CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 5 UNNERVING Horror Stories to put in the background while doing chores around the house

Episode Date: June 2, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "I’m a Professional Phrogger. I’ve Never Seen a Family Act This Way" Creepypasta►55:25 "I'm a Priest That Runs a Confessional. Someone Just Gave the Most Chilling Confession" Creepypasta►1:22:46 "I'm a therapist. My client won't stop talking about Mr. Grin" Creepypasta►1:57:15 Every Twenty Years, The Faceless Ones Come out" Creepypasta►2:40:09 "Fifteen years ago, we locked a classmate in a locker. He came back wrong" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

I've been a frogger since I was 13. At this point, a professional squatter. It started a survival. But over time, it became something else. I don't do it for food or shelter anymore. I do it because it makes my pulse race. I do it because slipping between cracks of someone's life without them ever knowing I was there feels like proof that I existed.

people think of squatters as junkies or drifters, but froggers were different. We become ghosts in pristine houses, ghosts with beating hearts, watching the living world from air vents and crawl spaces. There's a whole online scene buried. You wouldn't stumble across us by accident. You'd have to be broken in just the right shape. Once you're in, you're in. I've been doing this longer than almost anyone else. I've lived in mansions, farmhouses, penthouses,

doomsday bunkers. I've crawled under floorboards while families ate breakfast above me. I've watched people sleep from the shadows of their closets. I've held my breath for hours in insulation that made my skin bleed. There are contests. longest stay undetected, most dangerous infiltration, most expensive home, most absurd hiding place. I've won all of them at least once. They treat me like a legend.

Some of them even message me for advice. There's a thread with my name pinned to the top of the forum. I post tips, photos, maps, audio files. I teach them how to disappear in. plain sight, how to become nothing, and survive inside someone else's everything. Before all of that, I was a kid no one wanted. My mom dropped me at a fire station when I was a baby, a bundle and a duffel bag. I grew up in orphanages that smelled of bleach and sadness, passed between foster homes like a borrowed jacket. Every new house came with rules, slaps, broken promise, and broken promise.

Some of them starved me, some locked me in closets. I ran away from all that when I was nine. Took a bus as far as I could afford, then walked. I stole food, snuck into unlocked garages, lived in empty homes under renovation. Then I got better, started hiding in homes that weren't empty. I watched and listened, learned habits and schedules. I found silence and made it my armour. That's when it changed from survival to skill,

then from skill to instinct, then obsession. I couldn't stop, even when I didn't need to anymore. I got jobs eventually, did odd work. I started making enough to rent a place of my own, if I ever wanted it. But I never did. I found the ranch by accident, dragging through satellite images one night while riding a post-job high.

I just finished the clean exit from a two-week infiltration in Boulder, wealthy newlyweds. As always, I didn't take anything, didn't leave a single sign. That's what separates froggers from burglars. We're not thieves. I kept scrolling aimlessly, waiting from my adrenaline to start. settle. Then I saw it. A rectangular smudge of green in the middle of Utah's drylands. Nothing around it for miles but dust and sand, all scorched and crumbling. It was a lush square of impossible colour, a full orchard from the looks of it, a ranch house with a wraparound porch.

It looked perfect. I pulled it into my files and started scanning deeper. No records in the county assessor's database. I cross-referenced it on four different mapping services. Same thing. I took a screenshot, logged into the forum, and posted it under the title. Anyone tried this place? The replies came fast. What is that?

A new movie set? In the middle of nowhere? No thanks. Nah man, those rural folks don't play. You don't mess with ranch families. Too isolated. If they catch you, they'll bury you in the back pasture. People have their own guns.

They'll shoot first. Ask later if you're lucky. I waited before replying. Eventually, someone tagged me directly. Don't even think about it. You're good, but that's suicide. Another added. He won't do it.

He knows better. I stared at that line for a while. Could have closed the tab, gone to sleep and found a safer target. But the green rectangle sat in my mind like a loaded chamber. They thought I wouldn't do it. That's why I packed my kit the next morning and started walking east.

I was going to Utah. I traveled light. Everything I needed. needed fit into a canvas pack that had been stitched and restitched too many times to count. My boots were cracked at the seams, soles reinforced with glue and strips of tire rubber. I stuck the low ground and outcroppings during the day, walked at dusk, and slept under shrubs when I couldn't see a head anymore. It took two full days to cross the desolate stretch leading to the ranch.

The air was dry enough to strip moisture from your lungs and the ground swallowed footprints within minutes When I finally saw it It felt like my mind had been tricked One moment I was looking out across endless dead nothing And the next I saw colour bleeding through the heat shimmer Lush grass, tall corn A patch of orchard trees bearing fruit

Rows of cabbage and beans all of it nestled inside a perfect square of green that pulsed with life. At its centre stood a house with a wide porch and pale wooden siding. There was a sharp border at the edge of it, a soft dent in the ground. It was literally one step of sand, then grass. I stopped at that line and crouched down, pressed my hand to the ground. The dirt under my palm felt warm and faintly alive, if that's the right word for it. I brushed aside a patch of grass and saw that the line was definitely not natural.

There was something buried just beneath the surface, chalk or salt or ash. I couldn't tell. It formed a thin gray barrier running through the soil, clean as a ruler line. I stepped over it. The air smelled different immediately. The temperature dropped by at least 10 degrees. My skin stopped burning. I should have turned back right then.

But I kept walking. I found a good vantage point behind a stone wall that had collapsed on its western edge. The ranch house sat 200 yards ahead, wrapped in a horseshoe of crops and animal pens. The field stretched out behind it, and from where I crouched, I could see a set of cattle luring near a feeding trow. The entire scene looked pulled from a dream, something from a calendar photo or an old oil painting. The family appeared on the porch just before sunset.

First came the father, broad-shouldered and tan, wiping his hands with a stained rag. His wife followed, carrying a tray of glasses and a picture. Three children bounded after her, each under ten. They were laughing as they ran down the porch steps, chasing a small dog that darted through the grass. They moved in the kind of grace I hadn't seen in a long time. Whatever their lives were, they didn't wear the weight of them. I was jealous. I watched them eat dinner out.

Grilling over a fire pit near the barn. They passed food back and forth. The sun eventually dipped low, casting amber light over the field. It was a perfect postcard, every detail framed by golden haze. I waited until the sky turned black and the lights in the house started going out one by one. Then, I moved. I crouched low and moved fast across the edge of the property. Every footstep I made, I would make sure to stop, wipe it clean so it doesn't leave a print,

and stayed out of open ground, weaving through trees and parked equipment, until I reached the east side of the house. I waited again, pressing my back to the cool wood siding, listening for footsteps or voices. There was nothing. I took one last look at the darkness behind me and slipped around the back of the house and tested the windows. One of them was unlocked.

And I was in. The house was old but not falling apart. Every piece of it had been cared for, yet nothing had been modernised. The floors were polished wood, the walls were dark, timber, thick and slightly warped with age. Shelfes line the corners, each one stacked with books, jars and figurines. The art on the walls wasn't the kind you'd find at hobby stores or Sunday

school. Most of it was hand-carved or painted. Demons and angels fighting, horned men, circles of fire and bone, symbols arranged in patterns I had never seen before. Most of it looked Christian, some weird denomination of Christianity. Some of the figures looked human, but wrong in ways I couldn't explain. One piece near the staircase showed a figure kneeling in front of a goaded head man with his hands open. Weird religious depictions weren't rare in rural homes, but man, it was a shocker to see every time. I moved past it and opened the refrigerator. I took my time.

I had done this hundreds of times before. I knew how to take without drawing attention. I broke off small pieces from a wedge of cheese, sipped just enough milk to cool my throat, and took a spoonful of something sweet from a glass jar. I wiped the edges of the containers with my shirt and placed them exactly where I'd found them. Once I was sure the kitchen had no cameras or alarm systems,

I scouted the rest of the ground floor. It was a wide open layout. No hallways. The living room opened directly into the kitchen and dining area. Beyond that, a hallway led to a laundry room and what looked like a study. A staircase on the far end curled upward toward the second floor. I found my hiding spot behind a false panel in a storage closet near the laundry room. Someone had remodeled this part of the house recently.

the panel didn't sit flush with the wall. I pried it loose with a butter knife and found a gap between the inner wall and the original frame. It wasn't spacious, but I had slept in worse. I tucked my pack into the corner, lay back and steadied my breathing. Every creek of the house made me flinch, but nothing stirred. I slept in short intervals, waking often, to listen.

The next morning, I waited until the family left the house. I heard the kids talking through the walls, their voice is muffled and distant. At one point, the mother said they needed to find some fresh meat soon. The father grunted something in reply. One of the children asked if they were going to the usual spot. The mother said no, they needed something stronger this time. I assumed they were talking about livestock, maybe venison, something rural and bloody. The house was larger than it looked from the outside.

Two full floors. I started by mapping the layout in my head. The kids stayed on the bottom level, tucked into two small rooms near the kitchen. The parents slept above them in a spacious master bedroom that had a double balcony. There was a third room on the second floor, locked from the outside. I couldn't figure out what was inside, but the door had been nailed shut and covered with a faded wall tapestry. One night while checking around for a new hiding spot, I noticed the small indentation on the rug in the kitchen. When I lifted it, I found the edge of a small wooden hatch, maybe two feet wide,

two feet wide, with a thin brass handle and four nails holding it shut. A narrow wooden staircase led down into darkness. The air rising from the opening was cold and dry, and it carried that same strange scent I had noticed when I first entered the house. Dampness mixed with something ancient and faintly sweet. No one had mentioned this space in the time I've been there so far. I hadn't heard anyone go down there either. If I could make that space my own, I could stay here as long as I wanted.

I could vanish beneath the house and live for months without a single footprint. If they never used it, it was mine. I closed the hatch and pulled the cabinet back into place, pressing the rug down to hide the seam. All I had to do was wait for the right time to move in. If I did now, there was no guarantee the stairs leading down wouldn't creak and groan. I had to wait. Two mornings later, I heard the mother mention the same thing again. I had slipped out of my hiding spot before dawn and crouched just behind the half-open door to the pantry.

The kids were in the kitchen, eating breakfast, or the parents moved around the counter, packing something into canvas bags. We'll need to be gone at least a full day this time, the mother said. Maybe two. If we can't find any on the low trails, we'll go further. Should we take all three? The father asked.

No, she said. Just the deep one. The others are too thin. The land won't respond. I didn't know what they were talking about. One of the kids asked if you could stay up late while they were gone. The mother gave him permission, then leaned in and kissed the top of his head. The other two whined about having to feed the goats and prep the drying racks again.

We'll bring back fresh meat. Be patient. The kids groaned in unison. They were leaving. That meant the house would be empty. I waited. Once the house was quiet, I was sure that the parents had gone. I slipped from the wall panel and crossed through the kitchen barefoot, stepping carefully to avoid the boards that creaked.

I peeled back the rug and exposed the hatch. It lifted without a sound. I didn't hesitate. I stepped into the hole and pulled the hatch closed above me. The stairs groaned, but not too loudly. My shoulders scraped both. walls as I descended and the temperature dropped with every step. The smell hit me halfway down. Iron and soil was thick in the air, clinging to the roof of my mouth.

When I reached the bottom, I stood in pitch black and listened. My breathing echoed faintly off stone. I pulled a flashlight from my belt, wrapped the lens in cloth to dim it, and clicked it on. The basement was fairly large. Rough stone walls braced with timber, hooks hung from overhead beams, rusted chains dangling beside them, some old fibres stuck to the links. The floor was stained in regular patches. I moved slowly, casting the light across the space.

There were animal bones along the far wall, stacked in a bin beside what looked like a salt block and several glass jars filled with dark liquid. I stopped myself before the anxiety got too loud. My first instinct was to run. I don't know why. Maybe it was the smell or the cold or the way the silence bent around me. My legs twitched, ready to sprint up the stairs.

But then the voice in my head, the one I've been sharpening for years, kicked in. Calm down. Use your eyes. You've seen butchering rooms before, man. Farmers butcher meat and then dry it. That's probably what they use the basement for. Besides, this family had done nothing out of the ordinary in the time I've stayed here. The weirdest thing about them was the religious stuff around the house, and that wasn't even the weirdest thing I've seen in homes in my life.

I made my way to the far corner and checked around. There was no way out but the stairs, but the corner itself had just enough shadow, and a few crates blocked direct line of sight from the centre of the room. I pulled them aside, stepped down, and wrap myself in the old canvas dropcloth I had stashed in my pack. Just before I dozed. I had the basement hatch open, a faint click, then the groan of old hinges. My eyes snapped open and my breath locked in my chest. I twisted beneath a canvas and pressed my face between two wooden slats.

The stairs creaked one step at a time, soft voices followed, four sets of feet. I angled my flashlight toward the floor and watched their shadows stretch into the room. The first two were the parents. I recognize their outlines immediately. The man walked ahead, carrying something heavy draped across his shoulders. It looked to be a person. The woman followed with a bundle tucked under one arm. Behind them came the two others, robed, their faces completely hidden.

The man stepped into the center of the basement and signalled for what seemed to be his companion to do something. He took a table that was near them and dragged it to the centre of the basement. The other man laid the burden across the table. I could see it now. It was a woman, he sat down, and she seemed to be unconscious. Her limbs hung limp, her hair had been matted with sweat, and her stomach bulged beneath her dress. Was she pregnant?

I felt my stomach lurch. Her chest moved shallowly, so she was still breathing at least. The robed men stepped fully into view, and I got my first proper look at them. Their robes were deep black, made from something thick and textured, and each one was stitched from the neck to ankle without a single seam visible. Around their hems and sleeves, symbols had been embroidered in a sickly, off-white thread. one of the row figures produced a long piece of bone sharpened to a fine point

and dipped it into one of the dark glass jars he bent low and began tracing a perfect circle in the dust followed by a pentagram at his centre the lines gleamed wetly and from the way the lantern caught them I realized he was using blood it dragged across the stone in thick strokes

bleeding into the grooves carved into the floor itself. The other roped figure stood by the table, whispering something low as the father and mother adjusted the woman's position. Her stomach rose in a full, tight curve. She was heavily pregnant, close to term. She remained unconscious. The table they placed her on was an old butcher slab, covered in scars and grooves.

the grain of the wood blackened and glossy from years of use. The father stepped back as the robed man finished the pentagram. The lines met, closed, and the robed man gave a nod. She's strong, one of them said. She'll hold, said the other. The mother moved to the far corner and opened a wooden crate. She produced a long, curved dagger, wrapped in red cloth and handed it to her husband.

