CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 Chilling Reddit Horror Stories from r/nosleep

Episode Date: November 16, 2020

LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "I Encountered a Skinwalker in the Desert" Creepypasta►19:22 "The Incident on Sommercroft Island" Creepypasta►39:41 "To the New Homeowners" Creepypasta►52:43 "My car broke down with my pregnant wife inside and she'll never forgive me" Creepypasta►1:11:16 "The Moon Just Split in Two" Creepypasta►1:32:44 "Do NOT steal from this woman" 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. CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►ReBeLKiMy: https://www.deviantart.com/rebelkimy/...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

This happened a few years ago. I've never brought this up to anyone who wasn't involved, because I know how insane it sounds. But I want to put this story out there, so at least people know this threat is real, and what they can do if it comes for them. Honestly, if someone told me what I'm about to tell you, I'd probably just say they were desperate for attention.

I'll let you decide for yourself. I'm from the American Southwest, in what was once the Navajo Nation, and that's where this story takes place. I was dating this girl, Gigi at the time. I was 20. She was 18 and had just graduated high school a month or two ago. One weekend, Gigi's grandparents went out of town and they asked Gigi if she'd watched their place while they were gone.

Mostly because they had a cat named Jake that her grandmother absolutely adored. We'd been dating for close to a year at this point, so Gigi asked if I wanted to stay there over the weekend with her. I excitedly said yes because I knew her grandparents lived in this extremely nice residential area called Cayenta. It's a very secluded area

maybe 15 minutes from the nearest part of town out in a gorgeous fertile part of the Great Basin Desert. Every home in Cayenta had about a half acre of property to it so the houses were kind of far apart. It's also worth noting that there wasn't a single home in Cayenta worth less than a million dollars.

They were very very very. nice homes. So, Gigi and I drove out to her grandparents' house in the desert the first night they were gone, and I was just in awe of the house. It was a very beautiful, a double-style home, with Mexican ceramic tile floors and genuine Navajo tapestries decorating the walls. There are a lot of rooms, too. A main living room area with a fire pit, a dining room, kitchen, a library, a den where a grandpa watched TV, a bathroom, a bedroom, and then the master-bed. bedroom with a private porch, the master bath, and a private shower room connected to the master bathroom. One of my favorite things about the house was how many windows there were.

In the kitchen and living room, nearly every wall was entirely made of windows, so you could always take in the gorgeous desert view. We found Jake curled up on the couch in the den. He's a large black cat with green eyes and was very friendly. There was a door to the outside of the den, and it had a little cat flap in it so Drake could explore the desert and come back as he wished.

We made sure he had some food and water and then I went to check out more of the property. While we were walking around the sandy hill surrounding the house, I pulled out a joint I had brought. Gigi and I both like smoking, so we got very high as we watched the sun start to set. Sunsets in the desert are some of the most beautiful.

The sky turns into a painting palette of colours the bright orange sun creates pink streaks that glow across the purple sky. It was beautiful. But suddenly, we got this weird feeling being so exposed out in the open desert. Do you feel weird being out here? She asked me. What do you mean? Just this place is so vast.

Anything could be out here. It's like the hell's of eyes or something. I chuckled at that. How many things out here are coyotes and retired seniors. Maybe a cougar. But Gigi insisted that she had a weird feeling like we weren't alone in the desert. She agreed it was probably just an animal, but it was getting dark anyway, so we decided to go back to the house. Plus, Gigi said, she knew where her grandma kept some alcohol.

We got back inside and rummaged the pantry until we found a handle of Picardy. It was big enough that we figured we could drink a pretty fair amount of it before making a noticeable dent. We both took a couple shots and then mixed some with orange juice to sip on. Jesus' grandma had a lot of books about the Navajo people about their traditions and beliefs and about their superstitions. I opened a few of them just a look at the pictures inside.

One that caught my attention was a book about Ye Naldushiai or Skinwalkers. I'd heard about them growing up, their shapeshifters in Navajo folklore, supposedly witches who were once human and their ultimate goal is the killer person and wear its skin so we can feel like a human again. I picked it up and opened to a random page

where I saw a picture of a demonic-looking creature, like a twisted wolf with big antlers. I remembered one time a Navajo girl in my class was getting mad because we were talking about them. She said that simply mentioning them attracts their attention. Looking at this picture, I couldn't understand why she would be afraid. I only read about half a page

and decided that was enough. By now the sun had completely gone down and I started to wish there were curtains for all these windows in the house. It was pitch black in the desert and with the lights turned on in the house the windows basically turned into mirrors. We could no longer see outside

but whatever is on the outside can still see in. It made me think about skinwalkers and what Gizi said earlier about how she felt there was something in the desert with us and suddenly I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched.

I told myself, it was just a stone paranoia, though, and Gigi and I watched some TV in the den. After about 30 minutes, Gizi said, Hey, are you hungry? I said, yeah, and she told me there was a Costco pizza in the freezer out in the garage. She asked me if I'd go get it.

I said, sure. A trip to the garage was a small price to pay for Costco pizza. Now, mind you, the garage isn't connected to the house. It's a detached garage about 10 yards away on the property. So I go out through the kitchen door and walk the 10 yards to the garage.

I get the pizza and I'm on my way back when I hear what sounds like an animal in the sagebrush. At this moment I remember that we haven't seen Jake since we first got to the house and I want to make sure it's not him

since he should definitely be inside this time at night. There are coyotes around after all. I take out my phone and shine a flashlight in the direction of the noise I heard. Jake? I called out in a friendly voice.

Here, Kitty Kitty. Then an animal emerged from the bush. For a second, I thought it was a coyote, but I realised this animal was much too large. It looked almost like a dog, but it wasn't any kind of dog I've ever seen. The sight of it actually really creeps me out, but I know you're not supposed to panic or run from predators,

so I calmly walked to the door. Its eyes followed me as I backed up to the house, but as soon as I slid the glass door open, it started running toward me. I freaked out and got inside as quick as I could, and I locked the door right as it got up to the glass. It stared at me for a moment before walking off, and his eyes looked so strange to me, almost human-like. As it turned around, the porch light caught it, and I swear I could see antlers on its head. My heart was racing.

Is Gigi? I called out to my girlfriend. I think she could hear this stress in my voice, because she came out quickly, looking worried. I looked at her, prepared to tell her about the weird creature, but then I remembered something else. Where's Jake? The look in her eyes said, Oh no, realising she hadn't seen him in a while either. We tore the house apart looking for him, searching in every one of the many rooms. We were panicking so hard.

This cat was the whole damn reason she was staying at her grandparents in the first place, and her grandma would absolutely freak out at her if we lost it. She probably wouldn't talk to her for a couple months. She really loved that cat. We searched the living room, bedrooms, bathroom and the den. We looked under every couch and mattress in the house. I was so panicked, I'd honestly forgotten about the strange experience I'd just had with that animal. I just peeked inside the shower room when I heard a faint sound.

Meow! I ran back out from the master bedroom and saw Jake. sitting in the porch light outside the kitchen door I had just come through. I took a sigh of relief. Hey, I found him, I shouted to Gigi. I opened the sliding door and let Jake inside. He brushed his head up against my shins and meowed softly at me. Gigi ran into the room and picked him up and let out her own sigh of relief.

After this, we just settled down and watched more TV in the den. We were both a little drunk at this point, and we started making out on the couch, being short to keep an eye on Jake so he didn't disappear again. After a few minutes of this we heard what sounded like the cat flap in the door. We looked down at the flap and saw Jake.

But Jake was already sitting on the other couch in the den. We could see him right there. Something wasn't right. The cat by the door started making weird growling noises at Jake, hissing and puffing up its tail. Then Jake jumped down from the door.

the couch, and the two cats lunged at each other, screaming and clawing and biting. Not in a playful way either. In a serious, I want to kill you kind of way. I stand up and yell at them, hey, which seems to scare them both, and they stopped fighting long enough for me to pick one of them up and go to the other room. I wasn't sure if I picked up Jake or the intruder cat, so I had Gigi look at both of them, and she couldn't tell the difference either. They were identical black cats. In order to figure out which one was which, we stayed in different rooms and studied both cat's behaviour.

My cat was friendly and kept brushing up against me, trying to get me to pet it, so I was pretty sure I had Jake. I asked Chi-ji how her cat was doing, and she said he was acting very skittish. Confident we had identified which cat was Jake, we chewed the other cat out through the back door in the den and then blocked the cat flap so it couldn't come back in. "'Eue, do you smell that?' "'Gy-Gy asked. "'I hadn't noticed it until she pointed it out, "'but then I got hit by a very weird "'and off-putting scent in the den.

"'It honestly smelled like something had died in that room. "'What is that? "'I think it's from them fighting,' I said. "'Cats release a pheromone when they're in danger. "'This must be what it smells like. "'It's disgusting.' "'I had to agree. it was pretty gross

so bad that we could no longer stand to be in the den we grabbed Jake and took him out into the living room where we continued to watch TV Jake just wouldn't leave me alone either he kept getting in my lap

and meowed for me to pet him and I gladly obliged until he seemed satisfied as the night was winding down Shizi said she was going to take a shower I said okay just planning to watch more TV Gigi went to the shower room

and Jake decided he'd had enough of me and followed her I had the shower turn on but then a minute later Gigi walked out of the room saying there were no towels and she'd have to go back in the den she plugged her nose before entering and I giggled a little bit I wished I could go back in the den

because these windows were still creeping me out a weird animal never left the back of my mind but I tried my best to distract myself by just watching TV. After a minute I heard Gigi call out from the shower. Hey! I replied, What's up? In a sultry voice, she said.

Come join me. I suddenly got very excited thinking about joining her in the shower room. She didn't have to tell me twice. I got up off the couch. But then I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I looked at it and saw I just got in a text from Gigi. Don't go in there, it said. I was frozen in place.

I realized, Gigi had never gone back to the shower room. She was still in the den looking for a towel. I looked over to the door of the den, and it cracked open slowly. I held my breath, waiting to see what came out of there. I half expected the demonic-horn dog from that skin walker book to come creeping out to devour me. I could feel myself shaking. Slowly, Gigi emerged from the day. and I could see she was terrified, her skin colourless, and her eyes wide with fear.

