CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 Disturbing Horror Stories From r nosleep to crawl under your skin

Episode Date: December 8, 2020

My great aunt's obsession with garden gnomes was a bit of a running joke in our family. We would tease her about them at family gatherings, joking that they were taking over a property. She had more than a dozen of them scattered all over a back and front yard as well as in the garden. So, when she asked if I could drive her to the flea market one Saturday, I already knew what she was aiming to buy. Looking for another jewel for your front yard? I asked, smiling. In my family we were always ribbing each other Of course

There's a perfect spot by the front door now Since we removed that shrub last week I need to get a special little guy to go there They'd better have something interesting When we arrived to the flea market I saw they indeed have something interesting It was in the front window of the shop Staring at us when we parked

And my great aunt lit up with a big smile I couldn't understand her reaction since my first thought was that the thing looked malicious and cruel there it is, that's the one she exclaimed so much for shopping around she jumped out of the car

while it was still rolling dashing inside quickly on her arthritic legs I hurriedly finished parking the car and chased after her stealing a backwards glance at the creepy little gnome It was dressed in green and purple and had an evil grin on its small bearded face It was holding an axe which glinted like a real blade in the sunlight

Excellent craftsmanship The flea market owner was already saying when I got inside He was walking back to the counter Holding the thing carefully in his hands And I shuddered The idea of touching it revolted me for some reason He set it down gently on the counter And my great aunt began to fawn

over it, preening its beard and running her fingers down the long blade of the axe. Careful! I shouted, a little louder than I'd intended. They both paused and looked at me with her eyebrows raised. It's not a real blade, Jason. Don't be silly. My great answered, rolling her eyes and turning her attention back to the man behind the counter. I saw she was right. The blade had looked real in the window, but that had been a trick of the light I summer How much? she asked, opening a purse. This is a von Welkine original. They don't come cheap.

He did all the detail work in painting himself by hand. This is one of the last pieces he did before he started to pump them out like crazy last year. All the fine handiwork he was known for, out the window. I hate to say it, but it's almost a blessing he passed away last month. This one went up for auction at his estate sale, actually. The man sure seemed to know. a lot about gnomes, I thought. But my great aunt was nodded along as if she already knew this.

Of course, it's so sad what happened to him. I've always wanted one of his pieces, not one of the newer ones, of course, but one of these with all the detail. It's stunning. I had to admit, she was right. The gnome looked real. The fact that it was carved out of wood and painted by hand only made it more amazing. The features in the face were lifelike, as was the rest of it. The clothing appeared hand-sown and had little scuffs and rips in it, but of course it was all just a masterfully painted block of wood. The beard and hat had texture and definition to them, with just the right look of weight and feel. As someone who had dabbled in art and was a student of it all my life, I couldn't help being impressed by the sculptor's

work. The man quoted a price so high I actually laughed out loud. My aunt turned to me. around and shot daggers at me. She didn't even haggle, just began pulling crisp 50s and hundreds out of a wallet and stacking them neatly on the counter. I couldn't believe my eyes. The revolting little thing was worth a small fortune. I tried to talk her out of it quietly, but it was hopeless. She was angry that I would even suggest she pass on such an opportunity. This was an investment. We got back to her house and she set the gnome down with great care in the spot she had planned for it. It rested evenly on the stump left over from the removed shrub,

looking very gnome-like on its naturalistic platform. She admired it for a moment, then shot me another dirty look and walked inside, slamming the door behind her. I stood there, looking at the hideous little gnome. The axe blade seemed to glint again in the sunlight, as if it had changed magically into real metal again. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the little bugger wink at me. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes unbelievingly. There was no way that had just happened, I thought.

I was just working too many night shifts. I spent a bit more time there that day and managed to obtain my great aunt's forgiveness for my transgressions. She showed mercy and provided me with a popsicle. and cool lemonade, grateful for my assistance on such a hot day. I had to apologise for embarrassing her at the flea market, even though I was still disturbed by the gnome. I did some research when I got home and found out a bit more information online about the

suspicious death of Mr. von Welkin. It turned out he had gone somewhat mad in the weeks and months before his death. He had claimed it wasn't him making the myriad of gnomes in his workshop. The police had found quite an odd scene when they arrived at his suicide. I read on, fascinated. My great aunt called me the next morning hysterical. She wouldn't say what had happened on the phone, only that I needed to get there right away.

She said she was calling the police when she finished talking to me and hung up. I hurried over and arrived to find a pacing in the driveway. The police hadn't arrived yet, and I quickly found out why they weren't in a hurry. Someone destroyed my babies! She was wailing as I pulled up in my car. She was still in a bathrobe and complaining that the police hadn't arrived yet. Didn't they realize this was an emergency?

I surveyed the damage. All the gnomes throughout the front yard and in the garden had been smashed to pieces. Actually, I realized they looked like they'd been hacked to pieces by the blade of a very small axe. The backyard was the same All of the gnomes had been destroyed And small piles of wood scraps were left Where they had stood the night before All of the gnomes were obliterated

The one by the front door though Was still there Its tiny face smiled up at me Eyes full of mischief The axe plate looked Like it had little splinters of wood all over it But that wasn't possible I dismissed such a notion

as pure insanity. Those were the kind of thoughts that got you locked up in padded rooms, I mused to myself. But, it sure did look like little bits of wood on the blade of the axe, like splinters from chopping up

a bunch of other rival gnomes, perhaps. No, those are not the thoughts of a sane person. I consoled my great aunt, and she began to cry. I hugged her, and she wept against my shoulder. At least I still have missed a winkles, she sobbed. Oh no, I thought.

She's named the guy. Mr. Winkles. What a name. I thought about his sly wink at me and shuddered. She went over to a one remaining gnome and picked it up, rocking it and smoothing down its wooden beard hair as if it had hairs askew.

It was unsettling to watch. I saw the neighbour's cat trying to get into the house and I went up to the porch to give it a few pats on the head. My great aunt saw it too and set down the gnome quickly, hurrying after me. She loved the neighbour's cat, Lucy.

It was practically hers since she fed it every morning and evening and it spent most days inside her house or roaming a backyard. The chubby old cat acted like she owned the place. Good morning, Lucy Lou, she sang to the cat. Did you see what they did to mommy's babies?

Did you? She scratched the cat under its chin and behind its ears while it purred happily. The cat rubbed his body against the robe, leaving mounds of shedding black fur behind. A police officer eventually showed up, looking bored and resigned to his duty. He took a lengthy statement from my great aunt and was told that this sort of thing happened a lot. Kids loved smashing garden gnomes. It was what they did. I looked at Mr Winkles and wished kids these days. could be a bit more thorough in their vandalism.

A week later, and I was back at my great aunt's house, I was surprised to see she had several new gnomes scattered across a front yard and in the garden. These didn't look as nice as the old ones, and I wondered where she had gotten them from. They looked cheap and poorly made. The paint on these looked splotchy, and the details looked like they had been done by a child.

