse and index cards, but I suppose it worked well enough.

I'd pulled Allison's former best friend who had apparently slept with Allison's high school boyfriend. I wanted to ask if Paul, Allison's current boyfriend was okay with her being so hung up on that past relationship, but I felt it wouldn't go over well, so I left it alone. Instead, I dutifully folded up my note and tucked it in my pocket, planning and waiting till later to worry if I was going to go through with a prank or not. But letting go of the thought wasn't so easy. From the time I got the name and address,

I was preoccupied with doing something to the woman. It's not like I'm a mean-spirited guy or anything, But it was just, done as it sounds, it felt like I'd made a promise I had to keep. I went back to Jeff's house after I was done and found the purse hanging in the tool shed. Below it, there were three butter knives with rubber bands around them. Cute. I guess the other three had already filled a sack, and when I put in my own, I saw I was right. I wondered who had gotten my own special little request and what they had done.

I found out soon enough. Jeff? Jeff's dead? I squeezed the phone tighter as the ground seemed to sway under me. What? What do you mean? Madison's voice was high and brittle when she spoke again. I mean, he's dead.

He had your guy. Calvin Eger was your guy, right? I slumped down onto the couch, barely able to breathe. Yeah, yeah, he was my guy. Just this junky asshole I roomed with as a freshman. He bailed first quarter, stormed my lapite. I could never prove it, but I knew it was him, and he's a townie, so I still see the guy around sometimes. I blinked, coming back to the conversation.

But how? How is Jeff dead? He apparently tried to run that guy off the road. Well, he did run him off the road. The calving guy got up, but Jeff went off the road too. He hit a tree. The last word trailed off to a lone moan. I didn't know what to say. Jeff would never do anything like that.

there wasn't a mean or crazy bone in his body. He didn't make any... The phone clicked and went dead. I tried calling her back, but there was no answer. Turns out there was a good reason for that. She had shot herself in the head. In the past five days, two of the other three people have turned up dead as well.

One by suicide, and the other was shot while he was trying to burn down a hardware store. As for Paul, well, the police are still looking for him, connection with an aggravated assault where he allegedly broken all men's legs with a metal softball bat. And me? I'm currently a person of interest in an assault case. Not because I have any connection to the victim whatsoever, or because the woman has been able to give a clear description of anyone, but because my car was seen in the neighbourhood the night it happened, and a man

matching my description was seen by a couple walking their dog. The man was apparently carving the word slut into the victim's car. I'm not superstitious, but I'm not stupid either. This wasn't all a coincidence, and the thing that connected at all was that stupid game, a game I'd learned about from my professor. So, I emailed him repeatedly, but I got no response. After two days of waiting, I called his office and left a voicemail.

To my surprise, I got a call back that afternoon. Mr. Browning? Um, yeah, this Professor Miller? It is, yes, I got your voicemail. You sounded very upset, but I couldn't follow what you were talking about. You mentioned something in the reading? I sucked in a breath and tried to keep my voice calm. Yes, like I told you before, it was in the coursework last month,

the story about the cursed village, the thing that talked about the sack of knives game? There was a long pause, and I could hear the flutter of pages as he spoke again. I... I'm not sure what you're talking about. I know the story you're referencing, but... Just a moment. Ah yes, I think I found a line. The Siacs of knaves, right?

Um, if you say so. You called it sack of knives in the email, just like I did. But you have to know more than you... Email? I frowned. Was he drunk or something? I didn't have the time for this. If he wouldn't give me straight answers,

he could talk to the cops about it. Yeah, the email you sent me when I asked about it. Another pause. Mr. Browning, I haven't sent you an email. I don't use email at all, if I'm honest. A bit of a ludite, I know, but old dogs and all that. The department secretary will print out critical missives from my account, but I haven't read anything from you or any of the students in.

Well, probably better than a year. The man went on hesitantly. This is part of what I wanted to address. You seemed, in both a voicemail and this conversation to be able. under the impression that we've talked before. But I can assure you, we haven't. Not outside of the times I might have called on you in class. As for this phrase,

well, it is interesting, but given you're apparent upset, it's certainly not a topic you should be focused on at the moment. Perhaps you should talk to someone if you're feeling anxious or confused. I stood up and began pacing. That's bull crap. I have the email. I have proof.

son, I don't doubt you do, but I can tell you it wasn't from me. Maybe you got me mixed up with someone else, or maybe my account got tricked, hacked, I don't know. I wanted to scream at him, but I wasn't sure he was lying. Wasn't it possible someone else had gotten into his email or duped his address somehow? But why? And what did it have to do with a stupid sack of knives game? I really should be going. No, please, Professor.