He took it without a word and stepped up to the table. He leaned in and placed a hand on the woman's forehead, brushing her hair aside like he was saying goodbye. Then he placed a blade into a chest and drove it straight through her sternum. Her eyes snapped open. She didn't scream, but her mouth twisted as a hand's sense. seized at the edge of the table.

Her back arched and her legs kicked against the slab. A choking sound rasped from her throat. Blood welled up around the handle, thick and dark, soaking through a dress and pooling across the pentagram beneath her.

She convulsed once more. Then went still. The basement fell into silence for several long seconds. The father stepped away from the body and wiped the blade against his sleeve, folding it again in a red cloth as if it were a sacred object.

The two robed men began chanting something in a guitaral language, made of deep clicks and harsh consonants that didn't resemble anything I had ever heard. The mother ascended the stairs without explanation and vanished through the hatch. She returned several minutes later, cradling something in both arms.

At first I thought it was a bundle of fabric or maybe an animal, but then I saw it was a severed goat's head freshly taken. Blood still dripped from its neck and darkened a blouse as she carried it across the room with care, as though presenting her newborn. The goat's eyes were milky and half-closed and his tongue lulled out between its teeth. One of the roped men retrieved a short saw and placed it on the table. The father held the woman's body steady or the mother guided the blade. It took several strokes. Her neck split slowly, vertebrae crunching as the saw made contact with bone. I could barely watch.

Her head came loose with a wet snap and the mother lifted it free, laying it in a clay bowl beside the table. Then they placed the goat's head on the open neck, seating it awkwardly. Blood ran from the seam, soaking the pentagram again. It looks so grotesque and wrong. I had to use every ounce of willpower to not wretch and throw up. It sat too high.

It sighs off by just enough to make the body beneath it seem small. the mouth twitched, and for a moment I thought I had imagined it. The mother and father began to spread salt in a precise pattern along the edges of the circle. Every few seconds they paused, muttered a word, and dropped small metal tokens, coins, rings, a gear, a broken key. The symbols carved on the floor flared dimly, then pulsed again bright. The temperature shifted around me, dropping to freezing in seconds. My teeth clenched as I wrapped my arms around my chest.

The table began to tremble. Then... The body twitched. First the legs, then the arms, then the fingers. One foot kicked, then the other. The abdomen clenched once, twice, then swelled unnaturally. The goat head rose slightly, its mouth opened and hung. From deep within it came a sound I had never heard repeated since.

It was low and wet, a gurgling croak that built into a shuddering intake of breath. It rose upright, arms rigid at its sides, and then it spoke. Why have you summoned me? One of the figures stepped forward, arms outstretched in reverence, and bowed low before answering. The crops have dulled, the ground is dried, the air takes more than it gives. We need your blessing, we need the land to breathe again. The goat head twisted slightly to the side and hovered that way for several seconds, as if considering their words. Then its arms jerked upward, bone cracking at the shoulders, and its hands snapped open.

The entire table rattled beneath it. A long growl rose from its chest and deepened into a gurgling scream, its volume climbing until it filled every corner of the basement. One of the jars near the altar cracked, the father staggered back and caught himself on a crate, his face paced, The mother clutched the silver charm that had been hanging around her neck. The creature slammed his hands down on the table, splintering one of the legs. It bared its teeth and hissed through clenched jaws.

His voice returned, less articulate. You have wasted blood. I will not take offerings in such circumstance. The robed men exchanged the glance. Something disturbed it, one said. We must abandon this site for 24 hours. Let it rest, let the lines reset. The other said.

We will stay with you at your ranch, he said, looking over at the man and woman. When we return here, we cleanse every inch of this basement, every crack, every hiding place. It will all be scrubbed. They began collecting their tools in silence. The creature hissed again and pressed its hands against the inside of the pentagram, testing it. The salt still held. I saw one grain tremble at the edge and roll across the line. A faint spark flared from the ground and the creature recoiled.

Return prepared, it said. They didn't speak again. One by one they ascended the stairs. The hatch creaked shut behind them. The sound of metal locks sliding into place hit first, then the dragging of something heavy across the top of the hatch. A power drill whined. The seal was thorough.

They weren't just closing it. They were barricading it, sealing the basement shut from the outside world with no intention of returning until they were. believed it was safe. I sat frozen beneath the crates. My back was damp and clung to the wall. Each bang above me sent a new spike of dread through my chest. I felt like I'd just been buried alive. I closed my eyes and buried my head against my knees, counting seconds in my head to keep from losing it. Then it spoke. To me.

I know you're here. The voice came softer this time. I smelled you as soon as I came. I tried to keep my breath quiet enough to vanish into the walls. You watched it, it said. You've been watching for days. I stayed still, but every part of me burned with panic. I didn't know if it could see me or if it only sensed me.

He let out a deep, slow breath That filled the basement like steam Rolling out of a furnace You and I We are the same I stayed curled behind the crates With my body locked in place Listening as the creature shifted on the table

His voice filled the room again Drawing out each syllable You are small But cave I clenched my jaw and tried to ignore it, but my arms are already starting to tremble. My legs had gone numb. I didn't know how long I could keep this up. The voice drifted closer.

I know what you desire. I wanted to yell back, to tell it to shut up, but I couldn't summon the courage. You want to leave. they continued. They will not let you. They will come back tomorrow with fire and oil. They will burn the walls. They will tear the floors apart.

They will find you. I let the thought pass through me. It wasn't hard to imagine. If they had gone this far, then finding a frogger in their basement would only make their work easier. I would become another ingredient. but I can help you leave the word stopped my breath break the salt only a single line then we shake hands that is all

I helped you it said and you help me one wish that is the price one I didn't answer You do not have to die here, it said. I pressed my fingers to the floor. I counted my options and found none. If I stayed, I would be found. If I ran, I would be caught. If I waited, I would be part of the next ritual. I stepped out from behind the crate and walked toward the table.

It crouched low on the table now, knees folded beneath it, one hand resting on the wood, and the other stretched toward me with its palm open. His head followed my movement without turning, but his presence bore down on me with unbearable weight. I approached slowly, my eyes on the edge of the salt line, the grain shimmered slightly as I neared. You are close, it said. Finish it. I step forward, and use the tip of my side. my boot to break the smallest section of the circle. The salt scattered outward. The creature rose to its

full height in a single motion, limbs unfolding with perfect fluidity. It stepped over the line and stood before me, towering, not with bulk, but with form. The dress it wore hung in tatters, soaked through with blood that had dried in layered streaks. The goat's head stared straight through me, its hands still hung in the air. I reached forward and took it. The moment we touched, the entire room shivered. The ceiling cracked once above us, a gust of wind passed through the room. The creature nodded once, then spoke, turn around. For a second, I thought this would be it. This was the part where it would rip me in half or drive his fingers into my skull

or whisper something into my ear that would collapse my mind I thought it would betray the deal twist it, drag me down into whatever hell it had come from But I turned around And accepted my fate After a while of nothing I turned back And it was gone

Then I heard it Wood splintering, a scream, sharp and short. I crouched and crept toward the stairs, stepping lightly to avoid the cracked boards. Another crash followed, then a sound that turned my blood cold. It was wet and sudden, like someone tearing a roast from the bone with bare hands.

A gurgling cry ran out, followed by a thud that shook dust loose from the ceiling beams. Someone else yelled, a deeper voice this time, angry, cut off by a second impact that made the floor groan. I reached the top of the stairs and press my ear to the hatch. Muffled movement echoed above me. I ease the latch open. Whatever had been used to barricade it was gone. I slipped through the opening and rose to my feet in the kitchen.

The light was dim. fed only by the flicker of lanterns that swung in the hallway. A smell hit me before I saw anything. Blood, warm enough to coat the air. I moved through the living room and crouched behind the banister near the front entryway. Beyond the corner, I saw the creature. The flesh was pale and glistening with sweat and blood. Veins pushed against the skin as if something large,

writhed beneath the surface. His torso swelled unnaturally with each breath, and the skin around its belly stretched so tight I could see the outline of something shifting inside. The goat's head remained fixed above it all, still slack-jawed and expressionless, but the air around it vibrated from the growling sound rising from its throat. One of the robed men, in clear desperation, charged forward with a blade drawn from his belt, but the creature swatted him aside with one arm, shattering his jaw and throwing him into the far wall. His body hit the bookshelf and slid down, crumpled and twitching.

The other raised his hands and began chanting. The creature lunged forward, driving its fingers through his stomach. They punched through his robes and into his flesh with ease. He buckled around them, and the chanting died in his throat as he collapsed, folded in half. The mother and father tried to run. The father was too slow, however, so he grabbed a shotgun from behind the door and fired once. The blast tore through the creature's shoulder, exposing raw muscle, but it didn't flinch, it didn't bleed.

The flesh folded back together as if nothing had happened. I crossed the room in two lurching strides and tackled him against the wall. I heard the bone crack before he even screamed. The creature pinned him there and pulled the gun from his hands, then pushed its face into his neck and bit down. The mother suffered a similar fate. I didn't wait for my turn. I ran through the side door, out across the field,

and toward the edge of the property. My legs burned and my lungs pulled cold air that stung my chest. The sky above me swirled with smoke and stars. The property line came into view ahead of me. Grass stopped and sand began, just as it had the night I arrived. My body slammed into something solid and invisible. It knocked me back flat onto the ground. I gasped, rolled onto my knees,

and tried again. I clawed forward and lunged with my shoulder, but the wall held. There was no sign of what was stopping me, just empty air with a density of steel. I beat my fists against it. I kicked it, I even screamed at it,

hoping something would shift. Nothing did. Behind me, it was coming. Galloping, hands and feet pounding the dirt, frantically. I turned and saw it charged through the dark, arms bent, mouth wide. Its goat face stared directly ahead, those empty sockets locked onto mine. Its legs kicked up dirt as it closed the distance. I braced myself and shut my eyes.

But it stopped inches in front of me. Its breath was harsh and fast. I felt the warmth of it on my skin. I opened my eyes and saw the goat's head tilted downward, close enough that I could see the crusted blood dried onto the hairs around its mouth. It just stared. Then it sat down in the dirt, folded its arms over its knees, and whispered one sentence. My wish. It sat back slowly, folding its legs beneath itself, arms resting on its thighs, shoulders,

heaving with slow breath. The goat's head tilted down toward the earth, and the body underneath began to sag, muscles quivering beneath the stretched, sweats lick skin of the pregnant woman's frame. My wish is this. You must raise my kin. I didn't understand what it meant at first.

The words registered, but the meaning floated beyond them. The creature load itself further into the dirt and wrapped its arms around its abdomen. The flesh swelled and pulsed, shifting in thick waves, as something began moving inside. It gritted its teeth and bent forward, nails dragging through the earth beneath it. I watched the belly twitch and lurch, muscles contorting, as if something larger than the frame of the woman's body had ever been meant to contain, began forcing itself free. It whimpered once, a low rasp torn through clenched teeth, then braced itself on one arm and reached between its legs with the other.

Blood poured out under the grass, soaking the soil beneath it. The stench filled the air. I wanted to look away, but I was locked in place. The body convulsed once more, and then something sensed. slipped free and hit the ground with a wet, muted slap. It was small, no larger than a toddler. Its body was covered in coarse black hair and grey skin. Its limbs were jointed like a person's, but longer and hairier.

Bones jotted out at odd angles, and from its back, two leathery wings unfolded and stretched outward with a slow, fluttering pulse. Its head was elongated and bent forward, nose flat and wide, eyes already open. It blinked once, then rolled onto its back and looked up at me. I understood then what I needed to do, so I rushed forward, grabbed it by the torso, and held it down against the dirt with everything I had. It bounced once, let out a short yelp and rolled to its side. I turned, found a smooth rock about the size of a football near the edge of the line, and raised it above my head.

My arms trembled from the weight, from the panic, from the surge of hatred I didn't even know I could feel. I brought the rock down on its skull. Once, twice, three times. It giggled. Then it looked up at me and said, Da-da I dropped the rock and stumbled back, nearly falling.

I wanted to scream but nothing came out. It reached one hand toward me, finger splayed, smiling. I don't remember walking back to the ranch. I must have been in shock. My body moved, but I didn't guide it.

My arms clutched the thing to my chest. It rested against me and pressed his head beneath my chest. chin, breathing slow and steady, humming to itself. Its small hands gripped the collar of my shirt with frightening strength. I walked into the house expecting to see blood, but there was nothing there. The hallway rug had no stains, no tears. I passed through the rooms in disbelief, searching for any trace of what had happened.

There was none. The fireplace glowed with a faint bed of coals as though someone had stoked it an hour ago. I climbed the stairs, still holding the creature to my chest. Its eyes were closed. It smiled in its sleep. In the master bedroom, the bed was made. The curtains are open. Sunlight washed through the room in slow, golden waves.

I stood in the doorway with my hands trembling and my knees ready to buckle. The windmill outside turned slowly in the breeze, casting long shadows across the fields. And I understood then that I wasn't going anywhere. I tried to kill it again during the first night. After returning to the house and wandering through room after room that had been wiped clean of blood and memory, I laid it down on the kitchen floor and grabbed the heaviest butcher knife I could find. I raised it over his chest, two hands on the grip, and stared at the pale, pulsing skin between its ribs. Its chest rose and fell slowly.

It looked asleep, though its eyes were open. I brought the knife down with everything I had. The blade hit the skin and stopped, as if striking cured leather. I pressed harder. It didn't pierce. It didn't even leave a scratch. The thing blinked once, reaching up with a tiny hand and tapped the edge of the knife, like it was curious.

Then it laughed. A small imitation of human joy that sent a chill down the length of my spine. I dropped the knife and stumbled backward. It rolled onto its side and cooed, dragging itself across the floor. Later that night I found the father's gun The shelves was still in a wooden box beside it Organised by calibre I loaded it around and pressed it to the side of the thing's head

While it napped in a bundle of blankets I pulled the trigger Nothing happened I opened the chamber and checked The bullet was clean I reloaded, tried again Click Nothing.