She was clutching a six-shooter and trembling. She nodded at me to head for the front door. Quietly, I inched towards it, but I was much closer to it than she was. By the time I got there, she was only halfway across the floor. We heard that thing call out from the shower again in a sweet, sing-song voice. Don't keep me waiting. I gulped and felt sweat dripped down my brow as Gigi picked up the pace

She was only a few feet away When I heard the sound of wet footsteps Coming out of the shower I suddenly was unable to breathe Hearing the footsteps get closer It was as if I could feel my life about to end It appeared its head around the corner And my heart stopped in my chest

It looked just like Gigi Same black air Same face, same freckled skin I wouldn't have been able to tell the difference, except his eyes immediately turned to the darkest black. I let out a weak, pathetic scream as it started running. Skin was replaced by feathers, a crown of antlers broke through its hairline, and it opened its mouth so wide, its cheeks split open.

Then I had the loudest sound I've ever heard in my life. The creature suddenly fell to the floor, screaming and writhing. There was a hole in its chest that looked like it was already beginning to rot. Gizi grabbed my arm and pulled me out the front door. Sitting just outside was Jake, or what used to be Jake. We didn't waste any time getting the hell out of there. I drove through the desert as fast as I could. What did you do?

was the first question out of my mouth. Gigi was still taking deep breaths and staring wide out at nothing. What was that thing? Gisi explained that her grandma was very superstitious about the old Navajo legends. She held up the revolver she brought out from the den My grandma keeps it loaded with silver-capped bullets And inside is a pocket of ash Ash and silver I suppose it are the only things I can hurt to Skinwalker

And thankfully it brought us enough time to get out of the desert alive that night I'll never forget that night for the rest of my life But that's actually not where the story ends On the way out of the desert Gizi called her grandma in a fit of hysteria Through her tears she managed to explain what happened. There was a long silence and then a grandma said they'd come back early tomorrow and told us to keep the gun close and just go back to Shuz's apartment for tonight.

We got to the apartment and tried our best to sleep, but we were utterly terrified of what we just experienced. Every little noise set us off. We were worried, maybe it was able to follow us somehow. Eventually the morning rolled around and Shizu's grandma came to pick us up. We didn't really question it. We just got in the car with her. But after a few minutes, we noticed we were heading back to Khyenta. What are you doing? Shiji asked. You're not going back there, are you? Why not? Her grandma said, it's my home, not theirs. She explained that she had felt this creature stalking her for some time now. She thought it had gone away when she didn't notice it for several months. That's why she was comfortable asking Shiji to watch the house for her.

She also said she knew how to get rid of it for good, now that it's bold enough to try and claim her home. As we pulled up to the garage, we drove past Jake. The pain on Grandma's face was clear, but if anything, it only strengthened her resolve. Gigi and I hesitantly got out of the car once we parked. Stay right there, her grandma warned. She pulled out a container of salt and drew a circle around us. This will keep it out for a while. She had Gigi hand over the gun,

check the rounds and cocked back the hammer. Then, cried out, Myko! She stared out the garage store, waiting for something. We waited anxiously as well. Mikeo! She yelled again. Still nothing.

Mikeo, Michael, Michael! After the seventh call, Jake emerged from the desert and walked into the garage with us. He meowed sweetly and looked up at Gigi's grandma. She responded by pointing the gun at it. You cursed, wretched beast. You've stalked me for years. Her voice was oddly calm and low.

You were here first, so I was willing to ignore you for a while, knowing you couldn't hurt me if I didn't invite you into my home. The cat started circling our ring of salt, laughing. But now you've invaded my home and turned your eyes at my granddaughter. It's time for you to go. I know your name. It's laughing intensified, far louder than any sound of cat would be capable of making. Antler started growing from its head.

Then Grandma fired a single shot into the bee skull and yelled an ancient sounding name. I've never heard a more horrifying sound. The cat violently morphed into a coyote, then a cougar, then a stag, all while screaming a terrible scream, until his grotesque body finally turned back into a feathered old woman. The wound festered and black smoke spilled out as the skin around it burned and fell off the monster's face. It turned away and ran out of the garage, running back into the desert. What'll happen to it? Shushi asked. It'll suffer greatly.

Speaking the birth name of Amico is the only way to truly extinguish it. In three days, it'll die a death more agonising than you or I could imagine. Shiji and I felt every muscle in our body relax, knowing this thing could never harm us. Since then, I've moved north and don't have much interest in returning. I'm sure whatever magic created the skinwalkers can be found here too, but the desert just doesn't feel safe to me anymore. The following is a transcript from an interview with a man named William Burgess. I am not able to release more information on this man or the following events at this time,

as my employers are unaware that I'm bringing these activities to the public. Please understand that I'm putting myself in danger by doing this, but I can't live with myself and the events that have come to light again and again in my time here. I will remain in touch and have more information to share later, but for the time being, take this knowledge to heart, and please, please, stay away from Summercroft. I never would have believed such a thing could have possibly existed if I hadn't seen it for myself. It was the one thing to come of that entire trip that I didn't regret, seeing it. Was it worth the cost of everything that came after?

I really can't tell you. I'm not the type of person who can give you those sorts of answers. Go talk to a priest or an economist. One will tell you about the value of your soul, the other your life. Weird how there's a difference between the two. I'm sorry, my thoughts have a tendency to wonder. You don't go through something like I did, but I'm not. without some sort of lifelong cognitive dysfunction.

Could I have a glass of water? All right, in a bit then. You see, I was on vacation. A cheap one. It was some tiny island that barely had more than a whisper of a village on it. Summercroft. The name of the island was the name of the town. That's how small it was.

I think it had been named with the intention of being some sort of paradise vacation spot. There was even a resort there. Technically, it still is, I guess. whatever some bleach bones remain in the place anyway. Year after year of bad luck, after the resort was built, destroyed any possibility of recouping the loss of having built it. The thing that had been designed to bring wealth and happiness to Summercraft was really the thing that killed it.

My point is, going to that island is dirt cheap, and I don't exactly make a king's ransom. I'm sure you didn't sit in your playpen as a tut and think, oh boy, I want to grow up to be a custodial for a multinational campaign. chemical company that treats the environment like a toilet and its employees like the turds floating in it. That'll be swell. So yeah, cheap was a priority. The trickiest part was getting the plane fare.

But people will do nearly anything if you have something they want. You'd be surprised how many people really, really want chemicals. The dangerous kind. The get taken by the FBI if I tell you about them kind. Believe me, I'm doing you a favour by not elaborating. Let's just say I got the cash and went to my way. What do you mean sounds like an awful lot of risky work for a pretty scummy vacation? You're going to sit there, look me in the eye,

and tell me you haven't been willing to cut your own arm off to get a damn weekend away from your co-workers, your friends, your terrible neighbours that play their music too loud and never make their damn dogs stop barking all goddamn night? The people you work for who are so stuck up their own asses that they don't acknowledge your existence unless one of them makes a mess and one of them breaks their toilet with a crap that doesn't stink

and one of them throws a party and refuses to clean up despite being the one to brandlessly fling the damn thing together in the first place that if you didn't get out and get out soon you were probably going to take a paperweight off your boss's desk and just yeah that's what I thought now where was I ah the island look I really should just skip over the boring parts

you're not here for the boring parts I don't want to talk about the boring parts I flew in, walked around realized I was getting what I was paying for here then headed straight for the local bar It was the sort of seedy joint That could give you a buzz just by walking into the room I peeled some poor schmuck off the counter

And got myself a beer It was a brand I was unfamiliar with And tasted like it had been sick on the ride here From the mainland But I didn't really care The first hit a booze sent a wave of ease Through my veins and directly into my brain Nobody here knew me and nobody cared

They seemed they were focused on their own concerns As I said the whole lot was drunk But a few had their wits about them well enough to eavesdrop on At first I thought there were more tourists They seemed to have been here for a while Sun darkened skin worn to wrinkles Winswipped hair gone brittle from salty ocean spray I turned a bit nursing a second bottle by now

Making no effort to hide that I was listening From what I gathered Something had washed up on the shore Not exactly a surprise on an island paradise I figured it might have been bits of a wreck Or maybe, God forbid, a damn whale Whatever it was, it sounded huge I listened long enough to peel the label off my bottle

Click it to the floor Then slide out of my stool to move to the table I guess that beer was a lot stronger than I thought it was I staggered a bit on the way Weird, since I can normally down a whole case without so much as a wobble They didn't look pleased And stared at me through narrow, mistrustful eyes

Maybe I looked too shiny and new Clearly fresh off the plane Tourist trash and a tourist trap What's this you guys are talking about? Yeah, bold and brassy of me, right? What can I say? A little liquid courage goes a long way I thought they were too old geeseers But now that I was closer

I could see a certain sharpness to their eyes A fullness to the flesh That made me think that they might even be younger than me Whatever wall they put me up to They didn't take it down until I shrugged And waved over a few more beers Maybe it wouldn't have worked If they hadn't already been well into their cups

It's hard to explain One said A blue-eyed fellow with a faded grey sweater real rotin guy with a bristly jaw and a red beat of a nose he looked at the other who favoured a thick salt and pepper beard and a worn tan jacket dozens of pockets on the thing each one i could imagine holding a fistful of fishing lures swept in after the storm the bearded one said taking a swig of his bottle

pressed into the cliffs on the easterly side of the island he shook his head half of a bemused grin curling across his face honestly it just looks like a massive pile of sand silt whatever holds its shape a bit and it hasn't been swept away by the tidal storm so far some of the kids have even started calling it a sandcastle all fun and jokes but there's something off about the damn thing the bigger guide nodded looking to me with eyes full of burst capillaries this one should probably lay off the booze sooner rather than later i swear to it i saw something slithering in and out of it. Get close enough and you can see moving just beneath the surface. Then I said...

What? Look, I'm getting to the point, okay? You suits can be real assholes, you know that? This is how you do, you know? You set up for the big reveal, build attention and then fine. Look, basically they told me they didn't know how it got there and

that it had been pressed against the cliffs for a few weeks. There was this guy. Sully? Solly, he was the first to find it, so they said. Went back into town and got a few others. Solly was a dullard, always poking his nose and places where it didn't belong. After he pulled together a crew, he pushed and bullied until he convinced three other guys that they needed to go inside. Yeah, inside.

Yeah, that's what I thought too. How the hell do you go inside? A giant ass pile of sand and rocks that got whipped up on the shoreline by a storm. These two guys, they told me when Solly and his crew got close, it rippled, it shivered, then opened up. A cabin entrance peeked open and those idiots just walked inside. Stayed open for maybe 15 minutes, then sealed up tight. Nobody came out. Nobody approached it again.