The edges were smudged and uneven, The patterns and colour choices clashed and hurt my eyes if I looked for too long. I asked her about them, and she said they'd just appeared there, a new one or two each morning for the past week. This morning there were actually five new ones, she said, with a faraway look in her eyes. She looked tired, like she hadn't been sleeping well. I asked if she was okay, and she nodded ahead without looking at me, then blinked for a few seconds longer than normal.

I asked her if she wanted to go lie down and she said that was a good idea. We decided we would go out shopping the next week since it wasn't urgent. She had just wanted to get a few gifts for Christmas since it was July and there wasn't a big hurry, at least in my mind. The next week I came back

and found her passed out on the couch in the living room. She was so tired I could barely wake her up and almost considered calling an ambulance until she bounced up, looking lively again. She said she had just been napping and was looking forward to our shopping trip. I asked her about the new ranks of gnomes which had begun to make walking to a front door difficult

and she laughed saying that friends had brought them for her. When I asked which friends, she wouldn't say. Mr Winkles was waiting for us when we pulled up at the house after shopping. I judged past him, glaring at him out of the corner of my eye as I carried bags into the house. There was something off about all this, I thought to myself. There was something very wrong going on here.

The new gnomes were even more disgusting than the last batch. They were hideous, deform-looking creatures. They were missing arms and legs, and the faces were twisted and distorted. the features were disproportioned and askew. I felt a sharp pain in my ankle and cried out. I looked down to see my ankle bleeding from a wound. A flap of skin was hanging down unnaturally

and blood was trickling down into my sock. I looked over at Mr. Winkles and saw a fresh rivulet of crimson blood running down his axe blade. But when I looked closer, there was nothing. I complained to my great aunt but she said I'd likely call my leg on the arm the railing and just blame me for not repainting it like I promised to months ago.

I went inside and cleaned the nasty wound, replacing the flap of skin and putting a bandage over it to hold it in place. For a long time, it wouldn't stop bleeding. The cut was pretty deep. It took several of the bandages to do the job of covering it and I could still see blood beginning to seep through between the cracks around the edges. I went home and continued my research into the eccentric Dutchman who had crafted Mr. Winkles. I had gone down a conspiracy theory rabbit hole and did not like what I was finding. A few days later I went back to my great aunt's house. I went by in the late evening just before she usually went to bed without calling to tell her that I was coming.

I was starting to worry about her and I had a few bizarre suspicions after my extensive research. I needed to see what was happening there, if only to preserve my own sanity. When I arrived at a house, I parked in the driveway and got out of my car. I heard a low-pitched noise from the backyard and went to investigate. When I got into the backyard, I stopped dead. It was changed completely from the last time I had seen it. The privacy hedges were blocking the public from seeing an oddly terrifying spectacle. Trees had been cut down and chopped into tiny piles of wood.

The back deck had been dismantled, its wood similarly refined and arranged into neat stacks. The most obvious change was that there was now a horde of hideously deformed lawn gnomes huddled together in the backyard. I heard the low-pitched sound again and looked to see the cat from next door. Lucy was being dragged away from the fence, her claws digging into the grass as she tried to to save herself. She was being pulled into their midst by about a dozen gnomes, who were tied her with ropes and were pulling her mercilessly towards the centre of the fray, where a crowd of other gnomes sharpened their glinting knives.

The cat howled and made terrified noises, hitting and swatting the gnomes with the claws. Mr. Winkle's presided over the mayhem, sitting on a misshapen throne carved from Driffwood at the back of the lawn. Some gnomes were working at the back of the garden behind him, chopping down another tree, and cutting it up into usable pieces. A fire had been constructed, and more were huddled around it, roasting what appeared to be mice and squirrels and sticks. I shouted at them to stop, running into the midst of them, kicking them this way and that,

sending their tiny bodies flying, I pulled the ropes of the cat and freed her as they hacked in my legs with their little knives. I shouted triumphantly when I finally pulled the last rope off of her and picked her up in my arms. She kicked with her back legs and took her sharp claws into my arms, jumping free from me and bounding away quickly. I yelped in pain, clutching my bleeding arms as the gnomes continued hacking at my legs with their sharp little weapons. I felt a terrible pain in the back of my head and the world went dark. I woke up in a low-ceiling cave

with dirt walls pressed close to my face and cold earth beneath me I couldn't stand up couldn't even kneel down where I was claustrophobia gripped me and I felt my chest tightened with fear as I looked around and saw I'd less than two feet of room

between the floor and the ceiling I started to hyperventilate as I tried to turn around and found I couldn't I couldn't even get my hands in front of me I realized I was bound and tied up like a sew with my wrists tied to my ankles I was being dragged backwards

away from the light I struggled against the knots and felt them giving away slightly my only hope was that the things were so defectively imbred it had begun to affect their intelligence I pulled with all my strength and felt the ropes give way

I looked behind me and saw the gnomes had fallen backwards surprised that their tiny string bindings had snapped. Their wooden faces crunched as I kicked them hard and smashed them with my shoes against the dirt walls of the cave. I crawled forward, dirt flying into my eyes and in my mouth. The gnomes scrambled after me and attacked my legs with sharp knives. I screamed and flailed at them,

battering them away as I made my way on my belly towards the light. Progress was slow, but fear of what was behind me drove me forward and I managed to ignore the pain of their attacks. I finally clawed grass and pulled myself out into the back lawn. The cool night air was fresh against my face. I scrambled to my feet and ran over to Mr. Winkles, where he sat in his driftwood throne. He stood up on the chair and pulled out his axe, swinging it menacingly.

I grabbed a flaming log from the fire. It burned in my hands and I screamed, but held it nonetheless. I flung it with it. all the force I could muster, hitting Mr. Winkle square in the chest. The flames spread fast, and he lit up like flash paper. He began to scream and wail, his varnish flesh melting. The other gnomes ran over and threw sand and dirt on him, extinguishing the flames. I turned around to see my great aunt standing silently behind me. She slid the blade of a very large knife into my belly. The pain was like nothing I had ever felt before.

She twisted the knife and it flared up ten times worse. I thought I was going to die. There was no way anyone could live through that pain. I told you, no one hurts my babies. She whispered in my ear as I collapsed to the ground. The knife still lodged in my gut. Von Welkin had gone insane, the story said. But there were other stories online too if you look deeper.

If you probe the dark web for conspiracy theories, you could find more than a few people who said there was more going on in that case. The suicide note, for instance, it had started off in von Welkent's handwriting, but then had veered into childish block letters. In his writing, he said he hadn't made the new gnomes. He said that the winking one had made them, and his children had born more hideous and deformed children. The block letters disagreed, saying von Welkin had made the gnomes right before he lost his mind.

The police had determined the scene unusual, but it was ruled a suicide nonetheless. I wish they had done more digging. Maybe they wouldn't have put up his gnomes for auction if they had realised what they were. Then maybe I wouldn't be here, in this tiny dirt cave. I'm trapped here with nothing but the light from my dying phone to keep me comfort. I've tried calling the police. They say to stop calling, that the prank isn't funny. They say I've been to my aunt's house and seen her. Say there's nothing wrong and that she doesn't have a great nephew. The police operator says there's no sign of a tunnel at the back of the house.