I pointed it at my own temple and fired. There was a flash and a crack, and then everything went black. I woke up on the porch with a creature sitting beside me, giggling again. My ears rang. I checked for blood and found none. The bullet was lodged in the wood beneath my seat. I tried again. This time I aimed in my chest.

The fire bloomed through my ribs and dropped to my knees. I passed out choking on my own breath. I woke up in bed, tucked beneath a wool blanket. The creature stood by the window, humming to itself, staring out of the field. The gun rested on the nightstand with a safety on. I couldn't take the sound of its laugh anymore. I waited until noon when the sun was highest and climbed up. the windmill. It wasn't tall, but it stood far enough above the property that I could see everything.

The land rolled out in perfect symmetry. Everything in this place was a symbol from the fences to the paths. I saw it clearly from above. The windmill stood at the centre. Each plot of land, each structure, each buried mark and etching in the stone had been placed and matched the design of a vast, incomprehensible symbol. I laughed. I don't know why. I think I lost something in that moment, something important. I climbed to the edge, spread my arms, and jumped. A fall should have shattered my legs and broken my spine,

but the impact felt like hitting a warm mattress. I bounced once and rolled to the dirt. My limbs ached, but nothing snapped. The creature watched from the fence. It clapped twice like I had done something clever. Time started to rot. I stopped counting days. I would wake up and find the creature had moved the furniture,

arrange plates and circles on the floor, place books in spirals across the kitchen tiles. It mimics speech and movement. It watched me eat and copped me, though it never needed food. I never saw it sleep for long. Sometimes it stood in the hallway and stared at the ceiling for hours. It smiled more. Its teeth changed.

The front row straightened, the gums pinkened, the texture of its skin began to smooth. The wings on its back folded down and slowly receded. its fingers shortened, its gate adjusted. It stooded me when I moved and copied me without hesitation. At some point, I recalled my old frog in community. I silently prayed they'd notice my absence and maybe someone would come to this ranch and rescue me. But nobody came.

I tried to run. I tried to walk into the woods and keep going. I hit the barrier again. I circled the entire perimeter for days. The invisible wall was absolute. It never stopped following me either. Some days later. Something happened.

The sky was clear. The stars flickered in slow spirals. I sat on the porch staring at the dark, holding an empty cup. My fingers ached. My back had started to curve. My hair had thinned. I hadn't aged normally, but I hadn't stayed the same either. My body was changing.

Then I felt it. A heat rose from behind me, soft and warm, followed by the faint creek of wood beneath careful steps. I turned and saw it standing in the doorway. It wasn't the unholy demon spawn anymore. It was human. It was morphed. Its features were perfect.

Its skin was clean. Its hair was dark and soft, combed and parted. It wore simple clothes, a linen shirt, but his eyes still carried the same smoke. Behind the pupils, a swirl of faint grey fog moved slowly, and on its forehead, just below the hairline, A small circular mark glowed faintly. It stepped forward and sat across from me. Then it reached forward, touched my hand and said,

Thank you. The church was empty. It was just me, the candles, and the rain tapping against a stained glass like a restless child. It had been storming since dusk, an unending curtain off water from a bruised sky. I sat in the confessional with my hands folded loosely in my lap and my eyelids heavy, but not from a lack of sleep.

It had been a long day with two funerals, a hospital visit, and a broken boiler in the rectory. I just started to think I might close early, when I heard the door at the back of the sanctuary open. A gust of wet air followed someone in, along with hesitant footsteps, much different from a regular parishioness confident pace. I straightened. Then the curtain slid aside. I heard the soft squish of wet fabric

as they settled on the opposite side of the confessional. Then a faint rasp of his breath and how his weight shifted, like someone fighting the instinct to bolt. Finally, he spoke, low and unsure. sure, but clear. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

The ritual took over. My voice came easily and automatic, though something in my chest had tightened. God is always watching my son, I said, speak freely. The Lord offers mercy to all who seek it. At first, he said nothing in return.

Yet the way the air changed betrayed his lack of response. I knew then that he was going to tell me something, and it wasn't going to be easy. His voice came again, steadier now, like he had stepped back into the safety of memory. I grew up on a farm, he said, just me and my mama, out past the river bend, where the road turns to gravel. We had no neighbours close enough to wave to. He exhaled slowly. She was a believer.

She didn't just speak the word. No. She lived it. Every evening, before supper, she'd read from her old leather-bound Bible. I remember her soft but unwavering voice, even when the storms came and the lights flickered. She'd light a single candle and read signs. He was a promise she was making to both of us. He paused, and for a second,

I imagined he might be wiping his eyes as he remembered a fond memory of his mom. She carved crosses into everything, the fence posts, the barn doors, and even the wooden spoon she stirred our stew with. She said it kept evil out and reminded the Lord we were watching back. His tone dipped into something warm and, fund. It wasn't a fancy life, but it was ours. We had three hens, Pearl, marigold and

little sister, and a stubborn old goat named Moses, who chewed through more of our laundry line than I'd like to admit. We had potatoes, turnips, and a patch of carrots that only ever grew crooked. Sometimes we'd trade our eggs for milk. There was never more than we needed, but she always smiled when she said it. The Lord provides. I could hear something shift in his breath, like he was close to brushing up against the memory in which his adult mind saw the truth.

Winter was the hardest. I remember one year she boiled onion skins just to make broth. She told me it was French soup and made me sit up straight like you were in a Paris cafe. She even folded a towel for me to use as a napkin. I believed her. That's the kind of woman she was. She could make suffering feel like theatre. The confessional had gone quiet around us, the storm muffled by thick stone walls. But at that moment, I swear I could feel the cold of that farmhouse kitchen, the scratch of old quilts,

and the soft light of candlewax dripping beside a prayer. I let the silence hold between us. unable to shake the feeling that whatever was to come would be a heavyweight for us both to bear. It started with Pearl, he said, the oldest hen. She stopped laying, which wasn't unusual. But then she started acting odd, wondering in circles, pecking at her own feathers.

One morning I found a standing motionless in the yard, eyes leaking this dark red stuff like tears. She didn't squawk or anything. I ran to tell Mama. She looked at Pearl for a long time and whispered. And the next day, Pearl was gone. Buried, Mama said, but I never saw a shovel. Then it was Marigold, then Little Sister, then Moses.

All of them followed the same pattern. Their eyes, something in their eyes was just wrong. But Mama told me she'd take care of it, and that everything would be okay. The garden turned next. One by one, the carrots split open from the inside, like they'd been cooked in the dirt. The turnips came up black and soft, and the potatoes, when we harvested them, were little more than husks, like something had sucked them dry from the inside. I asked if we were cursed, and she said no.

and that the Lord is testing us. I could tell she believed it. She prayed harder than ever. She would hardly eat so I could, and in the middle of the night I'd find her knelt beside the kitchen window, whispering scripture to the wind sometimes, just mouthing the Psalms into the dark.

There was something sacred in how he spoke of her, like a child recalling the warmth of a hand that always knew how to hold him, without needing to say a word. She didn't panic. Not once did I think anything was wrong. She did everything to keep me calm. Even when I asked what we do without food,

she just looked at me and smiled and said, He will provide. And in that moment I heard it. The quiet turn of something in his voice. It was the next morning, he said. The frost hadn't even lifted when Mama came to me. Her hands wrapped in a shawl like she was cradling something delicate. She said,

Go to town today. Look for someone cold, someone who's hungry. Bring them here. The Lord rewards kindness. It made sense at the time. That was how Mama thought. When times were lean, you gave more. You open your door wider.

That's what she taught me. So I went. I walked all the way into town, kicking rocks and counting steps and praying I'd find someone to help. Near the train yard, I found a man. He was older, wrapped in layers of newspaper and threadbare denim.

He was humming to himself, eyes half closed, like he was dreaming of food. I told him we had warm soup and fresh bread, a barn to sleeping, if he didn't mind the hay. He looked at me like I was a ghost. Then he followed. Mama greeted him like she'd known him all her life.

She called him brother. She sat him down at our little table and served him a bowl of stew. The smell was so strong it made my mouth water, and the bread was still warm. I don't remember where she said she got. the flower. I didn't think to ask in fear that it would disappear if I acknowledged it. He stayed the night in the barn. I brought him an old quilt in a lantern. They thanked me and said we were angels. The next morning, he was gone. Mama said he'd left early. She said

he was grateful and traded us some things before he went. He inhaled, sharp and he was. Sharp and shallow. There was meat on the table that morning. Real meat, pink, marbled, steaming in its own broth. She said it was a blessing and the man had traded goods. And I, I didn't question it. I just thanked God. After that, we always had something, not a lot but enough. Every few weeks she'd send me again to find someone alone and hungry. I didn't understand it then. She started a new tradition where, just before eating. She'd take white linen napkins from the drawer we only used on Christmas

and carefully draped it over her head so it hung down like a veil. She told me to do the same. I remember the first time I giggled and said she looked like she was playing dress up. But she didn't laugh. She just looked at me through the cloth and said, That's the point, baby. We hide our faces so God doesn't have to watch us eat. We eat in private, hidden from the eyes of heaven.

And then we'd say the same prayer, always the same words, like a song only the two of us knew. Lord, bless this meal, bless the soul who gave it, and keep our hands from shaking as we take what was given in grace. She made me whisper it three times before touching the spoon. It was never skipped, he swallowed. We'd eat in silence, chew slowly, and pray again when we were done. I was a child, I didn't understand.

All I knew was I gained a weird sense of hunger, that only that meal could quench. I sat back slightly in the confessional, the warmth of the wood against my shoulder, doing little to ground me. I wanted to believe this was all a metaphor that he was speaking in the language of parable, of symbolic hunger and strange rituals

born of grief or madness. But some part of me there was a sharp and instinct honed from years of hearing the worst of people, wondered where those people he had brought home had gone. The ones who never came back, who were needy, yet still had things to trade. Still, I could not accuse. That wasn't my place. But I felt the hair at the back of my neck begin to rise. I crossed myself quietly, more out of reflex than faith at that moment.

I was thirteen when I found it. He continued. It had rained the night before, and I was out behind the barn, dumping the meat scraps Mama said we couldn't use for breakfast into the slop drop for the young pigs we managed to buy. Something white bobbed up, half floating in the grease. His voice trembled now, just slightly. I thought it was a chicken bone. I reached in, thinking it wouldn't be good for them, but it was soft and pale. When I turned it in my fingers, I saw the nail and the shape.

Oh God. I squirmed in the silence, shifting slightly on the bench. The air inside the confessional felt too still, like the world itself was holding its breath with me, waiting for what came next. I clasped my hands tighter and kept my voice locked behind my teeth. This was his moment. But God help me. I wanted it to pass. I walked into the kitchen and held it out like I was handing her a riddle.

She looked at it, then at me and said, Some lambs are meant for the altar. Like it was scripture, like I should have known already. His breath hitched. She said the desperate, the forgotten, they don't have much to give. So when they offer themselves in their week, We're supposed to receive that. She said it made us holy.

My hands tensed just enough for my knuckles to wake. There it was, a confirmation of my suspicion. The clarity of it made my stomach twist into knots. And yet I knew better. I am not a judge. I do not wield the sword. Only the word. I have heard things in the booth that would make most of the judge.

Most men sleep with the lights on. My duty has been, and still is, to listen, to witness, to guide. But at that moment, I could not deny the tremble in my breath or the heaviness that's settled in my ribs. I nodded, he continued, his voice dull, because that's what you do when you're a child. Your mama's word is final. So, I nodded, and then, he continued, and sat at the table that night. I ate the stew and wore the cloth to hide my sin from God.

But something had cracked. I started waking up sweating, chewing my tongue roar in my sleep. I stopped praying out loud out of shame. I started skipping bites, then whole meals. She noticed.

Of course she noticed. One evening, she reached across the table and gently pulled the cloth off my head. Her eyes didn't look angry, but they had gone hard, like cold riverstones. Don't waste what's been given, she said. Don't turn your nose up at blessings

that cost someone else their place in the kingdom. I nodded again like I believed her. But I didn't. Not anymore. I couldn't look at her the same way. But it was strange. I still wanted her to hold me when I was scared. He was quiet for a long time.

Then, after a long inhale, he kept going. It lasted almost two more years. I tried to forget what I saw. I think I stayed because part of me still loved her too much to leave. Because she smiled at me like nothing was wrong. She kissed my forehead tenderly. every night, and she still sang hymns while cleaning the kitchen. How do you walk away from someone who taught you everything,

even when you find out some of it was poison? But when I turned 15, I packed a bag silently and walked out while she slept. I didn't leave a note, only took what I could carry. He paused, and... I never went back. I told myself I'd start over. He said, Clean slate, clean soul.

I ended up in foster care two towns over. They were kind mostly. Kept the fridge full, took me to church when they could. His voice thinned. I tried to be normal. I did everything, brochure said. Join clubs and took therapy seriously. I even started cooking real meals from recipes.

I made myself believe that the hunger was just trauma, just something I could fix. I breath, sharp and frustrated. I went vegan. I thought maybe it was guilt. But it didn't work. Then I tried a carnivore diet, but that didn't help either. Then raw food, paleo, fasting, ice chewing, clueling, clobes. I even gnawed at the edge of a belt once just to feel the resistance.

He shifted on the other side of the screen, wood groaning onto him. And at that moment, a terrible thought flickered across my face, unwelcome and absurd. I pictured his hands slipping through the slats, cold fingers gripping my collar, and his mouth opening wide to take a bite out of me, like I was bred and flesh both. The image was so vivid, I almost flinched. It was a silly thought, one I was not proud of. But it sat there, pulsing at the edge of my reason, refusing to be dismissed. Every meal was a disappointment.

Every bite tasted like paper. Even the things I used to love, like roast chicken, cornbread, sweet potatoes with brown sugar. They all turned to ash in my mouth. His voice dropped lower than it had all night. I know now what it is I miss. He let the word settle like dust in a crypt. It didn't hit all at once. It came in flashes.

The smell of broth, the way candlelight hit steam. The weight of linen over my head was so nostalgic. I thought I was just remembering. But it wasn't memory. It was want, a need. I told myself I could resist that I was better than her, that I didn't have it in me. But the hunger, it...