So just, I'll stay calm. Just tell me what you know about the sack of knives game. I could hear him puff out a long breath on the other end. Very well. But if you get upset again, I'm going to let you go. Okay, deal. Okay, as I said, it's not sack of knives. It's the axe of knaves.

Sayaks was an old English name for a kind of knife, which makes your mistake rather humorous, I suppose. They were single-edged, fixed-blade tools, who we sometimes use as weapons in a pinch, particularly among the Saxons whose name comes from the very same word. As for knave, that's an old word for a trickster or a scoundrel,

sometimes a thief or something worse. Worse? Like what? What does it mean in the book? In that village? I don't know that I feel comfortable delving into old superstitions with a man that is so clearly distressed. I stopped pacing.

please sir, I need to know this, and then I'll let you go. He began again with a shaky breath. The sacks of knaves wasn't a game. It was a ritual. In the region it originated in, the nave was a slang term for a demon or devil, an evil spirit. In the ritual, you became a knife of demons, essentially. You were doing wrong against one who had not wronged you, spreading discord and suffering. Part of the practical effect is clear.

It was a slightly clever way of trying to get revenge on others indirectly. But the more profound consequences were supposedly that you were binding yourself to this other, and whether you knew it or not, you were part of the offering to be made. The man cleared his throat. There are stories of this throughout history, of course.

Places where people become strange, turn on each other. Whole villages and towns have been lost to it, even in more modern times. Today we call it mental illness, mass hysteria, and, well, I'm sure that's the right of it. He laughed uncomfortably.

If I may ask, why are you so fascinated by this? You haven't tried it yourself, have you? My vision began to swim as I nodded to an empty room. We... We did. We thought it was a joke,

and now my friends are dead, and... He must... something and then said more clearly, Do not contact me again. I heard a beep as he hung up, staring down at my phone. I replayed in my head what he'd muttered before hanging up,

trying to make sense of it. It knows what you hate, and it hates what you love. I swore that I'd take this story to my grave, but ever since it's happened, it's been weighing down on me each day, threatening to crush my mind. there's still a flicker of hope that someone out there who's experienced something similar to this might read and understand,

that maybe the fragmented pieces might fall into place. Since childhood, I've always been drawn to the beach. In the summer, I live with the days where we'd head out to the beach, where I'd endure stifling car trips to tumble about on the golden shore. It was no surprise to anyone who knew me that I became a lifeguard. It's not all bronzed gods and goddesses in tight red swimsuits, to the rescue in slow motion. It's sweltering for 40 hours a week on land,

trying to keep sight over 200 people, strangers whose very lives you've sworn to protect. There are the odd few rescues, but their children and adults, the latter, more inebriated, who swim out too far from shore. Still, I can't deny the fulfillment I get whenever I jump into the water with a rescue tube in my hand.

My free time was spent there, surfing or swimming, or just sitting on a rock, listening to the waves crashing into each other. The beach was almost the part of me. I thought that I was prepared for anything. I wasn't. It happened last July, during peak beach-going season,

where the beach was so packed that not a single square foot of golden sand could be seen, hidden under blankets and deck chairs. Then a series of shrill shrieks burst into the air, which were far from the delighted screeches I had been so used to hearing. Something was wrong. Tilting down my polarised glasses, I stood up at full attention and scrambled for my binoculars.

Blinking through them, I saw a crowd gathering at the far right end of the shore. Clambering down the ladder, I jammed the whistle hanging around my neck into my mouth and gave a few frantic blasts to get them to disperse. As the bear, sun-breddened legs of the crowd shuffled back, I found myself confronted with something far beyond my expectations. A little girl, by Meran estimates, either nine or ten, was curled up into a fetal position on the scalding sand. Her head buried in her knees and she tried to hide herself away from the crowding faces. Her unkempt, saltwater, slick hair clung to a tiny form, trailing down just above her ankles,

with dried crystals crowning the thick brown strands like a pearl crown. It covered nearly every inch of her body, like her suit coat, leaving only a thin arms and legs visible. A massive bloody gash ran down the side of a left thigh. A strip of seaweed draped over it like a makeshift bandage. Still trying to process the situation, I bent down next to her. Hey, hey, I know you're in a lot of pain right now, but I need you to help me. I promise you, it's going to be okay.