Four souls gone. Well, sounded like a heaping pile of BS to me. So, I asked these two. two jerk-offs to show it to me. Where's this big ass pile of dirt you're all so scared of? Maybe I was a little drunk by that point, because I was a lot louder than I intended. All heads across the room turned to look at us,

a mixture of surprise and fear. Gave me a feeling that there might be more going on than what those two told me, but you know how it is when you've seen too many rooms through the bottom of the bottle. Now, you probably heard about the fight that broke out. drunk men make bad decisions yada yada i could have taken on those guys but not both of them maybe it was stupid two seafaring men who clearly had been honed by the ocean and their lifestyle to kick tourist ass yeah i got thrown out so i got this scar here see that's right weird ain't it but you thought that scar had been there for months i got my face busted open on the rocks outside of a no-account bar in the middle of a nowhere village under do nothing island two days ago.

Doesn't feel like two days ago. You suits move real fast, you know that? How the hell did you even hear about? All right, all right, I'll keep going. But can I get some water first? When I finally found the damn thing, I could barely see it. I don't know if you've experienced the darkness that comes from being alone on a beach. No ambient light from a big city.

The world cuts off by the ocean on your right and cliffs on your left. There were distant clouds cutting off the moon and blanketing out a huge swath of sky But I thought they were too far away to care about I had no idea how quickly an island storm could sweep in And just destroy everything I was tucked away between two massive slabs of stone At first appearing just as those drunks in the bar described it

Just sand and silt All that build-up for just a heap of nothing It made me mad madder than it should have Look, I don't know if you've noticed by now But I've got a bit of a temper It's how I lost my first three jobs And how I got thrown out of my first apartment

Nothing major It's not like I've ever murdered someone It just leads to some Bad decisions Everyone makes bad decisions sometimes, you know I'm sure you've made plenty Damn Alright

Well, I'd be lying If I didn't say there was a particular draw to it. I know, it's hard to explain. Just like the assol said earlier, right? There was a moment, very briefly, when the moonlight managed to push through the clouds and pass over the thing,

the structure, whatever it was, and it sort of... Well, it shimmered. This is going to sound stupid, but have you ever looked at oil and water? The weird rainbow shine to it? That's sort of what it was like I barely saw it

I was all set to turn away and go back to town and then bam It was like a whole net of hooks Latched onto my brain And began to draw me forward Have you ever walked in your sleep I haven't either But it's the only comparison I have

It was like I both was And was not in control of my body Maybe being a little drunk didn't help It just seemed like such a good idea To walk up to it Sometimes you just don't realize how immense something is until you're up close. It took me entirely too long to walk from where I was on the beach to the base of the structure. It felt like half the night, but I knew in my bones, if I turned to look at my footsteps on the sand,

it wouldn't have been at any distance at all. Once I was close enough, I could see that it wasn't a smooth pile of sand. There was a vast, intricate network of grooves carved into the side of it, and it was doing more to support its own structure than it seemed. I felt, knew, that if the stones and cliffs disappeared, that the thing would stay exactly as it was, as if God and the ocean and Mother Nature herself and decided this was simply how it was meant to be.

That shimmer passed over it in pulses, like a heartbeat, growing stronger and brighter as I approached. How could I not see it earlier? A perfect, thrumming, peaceful chorus of light and voices. Yes, voices, whispers, slithering in my ear and curling around my brain, pressing on the inside of my eyeballs and curling down my throat. I could hear them, feel them. I had no idea what they were saying, but they were beautiful. I'd use that term beautiful before. I don't think I could ever truly use it again. No work of art, no woman.

no child, no song. This sound, this tone. This was beauty. All other things paled before it. I can't express the sort of draw something like that can have to someone like me. Probably to someone like you too. It did occur to me that I should walk away,

that this was something far too immense for me to deal with, that I was too drunk and too stupid to be able to process what I was experiencing. The thought of leaving hurt. I mean really and truly hurt. I felt something tightened in my chest and I knew. I knew I was going to have a heart attack and dropped dead right there on the beach if I walked away.

I couldn't. I had to move forward. Then I reached out to touch it. A moment before I rested my palm on it, the whole structure heaved and closed the distance. It was soft and warm, so much like skin and so unlawful. like anything I've ever put my hand on before.

Then, it pulled away, then pushed outward again, like a massive beast taking a breath. The rhythmic pulsing of light slithered across the surface and curled over my hand, then snaked at my arm, pulling me into it. Somewhere deep down,

I wanted to scream, but the whispers hushed me, verbally soothed my mind, and then I lost everything to darkness. Now, I know you're going to want, to know what happened after that, but it's a fog. I can't exactly tell you when I lost consciousness, or if I even retained it for any length of time,

after that thing, absorbed me, I guess. It was like someone blowing a candle out. My mind just snuffed. When I woke up, I was on the ground, regurgitated onto a sandy floor. For a moment, I thought I was still outside. But when I looked up, I could see that rainbow shimmer traveling across the wall,

of the inside of the structure. It hurt to look at, and the blooming pain behind my eyes made me turn away. The whispers got louder, pressed harder, escalated to singing screams that run through my ears and drove me to my knees. I covered my ears, tears flooding my face. I won't lie. I'm not ashamed. I bawled like a damn baby.

I just wanted it to stop. It felt like it was rushing to something. but I wasn't sure what the sound the colours the rhythmic thrumming it went on and on and on I tried to crawl away

I don't know where I thought I was going but movement seemed to be my only option it was just a big room with a ceiling that peaked out of sight it really wasn't anywhere for me to go eyes shut I kept moving forward hoping to regain some of my ability to think if I just cut one of my senses off

no sight, no light. I wish I kept my eyes open, else I might have noticed what I was crawling up to. I had been so distracted by the tumultuous attack of my senses that I hadn't noticed the pile in the middle of the room.

I would have stayed blind to it if I hadn't reached out and dropped a hand on something that felt like a frail twig. If I pressed any harder, I might have snapped it. Becruitingly, I opened my eyes and peered into the hollow sockets of a corpse.

The men, Sully, the four men that had made their way into this thing were here. They lay on the ground as if they tried to distance themselves as far from the walls as they could. The pulsing light flickered over leathery skin that had been drawn torn toward over bones, limbs that had shrunken down to sticks, brittle hair that looked like it might have fractured into the dust if I touched it.

I think the shock of stumbling across a power of, pack of corpses was enough to loosen the hold of the thing. Then, very slowly, and brittle joints and creaking flesh that had no more substance than old leather, foreheads all turned to me, cracking open their lipless mouths and exiled a plume of something that couldn't possibly have been dust. Why couldn't it have been? Well, because it moved. This cloud of silvery grey powder left their mouths in skin, lifting into the air and danced

about me, twisting and twirling, and the voices moved and flowed to match the movement. Somehow, the dust was singing to me. The sand, the stuff, the thing. It was alive. The whole thing, the shimmering structure of rainbow lights, the dust crawling over those corpses, over my skin, into my eyes and through my hair. It was all alive. What do you do when you're surrounded by something as mobile and as inescapable? as water. It was alive and flowing over me and through me, and I didn't want to die. I would have.

I still might, but I got lucky. God, I didn't want to die. It was the storm that saved me. A crashing boomer thunder shattered through the voices, sent a trimmer through the entire world. I felt the sand beneath me shiver and the dust, the sand, the creatures that made up the structure I was in, I crawled over me, suddenly moved more rapidly. I had begun to collapse, screaming, as the dust filled my mouth, and dried out my eyes. It was dust, and I was dust, and dust is where we come from, and dust is where we return, and how many people have died, and how far as this thing travelled, and was this just a mounted of corpses that ate more and craved more, and wanted more and more and more, and wanted more and more,

I'm sorry, I'll calm down. The storm The storm was what brought me back It's what saved me The rain hit The wind must have been whipping the surf into a torrent of waves A distant wall began to collapse against itself As the water outside wore away at it

The singing turned to screeching The tide came in The whole world was washed away I think that's when you found me After the sun came up Alone on the beach Please, I'm so dry Please, may I have a glass of water

I don't like to think about the hole at the end of the garden Growing up there were very few topics I couldn't breach with my family But that hole was one of them It is not an overly large hole Around 1.5 to 2 metres across Not overly deep either But just darker than it should be A dangerous trap only to a child

which, as I've experienced, is what makes the hold so dangerous. No doubt you've noticed it. It has a presence to it. It draws the eye. Our family had a lot of rules that we followed without much question. Normal ones like, no sneaking out, no smoking, no junk food after 8pm. But we had some weird ones too. Like never placed the beds facing the windows that looked out into the garden.

We were never allowed to play in the yard. unsupervised, or allowed there after dark. We had to wear earplugs from six to twelve years old while we slept. But the most important one was there never, ever look into the hole. I was embarrassingly old when I found out that not every household held these rules. I asked both my parents and grandparents who lived with us, once and only once about the hole. Why not just cover it up or build a fence around it if they were so concerned? They were quiet for a while.

And then my dad glanced out the window and said, Didn't work. The words weren't as nearly as shocking as the fact that they came from him. My dad, handyman extraordinaire, who never backed down from a challenge, never gave up on anything. But he gave up on this. Why? I think that was the first time I began to realize

there was something wrong with that hole. It only got worse. I'm sure you've heard by now that there's an unusually high number of disappearance around these parts, not frequent enough to alarm authorities, but if you were to look back through the decades, the numbers grow uncomfortably high. Did you read about them? Did any stick out to you? A pair of blue eyes, a face with a joyous grin. My grandfather never called them disappearances, despite the fact that no bodies were ever found. With every announcement, he would share a knowing glance with my grandmother over the morning paper. coincidentally we would receive, with renewed gusto, a stern lecture about keeping away from the hole.

I never really believed him, because this seemed so implausible. The disappearances had no pattern to them. It didn't discriminate. How could a grown man fall down a barely three-foot deep hole and disappear? Or would possess them to come into a garden? The hole wasn't visible from the road. I entertained his lectures and avoided the hole mostly due to the ingestion. grained rule rather than genuine belief.

Often, I've wondered why our house, why our garden. There was nothing special about us or the land, no hidden mass graves or religious sites. It was just Earth. That's all it should have been. Until my cousin came to live with us.

My aunt, Carol, and little cousin, Mike, lived near the coast. After a particularly harsh winter, their homes saw so much flood damage that the house was rendered unlivable. My dad and his sister were really close, so naturally they came to live with us. I loved Mike.

He was kind and funny. Even though he was only eight years old, we were pretty close. He had a burning curiosity, though. That's where the trouble started. This was... A particularly dark few years for my family. I only mention it in the hopes

that if any of this starts to sound familiar, you'll do what we'll do. we never did. Leave. It started really small. I would walk past his room and find him looking towards the window, mid-play, as if someone called his name.

Then, standing up against the window, games abandoned. For longer and longer intervals, he would just stare. He would get extremely irritated if there's no adult around to supervise him playing in the yard. I never counted, even though I consider myself an adult.