I planned it carefully. I chose a man I saw often on the corner outside the train station. He wore a grey hoodie and plastic bags around. his shoes. He never asked for anything, just sat there. I watched him for a week, made sure he was alone, that he didn't speak to anyone, that no one would notice. If he disappeared, a pause and a breath. We walked side by side through the quiet part of town. He kept glancing at my face like he was trying to figure out if I was real. The whole time my chest ached with some. He was something that felt like guilt. He looked at me with trust, with quiet awe, like I was saving

him. I wanted to deserve that, but underneath it, deeper than anything I could name, there was the hunger gnawing through every step. A single thought echoed through the prayers I muttered to drown it out. What will he taste like? At one point he laughed. He laughed. He laughed, low and wheezing, and said, You're one of the good ones, huh? I told him I was trying to be. I brought him back to my apartment, told him I had a hot shower and some food waiting,

and mentioned spare clothes, socks, and even a razor if he wanted. He looked up at me like he couldn't believe it, with eyes wide, rimmed red, hopeful in a way that made my chest tighten. Really? he asked, like he thought the offer might shatter if he touched it. I nodded. That's all it took, and it hurt because I knew I was lying. I let him take the hot shower first, gave him a towel I'd laid out earlier, let him eat the bread and drink the tea while some soup simmered on the stove.

He looked so grateful, called me a saint. and I must have been raised right. His voice cracked slightly. But the cloth was already in the drawer. He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. By now, I knew what that meant. I bought it from a linen shop two towns over,

just like the ones Mama used, pressed it flat, folded it three times, and put it in the drawer under the knives. silence stretched between us. The stew was rich. The meat practically melted in my mouth. I had cooked it that long. He said,

I ate it under the cloth, just like before. I said the prayer, every word three times like Mama. And for the first time in years, I felt full, really full. He exhaled slowly,

and I heard, the shift, the tremble that had clung to him like wet wool was gone. And his place was a strange calm, like it was waiting for me to speak. So I did. I cleared my throat softly. My son, I said, carefully measuring every word. There are things in this world we carry that were never meant for us. Burdens passed down like inheritance.

cloaked in love and devotion. He didn't interrupt, so I kept going. You are not your mother, and you are not beyond redemption, but if you truly seek absolution, it must begin with truth, followed by repentance, and then by surrender. Not just of your sin, but of your will. I felt the sweat cooling at my temples.

God offers mercy, yes, I said, but not without cost. You must never do this again. You must turn yourself in. You must choose a path that leads away from this hunger. Silence. There was a faint shift followed by a hush. And when I peaked between the slats, he was gone. He hadn't waited for my blessing or absolute.

He vanished quietly as if the act of confession itself had been enough. And maybe for him, it was. I sat there a while longer, hands clasped, eyes closed. I prayed not to carry his burden with me into the world, that whatever darkness he left behind would stay sealed in that booth. I prayed that mercy still meant something, even when offered to someone who may never stop doing the thing they're sorry for. When I finally stood, I moved slowly through the empty sanctuary, checking locks.

I stepped into the parking lot. The night air was damp and cool and the storm had passed. My car engine groaned to life and the headlights carved through the dark. I pulled onto the main road. And there, under the flip. of a street lamp. I saw a man huddled against the bench, wearing only a thin coat and no shoes. I slowed, and for a long time, I just sat there, hands frozen on the wheel. I couldn't get the confessor out of my mind, and he spoke his truth like a man unburdened, while all I was left

with was silence. And in that silence, I wondered. if the confessor would stop, if anyone was safe, if he was still nearby, and all I could do was pray. His voice broke the silence between us. There's actually something I've been hiding from you. I looked up from the notepad on my knee, my pen resting between my fingers. He sat with his spine drawn inward, shoulders slightly collapsed toward each other, and palms pressed flat against the tops of his thighs. A man always trying to make himself smaller. His eyes, shadowed by fatigue, were fixed on something on the ground.

I didn't say anything right away. I'd learned over time that interruptions could break fragile moments like these. I'd been his therapist for a little over a year. From the very first session, I had sensed that his pain ran deeper the most. He had peeled it back slowly, as if uncertain whether it was even worth sharing. In that time, I'd come to know him as someone who had endured a kind of persistent misfortune that no rational explanation could account for. The world, it seemed, had made a project out of breaking him.

I leaned back slightly in my chair, careful not to make the movement abrupt. The window beside us caught a thin wash of after. afternoon light, spilling across the rug between us. I folded my hands and asked, keeping my voice low. What is it that you've been holding back? He shifted in his seat, fingers tapping against his knee. Whatever it was, it was hard for him to say. But something had changed.

There was a weight to the moment, attention in the room that hadn't been there before. I've been able to see him for a long time, he said. But I didn't tell you because I thought you'd think it meant I was really losing it. I didn't want you to think I was crazy. There was a brief pause. Then... His name is Mr. Grin. Oh, well, that's what I call him.

I stayed quiet and nodded slowly to encourage him. There had been no mention of him before. No allusions to a stalker or a delusion this specific. I was certain of it. There was a different presence in the room now, once shaped by the tension in his voice and the stillness in his eyes. And I remember thinking, as he kept his gaze averted and began to speak again, that whatever this was, whatever Mr. Grin meant to him,

it had been festering for decades. It started the night my mother died. He said, I was sitting in the waiting area with my father. He took a shallow breath and kept his gaze down. There were two vending machines in the hallway and a pay phone across from them. My father and I were just waiting for them to tell us. I already knew, though. She'd been out of it for days.

He paused for a moment and scratched at the skin on his forearm through the fabric of his jacket. when the nurse came out and said it. I don't know. I guess I didn't cry. I just sort of sat there. She gave me this little squeeze on the shoulder and walked away. My father told me to stay still while he finished something up, and that everything is going to be okay.

I remember going outside. I couldn't breathe inside anymore. I went out the side entrance. There was a metal bench near the end. ambulance bay. That's when I saw him, his voice cracked faintly when he said it. I leaned forward just slightly. There was a fence that ran along the edge of the lot.

Past it were trees, but the hospital kept a floodlight above the utility building, so it was never completely dark out there. The light was flickering that night, you know, when it doesn't fully cut out, just buzzes and dims. That's how it was. He was standing there, just beyond the reach of the light. I thought maybe he was a janitor or a security guy, but he wasn't wearing a badge, just this pale white jumper, looks soft, almost fleece. The arms were long, they hung past his waist, almost to the tops of his knees. His shoulders were dropped, but curved forward, like his back was pulling inward. I couldn't see much of his face at first. The light was behind him,

but there was this grin, I guess. The corners of his mouth stretched nearly to the side of his cheeks. His skin had these lines carved and deep, like he'd been smiling for years, and his face had just given up trying to do anything else. He lifted his hand briefly and touched the corner of his her mouth, drawing an invisible shape in the form of a smile. Then his hand fell back into his lap. I looked away for a second. I think I was wiping my eyes, or maybe just trying to shake it off. But when I looked back, he was gone. I hadn't slept. My mama just died. I didn't even mention it to the nurses or anyone. I just went back inside to my father and left. He raised his head slowly and met my eyes for the first time since he started talking.

A strange man, right? That's all. But then I saw him again. The next time it happened was after my father passed, but the time after that would come around a decade later, he said, his voice now steadier. It was a few months after I'd started college. I'd worked my butt off to get in, had no backup plan. Then, out of nowhere, I got this notice from the administration office saying my financial aid had been revoked.

There was a discrepancy in some paperwork. They said it was a clerical error. I remember thinking, no one makes that kind of mistake, at least not by accident. He scratched the inside of his wrist again and blinked. But he wasn't really with me in the other. office anymore. That night, I couldn't sleep. I was up reading emails, trying to figure out who to contact. My roommate was passed out, headphones on, snoring. I got up and walked over to the window. My dorm overlooked the quad, and there he was, his voice dropped, standing right in the middle of it,

in the dark, arms at his sides. Just the same. same as he had looked all those years ago, almost glowing in the moonlight. I didn't know what to think at the time. I hadn't seen him since I was a kid. I thought he was just something like a kid's delusion. He didn't move, he said, didn't do much of anything, just watched. I closed the blinds and sat back of my bed, told myself I was just tired like I always did. throat bar slightly as he swallowed. His eyes were glassy now, though no tears came. It kept happening. Every time something fell apart. When my roommate stole from me, cleaned me out and vanished overnight, I came home and found him standing at the end of the hallway outside my dorm room.

He was closer then. I could see more of him. His hands moved to his temples. pressing gently. He's been there through everything. When I got fired for my first real job, when my girlfriend left me, when I couldn't pay rent anymore and had to sleep in my car for two weeks, always watching as these things were happening.

I hadn't even noticed they'd been getting closer each time. I opened my mouth to finally speak. But he beat me to it. I don't know how long I can keep talking. I have to say this, before I lose my nerve. If I think too much about it,

I won't finish. I'll back out, and then it'll keep eating at me. He leaned back in the chair and stared toward the floor for several seconds, then reached slowly into the front pocket of his coat. He pulled out his phone with a slow,

hesitant motion. His fingers trembled faintly as he unlocked it and tapped through the screen. Here, he said, I filmed him last night, for you. He turned the screen toward me and pressed play. The footage began with a camera pointed toward the carpet. The audio picked up a shallow breathing, occasional rustling, and the faint sound of floorboards creaking underfoot. It was dark, but the glow from the digital clock provided a faint illumination.

The video shifted as a very much. he raised the phone. It panned up and centred on a doorway, with the edges of the frames slightly out of focus. He said nothing while it played, just watched me and my reaction. When the video ended, I glanced back at him. He leaned forward and whispered, that's where he stands, every night. He doesn't show up on video, but I see him. I swear to you, I see him. He had a kind of pleading beneath the exhaustion of his expression. He wasn't trying to convince me.

He wasn't even looking for validation. Have you ever considered that Mr. Grimm might be a kind of projection? A figure shaped by everything you've been through. Your grief, your isolation. Maybe something your mind created to contain the pain. His jaw tightened. It wasn't an angry reaction, but something deeper. His fingers clenched the edge of his chair.

He looked down and gave a small, sharp shake of his head. I've taken pills, he said. Risperidone, haloperidol, quidipine, for years off and on. I've seen neurologists, psychiatrists. I even stayed in a clinic upstate for a month. Nothing touches him. He stays. His voice had gone thin, with a breathless quality,

as if the words were trying to outrun something behind them. I thought about suggesting another specialist, someone who could re-evaluate his medication regimen. But before I could speak, his voice broke through again, lower now, uncertain. Would you, Come over tonight, he asked.

Just for a bit, please. The word sounded awkward coming from him, as if he'd rehearsed them and were still unsure whether he should be saying them out loud. He rubbed the side of his neck, eyes fixed on the carpet. I haven't had anyone stay over in years, he continued. I don't even really talk to anyone anymore outside of here. I just...

I don't want to. to be alone tonight. I know he'll come. I always know when he's going to, I hesitated. Every part of my training told me this wasn't appropriate. It blurred boundaries and created complications. I had spent a career keeping my clients at a careful distance for this exact reason. But the expression on his face disarmed me. He looked like he'd surrendered. I nodded slowly. All right, I said, but just for a few hours, he didn't thank me. He just looked away, and I knew he hadn't been expecting me to say yes.

His building sat wedged between a shuttered laundromat and a currency exchange that had lost half the letters on its sign. The sun had started to sink behind the skyline, casting long, ready to be. streaks across the narrow sidewalk. I buzzed his unit, and the door clicked open before I could step back. Oh, come in, he said, stepping aside. The space was small. The smell of dust and paper filled the air. The blinds were halfway drawn, casting broken shadows across a threadbare rug and a sagging love seat. There were stacks of books on the floor. He gestured to the kitchen table, and we sat. He had already brewed tea,

though I could tell from the way he moved that he didn't usually make it for more than one. We sat quietly at first, sipping from mismatched mugs. After some small talk, something about the vulnerability of this situation made me talk about my own problems. I moved into a new place a few months ago,

I said. After the day, divorce, it's quiet, which I thought I'd want, but now it's there all the time. I don't know. Meals feel wrong. I still find myself reaching for her side of the bed in the morning. He looked up, surprised. I never thought about you having stuff going on, he said, I guess I always pictured you going home and just, I don't know, being fine. We both laughed. He leaned forward a little. You know, I feel guilty sometimes.

I sit here and pour all this out on you. I don't think I've ever asked how you're doing. You're not supposed to, I said, and took another sip of tea. We sat in silence, but it was no longer uncomfortable. We finished our tea just after the sky turned dark. The orange streaks along the window blinds faded, into a dull, stale blue, then vanished completely. He got up and moved toward the bedroom, gesturing for me to follow.

The bedroom was sparse, a low mattress pressed into the far corner, one nightstand beside it, scratched along the edges. And a pairing knife, I looked at him. He was pulling an extra pillow from the closet, placing it at the foot of the mattress, as if he had already decided, that I'd take the chair in the corner. I nodded toward the knife.

Do you usually sleep with that there? He glanced back, his face neutral. I don't use it, he said. It's just for comfort. If something ever happens, if he ever does anything. It helps me sleep, knowing it's there. He wasn't defensive, but his tone didn't invite further questions he I stared at it a moment longer, then sat down in the chair.

People kept all sorts of things near their beds, flashlights, rosaries, baseball bats. Everyone had their own form of insurance. Still, a small ripple of unease moved through my chest. He dimmed the lamp and sat on the edge of the bed. The room fell quiet, apart from the faint sound of traffic. beyond the window. It had been nearly 15 minutes of silence when he spoke again. He's close, he whispered.

I can feel him. He was staring at the far wall. His shoulders had began to curl inward. His hands gripped the edge of the mattress. I wasn't even really sure what to say to him after this so-called Mr. Grin doesn't appear. I was sure he wouldn't, of course. My thoughts always go fast when is near. They don't make sense.

It's like I'm drowning in them, and they're pulling me lower and lower. He was describing depression kicking in. A heaviness settled across my shoulders, followed by a pressure in my chest. It felt like humidity, but without warmth. Goose bumps rose across my arms. I rubbed to the back of my neck, trying to shake it off. but the feeling only deepened. I don't know when exactly he appeared.

One moment, the corner of the room was empty, and the next, the space had changed. There was no footstep or any other indication of movement. There was only a distortion, something off in the shape of the room itself. Not physically, but optically, as though the light around that spot had lost direction. Then, he stepped forward.