The rapid contractions of a frail chest slowed to a shudder. The dark eyes stared up me from within a pale, narrow face. her face was so drawn that her cheeks were almost hollow which only served to make her eyes look even larger she didn't look like a human child at all more like an elf or an alien human hybrid did you hurt yourself out there when you were swimming what's your name can you speak english

i turned to the crowd francis are her parents here i asked there were only blank faces nobody seemed to know where the girl had come from, or even what her name was. Not even her. After wrapping a beach-tail round to give her some dignity, I led her away from the dozens of curious eyes. She clung to me all the way, her clay-grimmed fingernails, leaving tiny white half-crescent indentations in my forearm. Her shaking had stopped, grateful to be away from the stifling

mob. Her eyes never left my face, awed and unblinking. The corners of her mouth would twitch, and her throat swelled, as if she wanted to say something, but the words remained trapped inside. I remembered a recent documentary I'd watched on television about a girl who was hidden away from her family for the first 13 years of her life. Nobody else in the family had been allowed to speak to her, and she'd been subjected to routine abuse by her father. Her days had been spent alone in a dark room, strapped to a party and stewing in her own filth. By the time people were People found out about her existence. She was more animal than child.

She didn't know how to communicate or that there was even a world outside a little cell. I found myself combing my heat-addled brain trying to remember a name. Jenny? Jenny? It didn't matter. It was as if she was hobbling right beside me, a strange, silent child who didn't belong in this modern world. She cowered underneath the sunlight.

trying to block it out by bearing her face under her hair. Her legs swayed underneath her to the point that I had to lead her along, like a father guiding his unsteady toddler's first steps. I'd taken her far away from prying eyes to the tied blue lifeguard tower, balanced on four rickety wooden legs. There, I applied every vital piece of information I'd learned from basic first-aid training as I tended to a wounds, swapping the area with sterilized cotton before slapping a cotton band-aid

all over it. All the while, I contemplated how long it would take for the police to get here. Jackie watched from the corner, her arms folded and eyes wide. She was a swim team champion. I brought shoulders parting the waters like the Red Sea whenever she dove in.

The child stayed up at her, her mouth agape. Where the hell did you find her? She exclaimed. Far side, I sighed. I think she might have cut herself on a rock while out running. I don't know. She's not telling anyone. I even tried Spanish with her. The kid's completely mute, Jack. I couldn't find a family anywhere. I'm starting to think that

she doesn't have one. As a leg dangled off the chair, I saw a map of paling, half-faded scars. The largest stretched from her mid-thigh, ending just below a sternum. She wore the weather-beaten skin of someone decades older than her. Jackie noticed I was close to tears. Despite her hard edges, she always held a soft spot for kids. She rustled a hand through a jacket, slung over a coat hanger in the corner, and fished the candy bar out from her pocket. Hey, sweetness, she could, you want this? She pried open the girl's fingers and pressed the treat into her palms.

The little girl held it like it was a pipe bomb before giving it a wary sniff. Then she had shoved the entire thing into her mouth, plastic and all. I pulled her now, saliva-soaked candy bar out of her mouth and peeled it open for her. Her almost black eyes bulged out of her head as the chocolate and toffee-coated nugget hit her tongue. She wulfed it down in under 15 seconds, as if it was the first time she'd eaten in a week. Jackie and I watched in horrified fascination. Jesus, Jackie murmured behind her hand. I could only nod in agreement.

It was then that the name we service. into my memory. Jeannie, that'd be the name of that little girl. And, looking at the one that sat in our office, it stuck in the absence of a real name. While we had called up the authorities, Jeannie remained blissfully ignorant of her own circumstances. She'd been engrossed by the interior of the office, poking and tugging at whatever she could get her hands on. As I watched her, guilt churned me. There was no way that she would stand a chance out there.

It felt like I signed a death warrant. As day fell into evening, the crowds dispersed from the beaches, until the only noise outside was the hissing sift of waves falling over each other. What the hell is taking them so long? Jackie wondered, drumming her fingers against the desk. I would have answered her, but I found myself in an intense tug of war with Jeannie, who'd grown attached to a picture of a fish that she'd ripped off the wall amidst the nautical display. As I wrestled it away, there was a flash of white as she growled at me. There was something about her that made me uneasy,

but I just couldn't put my finger on what it was. It was only now that I could see. Jeannie's teeth were pointed. They glinted up in the fading sun, as if someone had filed them into shark-like tips. It had to be some medical condition, at least that's what I told myself, grasping for a rational explanation for it.