Gnomes are such excellent craftsman. This is an old story, which is fitting. I'm old now myself. I've never shared it, so I suppose that I suppose that. So, I suppose it's a new story as well. I grew up in the rural south, down in the heat and the hollers, in small towns where there were more churches than people, where old ladies in the Sunday best would cluck and scoffet advancement, and its perceived sins, and then go talk of fire out of the burn on a child's arm.

No one took the Lord's name in vain, but we held our breath when walking past the dead. We hung mirrors out to distract the devil. This was the time when a man could do as he pleased, short of murder, and it was considered private family business. Everyone knew the bad things about everyone else and their families for generations back. Small towns are like that. The bad things were talked about, but only in stuffy front rooms were out back in the farms, only ever among people not involved in it.

After all, it was private business. I was the youngest in my family. I had two older brothers and an older sister. They left home as soon as they could. One brother to the army, the other to the mills and the drink. My sister got married at 16 and made her escape. I think a husband was a nice man. I was left at home with a dead mother and an angry father.

I was angry at them for leaving me, but they barely made it out. It would have been impossible with a child. Mama died when I was three or so. I heard whispers around town about what happened. Officially she killed herself in the creek behind our farm, but I don't know anyone who would willingly lay down in shallow water and let the trickle carry them away. People talked about what probably really happened

that she didn't lay down in that water all by herself, but there was nothing to prove, and after all, that was private business. I remember it was brought up to the man who was my father, and later when he was drinking, I heard him stumbling around and slurring that he was the scariest thing in these damn woods, and they better remember that. I was five or so when everyone left me with a man who was my father. Our farm was out of the town limits, and no one wanted to be around a drunk and maybe killer,

so it was just me and him. He was as mean sober as he was drunk. I actually preferred him drunk He was slower and clumsier that way He would send me out into the night sometimes I think because he knew I hated the summer dark The heat never left with the sun Things creeped out in the dark

The woods I played in by day Weren't my friends in the shadows I would try to stay inside He would get angrier He would beat me and yell That he was scarier than anything in those damn woods and I would do well to remember, or so help me, God, get your ass out there, boy,

before I get my hands on you. I had run out into the dark one night. He was meaner than usual, and he followed me out. I felt him grazed the back of my shirt, but his foot fell through a hole on a rotting porch, and his body fell with it. It was enough time for me to get away.

I ran into those dark woods. I had so many spider webs, I was certain I'd be wrapped up in a cocoon soon, waiting for something big and hungry to find me. But I could hear yelling and cursing behind me, and after all, he was the scariest thing in those woods, so I kept running. I ran until I couldn't hear him any more,

till the ground grew strange vines, and the trees looked different. Everything looks different in the dark, which is one of the reasons I hate it so much. I ran until I couldn't I was tired and hungry and thirsty I was covered in dirt and webs and blood from all the scratches the bushes gave me

I decided I was done running and flopped down where I stood I fell asleep maybe I just passed out I woke up in a holler I hadn't seen before it was green and growing there was a clear pool in the bottom

blackberry briars and honeysuckles were tangled together and rambled over the ground and up the trees. It was the nicest thing I had ever seen. I don't know which of you have been to the south in the summer. The heat there never leaves. Morning, noon or night. It's always hot, always sticky. But it was cool here, deep in the woods, down in this holler.

I drank the water and ate the blackberries while I devised the plan. I could stay here. I could live in this little, lush place and drink spring water and eat blackberries for the rest of my life. I didn't need to go back. I was sitting in the grass. When she showed up, I don't know that it was actually a she. I don't know what I met. She was walking towards the holler, taking long, slow strides.

She looked rickety. That's the best way I can describe it. Like if a person knocks a joint wrong and the limbs goes all wobbly and loose and bends in wrong ways. That was how she moved, like her muscles couldn't hold onto the bones just right. I remember watching her weave through the Blackberry thickets. I swear they slithered out of her way. Her head had lulled to the side as if her neck couldn't support it. She hadn't looked my way, but I had a terrible feeling she was watching me.

I thought about running, but I didn't think I would make it. I did the only thing I could think of. Good morning. Afternoon, ma'am. After all, every southern child knows that politeness is key. I stood up as smartly as I could, which wasn't much. I had been laying in the pool and the dirt in me had turned to mud. I was stained from blackberries and I'm pretty sure my clothes were tombs. That lolling head rolled my way.

Her eyes, they were so large and black. The holler was getting colder, and I suddenly wanted nothing more than to be out in the heat and dust and sun. Her body turned slowly to match the direction of her head, and she started swaying towards me. How are you doing on this fine day? my mouth was drying up I searched through all the knowledge in my five-year-old brain for some wisdom to help me she paused in a walking and sank down to the ground sank isn't the right word for it

she collapsed like a puppet cut off its strings folding her limbs under her she propped her head up on her hand and her chin was resting on her palm but her fingers they reached up her face to the top of her head. They didn't end in nails. It was like the fingertips themselves were twisted and hard. I stood for a minute and then sat down as well. Have you had breakfast? I didn't know if this was the right thing to say, but all the grown-ups said it to each other in the mornings when they met

after the good mornings and how are you today? No, she said slowly. I haven't eaten. Her voice was soft, but the soft of rotting wood, the kind that crumbles when you touch it and all the bugs scurry away. Would you like some blackberries? I asked. Grownups offered to feed each other when they said they hadn't eaten breakfast. She made her sound like twigs, scratching a window, and I realized it was a laugh.

Aren't you polite? She said. I found a little rabbit this morning, but I don't know if there's enough meat for all the work. She was watching me closely, and I remember feeling that something was very wrong. I nodded and made the, Mm-hmm, sound grown-ups do, and they don't know what else to say. How did a little thing like you make it into my hollow? She asked.

What's a hollow? I was confused. I didn't know that word. This place is a hollow. I live in hollow places. She said, gesturing around us. But how did you get into the hollow? I thought it was a holler.

I was very certain I was right. Everyone called it a holler. She shrugged. Same thing. Now, why are you in this hallow? Another different word? I was very confused. She understood the face I made and rolled her eyes.

Hollas are hallowed, hollow places. It's all the same. I didn't think it was, but I wasn't going to argue with her. I was running and I got lost and now I'm here, I told her. I didn't want her to get annoyed that I hadn't answered a question. She poked up a little bit. Oh?

She said. What were you running from? I shrugged and started picking at the grass. But I had a feeling that not answering was not an option. My dad, he's the scariest thing in the woods, I said. She snorted and narrowed her eyes. He is not, she said and dismissed the idea with a jerk of her hand. He is.

is. He says it all the time. I needed him to be the scariest thing. If there was something worse than him, how would I make it? Does he? She asked. She plugged a leaf and was twirling it in those long fingers. How would you like him to meet the scariest thing in the woods? I thought about it. If he met something scarier, maybe he would be too scared to be mean. I gave her a little nod and she grinned at me. Her teeth were too many and crowded. She handed me the leaf. This will make him meet the scariest thing, she said.

Like a spell? I asked. She shrugged. What's the spell? I was staring at the leaf intensely, but it just looked like a leaf. I just gave it to you. But spells have to rhyme, I looked at her, shocked. Everyone knew that spells only worked if they rhymed. She made a face at me, though I didn't know the expression.