The irritation wouldn't have disturbed my family as much if anger hadn't been an unusual emotion for him. But it was. Mike was so calm. Very little ever bothered him. With Mike around, very little bothered anyone. So, when he started scrunching his face with barely controlled anger and smashing his favorite toys against the floor, something began to sink in my stomach. If I had been a little older, if I had understood, maybe things would be different.

He slept less, ate less. During playtime in the yard, he would creep closer towards the hole. Every time he was admonished for getting too close, the more distant he became. All of his hobbies were forgotten. He only talked and thought about that hole. My family acted unbothered, but I could feel the tension in the air. When he started asking questions, I would often hear the five of them talking in hushed tones in the kitchen. What was the hole?

Why can't he play in it? He would be oh so careful he promised Why would they let him play in the hole Why, why, why? Since they wouldn't answer his questions He came to me We were playing in his room one morning Despite the fact that I was a little too old for toys

I wanted to cheer him up Though honestly I was unsettled by how much I missed him And I had to remind myself that he was right here Wasn't he? Why wouldn't they let me play near the hole Mike mumbled half-heartedly dragging his dragon action figure across the carpet.

I opened my mouth to say, I don't know, but held my tongue. This could be my chance to find out what was happening with Mike. So instead I asked, What made you interested in the hole? I tried to keep my voice as casual as I could and sailed the small plastic car across the air and let it crash on the floor in spectacular fashion,

adding an explosion sound effect for good measure. Mike became fidgety. eyeing the slightly-ajad door. He leaned in close, and I was hit with an odd scent coming from him. Sickly sweet and slightly stale. Can I tell you a secret? Caught by the intensity of Mike's gaze, I leaned in too, nodding along like a conspirator.

You know I don't like it when people don't answer my questions. I'm not stupid, but they treat me like a baby. So I waited until Mom said good night, and then I took out my earplugs. His smile looked too wide for his face. It was slightly crooked, too, like someone stuck a finger on the edge of his mouth and dragged it an inch too high.

Was his smile always a little bit crooked? I swallowed slowly, fighting against the instinctual horror of him having broken a rule. Oh, Mike, did you hear something? Mike jotted his lower lip out, as he usually did when he was considering a careful answer. Yes, and no.

I didn't hear a voice really, but I heard something coming from the hole. It sounded. He rolled his head, left to right, as if he was listening. Inviting. He answered firmly, the word slithered under my skin. Inviting. What did that even mean? What do you want to do in the hole?

Mike suddenly shook his head violently. I don't want to talk about the hole anymore. If I talk about it, it makes me want to go, and I can't. His face twisted, and there was a bitterness in those words that worried me. Go? Go where? I made a mistake that day. One, I hope.

If any of this sounds familiar to you, you won't make. I left him alone. See, this process, if you can call it that, is not slow. It doesn't take weeks or months. It's not gradual, evolving to a point where you absolutely can't deny what's happening. It's swift, and if you don't know what to look for, it'll take you in a flash.

So yeah, I left him alone. Stupid. So stupid. Closing the door behind me, I walked as quickly as I could without arousing suspicion from Mike. Aunt Carol was in the basement, bent over a box of old clothes. I didn't know why what Mike had said was important. I just knew it was more than I could.

could understand. When she saw the look in my face, she froze like she knew what I was going to say before I did. I stumbled over my words, wanting so badly to verbalise why it disturbed me, but came up short. I had barely gotten the word in fighting out of my mouth before she dashed up towards the door. That was the first time I had ever seen an adult show fear. As a kid, family is usually the epitome of safety. Nothing bad can happen when your family is a around. After that morning, I never felt that bubble of safety again. I tried to keep up with Aunt Carol, and she sprinted down the hallway. She was running so fast I thought she'd fly right by the door, but at the last moment, she reached out and grabbed the doorframe, using the momentum

to swing herself into Mike's room. The room was just as I had left it. The only difference being that Mike was no longer in it. Aunt Carol gave a cry of such panic that my body rocked with it. I knew, by the way her body caved in on itself, she could see Mike. I knew by the gentle breeze of my cheek that he had gone out the window. I didn't even know he could reach the window. I wondered if there were scratch marks under the window, like he clawed his way up there. But my eyes wouldn't move from the carpet, from those toys. He always took such good care of his toys, but here they lay, as if there were nothing. That wasn't Mike. That wasn't Mike. That wasn't Mike. Carol grabbed my hand and dragged me with her out the door. I don't know why. I think she just needed someone to hold on to.

We didn't get to Mike in time. Just as we burst through the patio door, I could see him standing at the edge of the hole. All I kept thinking was, it'll be fine. Worse case, he scrapes his knee falling in that hole. As soon as he jumps, we can pull him right out and put this whole nonsense to rest. It'll be over. there's nothing wrong with that hole, nothing. His little blue and white sneaker dangled over the hole as he gazed into it. My aunt screamed his name, but he only turned briefly to give us a cheerful grin. And then he dropped over the edge. I watched it all.

I watched his feet disappear over the rim, then his knees, then his hips. One second he was there, and the next, he was just, gone. There was no thump of him hitting the floor, no request to help him out. For a moment, it was pure quiet. And then, Aunt Carol screamed.

At twelve, I'd been to a funeral or two of old and distant relatives. The funerals were quiet and sad with a sniffle here or there. That's what I thought death was. A quiet sleep, a somber farewell. I'd never seen grief so fresh and it changed everything I thought I knew about the world.

It cracked it open in a horrible way. Cracked me open in a horrible way. Mike was gone and he never came back. My family mourned him as if he were dead. But he was the not knowing that hurt the most. I haven't seen my aunt in years. I don't know what the hole is or why it's there or what it does for the people it takes.

I only know why. I saw. This was to be my burden, but now it's yours. I can only pray that you will listen. Don't let your son near that hole. Don't leave him unsupervised in the garden, and if he ever seems to listen to something inviting, do not hesitate to run, because it will not hesitate to take him. I only hope that your son is not curious. You're not going to get it to start, Hank. Again, the car engine warbled A useless sputter And then nothing

I loosened my grip on the keys My fingers hurt from wrenching them I guess you're right Maybe your local can help us out I took the keys out of the ignition And watch the headlights dim And their beams retreat from the deserted road My wife, Matilda

sighed from the passenger side Her pregnant belly swelling under the seatbelt Summer twilight lingered across the rural expanse in front of us. The tin roofs of silos glittered in the distance, all at least half a mile away. Croplands and pastures surrounded them on all sides. Lightning bugs were starting to flit amongst the tall grass. Sitting on the far side of the road, behind a fallow field, was a matriarchal farmhouse whose windows shone dimly across the grass. I pointed to it. They have the lights on. Do you think you could walk over there? We might as well. The last house we passed us 15 miles ago,

Matilda said. She unclicked a seatbelt and opened the car door. Her belly hindered in momentum as she stumbled out, wobbling like an ill-tempered duck. She braced herself on the car door. I took my nails into the steering wheel. Damn it, I muttered under my breath. We were supposed to be home in Baltimore by nine. I had never made such bad time in my life, let alone had the car battery dye me with my pregnant wife in the car.

I opened the door and stepped into the grassy field. It didn't take us more than five minutes to reach the farmhouse from the car, but the time dragged as we fought through the crabgrass. It was silent except for a buzz of mosquitoes and quiet chirps of nighthawks. It was farmland in all directions, a few thickers of trees dividing properties, but we were surrounded by green and a skyline of silos. I could see a brown barn in the distance,

the kind one expects the seat behind a herd of jersey cows, but the pasture was empty. There was no indication of life in this place, except for the drone of insects and the kitchen light on in the farmhouse ahead of us. Although it had been a dry summer, the field squished beneath me with each step. Moisture pulled into my sneakers as I walked through the field. Matilda teetered along behind me. I stepped onto the rickety porch of the farmhouse and peered in. shadows danced around the kitchen of the house but there were no sounds that promised anyone was home

I knocked on the door glancing at Batilda for any sign of validation all I saw were her eyebrows raised skeptically her arms were crossed a squat sturdy woman opened the door mid-50s she wore green rubber boots and a flannel shirt pulled toward across her breast and stomach a few wiry grey hairs protruded from her cropped hair

Her eyes were sharp, although hidden under soft creases of skin, and there were specks of dirt in her eyebrows. It occurred to me that she looked like a blonde in a garden, except more likely to host a gun show than a cooking program. We're sorry to bother you so late, ma'am, I started, peeping in to see if we had interrupted dinner. The woman looked unfazed, so I continued. Unfortunately, our car broke down, and we were hoping we could use her phone. The woman smart faintly.

No use, she proclaimed rather loudly. It startled me. The shop's closed for the night, but I can give you a tone to town tomorrow after I finish with my crops. The woman glanced at Matilda. In the meantime, why don't you come in? We were just in the middle of dinner.

We followed the woman into the farmhouse. It was quaint, hardwood floor and low sloping ceilings, antique milk pails and a collection of wooden peels, and a collection of wooden pigs cluttered the bookshelf in the corner of the parlor, framed cross-stitch samplers

dotted the beige peeling walls. It was a caricature, almost too indicative of rural living. The dining room was much different. A long table ran the length of the room dressed in a stained, lace table runner.

Pillar candles stood lit in the center and all known places was set with China, although only one seat was occupied. This is my partner, Bobby, the woman said. gesturing to the hunched figure at the table. Bobby seemed older, really significantly frailer. Two gold bangs hung from her freckled and wrinkled wrists.

Her face was narrow with a crooked nose that made her look bird-like and perpetually discouraged. Whips of dyed hair obscured her glasses. Oh my, visitors! She chirped, dully. The woman pulled out two chairs. I'll get you to some stew. We sat silently as we were certain. Across from them, Bobby picked the gristle out of a meat with a thin, paper-skin fingers.

It's a shame you broke down where you did, the woman said, as she sat down next to a partner. The town's only two miles up the road. Not to worry, I can hitch up the truck tomorrow and tow you to the shop. After you tend the crops, right? I said. Yep, mid-afternoon, I'd say. Maybe three or four, unless you folks got somewhere to be. Matilda and I exchange glances.

I was beginning to wonder how rude it would be to ask to use a phone to call AAA. No, Matilda chimed in sweetly. Any time is fine. We certainly appreciate it. That's it. We were stuck. I was going to have to settle in with them. I cleared my throat and pushed my dinner away from me discreetly. So, what kind of crops do you grow here? The woman looked at me sternly, her hospitable grin diminishing.