They probably only looked pointed because of the angle of the light, just an optical illusion. Human teeth just didn't look like that. My attentions were drawn to the massive black clouds that were slowly encroaching in on us, the blood-red danger flag

already flapping outside. Great, I mumbled to myself. A storm was the last thing we needed right now. At the first distant rumble of thunder we heard, Jeannie leapt up out of a chair staring at the ceiling. She stared up at the ceiling in silent anticipation. After several hours of complete silence, she spoke. Ma, Jackie and I had looked at each other in silent disbelief.

No words were exchanged. The same question was on both our lips. Did that just happen? When the booming cracks sounded again, closer this time. her face lit up. She let out an elated howl, jumping up and down as she punched at the air with her fists. Ma, da! She squealed.

She rushed over to the window where she bounced up on her heels in an attempt to elevate herself up to see out of the droplet soaked glass. I peered over her shoulder, but the only thing out there was torrential rain. The dismal weather outside did little to damper Jeannie's sudden excitement. Ma, da, da, da, da, da, ma. Ma? Jackayed mouthed over to me from across the room. I shrugged, just as confused.

Jeannie tugged me by my shirt in the direction of the door. Despite being 20 years younger than me and at least a hundred pounds lighter, she pulled me about like I was nothing more than a rag doll. I had to dig my feet into the floorboards as an anchor to prevent myself from being completely bowled over. "'Hold on,' I told her. "'It's raining outside. "'You can't go out there.' "'Ma, da!' she whined,

her hand groping out towards the handle. The syllables were stretched out with her incessant tone into a, "'Ma!' "'I'd had enough. I shifted into my lifeguard mode, reserved for those who repeatedly ignored the warning whistles. I swivelled around by the shoulders.

"'You need to stay in here. I won't ask you again. A primal rage contorted her young face. Pain burst across my arm as she darted forward and sank her teeth into my forearm, biting down hard enough to tear away a small strip of skin. I knew then that it wasn't any trick of the light when they tore through my flesh. Even today I still feel it. I doubled over in agony with Jackie soon rush into my side.

While we had been distracted, we were both suddenly blasted by a freezing wind. We looked up only to see the... door swinging open, with Jeannie having long vanished into the storm. I ran headlong into it with my jacket, not even zipped up, flapping behind me like a cape. Jackie yelled out something behind me, but it was drowned out by the whipping air. I didn't care about the onslaught soaking me to my skin, or the winds that threatened to knock me off my feet. My only concern was the short figure that was disappearing into the storm. Jeannie!

I yelled after her. My voice was the flutter of butterfly wings inside a hurricane. She disappeared from my sight and into the wild wet. I'd lost her. The spirit I'd started with had slowed to a stagger, my ankles being weighed down by the sand, which had taken on a quick sand-like consistency. Then, as soon as it had started, the storm stopped.

The sky that had been pelting down moisture sealed itself, the wind's dwindling, leaving the red flag outside the tower, hanging limply on the pole. A sliver of sun peaked out through the dissolving grey. Through the mist inconstation, I saw her, staring out of the oncoming tide. I puffed towards her, only to skid to a halt as I saw what she was looking at in the distance. Two massive, shadowy figures stood beside each other, facing us. They towered out of the sea, hundreds of miles tall, the peaks of the heads obscured.

by the cloud layer. The one on the left was stockier and wide and powerful as a mountain who could have sent a tidal wave surging towards us with a single step. His companion on the left was just as formidable, but slightly taller,

their broad shoulders tapering inwards into subtle feminine curves. Forget the beach. Between the two of them they could have easily raised an entire city to ruins. Jeannie's face held no trace of fear as she strained her neck up at them.

Instead, her wide smile was plastered across her face. Ma, she whispered with muted awe. Da, I was wrong. She did her family after all. And they'd found her. The left being let out a deep, droning bellow, the reverberations of which had me struggling to stay upright. It was obvious what it meant.