He was tall, his spine bent forward unnaturally, his neck stretched out, forcing his chin low toward his chest. His skin had a waxy pallor, but lacked the sheen of sweat or oil. The surface looked stretched, almost preserved. His lips never parted, but they stretched wide, deeper at the corners than what should have been possible.

And his eyes, they didn't belong in a human face. Clouded, milky white, with pin brick pupils buried beneath. I couldn't breathe. My body had gone still, frozen in place while my thoughts scattered. He was real? My patient's breathing had turned jagged. The mattress creaked beneath him as he reached toward the nightstand with a trembling arm. I can't, he whispered, I can't.

He was gripping the knife. His fingers closed around it. He held it low, the blade angled toward the floor, as if unsure whether he intended to use it at all. His other hand clutched his thigh, gripping through the fabric of his pants. pants. The muscles in his arms spasened as he tried to lift the knife higher. But it was a weak motion. I wanted to call out to him, but my voice felt buried under a weight pressing into my chest. My legs refused to move. Every part of me had locked up. Mr. Grin, however, had no issues moving. When he reached the bed, he extended one arm. His hands,

closed around my patient's wrist, the one holding the knife. The fingers wrapped around it completely, the joints of his hand flicked as he adjusted his grip, and I could see that his fingers were disturbingly long. They curved downward, wrapping over the knuckles. He didn't yank the knife like I thought he would have. Instead, he seemed to guide my patient. He led out a soft gals. He led out a soft gasp, his body resisted, but his hand kept moving. The blade rose hovering near my patient's wrist of his free hand. I... His words fell apart beneath his breath. Mr. Grin tilted his head further, eyes fixed on the man's face. His grin never wavered. He stared as if memorizing every feature. His eyes remained unfocused.

but still locked onto him. My patient seemed to try fighting back, but to no avail. Then Mr. Grin forced my patient's hand, and he started slicing the knife back and forth. The knife slid across the skin, gliding through the soft flesh and veins of the wrist. The motion was smooth, almost tender. His body jerked as a wet gasped slipped out of his mouth.

my arms felt numb, but I still couldn't move from the chair. Blood poured from the wound in waves. The patient's chest heaved once, then twice, and his eyes rolled upward. He made a sound desperately wet. The handle of the knife trembled in his hand. Mr. Grin remained still. His hand lingered on the patient's wrist for a moment longer, and slipped away.

He stepped back into the corner from where he'd come from. Then he was gone. The space he occupied simply ceased to contain him. One moment he was there, and the next, there was only the wall. I rose from the chair with a violent jolt that knocked it backward. My knees buckled for a moment, and I stumbled toward the bed. My patient was slumped forward, chin lowered. The floor beneath him had turned dark red and glossy.

I dropped on my knees beside him and reached for the knife. His fingers were still wrapped around the handle. Blood dripped from his eviscerated wrist onto the floor in thick rivulets. Hold on, I said, my voice cracked. Stay with me, please. I thought about pressing my hand into the wound. to dry stem the bleeding. But I heard the sirens going off in my head.

My thoughts raced forward faster than my breath. The room closed in around me. I thought of the knife. They would never believe I wasn't there. I stood up, backing toward the door. The floor creaked under my feet as I reached for the handle. Using the sleeves of my clothing to open it as to not leave any prints.

I looked back at him once more. His body had gone still. His mouth hung slightly open. The knife remained in his hand. Then I turned and ran. I spent the next day in my car. I didn't go home. I didn't call anyone.

I parked a town over and a lot behind a closed antique store and sat with a windows cracked until the sun went down. When it got dark, I drove around for hours, taking roads I hadn't used in years, trying to find intersections that didn't lead me back to anything familiar. When I finally walked through my front door, it all felt so cold.

I kept the lights off. I didn't want to see. I didn't want to look at my phone. I knew what story would be there eventually. and I didn't want to see his name in a headline. I told myself it wasn't my fault. I told myself no one could have helped him. But those words didn't land anywhere solid inside of me.

They passed through and left nothing behind. Three mornings after I stopped returning calls, I stood in my kitchen and made coffee. I had run out of sugar, the creamer had gone sour. I stirred the black liquid in solid. slow, distracted circles, my body moving through the ritual while my mind wondered. It had started raining some time before dawn, and the sidewalk across the street shone under the low light. I glanced through the kitchen window.

A man standing still beside the bus stop, half hidden behind the frame of a tree. He stood facing the window. Facing me. He wore a white jumper, his shoulders sloped downward, and on his face was a wide grin. I stood motionless for nearly a full minute, then I stepped back from the glass and closed the blinds. I couldn't sleep after that. I stayed awake with every light in the house on. I sat in bed with my laptop open, searching for something, anything.

that could explain what was happening. I found myself in obscure forums, threads filled with phrases like psychic contamination and shared trauma apparitions. One post mentioned a woman who claimed her husband's hallucinations had followed her after he died. I reached out to psychics,

paid a woman $200 to burn herbs in my living room. She said my home had thinned energies and left a pouch of salt under the window. Nothing changed. I visited a priest, told him I was asking for a friend. He gave me a small silver crucifix and asked if I had repented. I thanked him and walked out. My assistant stopped calling after I missed the fourth appointment.

I knew I wouldn't go back. I had no answers anymore. Nothing I could say to clients about hope or progress would hold him. any truth. The clinic eventually sent an email. I opened it and read the first few lines. My license would be placed under review. My caseload had been reassigned. I closed the laptop and placed it under the bed. I sat in the hallway that night and stared at the dark space near the bathroom door. I knew he was standing there. I could feel the air pulling. Two plainclothes officers came the following morning,

one younger, soft-spoken with a notepad in hand, and the other, eyes heavy from experience. I invited them in because I didn't know what else to do. We sat in the living room. I hadn't cleaned in days. The coffee table was cluttered with unopened mail and an empty glass with a film of dust collecting near the rim. one of them apologized for the visit before we even started

we're just trying to get a sense of what you might know the younger one said we know he didn't have many people in his life but your name was one of the only ones that came up we figured if anyone would know something it'd be you the word struck deeper than i expected i nodded slowly forcing my eyes to stay level It was hard to get him to open up, I said, but he was working through a lot. Child of trauma, long history of loss. He always carried it alone. He ended our most recent session, telling me it would be our last one.

I was almost proud of him. I thought he'd finally made the progress he'd come here to make, but I was shocked when I heard the news. I lied. The officer wrote something down, then locked up. Hmm, yeah, it was clearly suicide. He added, clean scene. He'd recorded some thoughts and notes we found. Didn't mention you directly, but he talked of a man he spoke to,

one that helped him immensely. I stared at the grain of the table and felt something crawl into my stomach. I wish I could say I saw it coming. I lied again. The officer didn't press. They stood after a few more questions, thanked me for my cooperation. The older one paused at the door and said, You're probably carrying some this with you.

These things, they leave a mark. You should talk to someone. I gave him a smile. I will. That night, I tried to sleep on the couch. I thought maybe the change in rooms would help. I left the hallway light on. I closed my eyes for less than a minute.

When I opened them, he was there, in the corner of the room, half-shadowed by the edge of the curtain. His grin carved through the dark. My body folded in a fetal position. I pulled the blanket up to my chin and pressed my back against the cushions, as if that thin layer of cotton could shield me from whatever his presence meant. My eyes watered from the strain of keeping them open,

but I didn't blink. I missed my wife and everything I had not that long ago. He stayed there until the sun began to rise, and even then, I didn't feel him leave. I made the appointment the following morning. I didn't think it through. I clicked a name on a list I booked the first available spot

I just needed to speak to someone whose voice I hadn't memorized She met me in a small office downtown A converted dental suite judging by the layout Young, maybe early thirties I sat on a couch and started from the beginning I told her about the divorce

About the years I'd spent convincing others that healing was linear about the nights I stared at the ceiling unable to name what I was feeling she wrote very little mostly she just listened and when I could no longer find ways to avoid it

I looked her in the eyes and said there's actually something I've been hiding from you her pen stopped I said it before I could talk myself out of it I told her about Mr. Grin, and then, Would you come over, just for one night? He's going to appear tonight, and...

I don't want to be alone. My voice was low, empty. All the emotion had burned out of it. She didn't answer right away. Her fingers danced slightly around the pen. Her brow furrowed with uncertainty. I could see the conflict behind her eyes. She knew the boundary I'd just crossed, knew that she should say no, but then her face softened,

and she nodded once. All right, she said, but just for a few hours. I've been contracted by the Bureau a dozen times in the last four years, mostly sinkhole reports or rural spill assessments. The kind of work no one notices until it costs someone money. This one came through late in the season. An old mine outside a place called Ever Creek, tucked in a valley that didn't show up on GPS until we were nearly there.

The brief was minimal. A collapsed shaft from the 1930s reportedly sealed after 17 fatalities. The town's records were inconsistent, and what little else, been digitized didn't match the states. Our job was to assess any remaining liability, test for subsistence, and determine if the land could be safely reclassified for Timberlees. In and out, no contact needed with the town's folk beyond a courtesy heads up. We hit the edge of town around noon.

October had already stripped most of the trees and the wind blew low through the bare branches in irregular pulses, the way wind does when the landscape feels hollow. Fog clung to the roots of the hills, moving only when we did. Ever Creek was smaller than I expected. A gas station, a diner, a short main road that curved lazily around the church, and disappeared back into the trees. Maybe 300 people, if that. Some looked up when we passed, but no one waved.

No one asked what brought us. They just watched, silent, still, returning to their tasks only when our car moved on. We checked into the motel. Four rooms, flat gravel lot, russed around the fixtures. The woman at the front desk handed me the key without asking my name. There was a small guest book by the window, but the last signature was dated two weeks ago. My apprentice, Seth, took the room next to mine. After dropping our bags, we drove the half-mile to the mine site.

The access road had been overgrown with vines and thistle, but the path was still clear enough to follow on foot. Old warning signs hung loose from metal rods, faded to near illegibility. A half-rotted fence surrounded the mouth of the mine, with caution tape haphazardly folded. fluttering from rusted stakes. We walked the perimeter,

marking out potential weak points in the soil and flagging erosion spots. The ground was mostly stable, though I noted a shallow depression near the north side that looked fresh. I was jotting notes when Seth called me over. Just outside the broken section of the fence was a bundle.

It looked deliberately placed, not dropped or blown in. A small scuffed baby shoe, a hand mirror with a crack spider webbing out from one corner, and a velvet pouch its straw string rotted. Seth opened it. Inside was a single child's tooth, browned with age. He turned to me with a half smile. Guess Halloween starts early out here.

I shrugged, reached for a nitrille glove for my kit, and bagged the items. Probably old memorials, I figured. Maybe a local tradition or just some grief left a wither out in the open. Either way, we couldn't leave it there. Wildlife might get to it, and there was no reason to let someone find it and think it meant anything now. Seth made a face as he watched me seal the bag, but didn't say anything. I made a note to include it under potential public safety debris.

I'd seen weirder things. Back in the car, we loaded the first round of soil data and logged the day's findings. The mine wasn't visibly unstable, but the fence needed replacing, and we'd have to get a look at the shaft itself if we wanted to close the file properly. I figured we'd head in tomorrow

and get the rest of it done in daylight. Two more days of work at most, then we'd be gone, and the town would have their forest back. The next morning, we decided to split the day between paperwork and local logistics. Seth wanted to get breakfast and see what the town was actually like in the daylight. I agreed, mostly because the state records on the mine was such a mess that it made sense to check the town's clerk office while we were here.

I figured we might find original filings, or at least some version of the truth closer to the source. The diner was the first stop. It was the same one from the previous night, though it looked warmer in the morning light. Wood-panelled walls, a faded jukebox, and a specials board written in hard-to-read cursive. There were only two other customers, both elderly, both watching us over their mugs without speaking. A waitress greeted us with a smile that didn't quite touch her eyes. She handed us menus, asked where we were from, and then made no further comment when I said we were working on a state assignment near the mine.

We're just cleaning up some liability stuff, I added, trying to keep the tone casual. She nodded slowly. Best not to linger past sundown then. Seth gave me a quick glance, but didn't say anything. Breakfast arrived quickly. Everything was hot. and everything tasted fine. The silence around us remained fixed in place.

When Seth asked the waitress what she meant earlier, she wiped her hand on her apron and said, ain't much up there worth surveying anymore. Then walked away. He looked over at me, eyebrows raised. They were all weirdly cagey about this. He noticed that. I had noticed,

but I also knew that rural towns protected they're dead fiercely. Tragedy becomes folklore, and folklore turns into boundaries people stop questioning. I figured it was better not to push. When we stopped at the general store afterward to buy some bottled water and replacement gloves, Seth mentioned the baby shoe. Just a passing comment to the woman at the register asked if they did any sort of local memorials up by the mine. She froze mid-scan. hand rested on top of the register for a full second before she looked up. That's not for you to handle, she said.

Seth blinked. I mean, we already bagged it, part of sight clean up. Her expression shifted, but only slightly. Then she handed him the receipt without saying another word. We left in silence. Seth kept shaking his head the whole way back to the car. They're acting like we dug up a grave. Maybe we did, I said.

Not literally, but to them, could be. At the clerk's office, I asked for records from the mine's operational period. The woman behind the desk handed me a heavy binder without asking any questions. Her nameplate was chipped, and the corners of the folder were stained from time and handling. It had clearly been opened more than once. but not recently. I brought it to one of the black tables and started scanning through it

while Seth looked over some landplats. About halfway through the binder, I found two sheets clipped together, both labelled Casualty Summary Ever Creek Collapse, March 1937. The first listed 17 names, each followed by a cross symbol

and a four-digit miners' ID. The second, listed only 11. The others were marked simply as unrecovered. There was no explanation, no red ink or notes in the margin, just two nearly identical

documents that contradicted each other completely. That alone would have been worth noting, but deeper in the binder tucked into a folder labelled post-collapse correspondence. I found something stranger.

Photocopper of town death certificates bundled by decade. Some were handwritten, others typed in fading carbon. Most were routine, old age, farm accident, the kind of mortality you expect in rural places. But until recently, every two decades, always in late autumn, a name would appear with no cause of death listed. Just missing.

The latest entry was 20 years old, October 2005. Written by hand was a note saying her solution was found, but no other details were given. Seth came over and asked if I found anything interesting. I showed him the list. He whistled low through his teeth. Could be coincidence, he said, but his voice didn't sound convinced. It could, I agree. But someone had grouped them altogether across nearly a century of town records.