You'll see, I've got a very intricate, farming system here. I get 300 pounds of peat moss and sphagnum moss shipped in each month to maintain this crop. Really quite state of the art operation, she said with a curt nod, and turned back to Matilda, smiling again. And, when are you two? Beaming a Matilda's belly. Matilda smiled back. Next month, we were just up to visit my parents now that I'm finally a maternity leave. How nice, you must be so excited. You know, before I bought. at this farm, I delivered a few babies myself. She was a great doctor, Bobby added.

I was an obstetrician for 20 years. Definitely a burnout job, I'll tell you that. We moved out here for some peace and quiet. People out here were so grateful to have a doctor move into town. She said, turning her attention to the last morsel of lifeless dinner in front of her. They've been trying to repay me ever since. The woman said, chewing. She scraped stew off the side of a bowl with the,

the fork. Well, we're certainly grateful you could take us in for the night. We thought you were stranded, said Matilda. Do you have a spare room? I got in, slowly pushing out my chair. Of course, the woman replied. You two must be tired. I'll get it fixed for you. The spare room was sparse but comforting. A rusty window unit hummed in the corner. The bed was made with thick quilts and rooster replicas. Matilda sighed and collapsed on the mattress. If we had just taken 11 to 83, we wouldn't be stuck here, she said. I thought cutting through here would be faster, I said, perched in the bed frame.

Plus, you can't take the 11 all the way to 83. Yeah, whatever. I can't believe people out here still invite strangers into the house for the night. We could be psycho murders for all they know. Maybe they trust us because I'm pregnant. She reached out to unbutton her pants and sighed again. We should have just made my parents come down to visit us. I should be resting.

Definitely, not supposed to be traveling in the sticks, that's for sure. Matilda rolled over into her stomach and plummeted her face into one of the quilted pillows. I laid my hand on her back. I know it's stressful. I mean, it's a stressful time regardless. Just think of how good it would be when the baby is born. I waited for Matilda to respond as her spine rose up and down with a breath. Strands of her brown hair was spayed on the pillow.

You're right, she finally said. still stressful, but worth it. The window unit continued to hum. Matilda arched the back like a cat and rolled over. I ran my palms over the convex curves of her stomach and circled the swell of a belly button with my fingers. I leaned down next to her. She better tend those crops first thing

because I can't wait to take you home, I whispered. My chin grazed the edge of her neck. Matilda chuckled softly and shook her head. What crops does she even have? I don't know, but apparently they require artificial bog conditions, I mocked. Three hundred pounds of peat moss, my ass. Turn the lights off, I want to sleep. You don't want me to get the luggage from the car?

No, I just want to sleep, she said. I stripped off my jeans and turned off the light. In the darkness, the thick summer air and the batting of the quilt made it feel like the countryside was closing in on me, smothering me. Springpeeper's word in the night. The eerie calm of it was almost endearing. I woke up early the next morning. The sun was shining in pale yellow streaks when I got out of bed. Matilda was still asleep, curled up in the fetal position next to me.

For courtesy's sake, I put my jeans back on and wandered downstairs into the kitchen. The lights were on and coffee dribbled out of the half-empty French press on the stove. I could sense both Bobby and the woman were already up, although the house was still. Quintuplets born in Austin read a headline on the newspaper lying half folded on the dining room table I was fleetingly happy we were only having one baby

I picked the paper up and headed towards the screen door in the back of the kitchen the mesh was caked with lint and the stench of mud through it I could see into the back garden which looked to be no more than an uneven layer of coppery dirt it was no meadow only a few spare sponges of grass sprouted across

the flat property. The woman stood several yards away with a shovel. She dug diligently with an unyielding pace. Behind her, someone sat on the ground. At first glance, I assumed it was Bobby. But her bare, muddy legs revealed her to be much younger. Her curved back and crossed arms made it look like she was double over with a stomachache.

She brushed strings of dark hair out of her face to unveil a cold, distant expression. I suddenly felt hands of my shoulders and jumped. It was Bobby. I see you've made yourself at home, she said, steering me back into the kitchen with a bird-like hands and intrepid stare. Wake your wife up and we'll go to the diner for breakfast. The three of us walked a half mile along the side of the road before we reached the diner.

Matilda arrived me with resentment the whole walk, but her disappointment was palpable when we approached the building. wooden and dilapidated It looked more like an overgrown shed Than any sort of establishment Behind it stood a rusted playground With a dull yellow slide The door had once been painted

An unlikely coral pink shade But now it was faded salmon And peeling grey splinters of wood underneath The windows were stained and dusty Ah sorry with clothes sign hung on one of them Having been neglected to be turned over Six or seven locals eight

inside the dimly lit diner at plastic tables. All of them stayed at Matilda and I, seeming to smell our novelty. This is a small town if I've ever seen one, I whispered to my wife. Bobby sat us near a window, overlooking the playground. She took off her glasses and placed them on the table next to her. Is there a menu we can look at? Matilda asked. Bobby smiled, dolefully. No menu, dear. Get the egg breakfast.

A young waitress greeted them. Bobby, how good it is to see you. She was youthful, pretty, but tired-looking. Her curly, urban hair was pulled back loosely in a braid. Her smile was warm but unsettling, both enthusiastic and wary. I figured she was probably in her early twenties. Bobby pared up at her. And so good to see you, sweetie.

How have you been? So much better since the opportunity. operation, the waitress said. She looked about at us. Can I get you all a coffee, or maybe you're ready to order? She asked meekly. Oh yes, we're ready, Bobby said. I'll have the usual.

They'll both have the egg platter. The waitress addressed Middilda first. How do you like your eggs? She swallowed, her throat quivered. Scramble is fine, Matilda replied. And I'll have mine sunny side up, I said. The waitress took her orders and left. It was silent, except for the scratch of forks and plates, and the opening and closing of jaws.

I looked around the restaurant of the patrons. They were mostly women, some young and dishevelled, while others seemed old and worn like Barbie and the woman. Actually, they were all women. I notice Matilda staring out of the playground. Filthy water dripped from the slide. It's Saturday, Matilda said. with a somber laugh. Where are all the children?

Bobby looked at her with stern, even eyes. There are no children in this town, she said. Do you think she's ready to drive us into town yet? Would it be rude to ask? Matilda asked. I looked at my watch. His borsal in tics droned on

as it approached four o'clock. We'd been politely perched on the parlor couch reading gardening magazines all afternoon. I sighed. Looks like it might rain soon. Maybe she'll be. call it in early.

It was true. The sky was clouded and tinged an ominous green. Heavy, damp breezes blew through the screen door to the kitchen. I could see the woman digging in the front field. Flex of dirt flew across the window. The ceiling creaked as Bobby walked around

upstairs. Matilda dropped an issue of better homes and gardens on the coffee table and started massaging her temples. Matilda, could you come and do me a favor. Bobby croaked from upstairs. Matilda rolled her eyes and looked at me. Coming, she called, feigning enthusiasm.

I'll go outside and ask, I whispered. I went out the kitchen door which was swollen with humidity. In front of me, the woman stood, way steep in a hole. Her face and clothes was splattered with mud. Ah, excuse me, I said. We were just wondering when you thought you'd be done here? The woman planted a shovel in the ground and climbed out of the hole. She walked up to me.

Sure, she cooed. I'm nearly done. Why's your wife? Her stare had an uncomfortable adamancy about it. She's upstairs with Bobby. The gross feet around her eyes deepened as she smiled. Good, she said, and reached out to put her hands on my shoulders. She nodded towards the shovel and stuck it in the ground.

Help me out. and do some digging, won't you?' Her turn was sinister, her words almost slurred, like she knew something I didn't, but I was onto her. I felt flushed, nauseous almost, sweat seemed to settle underneath my skin.

I felt the hollow echo of the shovel falling to the ground as the woman went inside behind me. Why did she want my help digging? I knew. The woman, the absence of children, the obstetrician, Matilda, it all fit together. It was a sweet, singing stitch in the abdomen that caused me to fall.

The sharp sickness of things going wrong. I sank to my knees and felt the cool sod between my fingers. Suddenly I was grabbing fistfuls of dirt, tearing through the pile next to the hole the woman had been digging. The pit of my stomach grew into a gnawing, instinctual ache. As the dirt accumulated under my nails and I clawed deeper, the soil turned an odious orange. God, what compelled me to keep digging? My fingers hovered on something soft and tender, like an overright pear. It was easily dislodged.

I cradled it and brushed the dirt away from it. I saw a dark coil. It was like a brown periwinkle shell. I ran the length of it with my pinky. It was a cochlear, an ear, stained brown like leather skin of a lifeless doll. But it wasn't a doll. who was a child, an infant. Attached to the ear with fetal cheeks, shriveled eyelids, preserved limbs.

I recoiled, my body tingling, ears ringing. The dirt had stained my hands the same rusty shade as the dead newborn. Screams came from the upstairs bedroom. The woman approached me from behind, putting her hand on my shoulder. The hot air of a breath billowed off my clammy scalp. Do you know why there aren't any children in this town? She whispered, Spittle flying from her teeth. Because I took them all, and they're still growing.

Something I've found in life is that everyone eventually settles on a passion. Whether it's a professional hobby, lifelong or found, people seem to find something they click with. I've had a childhood friend that adored trains grow up to become a conductor, and I've seen family friends in their 40s try and woodwork for the first time in their life in getting hooked. For me, I knew my passion since I was a teen. For the longest time, I've been heavy into astronomy.

No, not reading horoscopes. I love to observe the night sky. I wouldn't say I'm as detail-oriented as some of the more deeper enthusiasts or as planned out as the professionals. I mostly pick and choose what I'd want to observe for a period and make hand-written notes on what I'd find. I splashed out on one of the best home compound telescopes I could afford.

It cost a pretty penny, but going from a cheap refractorscope to this one was the difference between night and day. No pun intended. I have an entire bookshelf full of old journals dating back the many years I've been doing this. Some as far back as when I was a teen in the garden with my dad's binoculars. Notes of the various constellations I've come to admire. My favourite being the Vasa consolation, genitive, Farine. It's a beautiful set of stars with a number of smaller constellations that made up the formation of a powerful light tower. When I wasn't looking at the stars, I enjoyed appreciating the cycles of the moon. And this is where the mess began.

I was documenting the moon cycle, something I kept up with on nights when the stars were less visible. The sky was circling with clouds, so I focused on the beaming full moon above. It was beautiful. I took note to the position, size and other bits of data I felt important, yet something was annoyingly off. On the left edge of the moon there was a slight blurred taper. No amount of adjusting my setting seemed to fix it. I feared the lens was out or the scope's mirror was displaced. I was hoping it was a one-off, but each day it got worse.