A warning They might have been Dossal now, but not for long Jeannie turned to me Dark eyes brewing with emotion Torn between me and a massive kin Go to them

I told her Waving an encouraging trembling hand in the air They've been waiting for you Despite the many walls between us She understood my words by the equacing bow I gave She grinned displaying a juvenile fangs

before rushing towards the water and diving in, flex of foam hitting me in the face as she did. I watched as she swam farther out of the shore until a black shiny head was swallowed up by the endless blue. The two titans retreated, each one of their steps swelling up whirlpools of water around their ankles. Then, they just disappeared, as if they had walked off the invisible edge of the world.

I don't know how long I stood there, staring out of the sea until I became aware of the squeal of tires and flashing lights around me. It's been said that we know more about space than we do about our own oceans. I think it might be safer to stick with the stars.

There are some things out there that should remain unknown. I hadn't been down to the cellar since my sixth birthday party. I hated everything about it. I hated the smell, thick and noxious, heavy, old cedar shavings, rotting PVC piping, and wet.

Trapped water that seeped into dark corners and stayed there forever. The smell filled the place, and yet somehow was just an odor after all. I hated the actual process of going down too. The stairs creaked, groaned and flexed under any weight at all. Somehow, they always seemed seconds from collapsing entirely, folding in on themselves expertly, like how my grandfather shoveled the deck of car, when we played go fish. And the light.

Jesus, the light. It was a singular bulb. One. Pastel yellow, flickering inhumanly and too bright in the centre. Glowing, beaming.

There, as if that light held the centre of the whole universe, the infinite expanses of time and space, and whatever else was beyond the eight planets that we learned about in school a few weeks prior. The light hung and sued,

from a thin chain and it swung with the steps. The whole cellar seemed to move, in fact, impossibly intertwined, connected at the joint somehow. It was a terrifying sight, moving down the stairs, into the waiting dark, the distant corners just out of vision, undefined, never fully filled by the unholy orange light that cast strange shadows against the rusted metal shelving that had once so lovingly been put in place

by the previous owners and had been long since abandoned. The corners. Those dark corners. My mind filled them with abstract horror sometimes. The things I couldn't see. The things I didn't want to. Slippery tentacles, huddled rats, spiders with twelve legs as long as my fingers.

Small beady red eyes with no pupils. And once my fully formed first grade teacher, Mrs. Jewel. Mrs. Jewel, we called her. Who had sent me home from recess for refusing to come inside. Only this time she had two heads and one began eating the other. When I'd imagined those things at the age of six, the dead, horrible things that crept into every consciousness when left in the wrong kind of dark, I'd been able to shake them away with some effort as I moved down the stairs that shook and quivered and shrieked and waited

to drop out from under me at any moment. There was some power in the act, closing my eyes as tightly as I could, clenching my fists and wishing the nightmares away with everything I had. I opened them, finally, after what felt like an eternity, the dead sway was gone, the unlife and foul power that held caught in that cellar. It was just a room, after all, just four walls and a floor, man-made, built by hands just like mine, calculated and scaled with rulers and drawn with skillful position in a good old fashioned number two lead pencil.

It was just a room then. I could make it just a room. on my sixth birthday. Everything was different that day. My dad had asked me to go down and get his black toolbox from one of the shelves so that he could fix the goddamn handle on the front door before my grandparents and cousins came over and it jammed, and we embarrassed ourselves. I hadn't fully understood the urgency of this wish

or why my dad had become so angry that day fidgeting with the screws. But I knew better than to question my old man when he started to get red in the face. even if it meant going to the cellar, even on my sixth birthday. I had taken one last deep breath, hoping not to take in any of that stagnant damp air, grabbed the brass handle, wrenched the door open in a way

that surely would have made my mother swap me across the ear if she had caught me in the act, and trudged down the steps, in some strange cross between an army march and a man sent to the gallows. Determined and terrified. It was the only way to survive the cellar in my estimation.