That wasn't standard filing. That was curation. When I asked the clerk if anyone was expecting us at the site tomorrow, she shook her head. We don't go up there, she said. Not anymore. She didn't elaborate. I didn't ask her to. Outside, the wind had picked up.

It came down from the ridge in slow, cold currents, the kind that settles into your clothes when you stay there. We drove back to the motel without speaking. The next day, Seth stayed behind to catalogued soil data while I return to the mine site alone. The air was colder than it had been the day before. The sky was grey but dry, and the woods held a heavy stillness that felt deeper than weather. I paced the perimeter again, noting where the ridge sloped toward a cluster of collapsed timbers that had probably once supported the original access trail. From there, the forest pushed right up against the edge of the old fence, its roots lifting the earth and stone in uneven patterns. It wasn't dramatic subsistence, but it suggested slow movement beneath the surface, the kind of thing that wouldn't appear on modern records,

unless someone went locking. That was when I heard it. A faint metallic sound. Sharp, rhythmic. It came from somewhere beneath the ground, distant but consistent. The kind of sound that might have been dismissed as wind dragging through old ventilation shafts

or water dripping from rusted struts onto a hollow steel plate. But the intervals were too clean, steady. It struck stone and rang out in short echoes, as if whatever was causing it was focused on something specific. I stopped walking, crouched and pressed my palm to the earth. Felt nothing. The vibrations, if they existed, were too faint. Still, the sound continued for another ten seconds.

Then it stopped all at once. I stood slowly and scanned their surroundings. slope. Just past the trail collapse behind a clump of buckthorn, I saw something that didn't belong. A small clearing, half swallowed by moss and leaf litter. A shallow pile of items sat at its centre, arranged with deliberate spacing, not trash and not abandoned. A silver ring, tarnished and bent at the edge. A folded photograph warped from moisture, but still showing the face of a man standing beside a truck. A pale braid of hair tied at both ends with twine. All of it was placed with care, though the elements had done their best to erase the intent. I stood there for a long time,

trying to piece together whether this was grief, folklore, or something else entirely. It was too far from any graveyard to be a memorial, and the items were too personal to have been discarded by chance. I photographed the scene from a distance, then log the GPS coordinates, and return to the motel. Seth was in the lobby, working through the geology report over a coffee that had long since gone cold. I dropped into the armchair across from him, and relayed what I'd found. Second one, huh? He said. You think it's part of the same tradition?

Like another offering site? It has that feel to it, I said. But nothing official, no plaques, no town maintenance. All of it looks like it's meant to be forgotten. He leaned back and ran a hand through his hair. I tried asking that waitress again. Just normal questions. You'd think I'd asked about somebody's funeral.

She said they don't go near the fence line, told me to mind the season and let it rest, whatever that means. I nodded. Same tone I got to the clerk's office. Everyone's polite, but they're not confused. They know something. Seth looked out the front window. The sky was starting to dim. The clouds had thickened since I got back.

Do we tell them we're opening the shaft soon? No point, I said. It's not a conversation they're interested in having. It was just afternoon when I decided to stretch my legs and walk the edge of town. Seth had returned to the motel to sort data, but I needed to escape the screen for a while. The air was still, pressed down under low cloud cover. Nothing moved in the trees, even the birds had gone quiet. The streets were empty in that in-between way rural towns often are.

Shops open but unattended, wind chimes moving without sound. I passed the church, a one-room schoolhouse, and a shuttered gas station that still sold cold sodas through an ancient vending machine. Near the edge of the church, I spotted a boy crouched beside a dry culvert. He was fiddling with something in the dark, maybe a stick. or a bit of wire, the way kids do when they have more day than structure, no older than seven. He didn't notice me at first. I slowed as I passed and gave him a quick nod. Hey there, I said, keeping the tone casual.

You know any scary stories about the minds? He froze. The object in his hand slipped from his grip, but he didn't move to pick it up. I just sat there, my shoulder's stiff, and my head lowered. I waited for a moment, then smiled. I was thinking of going to play up there, I added, keeping it friendly. I thought I should ask if there are any monsters to watch out for. That got him to look up, but not with amusement.

His eyes were wide in the way kids get when they've been told a rule that feels larger than them, something that feels older than their parents. He looked around, then leaned in slightly. I'm not supposed to talk about it, he said. I crouched the little, hands on my knees, staying a few steps back. Fair enough, but I won't tell if you don't, the boy hesitated. Then, in a near whisper, he said, The faceless swans are there.

They only come out if someone opens it. Every 20 years or so. That's why we leave stuff. It stops them from coming. He stood up and dusted off his pants. Then he turned and walked away without another word. Not running, but quick, head down. He never looked back.

I stood there for a few moments after he disappeared around the corner, letting his words settle, faceless ones. The phrasing was strange. Not monsters, not ghosts, not even miners. Faceless. It was the kind of story a child might inherit, without understanding. Something passed down through repetition, never fully explained, just accepted.

To me, it was a bit of folklore, probably rooted in grief, a way for the town to ritual. the collapse, a quiet warning wrapped in superstition. It was an uncommon. I'd heard dozens of versions in other towns across the state. Still, as I made my way back to the motel, I found myself repeating the phrase onto my breath. The faceless ones. We started early the next morning,

just after the sun cleared the ridge. The sky was flat and pale. the clouds stretched thin across the horizon. Seth looked half awake when he met me by the car, but his boots were laced and he was already double-checking the survey gear. The drive to the site was short, trees pressed in from both sides of the access road, brittle with a change in season. By the time we reached the mine entrance,

the frost and the undergrowth had already started to melt. The boards covering the main shaft and the main shaft entrance were old and brittle. They cracked easily under pressure. I pry them loose while Seth clear the debris. Beneath the outer layer, the frame had been reinforced with thick nails and rusted chains. Someone had sealed it thoroughly once. That effort hadn't held. Behind the final boards, darkness pressed forward in a way that felt tangible. The shaft yawned open, lined with rotting timber. No air movement, just stillness. I stepped forward first and checked the air with a handheld reader. Oxygen low but breathable. No methane, no signs of recent activity. Just stale air and the

dry rot of long abandoned spaces. Inside, the beam of my headlamp cut through thick layers of dust and old cobwebs. The walls narrowed quickly. then opened into the first main corridor. Carved stone reinforced with wood beams, most of them splintered and leaning under their own weight. We move slowly, pausing often to photograph structural damage and cross-checking support spaces. Seth handled the laser mapping,

marking depth and slope gradients as we went. The process was tedious, but necessary. No shortcuts with work like this. About an hour in, we both paused at the same time. A sound had drifted up from the tunnel ahead. Faint, sharp, a metallic tick followed by a pause. Then another. Regular intervals, clean repetition.

Seth raised an eyebrow. You hear that? I nodded. already listening harder. The sound came again, distant. It echoed faintly along the stone, but not enough to locate a source. Could be water dripping, I said.

If this metal piping still embedded in the rock, the echo can carry. Seth didn't respond, but I could tell he didn't buy it. I wasn't sure I did either, but I wasn't going to say what it really sounded like. Not yet. We kept working. There was still a lot to do. The map had to be completed before we could even submit the preliminary risk report. Neither of us mentioned the sound again,

though it returned occasionally, always at the edge of hearing. By mid-afternoon, we were both covered in dust, our knees sore from crouching, our wrists aching from constant not The work was good, methodical, but it drained you. Old tunnels had a way of taking more energy than they gave back. We reached the midpoint of the shaft and decided to stop for the day. There was too much to cover in a single pass and we hadn't brought enough gear for an overnight trip. Before we left, we stacked our packs near the entrance. It felt safe enough. No one in town would likely come near the mine, not with how they spoke about it, and the equipment wasn't useful to anyone who didn't know how to use it. Specialised tools had a way of protecting themselves. We hiked back to the car without speaking much. The quiet between us wasn't tension.

It was exhaustion, the kind that settled into your shoulders and made you feel older than you were. By the time we rolled back into Evergreen, the sky had already started to dim. We didn't talk about the sound in the mine. We just drove to the diner and ordered whatever was still on the grill. We were dirty, tired and hungry enough to forget everything else for a little while. The diner felt warmer than usual when we stepped in.

The windows were fogged at the corners from the kitchen heat and the overhead lights hummed softly above our booth. We sat near the back, away from the regulars, who always clustered close to the counter. Seth looked worn out. He rubbed his eyes with a heel of his hand while I flipped through my notebook, cross-checking some of the beam measurements from earlier. Our boots left the trail of dry mud across the floor,

and the waitress didn't ask us to wipe it up. She just dropped off two waters and walked away. We ate slowly, tired from the work. Neither of us had much to say at first. Eventually, Seth broke the silence. That place was empty, he said, not even a raccoon down there. I don't get what they're so scared of.

He said it too loudly, not shouting, just casual, the kind of volume people use when they assume no one is listening. Someone was, A man in a booth two tables over turned in his seat. He stood up slowly, eyes locked on us.

His voice was sharp enough to cut through the entire room. You opened it. Seth froze mid-bite. I set my fork down. The diner went still. Conversations died. The clink of silverware stopped. Chairs scraped lightly as people began to stand.

Some avoided looking at us, others stared too directly. The man didn't say anything else. He just stood there a moment longer, then walked out. A few others followed him. A woman near the counter leaned in our direction. Go back to your motel, she said. Lock your doors tonight. Seth looked at me, his brows furrowed.

I didn't know. what to say. The waitress came by with a check. She didn't meet her eyes. Then she walked away. The rest of the meal sat and touched. We paid and left without another word. Outside, the street had emptied.

No one was on the sidewalks, no cars passing. The sun had finally dipped behind the ridge, leaving the town in that in-between colour that doesn't belong to day or night. windows were shuttered porch lights were off the walk to the motel wasn't far but it felt longer than it should have the silence pressed in from both sides

even the wind had dropped away when we reached our room we didn't discuss it we said good night at our doors and locked them behind us Seth double-checked the deadbolt then said through the wall See you in the morning

I didn't answer right away Eventually I said Yeah Morning But it was hard to believe that tomorrow Would feel the same As today We woke early

Though neither of us had slept well I kept waking to small noises That never repeated Moments that might have been dreams But left the hair on my arms standing straight standing straight. When we stepped outside, the air had turned colder. A fine mist clung to the gravel lot, and the sky had the flat, heavy colour that usually

meant snow by nightfall. The town was still, not just slow, not quiet in the way small places often are. It was still in the way of shut doors and drawn curtains, the kind of stillness that implies watching. The diner was closed, no chairs on the porch, no light inside. The gas station had its metal shutters down. The general store was locked, its windows dark. We knocked on a few doors, more out of instinct than hope.

We could hear the shuffle of feet inside. Once there was the distinct sound of someone inhaling sharply when we knocked, but no one opened up. Seth looked around and rubbed his neck. They're hiding. They're waiting, I said. For what? I didn't answer. We made our way back to the mine.

The path had the same emptiness as the town did. At the mine entrance, everything wasn't touched. The boards we had pried loose still lay in a neat stack by the opening. Our gear sat just where we left it. the dust undisturbed. It felt wrong to step into the shaft again. But we did. The job wasn't finished.

Inside, the air had grown heavier, not from weather or lack of oxygen. There was simply a pressure to it now, the kind that settles behind your eyes and makes your chore clench without knowing why. We worked in silence, mapping, photographing, and locked. I tried to focus, but every few minutes the sound returned.

Tick, metal on stone, pause. Tick, it echoed from deeper in the tunnel, always past the last point we'd explored. Never louder than a soft chime, but enough to hear, enough to feel in the joints of your teeth. Seth stopped once to ask what I thought it was. I gave the same answer I had before. Groundwater, pressure shifts, old machinery. But I knew he didn't believe me. We left earlier than we had the day before.

Neither of us wanted to be in the shaft when the light failed. Back at the motel, the hallway smelled faintly of cedar and dust. Our doors were closed, but something had changed. Inside my room, on the table beside the window, sat a basket. Wicker lined with cloth. No tag, no note. Inside was cheese,

wrapped in wax paper, jerky, salted and dense. Bottled water, six tall containers, labels peeled off. Seth called from his room. He had one too. We stood in the hallway a moment, baskets in hand.

This isn't hospitality, I said. No, he said. It's rations. We didn't talk about what that meant. But I left the basket sealed when I went to bed. I woke to the sound of something slamming against the door, not knocking, not a fist. It was heavier than that.

Blunt, deliberate, pace with the kind of weight that didn't need to rise. The first strike rattled the frame, the second made the bedside lamp flicker. I sat up too fast and nearly fell out of bed. My mouth was dry. I hadn't heard any footsteps or voices leading up to it. Just the bang. Then another. Then the silence in between.

I thought at first that the townspeople had decided to force us out, that the warnings had turned into action. I imagined a group outside with flashlights and tools, fed up with our presence, tired of whatever they thought we had stirred. But I didn't hear voices, no muttering or yelling. Just one more slow, heavy impact against the door. The hallway light under the door flickered once, then dimmed. I backed into the bathroom, shut the door and locked it.

It was a flimsy bolt. the kind meant for privacy, not protection. I sat down in the corner beside the toilet and tried to slow my breathing. Another blow shook the walls. Then came the sound of wood splintering, long, drawn out cracking, the groan of material given way under pressure. Whatever was out there had started breaking something apart, but it wasn't my door.

The sound shifted. I heard a scream. Seth. It came from the room next door. Not just one shout. It stretched out, ragged, panicked. I heard furniture scrape, then crash. Something was being dragged.

Not fast. A slow pull across the carpet. Seth screamed again. Then it cut off. Sudden and sharp. I pressed my hand over my mouth and stayed completely still. My own breathing felt too loud. Then came the creaking, not footsteps, just the sound of something shifting weight.

A slow movement, wood bending under uneven pressure. The hallway groaned. Minutes passed, then more. No more sounds, no more movement. I didn't open the door, I didn't speak. I sat curled on the tile floor, knees pulled to my chest, staring at the space beneath the bathroom door and waiting for the sky to turn grey again. It was a long time before dawn came. When morning finally came, I stepped out into the hallway, expecting to see the remnants of a break in, maybe even the police.

but the corridor was clean, the carpet undisturbed. My door stood intact, latch untouched. I crossed a few feet to Seth's room and felt the shift as soon as I reached it. His door was split down the centre. The frame had been torn at the corners where the bolts used to be. The handle hung loose on one screw and the paint around the lock had buckled outward.