Every time I looked at the stars, all would be fine. but every time I looked at the moon the same blemish was there marring an otherwise beautiful scene I cleaned the lens check the cap, re-adjusted every setting yet nothing would alter the strange shade on the left edge of the moon's side

and each day it seemed to get more noticeable part of me worried it was the brightness of the moon during bright nights these machines are very sensitive and the slightest thing can damage the many delicate parts that make these compound telescopes so special

My hope was that after a few days, when the waxing giver started, it would help alleviate this and make the blemish disappear. It didn't. By the time the waxing givers hit, there was almost a complete second circle of shadow on the lens. I was baffled. Since I'd exhausted all the possibilities of fixing it myself, referring to the manual I thankfully still kept and finding no solution, I took to the internet to see if there was something I hadn't tried yet. However, every thread I found didn't come close to what I was experiencing. My heart was broken.

This telescope was a hefty purchase, bought under the principle of buy good and buy for life. I overpaid more than I can afford under the impression that I'd never have to make the expense again. So I couldn't give up. I took to trying to dig into more specific sites and find more knowledge. knowledgeable people. Luckily, it seemed the answer was right under my nose. When I checked the FAQ on the Telescope's manufacturer's site, I found there was a tab to a forum that took you straight to a login or sign up page. It seemed it was private, unless you remember, and you had to have a serial code of one of their products to join.

Luckily, I kept everything from purchase, so I managed to dig it out and sign up. It seemed to be a small forum for enthusiasts to intermingle, and when I say enthusiasts, they were heavy into the topic. There were sections for shared notes, threads dedicated to specific product settings, even one for fieldmeats. I expected nothing less with so many barriers of entry to get in. As soon as I made it to the main board, I saw there were already threads scattered with the same questions that I had, along with a master post. Each individual post was of people lamenting about the stain on their view, and the Masterpost was an official admin addressing the situation. All it summed up to was that the company was aware of the issue, and that it only seemed to affect

the higher-end compound telescopes. They apologised and stated that they were doing all they could to look into it. It was saddening to hear that there was a genuine issue, but I felt validated knowing I wasn't going crazy, and it wasn't just me. All I had was the satisfaction that they were aware of it, and that something was being done. My final thought to that night was of hope that things would return to a sense of normalcy. It didn't. After the waxing crescent, the new moon began. The time where the moon goes asleep, as I like to say as a kid.

This is often the time I either took a break or take my eyes to the stars since you can't see the moon during this time. I peeked through the viewfinder just to see if it was focused correctly, not realizing it was dialed to the region where the moon was supposed to be. In the absence of the moon, there was a strange round blur. At first, I thought it was the absence of stars that he sometimes used to spot the new moon, since that's the only way a hobbyist can catch the new moon. However, this seemed different. There was a strange quality to it, and a strange familiarity. I gasped when I realized it was the strange shade I'd seen before, this time seen without the accompaniment of the moon.

After this, I started tracking this strange blur more seriously. I noted its whereabouts and general description of my interpretations. At this point, it looked like a barely opaque black disc in the sky, very small and very faint. It was the size of the moon at a far distance and was not visible to the naked eye. By then, I hoped to God this was an error with a telescope. The moon's visage burned into the mirrors of the scope, perhaps a marring of the lens's surface maybe, because I started to worry about the implications

if this strange disc was real. By the time the waning crescent began, my fear started to set in. The dark blur was almost the full moon's length away from my perspective. Others, still talking about it online, mentioned the same thing, and tension was building amongst those of those of, us that were invested. Though that was a small number, since with others to the forum with different models, we just looked crazy. The few of us talking about it were divided. Some were adamant it was what was announced, a manufacturing error. They demanded reparations

from the company, both for the disappointments from the bad investment of the product and the lost investment of time. Some people lamented that the documented streaks had been ruined due to the inconvenience, myself included. For some people, years of serious work were in jeopardy, asking for a temporary replacement while they waited for a solution. Others were raving about all gods, forgotten prophecies, an apocalyptic doom. I just wanted my hobby back. I started getting in contact with some people to ask about their experiences. Though we all mentioned it, no one talked about specifics publicly for fear of looking loony in front of people who would not notice this strange phenomenon.

I met some genuinely nice people this way, instantly bonding over our shared passion for the night sky. The first person I met was Christian. He was very much the most level-headed of the bunch, often the voice of rationale and reason. He seemed to be taken the whole thing in stride, rationalising it as an issue with the way compound telescope's lenses reflect off of a mirror. This would explain why people with reflector or refractorscopes weren't reporting this issue.

Something he added that was. was new to me was that after a long exposure shot he took of the moon, he could see the edges of the shade in the shot, and on its rim he could see the formings of what looked like cracks, rooting in towards the centre. There were other nice people I spoke to in my time there. Then there was Ross. Ross was a bit more vocal about his opinions, and his opinions were a little off. He blew up the DMs of anyone who mentioned they'd witnessed the orb and left pages of his thoughts and ideas based on his research into strange, unknown topics. Conspiracies that ran off the deep end after only a few words.

Sprinkled here and there, he'd add his own thoughts. Feelings are being watched, not feeling safe at night when in the presence of the orb, wanting to look into forgotten sources for any kind of information. As you can imagine, he was very quickly banned from posting on the forum. But he was still able to infiltrate DMs, much to the chagrin of the users. I tried to carry on as normal. I really did. I kept an eye on my favourite constellations,

I noted positions and coordinates. However, in the corner of my mind, while checking the moon, I'd catch the orb in my vision, and my mind wondered over all I'd known so far. I started noting its position too, just for fun, along with brief descriptions,

like I did with the stars and moon. Each night it drifted very slowly away from the position of the moon. By the next full moon, the shade was so far away, it almost couldn't be seen when viewing the moon's center frame. There was going to be a point when it would be completely out of view when looking directly at the moon,

and I was looking forward to it. After another week, I got my wish. However, something strange happened. I found myself longing for it. Not in a positive way either. I didn't want to admit it, even in my notes, but I caught myself edging the scope over just to catch a glimpse of it every so often. I got no good feeling from seeing it, in fact quite the opposite.

I'd feel the tingling of dread in the pit of my stomach when it was in view, to which I'd turn away. But I still found myself trying to go back to catch sight of it. I talked to Christian about this, and he seemed to dismiss me about it, taking a jab that I was starting to sound like a second Ross, though the way he worded his response made it seem like he was saying this out of denial more than anything judging from the shifting mood on the forum

it seemed we all started to sense the same creeping feeling Ross however didn't even ask he spoke like he knew we felt it and he filled our DMs with more pages of his ideas and findings all of which we ignored as much as I wanted to deny it like Christian and the others

the feeling crept its way from my stomach to the corners of my mind. Following the feeling was something a few of us started to notice. The shape was changing ever so slightly. I started to notice the cracks around the edges without the aid of a long exposure photo. It was hard to see unless I focused hard, which seemed to give me feelings of a migraine,

but I noticed something like faded capillaries drifting towards the center of the orb. The outline starting to look murky, more distinguishable, a ring like a nebulous halo. As I documented its slow march across the sky, I noticed that over the course of days, as it passed over distant stars, they would be hidden.

People on the forum noticed this too, and those without the same telescopes that at first denied this strange event took notice too. Even those without telescopes would a keen knowledge of the stars picked up on missing dots that would otherwise be visible to the naked eye. This is when speculation started flying

And more theories were cast about An undiscovered planet A black hole, a spaceship The sub-community was a buzz Something even weirder That those of us were the higher-end compound telescopes And a strong memory of the stars picked up Was that the stars the shade passed over

Seemed ever so slightly less bright than before A dollar hue Hard to confirm But still thrown out by a few of us that noticed Like a pillar of sanity, the voice of reason chimed him with a post. Christian made a master post referencing all the popular theories and pointing out inconsistencies or counter-evidence stating otherwise. Each theory was explained away to the best of his ability

and that the phenomenon will pass. He didn't seem to acknowledge the brightness issue though, but the post got so long and he seemed to focus on the more popular conspiracies. His DMs were blown up on the front of the first. for him, and he was not impossible to get through to him after that. So, I turned to his personal Facebook to talk to him from then on. He confirmed that a large portion of his DMs were from the infamous Ross, something of a meme at this point in the community.

I asked him about what he was receiving, and, when I saw snippets, I realized it was different to what I was getting. Not only was Ross on one of his many maniacal tirades, but he was individually writing these out to everyone. At this point I bit the bullet and decided to skim over more of what he was sending.

What he wrote was absolutely insane. He spoke of ancient texts and carvings, whether it was Mayan, Aztec or something older I do not remember. I honestly don't remember any of it,

only what I wrote down briefly in my journal. He sent pictures of old statues, old wall carvings with a central eye, casting a beam on a cat powering populace. He followed the messages with warnings of being watched. Whether he was talking about me or him, I do not know. I did not pay much attention after that. The more I looked, the more I rolled my eyes. He read more like a chain mail than a serious discussion. I closed out, leaving him unread. I started getting anxious on a personal level when I saw the orb hover over

towards my favorite constellation, Vasa. Seeing what it did to other stars, I was scared it ruined the arrangement that helped kick-start my passion. There were already some dim stars in the region. If there were to dim any more, they wouldn't be visible, even with my compound telescope. There were some people hopeful that the brightness would return to the past over stars over time, but there was no evidence of that so far. Sadly, it couldn't be stopped. I watched day by day as it edged over to Vasa,

and slowly cover the main stars in the region. My heart sank, hoping there would be the exception. But things took an even stranger turn. Almost all the constellation was hidden from sight. The edges of the once beautiful formation barely visible past the mild cracked edges of the shade. Other Varsa Lovers lamented, along with me, at missing the beautiful Tower of Light formation. We patiently waited for it to pass over, yet it seemed to linger. The day it should have crossed to another.

set of stars came and went, and still it stayed, like it deliberately wasn't moving. This is when I started to really pay attention. I would watch it almost every night, pen and journal always nearby, taking meticulous notes whenever I noticed anything that stood out. I wrote about the vainy edges, looking like they were bigger than the marked cracks of before. They would be different every night, like they crawled and pulsed on an enormous scale. the dulled edge started to become more prevalent

and though I couldn't confirm it it felt like the middle was starting to stir ever so subtly I sensed rumblings that something big was about to happen I could feel it I started to get a little obsessed I booked time off work to sleep all day so that I can have more time to watch all night

I filled out many pages in my journal just based on those few days alone I'd watch for hours and uneven strain in my eyes from staring for long periods of time. My cycle became routine. I'd watch, note, watch, note. Even when nothing changed, it was still right as such. Then, boom.