If I stopped for a second, even one, I was sure something would reach out and grab me by the collar, or the shoulder, or even worse, the ankle. Old, far too long fingers closing quietly around my foot, pulling me down into those goddamn corners, the ones I knew were actual physical boundaries, but felt like so much more. I had been nearly down the steps

when I had to take my first breath, exhaling too long, and nearly choking in the forced inhale of lost oxygen, muddy shoe soles and the bloody remains of a dead robbing being pulled apart by ants on the sidewalk. I remember the smell most of all. Death, stillness, scary in how motionless it really was

and how trapped it all felt. I'd begun to sprint downward then, rushing madly along the uneasy cement pavement that was cracked under my feet, hoping to all hope that I didn't trip and splay out, that on a rare occasion I'd actually managed to tie my shoelaces correctly that morning and most of all that nothing would reach out and grab my ankle

nothing would be worse than that nothing except what I had seen then edging out of the darkness both silhouetted against the black and painted blood orange in the swaying light plain as could be a face not just any face

I recognised it Curly red hair and stars of freckles that filled a galaxy on his cheeks. It was Ralphie Bynes, the too tall for his age, second-grade baseball player who lived three houses down on the brick house to the right. I didn't have time to think. Everything moved too fast. I had a cracking sound as Ralphie's bones broke.

The heavy tear of polyester fabric, as the boy was folded into and against himself, smashed together by something I couldn't make out in the black corner. corners of the room. Ralphie didn't react as his body broke. His face didn't move at all. He was already dead. His eyes were pale and glazed over,

fish eyes staring at nothing, no recognition at all. I never forgot them. What happened next, I played in my head nearly every night and just about any time I was left alone with my thoughts over the next two years. That dead, motionless face

was pulled back into the shadows, slipping quickly out of view, and was lost. I heard ripping then, skin and muscle, shattering bone, and hungry jaws recoiling flesh. I ran. My feet felt as heavy as lead, but I forced them up, smashing against the wooden cellar steps that creaked and groaned under me and laughed. My father didn't fix the goddamn door handle on my sixth birthday. He chased me as I ran out of the cellar like a bat out of hell, past my presents and birthday cake, never truly seeing them, and onto the street, a summer rain began to fall, heavy and furious, turning the once brilliant day, grey and sour. Of course, my parents didn't believe me.

It didn't make sense to me either, but I had to tell someone. I begged them to check the cellar, and they did. Nothing was out of the ordinary, not a bucket or screw out of place, no sign of struggle, no belongings or sign of life anywhere. I insisted they call the Binds family, and after 15 minutes of hysterics, they did. No, Ralphie wasn't there. Of course he wasn't. He had gone off to batting practice that morning, and they would see him later that evening.

They assured my parents that everything was quite under control, that Ralphie followed his examiner. exact routine every day in June, and they thanked them not to get them worried about their son, based on a six-year-old boy's tall tales and wild imagination. Everything was fine, they insisted. They were right. For about three hours. I locked myself in my room, and my parents were fine with that.

They were embarrassed enough for one day. If I hadn't scared them so much, and so uncharacteristically avoided my own birthday, they may have sent me to bed without dinner. My sixth birthday party was cancelled and rescheduled for next Saturday. My parents didn't expect a call from the Bynes family at half past five, a call asking if I was playing some kind of joke on them

that Ralphie had actually missed batting practice that morning and hadn't come home for dinner. The police were called next, and yes, after a day had passed, they did come to check the cellar. They, of course, found nothing and apologised to my parents for having to stop by. My mother went to bed early that night,

and I could hear her crying for my room. My birthday party took place two Saturdays later, once things had quieted down some, and I didn't go anywhere near the door that led to the cellar. All of my guests were accompanied by their parents, who never seemed to let them get out of sight. If I was honest with myself, I hadn't really cared about my birthday party anymore.

But that was then, That was two years before. I was eight. It was my birthday. I had grown four and a half inches and sometimes I forget about the incident entirely. That was nice, though it didn't last.

Ralph's face always found a way back into my mind. I'd grown to hate it, hate the curly red hair and dumb freckles, hate those cold grey fish eyes that saw nothing, hate the way it made me feel, afraid and small. and, more than anything, hate the fact that it wouldn't leave me alone, that it reminded me of the cellar.

It reminded me that whatever was in that cellar, whatever it was, was still there. The inexplicable thing that stayed just out of sight, had crunched bones and ate little boys just like me. I shook my head and clenched my fists, feeling my uneven nails take hold and dig in there. No one had ever found Ralphie, and after a while, people had stopped talking about it too. It brought up too much, and it made them scared for their own children. Two months after the incident, Ralphie's parents sold the house and moved to Iowa. I'd watched them leave in a yellow rental truck from my room on the second floor,

and could have sworn I'd never seen two sadder people in all my life. I let my eyes open after a long moment, pushing these memories away, as I often did, letting the colours and lights of the kitchen flood into my vision in a brilliant stream. Reds and blues and yellows, birthday cake, sugar frosting and rainbow sprinkles, scarlet streamers and balloons that were as big as my head.