Four clean holes had been punched straight through on the bottom half of the door. They weren't ragged. They were narrow and round, drilled deep and deliberate about the width of a pickaxe tip. Inside the room, the sheet had been stripped halfway down the bed. The nightstand lay on its side. The floor was scuffed in a wide arc, the carpet torn where something had been dragged. A dark red smear trailed from the bed to the door, then turned toward the parking lot. Outside, a woman in a plain grey sweater was mopping the pavement with slow, practice strokes.

She worked in silence, pushing the soaked fibres across the concrete. The red line faded behind her with each pass. She never looked up. I stood there for a long time, waiting for someone else to appear. for a police cruiser, a medic, a crowd. But no one came. Eventually, I left the motel and walked into town. The streets were no longer empty.

The diner had its chairs back out. The gas station pumps were humming again. A man was putting out a sandwich board for the lunch special. People passed me on the sidewalk without stopping. Near the post office I found a small group gathered in the street half a dozen men and women

all standing in a loose formation they weren't holding anything they weren't armed just waiting one of them a man in a tan coat with sleeves too short for his arms stepped forward

he was maybe 50 his expression was neither kind nor angry. It's time for you to go now, he said. I stared at him. What happened to my partner? No one answered. I tried again.

What happened last night? Where did you all go the day before? Why are you acting like this is normal? The man's mouth twitched once at the corner. Not quite a smile, more of a signal. A recognition that my questions, didn't need answers. An offering has been made, he said.

I looked past him to the others. None of them met my eyes. They stared just over my shoulder, waiting. I turned and walked away. No one followed. The sky was dull grey when I returned to the mine. The streets along the road was still. The leaves half dropped and wet from a slow moor

morning drizzle. The tires cracked over gravel, but the rest of the world held its breath. No one followed me. No one had asked where I was going. The entrance had been sealed again. Fresh boards crossed the mouth of the shaft, clean earth than the old ones we had pulled away. New bolts reinforced the frame. Someone had worked quickly and quietly, and they had done it before sunrise. I walked to the fence. The grass around the path was damp, but a few red droplets stood out on the pale soil,

leading toward the base of the entrance. The colour was too bright to be old. Then I saw a bundle. It had been placed carefully, resting against the lower beam of the gate. A handkerchief knotted into a loose satchel, bulging at the centre. I crouched and opened it.

Inside were the same kinds of items we had found before. A ring dulled by age, a lock of hair braided and yellowed at the tip. Two small teeth that looked far too human and nestled among them in the pile of offerings. The plastic corner of a clipped work badge. Seth's. His name, his face, still clean, still laminated. It must have been taken from the pack we had left behind.

I stood slowly, holding the bundle against my chest, then lowered it again, and left it there. I pieced it all together. Something in the minds, the faceless ones that I heard about, were in there. Whether their lost souls from the collapse or something far older, I did not know. But what I did know is how they kept them back. Memorabilia, memories from when they were alive left on their doorstep,

maybe a reminder of their humanity to stop claiming more souls. They had solved this, worked this out over decades. And we came in and messed things up. And how could this have gone any different? If some here came up raving about monsters and rituals, we'd have pushed them aside to do our work. No one had told me what to do next. There was no official protocol for this.

No field manual entry labelled folklore, no checkbox for an offering made in someone else's name. I sat in the driver's seat of the truck with the engine off and opened my field log. Mine structure remains unstable, conditions hazardous, collapse risk high, I paused. Secondary fatality during inspection, body unrecoverable, recommend indefinite closure. I didn't sign it right away. Just close the book and rested it on my lap. Then, I looked back at the mouth of mine.

I never heard the ticking sound again. But I also... Never went back. Greg had always seemed untouchable. He was the type of guy who could talk a cop out of a ticket or drunk and half-conscious, then somehow get the same cop to drive him home. So, when his sister called me crying, struggling to get a word out, I thought something had happened to their mom.

When she finally managed to speak, I had to ask her to repeat herself. It turned out that the police found Greg's body in his apartment after his boss called in a wellness check when he didn't show up to work for two days. The responding officers broke down the door and found him in the living room. They wouldn't let the family see the body. From what his sister had heard when she had caught the officers on break discussing the scene, His limbs were twisted, his spine curved like someone had wrung him out from both ends, and his eyes were gone. Whoever had done it was sadistic beyond belief. There was no forced entry, or weirdly enough, signs of a struggle.

The case was being ruled as suspicious, but that just meant they didn't have a clue who was behind it. Despite having a wide net of friends, Greg's funeral. funeral was small. Only a few people made it in person. Jamie hugged me outside the church. Her eyes were red and a makeup had started to smear, but she still looked the same, sharp, blunt, unapologetic. The others were there too, Raff and Lex. We all grew up together. Back then, we used to joke that we were stuck with each other for life, and for the moment. part, we were. Sure, we drifted apart for a few years during college, but we always ended up circling back. But now Greg, a part of us, was a closed casket and a photo on an easel.

The priest mumbled his way through a handful of generalities, though I didn't really listen. I kept looking around the room, half expecting Greg to appear at the back and make some sarcastic comment about how weird it was to watch people cry over you. For a moment, I thought I saw movement near the exit, but my brain had been playing tricks on me since the night I got the call. After the burial, we stood in a loose, uneasy circle in the parking lot. None of us seemed ready to go home. Then Jamie brought up that night at the lake,

when Greg fell off the dock trying to chug a beer upside down. We laughed. then we stopped. The laughter felt wrong. I still don't get what the hell happened, Raff muttered. Nobody knew how to respond. Our silent grieving was interrupted by a man in his late 40s

wearing a plain suit with thinning brown hair. He moved with a kind of tired professionalism that told me he'd been doing this a long time. He stopped just outside our circle and introduced himself. Detective Harlan, sorry to intrude. His tone was respectful. You were Greg Sutton's closest friends, right?

We all nodded. I was wondering if I could ask a few questions. I understand today's not ideal, but I found people tend to remember important things in the hours after a funeral, brings things into focus. I know you people have... already been interviewed and questioned. I'm aware that none of you are deemed to be suspects, but...

Jamie crossed her arms. Go ahead. Did Greg have any enemies? I'm aware you've been asked this question before. But are you absolutely certain there's no one from the past? Someone who held a grudge. Maybe something that didn't seem serious, but could have been taken the wrong way. No, Rath said immediately.

everyone liked Greg. I don't mean dislike. I mean resentment. Anyone he wronged, even by accident. We looked at each other. I could tell we were all thinking the same thing. No, I said finally. Not that we know of.

He nodded slowly. Understood. Did he mention anything strange recently? Unusual messages, people showing up where they should. I shouldn't, anything like that? He shook our heads. Last question. Does the name Danny mean anything to you?

There it was. His tone hadn't changed, but I felt my chest tighten. I glanced around. Everyone held the same expression as me. No, Jamie said, doesn't ring a bell. The detective watched us for a moment. I could tell he didn't buy it, but he didn't press. He thanked us, gave us his card, and walked off towards his car.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Raff led out a shaky breath. Danny Truillo, I said, a name I hadn't said aloud in over a decade. Danny had been in our class from sixth grade until the middle of sophomore year. He was a thin kid with a quiet voice and thick glasses. He was always hunched forward like he was trying to disappear. He didn't fit in, and we didn't let him. To make it simple, we bullied the kid. The last time we saw him, we did something that was supposed to be funny.

Adair, Raff said he couldn't fit. Jamie said we should find out. It was after school and the hallway was empty. Greg blocked the nearest stairwell while I held the door. Danny fought harder than I thought he would. He cried, screamed and begged. It only made us more determined. I remember the heat of his shoulder press against mine

as we forced him into a locker. I remember the sound of metal slamming shut. The way it echoed and his fists pounding from the inside while we walked away. I don't know how long he was stuck, maybe until the janitor came in the next morning, maybe longer. After that, he was gone,

and that changed something in all of us. The school didn't make a big deal of it, which in hindsight was to be expected. One of the guidance counsellors said he transferred. Some whispered that his parents pulled him out after a breakdown. There were rumors about his mom showing up in tears at the principal's office, demanding to know what happened. We didn't face any consequences. And we stopped thinking about him until now.

I don't think it means anything, Raff said. Could be a coincidence, someone with the same name. Jamie frowned. He said Danny, not the full name, sure. Could have been any Danny. But why on earth did the detective bring that name up in the first place? What if it was him, though? Lex said.

Raff rolled his eyes. Geez, don't start. I'm serious, Lex said. He said the name right after asking if Greg had any enemies. That means something. Raph snapped. You really think some kid we bullied 15 years ago came back and twisted Greg into a goddamn pretzel?

Ralph softened a little. We were bad, yeah, but we were kids. I don't feel good about it either, he continued, but that doesn't mean we jumped to wild-ass theories. Greg's dead. That's horrible enough without spinning it into a revenge fantasy. We don't even know if Danny's alive. Jamie exhaled through his nose.

Look, if it turns out something more is going on, we'll talk to the cops. Right now, we'd sound insane. You want us to bring up a kid we bullied 15 years ago in a murder case? I shook my head, no. Exactly. We agreed not to bring it up again. We went home, each returning to our separate houses under the glow of streetlights

and the silent orbit of patrol cars. I lay in bed for hours with the covers pulled up to my chin, staring at the ceiling and reminiscing. The next day, Raff and I were at his place, sitting on the couch with the television on, though neither of us was watching it. A game was playing, but the volume was low, yet neither of us had the energy for small talk. We hadn't seen Jamie since the funeral and didn't talk about Greg anymore. Not because we were already moving on, but because we didn't know how to carry the weight of what happened.

It sat between us like a third person in the room. room. We were speaking about some things, trying to crack the silence that loomed. When we were interrupted by an incoming call on Raff's phone, his mom, he answered it on speaker. Raff, she said, and a voice cracked halfway through his name. Something happened at Lex's apartment complex. He sat forward, slowly, eyes narrowing, already braced. What do you mean? someone's dead she said it's bad have you not seen the news they said she couldn't finish we both stared at the phone raff asked for details she didn't have many he hung up without saying goodbye then turned to me pale and still we need to go check up on lex on the drive to lex's place raff drummed his fingers on the steering wheel the entire time a nervous ticket had since middle school. By the time we pulled up to the complex,

it was blocked off with police tape. Flashing lights turned the lot into a mess of color and shadow. An officer out front was talking to a reporter. She asked if he was related to the Sutton case. The officer said they couldn't comment. The reporter kept pressing. She mentioned the name we weren't expecting to hear. Lex

We got back in the car without saying anything We drove straight to the police station Raff ran two red lights I didn't stop him Our silence had turned heavy And there was less shock and more fear now We walked through the glass doors And we met with the sound of voices

Paper shuffling and phones ringing The front desk officer looked up Recognised us somehow and nodded us through without much hassle. Jamie was already there. She sat in one of the waiting chairs near the front, arms folded, foot tapping. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun

and looked like she hadn't slipped. Her face went stiff when she saw us. I heard already, she said, did you? Raff nodded. Yeah. I wanted to contact. you guys, but I was in such a rush to get to the police station.

I was so scared after finding out I... Jamie stood and walked down the hall with us. I already told them we need to talk to Detective Halen. He's in a meeting. This wasn't a coincidence, I said, and I hated how thin my voice sounded. This person is clearly targeting our group. Danny, Jamie said, biting down on the word.

You think it's him? I don't know who else it could be. We waited. Eventually, Harlan came out of a side hallway. His eyes moved across the three of us before settling. He didn't look surprised. He waved us into a back room without a word. Once the door shut, Jamie spoke first.

We lie to you, about Danny. The detective nodded. I figured. Ralph stepped forward. We knew him a long time ago. We went to school together. His name is Danny Truillo. What happened?

We bullied him, I said. Hard. It wasn't teasing. It was full on cruelty. We pushed him out of that school, maybe out of his mind. We locked him in a locker and left him overnight. Then, he was gone. The detective took a breath and rubbed his jaw.

You didn't mention that. No, Jamie said. Because, well, we didn't want to bring him up. We thought we're all being weirdo conspiracy theorists. You think he's doing this after all these years? He was the last person we ever hurt. I said, Danny going away changed us. We felt guilty.

He looked at the table, then back at us. We've had that name at both scenes. Danny, no other traces or clues. Whoever did it definitely knew Greg and now Lex. If you're saying this person might be Danny Truillo, then that gives me something to go on. We'll start pulling records and see what we can dig up. If you think your targets, I'll make sure patrols stay in your area

in case this person comes back. Find him, Ralph said. Please. After we left the station, I couldn't sleep. I kept picturing my dead friends. I waited until morning and then started calling around. The high school secretary remembered me. She didn't remember Danny, not until I gave her his last name.

I lied and told her it was for an old alumni project. She gave me the principal's name from that year. year and said he'd retired, but might still have some information on him. I contacted Raff and Jamie about it, and we all tried getting as much information as we could. Later that day, Jamie sent a message in the group chat, and she told us she drove to the local records office. She had a hard time, but apparently she managed to get something. Danny's parents were found dead in their home, less than a week out. after he moved.

Both bodies showed signs of massive internal trauma, blunt force and tearing. No weapon was recovered, and no one was arrested. The case was marked undetermined and closed after eight weeks. The report was cold and clinical. He was relocated to a state facility, new residents sealed per court order. That was it.

There was no trace of him after that. It was as if he disappeared completely. I stared at the block of text on my phone. My hands were shaking, but I didn't notice until my phone started to slip from my grip. I used to think guilt was something you felt in moments, right after something happened, or when someone confronted you about it.

But it wasn't like that. It spread. It pushed into your ribs and your lips. spine and made it hard to breathe. I knew what we did to him was cruel. I knew that for years, but I never thought about where he went or what came next or who he had become to survive. Jamie came over the next night.

I heard the knock and felt a flash of panic in my chest before I saw her through the people. She was holding two coffees in a tray and a fast food paper bag. Her hands were shaking slightly. I let her in, and we sat in the living room with the TV off. I keep hearing him, she said after a while. Greg, I nodded. Yeah. I am...

I haven't slept since they found Lex. I'm scared to close my eyes. I feel like something is watching me when the lights go off. I told her. I felt the same. We laughed for a second. The laughter came quick and shallow, with no weight to it. We sound crazy, she said.