Literally, boom! A heavy thume cracked down from the night sky. I heard concerned gasps from late-night walkers nearby. The only thing felt was something akin to a fast gust of wind. and that was it. There was an air of hesitation, but there was no full on panic, except from me,

because what I saw shook me to my core. The orb blinked. As soon as I regained myself from the boom, I looked back through my telescope. It was gone. The orb was gone. Not just the orb as well,

but the whole Vasa constellation. I went online to see if anyone else saw, but I couldn't find any new threads about it. I scored to find the old master posts about the phenomenon, but they were all gone. Nothing remained of the weeks of documenting and discussing the strange orb. I tried starting one, but it was quickly shut down. I checked other sites that I knew talked about it, and they too were gone. Nothing was reported on the news. I tried to message people that talked about it,

but I could not find any of the old messages previously. mentioned, Ross was completely gone. Whether it was because it was permaband, I do not know. I found others, but they had no memory of who I was. I tried looking for Christian, and this is where things got even stranger. He was also gone. I took around for his Facebook, but I couldn't find him on my friend's list or previous contacts anywhere.

All knowledge of the orb was gone, and no one remembered it. and it was the same for the Vasa constellation. Look it up. I've tried scouring the deepest pages of Google and cannot find any trace of it. I scanned all my books on the stars and even there, all knowledge is gone. And what's worrying

is that I have no memory of the orb or the constellation myself. All I've told so far has been construed from all the notes I've written. I've been going through my journals, piecing things together, and I keep digging further and further back and finding more things are missing.

I can't actually remember Christian or Ross but I wrote about them in detail in my journal all the writing in a calm and neat fashion looking like I did it in sound of mind. When I tried to think back to my favourite constellation my mind jumps the canis major but my notes all say it's Vasa. I've pulled out books from my teenage years

and found even then I talk about Vasa like a comfort sketches of its formation, details of its coordinates, stories of its history. Yet when I try to look, I see a void, a starless circle in the night sky. More worrying are the other spots of information missing from my mind. In my notes I talk about stargazing with my brother, nights out just talking about the formations, the mythology of them. Yet I know in my mind that I've always been a lone child. cousins coming over that I have no knowledge of pages written by an aunt who in my mind doesn't exist

there's either a hole in the sky or a hole in my mind and I'm scared of both what I've told you may not be entirely accurate I can never confirm what I truly saw what I truly know especially the end the journey was detailed well but the final page was hastily written in a rush that either blessed me with little detail

or cursed me with a slight knowledge. All that truly remains of the end is the last page. Four words scratched in so deep the paper was cut in several parts. Boom. I. Blink.

Gone. Casey should be telling you this story, but I'm the only one who made it out of Mrs. Birch's house. We should have left her alone, never tried stealing a horde of stuff. though Casey and I didn't have a choice. For me, her brother, Seth, it began with needing a job. I was 19 then, a high school dropout with a felony on my record for grand theft auto.

Not exactly an ideal candidate. I had applied to every fast food chain, car wash and grocery store in town, but the felony followed me like a ghost. And I couldn't get a job. I couldn't afford to keep the room I had rented after getting out of jail. So, I did. what I had done so many times before. I looked at Casey to bail me out.

Casey wasn't actually my sister, but as kids we had lived together for four years in the same terrible foster home. Four years I've mostly blocked out, except for the parts with Casey and them. She was only three years older than me, but the closest I ever had to her mother, shielding me from our foster parents

and remembering my birthday each year. We stayed in contact after Casey turned 18 and moved out to the house, But then she had a baby and didn't have time for anything else. I hadn't seen her in the two years I was in jail. She still looked the same, tall and wiry, with big, crinkly hair, although now she seems skinnier, probably from running after her son, Luke, who was three and a total monster.

They shared a one-bedroom apartment with furniture from Goodwill and pictures of wild animals that Casey had cut out of magazines and tacked to the walls. She paid the bills working as in her. in-home caregiver, I remember thinking how respectable her life had become, how normal compared to the way we grew up. I told her I wouldn't be on her couch for more than a week, but that week quickly became two, and then three. I spent my days looking for work and helping Casey out with Luke.

Turns out Luke really was a monster. He bit people and threw tantrums every five minutes. I honestly don't know how Casey was doing it. bedpans all day, then coming home to the Tasmanian devil at night. And, the longer I stayed with her, the less put together her life seemed to me. Even with all the hours she put in at work, she could hardly pay rent, and sometimes I would fantasize about stealing another car. A new one, something worth ten grand on the street.

As much as I wanted to help Casey, I couldn't afford to be caught so much as Jaywalking. My parole officer reminded me of this once a week. It was during my third week on Casey's couch that she told me about Mrs. Birch. Mrs. Birch was one of her clients. She was 92 and lived alone in a big house that was so full of stuff that, according to Casey, there was nowhere to sit. All the furniture was covered with clothes, books, trinkets, another random junk. All of it covered in dust, because at 92, Mrs. Birch couldn't do any housekeeping.

She couldn't bathe herself either, or cook or walk up and down the stairs without help, which is why Casey was called in. The in-home care agency she worked for hadn't been given her many hours, so she jumped to the chance for a new client. Casey described Mrs. Birch as looking much older than her 92 years. Her wrinkled skin had the leathery feel of an apricot. She never spoke, and it wasn't clear to Casey if Mrs. Birch could hear, but her eyes were in Casey's words, intense.

Casey suspected dementia, but there was no mention of it in the health record she was given, and Mrs. Birch didn't seem to be on any medication. Casey was assigned to work with the old woman for three hours a day. The work was standard, preparing meals, doing laundry, bathing Mrs. Birch, but every step Casey took was hampered by all the clutter in the house. It wasn't until a second week there that Casey took a closer look at some of that clutter. The first thing she noticed was an old teacup

Casey found the teacup at the back of a kitchen cupboard while searching for a bowl so she could serve Mrs. Birch some chicken noodle soup. Like the rest of the house, the cupboard was a disorganized jumble, dishes stacked alongside olive jars and cleaning supplies. But eventually, Casey found a bowl, and behind it, the most exquisite teacup she had ever seen. She rinsed the dust off the teacup,

marvelling at the figures painted in gold, on this side. Angelic sherubs, seated in a carriage being pulled by lions, the entire inside of the cup was gold too, as if it had been filled with the same rich gold leaf paint that decorated the outside. With a patient soup starting to boil in the stove, Casey quickly snapped a picture of the teacup on a phone before returning it to the messy cabinet. She did a reverse image search on Google later that night after putting Luke to bed and learned that the teacup had been made in Germany in the early 1800s by a company called Mason Porcelain. Famous for their bone china,

which Casey was delighted to learn, was made out of actual animal bones. The company's trademark, two cross-swords, is considered one of the oldest trademarks in the world. A cup, just like it, was selling an eBay for $1,950. Casey, of course, had no way of knowing

if the teacup was real or a knock-off, but it was enough to make her curious about what else Mrs. Perch had lying around the house. So the next day, while once again heating up the old woman's lunch, Casey inspected more of her dishes. A lot of it was pretty standard, the kind of stuff you find at Target, but here and there were other cups and plates bearing the Mason trademark, along with other antique-looking porcelain. Casey told herself that the woman wouldn't mind, that she might even be flattered to know that someone, if only her lowly caregiver, was

appreciating her fine china. On the other hand, if the condition of her home was any indication, Mrs. Birch herself wasn't fully appreciating it. Priceless, museum-quality pieces were wedged in next to tacky beer-steins and Tupperware. Thousands of dollars worth of dishes, and no one seemed to care that it was there. Over the next few days, Casey began to explore the rest of the house, little by little, always under the guise of preparing lunch. lunch was usually canned soup or a frozen TV dinner

so Casey rarely had more than a few minutes to look around Mrs Birch never slept while she was there It didn't take long for Casey to realise that the whole house was full of treasures In the living room draped over the back of a dusty fading couch She found a beautiful heavy dress that looked like it was made of rusty fish scales She took a picture of it and later found an exact match for sale at an online auction house The dress was going for $2,750. It was from the 1920s France

and the rusty fish scales had once been beautiful seafone collard sequence. It really is such a shame I remember Casey saying about the dress's neglected condition. Casey was really into fashion even if she couldn't afford to dress the way she wanted. One of the strangest things Casey found at Mrs. Birch's house

was a music box. She found it on top of a dresser in one of the the house's three bedrooms, half hidden in a tangle of Christmas lights. Like so much of the contents of Mrs. Birch's house, the music box was beautiful but neglected. Its dark carved wood was inlaid with some kind of white stone in a floral pattern, so intricate that Casey said it made a dizzy to look at. A thick vine wove through the flowers, forming an incomplete circle, but then as she looked closer, Casey saw that it wasn't actually a vine she was looking at, but a snake. Each scale

was its own impossibly small piece of emerald stone. Casey didn't realize at first that the box played music, so she was surprised, opening the lid by the loud, rusty jingle that came tinkling out. She slammed the box shut, a fear that Mrs. Birch would hear, but not before she caught a glimpse of what was inside. Something small and glittering. It caught the weak light falling in through the drapes,

flashing for a moment before Casey closed the box. She considered opening it again, telling herself it was unlikely that Mrs. Birch would hear, or that she could hear, period. But then she heard the microwave beeping in the kitchen and went to serve the old woman as Sheppard's Pie. Later that night, after Luke was asleep, Casey and I stayed up talking about what she had found. Who was this woman? We wanted to know, and why did she have all that stuff? All her internet searches revealed that Mrs. Birch was not on social media, and had zero online presence. Plenty of people with her name,

at least as printed on a file from the in-home care agency, but none appeared to be the Sarah Birch we were looking for. None of it made any sense. She lived in a not-so-great area, so probably wasn't rich. What would happen, we wondered, when, sooner or later, and probably sooner, if we were being honest,

the old woman died. There was no emergency contact listed on a file, and Casey never was. saw any pictures of family members or other signs that Mrs. Birch was anything but alone in the world. It was sad, we said. We told ourselves we felt sorry for her. But then, whatever strange and intriguing life she had led, it was clearly behind her now. Wasn't Mrs. Birch too far gone to care about what happened to her stuff? None of Casey's attempts to talk to her resulted in more than a blank stare. Neither did she seem to notice when Casey read to her or pulled up old-timey songs for her

YouTube. Even eating seemed more like an automatic response for Mrs. Birch than a conscious choice. All of these things, Casey and I discussed that night, as if excusing in advance the shameful plan forming inside each of us. It was Casey who first said it. Mrs. Birch probably wouldn't miss that teacup, she said. I had been thinking the same thing, only bigger. It sounded to me like Mrs. Birch wouldn't miss any of it. The cup, the dress, the music box and whatever glittering thing it held inside. When she died, the state would probably try to locate a living relative and if they couldn't, some lucky cleaning crew would be sent in

to haul out all her stuff, and who knows how many priceless relics those cleaners would throw away before noticing that the place wasn't your average hoarder's den. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that Casey and myself had been presented with an opportunity we would be stupid not to take. After all, it didn't seem like I was going to to ever get a job, no matter how hard I tried. So, I convinced Casey to let me do it. Let me be the one to go into Mrs. Birch's house and take her things. Should anyone be caught?