I learned later it was incredulous. Are you telling me how to do my magic? She had narrowed her eyes at me. I shrugged and muttered something about real spells and magic and rhyming. She did the twig scratch laugh. and snatched the leaf out of my hands. You're lucky that you're a novelty, she said.

A rhyming spell, just for you. She tapped the leaf against her face. When she started talking again, her voice was low. It was the trees groaning in the storm. It sucked me in and held me, the way a bog sucks in the living

and holds onto the dead. The sounds outside were getting muffled. I felt my ears pop. First allowed to start the meat. Say it once. I'm at the street. Second allowed to seal his fate. Say it twice. I'm at the gate. Third allowed and not once more. Say it thrice. I'm through the door. She slid her gaze over to me and her eyes were so black and bright. I started to get dizzy. I realized I hadn't been breathing. She joked her head towards the woods. "'Aff you go,' she said in a crumpled wood voice. I was up and running. I ran and ran until the woods were normal and the air was hot. I ran until I burst out of the trees and into the sun.

I was back. I felt something jabbed my leg. I dug into my pocket and pulled out a perfect unrumpled leaf. I was gasping for air. I didn't know if it was the run. Maybe it was the leaf I didn't mean to bring back. I looked around. I knew where I was.

I was on the little dirt path that ran to our farm. It was actually a dirt road, but everyone called it the street. You go down the main street and keep following after it turns the dirt and you just follow the street to Daniel's farm. That's what the grown-up said when they gave directions. I felt a feeling that I didn't know the word for. Later, I learned that it was an easy, maybe panic. I didn't remember telling the rickety lady about the street. We had a gate at the start of the farm too.

I didn't tell her about that either. It was full panic then. My brain was screaming wrong, wrong, wrong. I heard a rumble and thought it was her. I was spinning in circle so I could see her. if she tried to creep out of the woods. But it wasn't her. It was the sky.

Clouds were rolling in, fat and purple. The sky was the yellow of an old bruise. I don't know if you've ever seen a sudden thunderstorm, but they're in a category all their own. Rain doesn't come down in drops. It rolls down in sheets. The wind doesn't blow till the rain comes.

The air is so still and hot. I didn't know what to do. I ran back towards the farm. I'd come out on the street, close to the town, I was screaming the whole way home. The gate was closed when I got to the farm, but I climbed it easily. I shot to the old house and started banging on the door.

Street, meat, fates and gates. The door, the door not once more. My father opened it. His eyes were bloodshot, red against the yellow. He was swaying, already drunk. Shut the hell up, boy, he yelled and cuffed me around the head. Don't think I forgot about you running off. He grabbed me and pulled me inside the house.

It was dark and the house smelled like whiskey and old vomit. He reached onto his belt, but realized he wasn't wearing one. Swearing, he looked around for something to hit me with. I was crying and trying to tell him about the lady in the woods. He shook me up. shut up he screamed I am the scariest thing out there suddenly the words were coming out of my mouth I tried to hold them in but they burned made me cough I had to get them out first allowed to start the meat said it once she's at the street I was staring at the window everything was yellow and sick thunder started booming and I saw something at the edge of the street something moving slowly and rickety.

He was squinting at me like he knew something was wrong, but he was too drunk to figure it out. He was swaying on his feet, and he shook his body like he was trying to shake off the feeling of wrong. His face twisted up, and he started coughing. The words turned to retching. He was trying to gasp out words between the spasms. God damn it, boy, what the hell is?

I'm the scariest thing in the woods He's down on his knees now He looked at me and looked at the window He followed my gaze Second the loud sealed your fate Say it twice she's at the gate My voice was a whisper And I was crying

But I didn't fight the words this time We were staring at the window When the lightning flashed It hit somewhere near us with a boom That shook the house We could hear the squeal of the gate as it was forced open. Boy, he said, what's going on? I think that was the fastest I'd ever seen him sober up.

I tried to explain, but nothing would come out. I couldn't find any words except for the ones I didn't want to say. Third, aloud, not once more. Say it thrice, she's through the door. The words came out. He took them as a warning and tried to bite his own words back. The porch was creaking and groaning. He was on his knees heaving.

I could see trees starting to move out the window. The winds were starting to come in. Another boom of thunder that rattled the house, but the door kept rattling even after everything else stopped. His face was dripping sweat and bright red. He spat on the floor and it was red too. He was watching the floor. door. It was shaking so hard and so fast. And then I noticed the locks. With every shaken

jerk they were turning. He started coughing and all that came up was red. He finally caught his breath and inhaled deep. I'm the scariest thing in the woods, he screamed. The door flew inward and she was inside. She snatched him up. Her hand wrapped around his face, and she held him an arm's length as he screamed and clawed at her. Her arm didn't move. There was no looseness in her now. I was cowering on the floor. He jerked in a grasp and howled.

She flashed the teeth at me and smiled. Out the door, quick now, little rabbit, she cooed. I might still be hungry afterwards. Somehow I made it up and out. The rain hit me as I hit the yard The trees were groaning The wind was screaming He was screaming

There was laughing Hollering, hollowing Holloing Hollas in a hollow place Hallowed hollows for hollers Holler Hollow hollow The people from town found me later

They went up to the farm And came back yellow As the sky had been They didn't tell me what they found No one would even whisper about it around me. A family in town took me in. I moved north when I got older.

I stay out of the woods. I stay in large crowds away from the hollow places. I avoid churches and graveyards. Hollas, hollows, hallows. They're all the same. And she might still be hungry. To this day, the Russian army still relies largely on conscripts. the man itself. Every spring and every autumn for three months, all the young men ages from

18 to 27 who don't have something to keep them from the army are being hunted by the ever vigilant draft officers. It doesn't matter if you're tall or short, slim or fat, short-sighted or the other way around. The Russian army lovingly accepts all. There are a few ways to avoid the draft. First of all, you can bribe the officers. This is Russia where it talking about after all. You won't be conscripted if you study at the university. If you have three children by the age of 27, the army will also get off your back. They must think that you'll suffer enough as it is. They also don't touch the disabled, and they have this strange rule where they will let you go if more than 70% of your body is covered in tattoos. 70%?

That's quite the cutaway line. And the funny thing is, when I'm not, I was kicked out of my university this winter, I almost considered it. I mean, I could turn myself into a tiger, or leopard, or living monument to Stalin's glory. That one is really popular in Russian prisons, but I've decided to go a different route. I've decided to go insane. Now, the chance of success was really small. The medical committee, which decide whether you're fit to serve, is very experienced and can determine with ease. whether you're faking it or not. If they catch you, straight to the army you go,

right from that room where they examined you. But the only other option I have is mutilation or bribe. I have no desire to do the former, and no money for the latter option. I come from a poor family that lives in a village, and the money I'm earning in town is just enough to give me a roof over my head and put some food on the table.