Probably are, I replied. Then we went quiet again. The conversations after was short and awkward, but it felt good to be in someone's presence. I'm sure that's why she came over in the first place. We parted ways shortly after that. She texted me the following afternoon. The police approved it.

I'm going into protective custody. They're placing me in a secure prison unit. It's the safest place they've got. I called her immediately. She didn't answer. Ten minutes later, she sent a voice message. I'm sorry. I can't keep doing this.

I'm losing my mind. Every sound at night makes me flinch. I barely eat. I'm scared I'll end up like Greg and Lex, and I don't want to die screaming. This place is safe and... You guys should probably do the same. I texted back that I understood.

I told her we'd miss her and that I'd stay in touch however I could. She replied with a thumbs up and a broken heart emoji. Later, Raff and I sat together in a... his living room. He'd packed a duffel bag but didn't know where he wanted to go. He said he didn't trust any systems meant to protect people. I didn't argue. I felt the same and we decided that we wouldn't be going into anything like protective custody. He ended up crashing in my couch that night. We made a deal to stick together for now. We had each other. We had a weapon and we had police

patrols circling the block. We tried pretending life could go on. Raff kept sleeping on my couch and I stopped logging into work entirely. We stocked up on groceries, though most of what we bought stayed unopened.

I didn't say it out loud, but we both believed Jamie was safer than us. She was supposed to be the one that made it. The call came from the detective, not the news. He didn't speak right away. I remember his breathing more than his voice. He came to the speaker like he'd

been running or pacing. When he finally said her name, my legs buckled. I sat down on the floor next to the coffee table while raft stood frozen by the door. They found her that morning, dead in her cell. Her body was destroyed, and somehow there were no trays. There were no trays. The prison surveillance system had failed overnight. All footage from a wing was blacked out between 302 and 3.17 a.m. Three guards were found unconscious outside a unit. And again, that name. Danny, Raff and I sat in silence after the call ended.

He put his head in his hands. I could hear him whispering to himself. He didn't cry. But he shook hard enough that the glass on the table rattled. Detective Harlan came to the house later that day. He looked like hell. Look, he said, voice low. I understand you boys don't want to be placed in police custody.

Not after what just happened, but... I say this as a friend, not as a government body now. Pack your things and get the hell out of here. We didn't reply, but he continued. I've got nothing to go on, he said solemnly. We're increasing patrols. I've pulled favors for federal assistance. But this person, who he assumed is Danny Truillo, is skilled to a degree I've never witnessed in my life.

The things happening at these scenes don't make sense. I've seen 20-year veterans vomit at what was left of that girl. He shook his head and stood. We'll keep a car out. side. But if I were you, I'd damn it all to hell and go as far away as you can. After the detective left, Raff and I decided to follow his advice. I brought up a plan, said we could go west, stay with my cousin, disappear until this all blew over. We wanted this case solved. We truly did, but we were too scared. Raff said going west would still mean being close.

Jamie was in a maximum security location and Danny somehow got to her we packed our things decided we'd start the following morning drove until we reached the coast and then decided from there I woke to the sound of something pounding that night it took a few seconds to understand what I was hearing

my mind was still fogged with sleep I sat up and reached for the gun instinctively I'd replayed what if situations hundreds of times in my mind already The pounding came again Three dull thuds Somewhere on the other side of the house I called out to Raff

No answer I moved toward the hallway Keeping the gun raised I tried not to think about why the air smelled sour I tried not to think at all Raff I whispered Still, nothing.

I reached the door to the guest room and stood outside it. I could hear something moving on the other side. A wet dragging sound, like wet meat, pulled across the wood floor. My fingers closed around the doorknob. I turned it and pushed. The door opened slowly, hinges creaking loudly. The smell hit me. first, rot and bile.

The room was dim, the blackout curtains kept most of the light out, but there was enough from the hallway to make out shapes. Rath was on the bed. Oh, what was left of him. His body was bent in half, his spine cracked backward. One arm had been torn, cleaned off, and tossed against the wall. his jaw hung open from one hinge, the tongue swaying beneath it. It, on the other hand, was hunched over him.

The creature looked up when I stepped inside. Its skin was tight and grey, pulled so thin I could see every bone beneath it. Sores ran up its back and neck, leaking a dark yellow fluid that clung in thick strings. Its arms were long, ending. in hands that dragged down to the floor, each finger tipped in what looked more like bone than claw. His chest heaved with uneven, wet breaths. It didn't move. I raised the gun and emptied the clip into its torso.

Each shot hit, but it didn't fall or seemed phased at all. It stepped toward me like the bullets had annoyed it. I turned, and bolted down the hallway. Behind me, the door exploded. I felt pieces of it bounce off my back. The thing was moving faster now. I could hear its feet slapping the floor.

I reached the bedroom, slammed the door, and locked it. I grabbed the dresser and pushed it in front of the frame, then the bookshelf. My breath came too fast. My chest clamped down in waves. I could barely cease. straight. I dialed 911, but before the operator could even pick up, glass burst behind me in an eruption of sound and wind. It came in all at once, the window imploding inward, spraying shards across the room.

Hands grabbed me from behind. One clamped around my wrist, the other gripped my shoulder. The next thing I knew, my feet were off the floor, and a voice was barking into my ear. Move. He dragged me through the broken window frame, and I hit the lawn hard. My shoulder slammed into the dirt. I rolled, tasting blood in the back of my throat. Behind us, the bedroom door cracked open. Get up, the man said.

He bawled me again. We ran through the yard, past the collapsed garden bed, over the gravel path that tore up my souls. My legs moved on instinct, powered by nothing but fear. I didn't even know what was going on anymore. There was a car parked two houses down. We got to it, and the man yanked the door open and shoved me inside before climbing in after me. He started the engine without hesitation.

It sputtered and groaned, but it roared to life. We peeled away from the curb. I turned to the man behind the wheel, heart pounding. What the hell was that thing? I asked. And who even are you? He looked over at me slowly.

His face was worn down to the bone. Deep creases were carved across his cheeks and forehead. His eyes darker than I remembered anyone's eyes being, watched me for a second longer than felt comfortable. It's me. Danny, he said. My mind refused the process what he just told me. This man couldn't be the same kid we stuffed into a locker.

This man looked like he'd walked through deserts and lived in parking garages. His beard was wild, patchy around the jawline, thick in the middle. His voice carried gravel in every word. You're Danny Truillo. He nodded. Before I could respond, he spoke again. I just want to say, I forgave you, he said, a long time ago. I wanted to speak, but I let him continue.

I used to lie awake every night, he said, back when I lived at home, I used to pray to anything that might have been listening. God, demons, shadows on the ceiling. I didn't care what it was. I just begged for something to take them all away Everyone who hurt me My parents, the kids at school Anyone who made me feel smaller than dirt

His hands tightened on the steering wheel And one night After you guys stuffed me in a locker I was more adamant that something answered Than ever before And something did answer He stared ahead again Eyes glassy, expression still

He wasn't recalling it like a memory. He was reciting it. Something he told himself so many times the words had become carved into the inside of his skull. The first ago were my parents. I found them in the living room. My dad's back was snapped in half.

My mom, she looked like she'd been folded into the carpet. The police said it was some kind of freak collapse. They moved me into a home two towns over, and that should have been the end of it. But it wasn't. He finally looked at me again. He kept going. Every name I had ever whispered in anger, every person I wished Harmon, every curse I made with tears in my eyes. It hunted them down, one by one.

Sometimes years later, sometimes across the country. country. His voice dropped lower. You were the last, because you were far. That's it. You lived too far, and it took time. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know it would last this long, he said. I thought it would burn out or turn on me. I tried to keep ahead of it. I really did. I moved every six months. I tried attacking it. And every solution, you'd, you'd. You know, you could think of, I've probably tried it. It didn't help. I'm sorry about Greg, I'm sorry about Licks, Jamie, Raff.

I tried my best. The car sat in silence for a long time. Then his story drifted through the air like a bad smell that wouldn't leave. I turned toward him, my voice catching before it escaped my throat. How do we stop it? He didn't answer right away. He reached between the seat and the center console and pulled out a dented metal thermos.

He unscrewed the lid and took a sip. The smell that rose up was sharp and chemical. My stomach turned. I've been preparing for years, he said, testing things. I don't know if it's alive in the way you and I are, but it reacts to pain. I've harmed it before.

so it can die. How? I've built something that might work. Ammunition soaked in a mix I've been tweaking for the better part of a decade. Silver powder, industrial salt, lye, iron fillings, and a few other things. He reached into his pocket and took out a single round. The casing shimmered, not with polish, but something deeper, something buried in the metal. He held it between his fingers with care.

I created the first version of this bullet a few months ago. I hit it, and that was the first and only time I've ever heard it make a sound. My throat was dry. How many of those do you have? Three. And that's enough? Maybe. I lean back, mind racing.

Every instinct in me. was telling me to run, to take whatever car I could find, and disappear into the back roads until the fuel ran out. But there was nowhere left to run. I'd seen what happened to people who tried hiding. What do you need from me? I asked. Danny looked over, his voice quieter now. It needs bait. And you're the last name left. I nodded. There was nothing. There was nothing else to say. We made it to an abandoned house eventually. The porch leaned toward the dirt.

We drove in under the moonlight and killed the engine a few hundred feet back to avoid drawing attention. Inside, the house was worse. The walls were covered in pages, scribbled diagrams, symbols, names, ingredients. Half of them I didn't recognize. The other half made my same. skin itch. There were dozens of shell casings lined up on the cracked bug shelf,

a single mattress laying one corner, soaked through with old sweat. Danny opened a chest in the back and pulled out the weapon. It was a hunting rifle, heavily modified, with wire wrapped around the barrel and scratches etched into the stock. He held it like a man holding a relic, not at all. I'll take the shot, he said. You stay in the centre of the room. Try to distract it.

We waited. Hours passed. The moon drifted. Every sound made my muscles twitch. I sat on the floor with the empty gun from my house across my lap. It was useless now, but I couldn't let go of it. At some point, the wind died. Danny raised the rifle without a word.

The door exploded inward. It moved through the door, leaving no trace behind. His chest rose and fell in quick jerks, pus spilled from the holes in its shoulders. His head tilted as it found me. Danny fired. The creature shrieked. A high, rattling sound cut straight through my brain.

It reared back, smoke rising from the impasseh. impact point. His chair steamed, the flesh there blistered and peeled. It lunged. I ducked behind the table while Danny reloaded. The thing threw the couch aside and slammed its clawed hand into the floor I'd been seconds earlier. Wood split open. I rolled and kicked out at its ribs. It didn't flinch. Danny shouted and fired again. This time it hit the spine. The thing screamed again, louder, and twisted in itself in mid-air. His body started to collapse inward. His torso folded over its own shoulders, cracking like ice under pressure.

It swung toward Danny. I moved before I could reach him. I grabbed the fire poker from the hearth and jabbed it into the side of its skull. Its head snapped to the side, black icar spilling around the wound. The stench hit hard, my eyes watered. Danny raised the rifle one last time and fired into its throat. That did it.

The body froze, its limbs trembled, then bent inward, collapsing against its own weight. A low moan echoed through the room, then it fell apart into ash. I dropped the poker and stood, coughing through the smoke. Danny leaned against the wall, one hand pressed to his ribs. The silence after the creature fell apart pressed on the inside of my skull. My ears rang, not from the volume, but from the vacuum that followed it.

Dust drifted to the air where it had been. Danny dropped the rifle and slid down the wall. His knees gave out first, and he ended up sitting on the floor with his back to the crumbling drywall. His breathing was uneven, and he had one arm pressed against his ribs. I saw a line of red seeping through his shirt, trailing down from beneath his elbow. He looked up at me through strands of sweat-drenched hair. We did it, he said. I nodded.

I didn't have anything to say. My throat was raw, and my chest ached. Danny motioned for me to come close. I stepped over to him. He reached behind and pulled out a revolver. He didn't lift it toward me. He held it between his knees. I need you to shoot me.

I stared at him. What? In the side, nothing vital, enough to look real. I took a step back. Why would I do that? because the police are going to need someone to blame. They're not going to take this story and put it in a report. You know that.

He tilted his head and met my eyes. His voice stayed calm. You shoot me. Tell them I lost it. Tell them I killed your friends. Came for you next. You fought back, barely survived. I take the blame.

It's over. and you go home. That's insane. You've saved my life. His gaze didn't waver. I crouched next to him and grabbed his arm. There has to be another way. There isn't.

He pressed the gun into my hand. No one's going to believe what we saw. You know that. You can barely believe it yourself. I can see it all over you. What we kill didn't leave proof. There's no body or explanation you can give to the cops. They'll think you snap too, unless you have someone to point to.

I'm not doing this. Danny leaned back and let his head rest against the wall. His eyes closed for a moment, then opened again. If you don't do this, they'll keep digging. You'll end up locked away. or worse blamed for it. They already think I'm a ghost. Make it real.

I sat there, gripping the revolver, feeling its weight press into my palm. You don't owe me this, I said. He didn't answer. I raised the gun slowly, hands trembling. I aimed at the soft space below his ribs. Do it, he said. I pulled the trigger. Then he groaned and slumped sideways, one hand clamping down over the wound.

Blood poured between his fingers and darkened his shirt. He didn't scream, he didn't even fall fully. He slid until his shoulders hit the floor, then gave me a small nod. Call them, he said through his teeth. Tell them it's over. I did. The sirens reached us 20 minutes later. I stood outside, blood in my shirt, hands raised, gun on the ground.

They moved fast, weapons drawn, shouting commands. I gave them the story Danny told me to give. The detective didn't argue. Danny was loaded into an ambulance under heavy restraint. I never saw him again. The press latched onto the narrative, a local tragedy, a case with decades of history. An unstable man, allegedly traumatized by years of bullying, returned to take revenge. Authorities called it a revenge spree rooted in trauma and delusion.

The public swallowed it whole. I was left, empty and hollow. Everyone that surrounded me was now dead. I spent a few months organizing funerals and accompanying grieving parents and siblings. I would later find out that Danny died in custody, wounds from the bullet I had given him. I wrestled with that for a while. I had killed him twice, the first time in a locker and the second time with a bullet, and I don't know which one.

I regret more.