Let it be me. The one whose record would never be clean anyway. That way, Casey could say she had no idea I was going to rob the place. All she had to do was leave the back door and locked. I told her I would let myself in while she was with Mrs. Birch. I wouldn't be greedy, only taking things that obviously weren't being used by the teacher. cup, the old friend's dress, and maybe whatever is in the music box. I'll admit that I'd become very curious about the music box with the Emerald Snake.

Casey was reluctant at first, but then we started talking about all the things we could do with the money we'd make selling Mrs. Birch's stuff. Casey and Luke had never been on vacation. Now she'd be able to take him anywhere she wanted. They could go to Disneyland, and she could get a new car to replace the one that was always breaking down on her and move into an apartment where she and Luke could have separate rooms. As for me, I could enroll at the local community college. I had gotten my GED while I was locked up, but I was assumed college was out of reach. Now, I imagine the kinds of jobs I would be

able to get with a degree. Maybe I would be an English teacher. The next day, just before noon, I rode shotgun as Casey drove us to Mrs. Birch's house. We didn't talk much on the drive, but I knew Casey was nervous by the way she kept pulling out her eyebrows. A tick of hers, I remembered from our time living with the Wilson's. I decided I would wait in the car for 20 minutes before going into the house, at which Casey would be giving Mrs. Birch a shower. The running water would cover up the sound of the door

when I entered and exited, just in case Mrs. Birch wasn't as deaf as we thought. I would be in and out in ten minutes, just long enough to fill up the duffel bag I'd brought. I wasn't worried about it. I was about to tell Casey that she shouldn't worry either, that everything would be fine, when suddenly, as we approached Mrs. Birch's house,

I realised that she lived in the same neighbourhood as her old foster parents, Dora and Fred Wilson. It surprised me that Casey hadn't mentioned this. Just a reminder of Dora and Fred of that time was enough to plant dread in my gut. I tried not to think of them as we pulled up in front of Mrs. Birch's house. The house was grey on the outside

and had bars on the windows, as did most of the homes in the neighbourhood. A single, scraggly tree poked out of a dead lawn. All of the windows were dark. I set my watch for 20 minutes and watched Casey go inside, reminding myself of how confident I'd been just a few minutes ago, how sure I was that nothing could go wrong. But now I was fighting down panic.

My instinct was to stay in the car until Casey finished work and then drive back with her to her apartment. But when I thought of what was waiting for me there, No money, zero prospects. I forced myself to get out of the car, walk around the house and enter through the back door. Inside was even worse than Casey had described. I found myself way steep in cardboard boxes, overflowing with empty bottles and cans, rusted silverware, coat hangers, clocks, and God knows what else.

Stacks and newspapers formed mazes on the floor. I found the tea cup in the kitchen cupboard just where Casey had said it would be. Then began looking around for other valuables. I took a few plates and an ancient-looking bowl, wrapping them up in the newspaper I'd brought for this purpose. While in the background, I could hear Casey giving Mrs. Birch a shower. Time to wash your hair. I remember Casey chirping over the sound of water

as I navigated a labyrinth of outdated TV sets and radios. I was in the living room now, looking for the old French dress, but this was all taken longer than I planned. so I gave up on the dress and headed for the room with a music box. Along the way though, I couldn't help but peek inside the glass-fronted cabinet filled with dark glass jars. The cabinet store creaked slightly as I opened it. I took down a jar, unscrewed its lids and tried to figure out what I was looking at. It appeared to be a ball of hair, tangled strands of various colours, some curly, some straight,

all of them too long to come from any animal I thought to myself. The second jar I opened was full of teeth. One glimpse of their long, yellowing roots was enough to make me feel sick. I returned the jar to the shelf. Something was wrong here. I had known it the second I walked in the door. The house smelled like a cave and had the weird, charged feeling of a church. I had to get out of there.

And yet, I had come all this way. I had a duffel bag full of stolen dishes. I decided I might as well find out what glittering thing my sister had almost seen inside the music box. Following the direction she had given me, I waded through the overstuffed living room and down a short hall. My chest burned with fear. Casey had told me that Mrs. Birch was basically a mobile, that she needed a stair lift to go up to a bedroom, and yet I was afraid of her, and of her house.

I couldn't make it more than a few feet inside the room with a music box. Junk was stacked almost to the ceiling, mattresses, trunks, coat racks, a piano. I made my way towards the dresser at the mess's edge, and there, on top of the dresser, was the music box. I recognised it immediately, the delicate white stone flowers on its lid, the emerald snake. But then, as I lifted the music box off the dresser, the lid popped open. A rusty jingle blared from the box. I slapped the lid shut.

Had Mrs. Birch heard? Would she suspect someone was in her house? Jamming the music box into my duffel bag, I spun for the door, just about to leave. But something stopped me. Casey screamed. It sounded like she was dying. I ran for her, pushing my way through the clutter. The house hadn't looked especially big from the outside, but the inside was packed as tightly as intestines.

I turned down one wrong hall and then another, following the patter of the still-running shower until I saw its steam seeping beneath a white door. I forced myself to go inside. The bathroom was empty. A grey shower chair stood in the tub, water pelting the plastic seat. I smiled strawberry shampoo

and saw the open bottle on the back of the toilet. Casey must have been here moments ago, bathing Mrs. Birch who'd been sitting in the shower chair. But now, there was no sign of either of them. I went looking for Casey. My leg shook as I crept out of the bathroom.

They nearly gave out with relief as I caught sight of her at the end of the hall. She was walking slowly away from me, about to turn a corner. I wanted to call out to her, but was afraid of whatever had made a scream. So I ran after her, reaching for her as I watched her curly hair

disappear around the corner. Just as I turned, I heard a quick cascade of footsteps in my back and whipped around to catch the tail end of movement. At the time, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. There was no way that could have been Mrs. Birch I saw. Naked and dripping, skin sagging, spine curling, but movement still young and quick

as she darted from behind one pile of junk to another. I turned and ran after Casey now, not to save her, but for her to save me. Rounding the corner, I slammed into a tower of crowsy, and was nearly crushed as they came tumbling down. Casey, I called again, but she kept walking away like she didn't hear. I followed, slowed by the mess that somehow didn't slow Casey.

I watched her navigate the maze of crates, clothing racks and dresses overflowing with glimmering jewelry. She turned into a room just ahead, and as she did, I caught sight of her face. It was totally blank. Her lips slightly parted. The same dazed expression she used to get as a kid whenever she watched TV.

Casey, I pleaded. I followed her into the dark room, losing sight of her for a moment as my vision adjusted. The mess in this room was even denser and more broken down. I fought my way through it. The sharp coils of a broken mattress clawed my arms like the branches of a tree. I saw a gramophone on top of a microwave with fabashe eggs spilling from its horn. By the time I spotted Casey, she was across the room, still with her back to me, walking away.

She was about to walk out through a second door on the other side of the room. She turned into the corridor, I recognised, from when I first entered the house. And yet, the corridor seemed to stretch further than I remembered, reaching into the dark far into the house, with the front door far down the other end. How big was this place? Casey moved down the corridor, leaving the door behind her. Wait, I sobbed Casey, stop

Where was she going? Just then Another rush of footsteps approached At my back Maybe if I had known who Or was behind me I would have tried to fight There was plenty in reach

That I could use as a weapon A lamp, a bottle, a vase But I was too afraid to turn around Afraid it was the old woman Mrs. Birch's hoard of possessions grew denser the deeper I followed Casey into the house. I held out my arms like a sleepwalker.

My fingertips brushed the cloudy edges of Casey's hair. But I stumbled over a chest on the floor, and she drew her head. Listen to me, I implored. Please, turn it around. It occurred to me that this wasn't the first time I had been chased by someone scary and unknowable. Though, when that person had been my foster mother, there had always been Casey to protect me. But now, Casey was ignoring me.

And I had never felt so lost. The house seemed endless, or maybe it was just how slow we had to move. Eventually, the detritus grew so thick that the narrow corridor between it was like a tunnel. Ahead of me, Casey sunk to her knees and began to crawl. Several feet behind her, I did the same. Spears of light cut through the junk here and there, like a barrel used for target practice, illuminating Mrs. Birches overstuffed, broken down mess. I heard the sound of breaking glass before I felt the pain in my palms and

knees. I felt blood, warm and wet, and lifting my knees, crouching ahead on hands and toes the way I only ever had in dreams. Like an animal, I pictured Mrs. Birch following my blood trail. Riggling beneath the broken desk, I thought I heard a flutter of wings, and soon after, the tunnel opened up into a cave-like space in what must have been the center of a room. Here, the light was so dim that all I could see were the shapes of junk that had fallen apart and melded back together into a room-sized nest arranged around a cleared spot of floor. It was here that Casey finally stopped. I watched her kneel on the floor, still turned away from me.

Her head tilted forward, curtaining her face with her hair. Casey, please, we have to get out of here. I grabbed her shoulder and tried shaking her out of a strange state. But she didn't look up. Just as I went to pull her to her feet, I heard the same white patter of steps swelling closer than ever before. They passed so close I felt the old woman's hot breath

and smelled her flowery rot. And I knew that she was in the room with me then, Mrs. Birch, or whoever she was. But when I looked around the room though, I saw no one but Casey kneeling on the floor. I wish I could say I dragged her out of that house. But the truth is,

I saw something then that I couldn't face, and I cowered on the floor, edging back from the room on all fours. Now, I remember very little of the way back, a desperate clawing towards the light of a window, only to remain trapped by metal bars. I remember following the walls, eventually finding a door,

screaming for help. But, before all that, before I left Casey kneeling on the floor, I looked up to see the one who'd been following me through the house, the one I couldn't face. She was an old woman, perched on bent legs

atop a splendid wardrobe up near the ceiling. She was naked, her pale flesh spotted with age, her blue eyes burning at me from deep sockets. She opened her liver coloured lips then

and a voice that belonged to a much younger woman floated out of Mrs. Birch's throat. Sharp but rhythmic, the language wasn't one I'd heard before full of unfamiliar sounds. As a strange words flooded the cramped den

weaving around Casey. The skin on her arms and neck brightened, reddening, as if she was sitting inches from a roaring fire. Blisters broke across a glowing flesh. Her hair singed, and tears streamed down her cheeks. As she burned.