My savings wouldn't be enough to say some fat, cat's appetite. Now, you might be thinking that the new epidemic might have put a hold in the country's draft. Russia is on lockdown after all. But no, those guys don't care. They decided to keep the draft going despite the pandemic, because the them, conscripts, are less than people. They are just cannon fodder and cheap labour force to build their country houses. A few weeks ago, the draft officers handed me the note which required me to show up on the expected day to pass the medical committee. I was ready.

I'd spent days studying how to trick them, how to pretend to be clinically insane so that they wouldn't suspect a thing. It was going to be a tough mission. They were ready for people faking all kinds of disabilities and they knew their orders, to enlist as many people as possible. You might think,

why go through so many hoops to avoid the draft? Why not just serve in the military for a year and protect your motherland? I understand how it looks, but trust me, the Russian army is not what it once used to be if the stories of the older generation are true. In the modern army, you'll just be wasting your time, either dying from boredom or doing some meaningless chores meant to instill discipline into you, like scratching the entire parade ground with a toothbrush. Very often you'll be sent to some generals' country house.

either to work in his garden or to paint the walls. Once a year you'll be sent to a shooting range where they'll let you shoot from an AK-47 once and explain how to throw a grenade. Not to mention the accidents that sometimes happen, like the soldier accidentally losing his legs to cold because his superior officer forgot that he sent a soldier outside during winter without any clothes on as a disciplinary measure. Don't be mistaken, there is a professional army, and there are a professional army, and there are a soldier outside during winter without any clothes on as a disciplinary measure. mistaken, there is a professional army and there are good bases

where conscripts are actually taught something valuable, but for a conscript in our backwater town, the chances of being sent as such a base were practically zero. And yet, there's still this stigma that, if you didn't serve, then you're no man.

Go figure. So, yes, I'd rather be deemed insane than going to the army. So, the day came, and I went to where the committee was supposed to take place. I had memorized everything I was supposed to say by heart. I had lived with it for the past few weeks.

I almost believed myself to be truly insane. I could do it. The place was crowded, around 20 young men just like me. All of us were instructed to take off her clothes before going in, and so all of us stood in the cold corridor in nothing but our underpants. Someone on the far end of the corridor was coughing to no end, but we paid no attention to it. Catching COVID almost seemed like the desired outcome at that point.

My name was called out and I went inside the cabinet. Picture this, me, almost naked, standing on the cold floor in front of the entire medical committee. Six doctors in white robes and surgical masks. Yeah, of course they would protect themselves. Everything went easier than expected. They asked me a few things about myself. I told them that I'm afraid to serve in the army because I scream at night, I feel anxious

all the time, etc. With a sigh, they handed me a test to evaluate my psyche and sent me to a separate room to complete it. Since I knew what I was doing, I knew which boxes to tick, and thus was quickly able to make it look like I had a severe paranoid anxiety disorder. I also threw in schizophrenia just for good measure. The psychologist took my test, asked me a few questions to verify the results. I told him that I'm scared of the army, and he told me that I had to spend a few months

in an asylum. Congrats, he told me in a dry voice, you won't serve in the army after all. I was overjoyed that I had succeeded. I was almost free. well, almost. I still had to go to the asylum to serve my sentence there, but at that point it didn't look so bad. Surely being in the hospital couldn't be that bad.

But when I was brought there with a bag of my belongings, I realized that I should have looked up what the asylum in our town was like. It was a very old building, almost a ruin. One wing of it was actually abandoned. The curse place, which was placed on lockdown for who knows what reasons. The paint on the walls of the ceiling was peeling off, revealing yellow walls underneath. It was very clear that no one had given a damn about the damned souls in the last 30 years or so.

The only thing that differentiated the asylum with the abandoned ones in horror movies and video games was that it still had people in it. Which, considering how friendly the personnel was, made it only worse. From the very moment when I interacted with them, I realized that I was no better than a prisoner. They took away my phone, my money, my keys, everything. They weren't asking me to do things. They were ordering us. The personnel was exclusively female, but the strength in their shoves could match that of a bull's charge.

It was clear that they had had a lot of practice over the years. All of them treated us with distaste. snapping at me whenever I asked anything from them. But the worst of them, the head jailer, the person whom even the other nurses feared, was Anna Nikolaevna Voevoda. Quite a fitting name, don't you think? I've always thought that the head nurse should have the last name

which literally means warlord. She lived up to a name. From the moment I'd seen her, I was wondering how one could get so jacked without working out. Despite being morbidly obese and having a huge strain on her back, she is almost two metres tall, towering over everyone at the asylum. She has the weight of three men and the strength of five. Her bicep alone is practically thicker than me, or it will be soon anyway, considering how poorly they feed us here. Despite her impressive size, she moves around with impossible ease.

Her movements were all quick and jagged like she was swinging a sword at the same. times. She is unbelievably cruel and demands nothing short of absolute submission from a patient. She demands that we call her Anna Nikolaevna, but we call her Voivoda behind her back. It is one of those cases when the true name is much more fitting than anything we could have come up with, but we do so very carefully, looking behind us before uttering it in a whisper. She hates when people refer to her by her last name, even when she's not present. When you see adult men fear to speak her name, you know just how far her power goes. Just this week, she heard someone passingly mention it in a conversation with another patient.

Her fury was swift and unrelenting. She did not care what they had been talking about, with a cry. It's Anna Nikolaevna, you dumb yoke. She slapped the man so hard he fell down and hit his head on the brick corner of the wall. He'd been in the infirmary ever since. Of course, Voi Voda suffered no consequences for putting the man there. Her wrath and influence are so great, even the head doctor is too afraid to take any measures against her. She enjoys ordering us around, and I'm yet to hear her normal voice.

She keeps hollering every word she says, making the already brittle wall shape. You can always tell when she's approaching your wing. She either howls bloody murder at anyone she sees, or you can hear her heavy pace rock the foundation. As someone with her weight, she moves unexpectedly fast. I think I'll go mad for real if I just imagine the strain she puts in her heart, but the damn thing keeps on going without giving out. There are plenty of other colourful characters as expected from an asylum.

but the damn thing keeps on going without giving out. There are plenty of other colourful characters, as expected from an asylum really. There's Anton, an old man who believes that his neighbours wanted to kill him to take away his apartment. He'd been bothering the police so often they'd six medical workers on him who promptly locked him away. Anton says that the police are in cahoots with his neighbours, that they've received a bribe from them, and they've already taken his house away. I don't really know whether I should believe him. On one hand, he's in an asylum.

But on the other, who am I to be the judge of that? Then there's Sabog. Sapog is not a name. It means a boot. The man refuses to give us his real name, and the nurses, despite having it on file, also refer to him as Sappog. Sabog is a very straightforward man.

He is a criminal who pretends to be insane to prolong his trial. He told me so himself. But if you don't think about that, he's quite a decent person. Says the asylum is actually worse than a prison. He knows from experience. And then there's Miran.

We've met at the medical committee. He's the same as me. Those three are the only ones around who can maintain a conversation. Other patients are definitive wackos. They scream, drool, talk to invisible friends and so on. But they are mostly harmless,

so I bear no ill will toward them, even if their lamentations sometimes get on my nerves. And of course, the abandoned wing. Every corridor on every floor was ending with the doors leading to it. On all floors, the doors are the same. Massive constructs made of oak wood. All of them look different

from any other door in the asylum. Not to mention that the paint on them looks more fresh, which makes me think that they were installed specifically to make sure that no one goes in there. On top of that, the doors are barricaded with planks, with numerous warnings glued on top of them. The warnings are all in different size and font, but they all say the same. Keep out.