I felt safe and warm, just for a moment, maybe for the first time, truly in two years. the cellar that evil thing that was somewhere below me out of mind as long as I kept it that way I heard my mom's voice then distant calling me inaudible except for in its quality

she wanted something from me there was a hint of desperation the same way she would call me down for supper or to take the garbage out when my dad stayed at work late and she had shrimp peals or old garlic clothes to dispose of at first it didn't register not fully. I was surrounded and filled with colour and light.

It was my birthday. Eight years old. Soon I'll be off the third grade, back with my friends in class, playing tag at recess, with all new teachers to meet, and then so much more. To grow and run and play and be a boy.

I heard my mom's voice again, and this time it roused me from my thoughts. A voice was louder, though still distant. The sound indistinct and cuttural, as if I had heard it underwater during swim practice, this time not desperate anymore. Urgent. Then it was gone.

Silence. I felt my heart began to beat against my chest and the small hairs rise on my arms in the back of my neck. Mom, I called out, trying to pinpoint a location in the two-story home, as I often did when she needed me. In this, I had become an angel. expert over the years. I was often called to help, and always came. I was a good boy, and I prided myself, especially in taking care of my mother. Timmy? Her voice came again, straight and piercing, almost disappointed. Mom? I almost shouted. I'm down in the cellar.

The words hit me like bricks. Ice crept of my spine and settled in my throat. The two words came again, over and over again. Mom. Seller. Mom. Seller. Against all my fears and childish rationalities, I ran, quickly covering the lends of the kitchen and adjacent hallway. I stopped before the open door that led down, down to the blackness, where that one light swayed

hypnotically like a tongue, and my mother called for me in a dread scream, near panic. Timmy? Help! I crossed the threshold. quickly descending, one foot after another, as the stairs buckled and heaved under me, yelling for my mother. The blackness that filled the cellar was so total, so complete, that I didn't even realize

that there was a change in the light, as the door upstairs slipped quietly closed behind me. I arrived on the landing, scanning the pulsinging shrouds left or right quickly for my mother, knowing that she was here somewhere, that she had come down to get something for my party, and that it, the goddamn cellar, had gotten her. Some part of me had known this day was coming, that the place had been lying in wait, waiting to hurt, waiting to hurt me. Some part of me knew that this dark place was awake again,

hungry again, the way it had been that rainy day when it snapped Ralph's spine and carried him away. Some part of me knew that it had waited precisely for this moment. My voice cracked as I shouted for my mom into the ether. Her voice came back dry, insolent, fragmented, and near some sort of animal snarl. Oh, what a good boy you are, Timmy! I stood, stunned, a long silence coming over the dead space and the low voice that had so perfectly impersonated my mother. Always looking out

for your mother. I knew then that it was too late. It had me. screamed, but he was cut short. The light bulb, too powerful in its centre, like an eternal sun, flicked once as it swung ominously above me, and my eyes jumped to it, clung to it, something, anything, in the all-powerful rolling dusk, and went out forever, enveloping me in nothingness. I felt then, as somehow I knew I always would.

Cold bones are my ankle, porous, decaying flesh, take hold there, and pull, wrenching me down and into those impossibly stretched corners where reality bent and flailed and broke. I screamed. I felt something else too. A mouth, rows and rows of teeth, and more, or something as close to it as I had ever felt,

began to crawl up my legs, devouring me like a pillowcase, combing the length of my body, rising up my abdomen and to my chest. I screamed again, knowing I only had seconds left. Soon I would be gone, lost, left here forever in the dark, some impossible place that didn't exist, just like Ralphie Bynes, gone, forgotten. My parents would look for me, they would cry, they would hope, but they wouldn't find anything.

Soon they too would pack their belongings in a U-hole and leave town, ashamed, scared, lost, ruined. It would be like I never existed at all. I had to survive. There was a rush of feet. Light. Light beating back the darkness, pushing back those horribly long corners, and whatever gnawing evil

had taken hold of my body and pinned it against the dirt floor. My parents raced down the steps and wrapped me in their arms. I cried and they held me as best as they could. It wasn't enough for me to forget the feeling of teeth,

thousands of them, tasting, not yet chewing, but oh so close. My eighth birthday wasn't a happy one. And that was enough for me.