There are rumours among the patients that sometimes voices and footsteps can be heard there, which I doubt can be trusted, considering who the patients are. But even the sane ones like Sabog and Miran say that they've heard the clanking of metal coming from there at night. My day has a strict schedule. Wake up at 7.30. Go get your plate of cereal or gruel. If you're lucky, you'll get some black tea with sugar. Then you're off on your own.

Try to avoid the nurses or they'll give you some chores to do, like helping them clean up or take some old patient's bedpan out. At 1pm you'll have a break in the yard. At 2pm dinner and pills. Supper is at 7pm and at 9pm lights out. On Sundays they give us our phones for a few hours, a result of some scandal that took place a few years ago. Voivoda hates that we get contact to the outside world,

but there's nothing she can do about it. Even though there's no money allowed in the asylum, there is a currency. Just like in prisons if Seppock's words are to be believed. Only the thing is, the currency is being issued by the nurses. They hand the cigarettes out when you help them. The exchange rate is abysmal. You get one cigarette for cleaning the entire floor of the wing.

For the reference, it may take up to a few hours to do that, all for one cigarette. I am not a smoker, so on keeping the law. ones I've earned, but the last week had me so stressed that I'm thinking about starting to smoke. I've had two cigarettes so far, and I've received wild offers from other patients who want them, offers too dirty to even speak about. An old crazy woman with no teeth, only black gums, offered with a coy smile to... Okay, I'll stop. I have both of the cigarettes in my pocket.

I am tempted to smoke them both in one go. It'll probably make me puke my guts out since I've no prior experience, but I don't care. I want at least something to distract me or lull me. Because, with how horrible things have been since I've arrived here, despite the horrible treatment, despite the terrible food and crazes all around me, and vodas screaming a lungs out, they've gone and made things even worse. Because they've decided to open the abandoned wing and have us clean it up for repairs. How worse have things gotten?

Well, before the wing was opened, I had had no doubts about my mental stability. Now, I can't afford that luxury. I'm ironic, isn't it? I was the same person on the outside, yet here I am starting to think that I really am crazy. Or maybe I always was crazy. Maybe I've made up this story about dodging the draft to rationalize my presence here, because I have no other explanation for what is going on. Around the same time I was locked in here,

Beauavoda had a bright idea. Why not use us as slave labour to clean up the abandoned wing of the asylum? With how bad things were in the operational part of the building, surely the abandoned one couldn't be much worse. For the record, we've had plenty of space in the rest of the asylum to accommodate, at least as many more patience as there are, now, but none of us had any voice on the matter.

From her point of view, we were there to follow her commands, not to do silly things like restoring our psyche and resting. It felt like unsealing a tomb. Vovoda personally tore off all the warnings, clicking her tongue, and pried off the plank of the crowbar, saying that she didn't trust any of us to wield it. To her, it took around the same amount of effort it takes for you to over. open a bottle of milk. Inside the wing was full of dust and rubble, so Vovoda gathered around 15 patients instructed to give us mops and shovels and ordered us to get to work.

This wing better be pristine by the evening. She hollered at us before leaving. Once we started cleaning up, it became painfully obvious. There was no way to have it all cleaned up in one day. I was one of the shovelers, and just after a few hours, of shoveling rubble, my arms were ready to fall off. The others didn't fare much better. You can't give a bunch of crazes mops, put them inside the abandoned part of a building, and expect them to be productive. One man in his forties spent the first few hours having quite a meaningful conversation with his mop on topics I could barely understand before someone reminded him about Vovoda.

He'd been working in silence ever since. It was around five people. It was around 5pm when one of the patients, Sasha, started trying to open the door to one of the locked-up rooms. Sasha was one of the simpletons. He seemed to be born like that. He was shaking that door with strange determination, letting out mean and less grunts as he did so, and with each minute, they were getting louder and louder.

Finally, I decided to investigate what it got in him so worked up. It wasn't like it was done with cleaning up in the corridor. The floor around him was surrounded in the dust. What are you doing, Sasha? I asked him. Ah, good day to you, kind sir. Despite being a simpleton, Sasha had quite an impressive vocabulary and always talked like a gentleman from the old times. I was just hoping to unseal this door to help the fine lady inside.

I looked at the door. It didn't look like it had been open in the last 20 years. years or so, so the possibility of some female patient locking herself in there was out of the question. What fine lady, Sasha? I asked him carefully. I was not aware of Simpletons had hallucinations, but I wasn't a specialist on such things. She walked in there a few minutes ago, and she invited me to follow her, Sasha simply explained. She was giving me quite the lustful look, I must say. He started grunting excitedly,

the one that makes a man's blood boil with desire. Have you ever had such experience in the past kind, sir? Please tell me. He asked me, getting even more excited. Sasha, I think you're confused, I told him. But he shook his head. I don't have visions like some of the other fine people in this establishment. You can still hear her in there.

Please, listen. He told me, grabbing me by the hand. and pulling me closer to the door. It was quite a strange suggestion, but I don't want to fight him. Sasha was absurdly strong, second only to Vovoda, perhaps. So, I decided to indulge him

and leaning closer to listen to it. I didn't expect to hear anything, but... Freedom at last at my fingertips, you can touch them if you want, just follow me here, and I'll show you where the sun goes at night, is a cold and gentle place right under your heart,

here take a look, lend me an eye and you'll see. I clearly heard a female voice whispering. Whispering at such speed, it would make Eminem green with Envy. Whispering without the need to stop, to take a breath. I shuddered and involuntarily took a step back. Hearing voices coming from an abandoned room in an asylum was too extreme an experience for me. It felt like madness,

something I was only pretending to have. No, I couldn't be hearing that. It was some trick, a prank. I saw clear small footsteps in the dust on the floor, leading straight to the dusty door, the door which very clearly hadn't been opened in the last 20 years. The absolute irrational fear seized me. I was seeing a chain of events, far too impossible to be true.

Yet, at the same time, the only one that could happen. Sasha, how did she walk in there? I asked him. For a moment, the man lit up as if he knew the answer. But then he furrowed his eyebrows. Something in his memory didn't make much sense to him. I, uh, saw her. He started shaking as he was trying to remember. She looked at me and...

He looked at me help. I saw her enter these doors, he shouted at me. Please believe me, I'm not crazy, I'm not like them. He pointed at the rest of the patients, I'm just different. The other patients started getting restless as well. Sasha's anxiety was quickly spreading through them, like fire through oil. Some of them were starting to scream or ramble. What's going on here?

Vervodish shout, roll through the crowd, instantly snobes. nothing the unrest out. Why are you imbeciles not working? Sasha started rambling and the others caught on. Sapog instantly sold Sasha out. I gave him a reproachful luck, but he just shook his shoulders. Can't leave you, idiot, even for a few hours, can I? Vovoda shouted at the crowd.

All right, get your things. We'll get back to it on Monday. No sugar tea for anyone tomorrow. She screamed. The patients were visibly. displeased, but none dared to voice it. Sasha was the first to leave the wing, leaving his mop behind.

As I went to pick it up, I heard the sound to the left of me, the sound of a doorknob, quietly turning. I was too scared to even take a look at the door. I simply grabbed them up and bailed out of there. Listen, have you... heard anything strange?

I heard Anton Ashton. me. I quickly shook my head. I was not about to admit that I started hearing things. Yeah, me neither, he told me, just asking. We're supposed to return to the wing tomorrow, and I feel like I'm in some sick trap. If I admit that I've heard anything strange, if I tell someone about it, they'll think I'm even crazier than they've thought, and my sentence here will get much longer. Worse, I don't want to admit it even to myself.

I still want to think that it's a prank that the nurses decided to do it just for kicks. I don't want to think that I'm really going crazy here, that the place is starting to rub off on me. But I also don't want to return to that wing.

I don't want to even consider that I've really heard something there. But I really did. I'm not crazy. It really happened. So, the question is, what is it that I've heard there? What is it that has been sealed in there for 20 years? My time is almost over. I can already hear Vovoda going around gathering the phones. I'll post an update in a week, around the same time.

If I don't go crazy until then, that is. To be honest, at first, I didn't want to. to post an update. I've had a very hard week and when I finally got my phone back just for one day, the first thought was to watch some memes, funny videos, get an update and what's going on in this mad world outside. But I need these updates for two reasons. First, I need to recollect everything that's happened here. I need to lay it all out so that I can take a look at it and know whether it makes any sense or whether I am going crazy. If any of you are psychologists, I'd enjoy your input too. Perhaps you'd see some pattern that can point

towards a mental disorder. Honestly, I have expected to be honest. If everything is going on in my head, it's for the best. I realized the irony of me being locked up in the asylum and asking for outside help for my mental evaluation. But to all the local nurses and doctors, I am insane by default. Only you know the truth. And the second reason I post this update, as if I go missing like Sasha, then at least someone on the outside will know about it. Vovoda has been sending us to the abandoned wing of the asylum every day now. But after the last incident when the patients had gotten restless, it seems she's had an unpleasant talk with a head doctor, so now we only spend a few hours a day there.

The scorn on her face says it all. She'd rather have us all relocated there permanently. Every morning I dread waking up in fear of having to go there. I can't forget about it even for a moment. Every time I go to the corridor, I inevitably see that door at the end of it. The keep-out signs are scattered around it. Nurses aren't in a hurry to remove the reminder that no one should be there. And we all go inside that wing pass those signs every day.

A be it, Macfrey. We've developed a pattern for cleaning out the wing. Instead of doing it chaotically, we would go from room to room, from one cabinet to another. That way, we weren't just pointlessly cleaning it up. We were reconquering that building, piece by piece. Each day, whenever we'd finished, the territory into which we'd expanded was getting bigger,

and the wing was becoming more civilised. It was almost inspiring to observe the changes, and I found it to be a great meditation to ease the strain of my mind. I knew that eventually we'd be done with it, so the corridor of the abandoned wing served as a progress bar. Each day, the wall of dust, cobwebs and rubble, was getting pushed farther and farther away. We were akin to conquist the doors

who were uncovering the secrets of the dense South American jungles, minus all the slavery and eradication of the local cultures, of course. But of course it was always still there. That border between the civilised and the unknown, and to push that line further, we had to venture beyond it, into the dusty halls and abandoned rooms, where the walls were covered in mad ramblings, and you're not sure what you're seeing and hearing.

I swear that the world there seems less colourful, more colourless, I even want to say. Maybe it's because of all the dust, but everything there has this one. white and grey filter. Since the four of us, me, Anton, Sabag and Mirren, are the most reliable. We were charged by Vovoda herself of unsealing the barricaded rooms. It may be because she doesn't trust the rest of the locals, or locos, with the tools, but I think it's because she knows something. I think she just wants the strongest minds to be at the helm of her mission, for the

weaker ones might succumb to the things within. We still hear things, like the pit-batter of bare feet coming from the barricaded room next door to the one you've unsealed or someone whispering into your ear. We all pretend that we don't hear those things, but from time to time some of us cry out and shock from seeing or hearing something. We know the reason why, but we always pretend to believe their half-assed explanation.

No one wants to be the first to admit that they see and hear. a ghost, not when you're in an asylum. That said, we found some interesting things as well. Notes of the former patients, written on the walls and small pieces of paper with one such curiosity. They range from cryptic ones. I'm innocent. Brain rattles to more fun ones.

I love tea with sugar. Sasha found something while he worked there, a girlfriend. He was happy beyond belief when he told me about that. Perhaps the happiest person in the entire building. He didn't tell us who it was, prompting Miran to think that she was made up. I thought about that woman with black gums and shuddered. The most interesting thing we've ever found, however, was the old documents Mirren pulled out of the trash bin in one of the cabinets we've unsealed.

All the documents were at least 30 years old, some dated back in the 80s. back when the USSR was still very much a thing. All of them half burned, all of them bearing the same stamp on their yellow covers, for your eyes only. Whoever they were meant for did a bad job of disposing of the documents. We expected them to be the patient's files or something else to do with the asylum. But instead, they were something else entirely. Schedules of new arrivals.

of new arrivals. Three new patients designated for that wing every week. The strangest thing about them was all of them were coming from the prison on the other side of town. Sapog was very alarmed by that. He claimed that

no matter the prison, they wouldn't be able to provide three insane people a week. There are some crazy folks behind the bars, sure, but none of them crazy crazy, if you know what I mean. Either some shady things were going on in that prison or the patients they brought here weren't crazy, he said. Besides that, we found half-burned pages with seismic activity in the area.

The bottom of the page was destroyed, so we couldn't know what it was all about. But from what we could see back in the 80s, the small earthquakes were happening locally almost every month. But one of the most seismically stable areas of one of the most seismically stable countries in the world, It was most unusual. Our town is located in the middle of a huge tectonic plate. There shouldn't be any earthquakes there at all. We've decided to quietly throw out the papers. We didn't want anyone to know we found them.

Who knew how secret they were and whose eyes they were meant for? After that, things were getting weird. On Friday, it was the 1st of May, the International Workers Day. For our post-Soviet country, with the majority of the population had been born in the USSR, it was quite a big celebration. In Russia, we usually celebrate by going to the woods for a picnic with family and friends, where we cook Shasliki, pretty much a kebab, only done with marinated pork or beef, which is cooked over an open fire.

I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that people will be celebrating like that even during the pandemic. But, Bori Voda decided that we should celebrate it. to quote, like in the old days, by having a long day of productive work. So she announced that we would be doing extra hours until sundown. Of course we couldn't object. We were no more than slaves to her after all. So on that sunny day we'd spent its entirety inside the abandoned wing. When we emerged from it, we'd cleaned up twice as many rooms as we'd usually had in the past.

I was tired, but I was feeling satisfied with myself. I was hoping that very soon we'd finish that place, and, in cleaning it up, we'd finally purge it of all the ghosts of the past that haunted it. That's when we found out that Sasha was gone. No one had seen where it gone. No one had seen him come from the abandoned wing. He just disappeared. Voivoda was furious to find out that one of her patients was gone.

All the windows of the asylum had grids on them, so escaping was impossible. But if Sasha wasn't in the habitated area of the asylum, then it meant that he escaped at the depths of the abandoned wing. The sun was already setting, and the wing was getting dark very quickly, so she instructed the rest of the nurses to get the flashlight. One of them was told to put the patients to sleep and guard the doors so that none of us followed after them. She didn't want more than one patient to get lost.

We were ordered to go to our rooms and sleep it off. Roa Voda personally promised all of us a day of hard work on the next day in retaliation for Sasha's transgressions. But of course, even before they left for the abandoned wing, most of the patients, including me, carefully started peeking out to see them. Even though they've turned off almost all of them, of the lights, I could see them very clearly.

Five figures in white nurse gowns with flashlights in their hands, standing next to that dark portal of Oakwood would seem to be even bigger than usual. I have to give Vova to credit. She was the one of the helm of the procession into the wing. Her pace showed no hesitation, and she urged the rest of the nurses not to lag behind. One after another, the four nurses disappeared in the evening. inky depths of the abandoned wing, leaving just one nurse to guard the entrance to that abyss. She seemed lonely, restless, scared. I could tell that she was afraid to even stand next

of those doors, and her flashlight wasn't helping her very much. After all, it was just a cone of light. Sure, it banished the dark, but it couldn't illuminate everything. She turned around and glanced at us. the cone of a flashlight glanced across our curious faces. Dozens of faces of the mad, peeking at her from behind the barely opened doors. I expected her to tell us to go to sleep, to stop unnerving her. But she told us nothing.

Even if we were just a bunch of crazes, we were at least keeping her company. For ten minutes, nothing was going on. It was getting quite boring, but I wanted to see with my own eyes whether they would bring Sasha back. Plus, I'd spent way too much time there at Vora Road's behest to miss such a show.

I wanted to see for myself how they would like it when they were the ones in there. Ten minutes of silence. Then. A scream. The high-pitched one, the one that before that moment existed only in 50s horror movies.

In reality, without the protective veil of some people, suspension of disbelief, it was much more chilling. The kind of scream that makes your hair stand up, makes you want to crawl under the blanket and pray for the sun to rise soon. The echo that followed made it much more sinister. They were really deep in the wing, much deeper than any of us had ever ventured. The nurse of the door started panicking. I saw that she didn't know whether she was supposed to escape or run inside to help.

In any case, if there was any tangible threat within the wing, she'd be the first one to fall prey to it. Two or three minutes, we saw the lights. Beauvoda was practically pulling one of them. The woman was hysterical, and her words were completely incomprehensible. Whatever she'd seen or heard there pushed her to the edge. Get a hold to yourself, you'll alert the patience, and I don't want to calm down these freaks. Go to sleep. She screamed at us when she saw us peeking, and we all obeyed.

I did too, but before confirming with my own eyes that Sasha was not with them. I heard Vaui Voda chastising the nurse for not keeping us in check and telling the hysterical one to get a week off. After that, I fell asleep, her cries still echoing in my ears. I woke up to the same cries in the morning. At first, I thought it was one of the patients. but without a doubt it was the same voice crying in the corridor outside. The other patients had been woken up by it as well. I could hear them gathering outside, coming out from their rooms and getting agitated.

Not to miss out on what was going on, I hurried to the corridor as well. The nurse was sitting on the floor in front of the door to the abandoned wing, the door that unusually was already open. She was gently weeping and although I couldn't tell what was going on I could see that she was sitting in the pool of blood most likely her own

I glanced at the other side of the corridor to see where any of the nurses were until one of them lying on the floor later I found out that she was just unconscious but back then I thought that she was killed it was quite unnerving to find yourself in the hospital where the only nurse was weeping while sitting in blood. As much as I disliked them, they were the ones who fed us, who brought order to the asylum.

I was afraid that we'd die of hunger within those walls, that no one else would come. Little by little, we approached the weeping nurse. As I was getting closer, I saw that she was holding her blooded hand in front of her, forming a cup out of them. A cup she was seemingly offering to someone When I came close to look at her face I almost gagged Her eyes were gone

clawed out of their sockets And the angle of the scars in her eyelids They were hanging over the gaping dark holes Left no place for interpretation She was the one who had done it The finishing touch The one that made me run on away from her with a footprints. Huge footprints of bare feet leading to and from her. The

footprints of the one who took a bloodied offering away. The footprints so big they could belong to only one person. Sasha. Voivoda came in half an hour later. Even when she saw all of that, she wasn't shaken. She called the ambulance for both nurses and had them taken away and that was that. She didn't talk about Sasha and didn't make any more effort to find him. It was as if he really disappeared. This morning I saw her walking away with some files in the direction of the trash bins. I don't know for sure, but I suspect it was Sasha's files. Just like that, she erased the proof that he was ever there. If I go missing, she'll do the same to my files too. When Anton asked her if we were going to return to the abandoned

wing tomorrow, she chastised him for being lazy and cowardly and assured him that we'd work there as usual. I can hear a coming. Time's up. Just one more thing. Mirren thinks that she's making us look for something there. He says he saw something in the old files that could give him a clue as to what it is. But if he saw it, Why didn't he show us? After the events that transpired the week before, Vovoda was more careful before sending us into the abandoned wing. She started demanding that at least one nurse should accompany us.

I have to say, it's a breath of fresh air. Not only do I feel more comfortable that someone sane is in there with us, but they also keep other patients in check. Also, I must say, after them being so rude and inconsiderate to all of us, it was pleasing to see them shiver in fear. I'm sure they also hear the whispers coming from those halls and rooms. Some of them even tell us to quit pranking them and that it isn't funny.

But mostly, they keep to themselves. They don't speak out. There aren't our territory, and they rely on us to give them protection from the things that dwell there. This week has been the toughest of them all. I thought that by cleaning up the wing, we were supposed to be. make things better. By bringing order, we were supposed to calm whatever had dwelt there, but it seemed that the deeper we were going, the more insane things were getting. It felt like instead of pushing it all away, we were getting closer to its source. I've started

seeing unsettling dreams, dreams of a dozen cages deep underground, of long cables stretching into the darkness from which I could hear the buzzing of electricity and rambling of men and women, the ground slightly shaking, as well as the sinister deep humming sound in the background. A humming sound that constantly changed this pitch and can be heard only when someone talks. That dream is a recurring one. I've seen it more than once, sometimes vividly, and on other days I can barely remember it, But it's almost always there. I'm scared to talk about it to the others, but I can see that they don't sleep very well either.

Which, considering where we are, is not surprising. I think I sometimes hear Sasha's whispers coming from empty rooms, accompanied by the female laughter. It seems that the girlfriend he'd found for himself was really having fun with him. In any other circumstances, with different context, I would even be glad for him. I would even be glad for him, but I still can't forget his footprints in the pool of blood. Others aren't faring much better. Anton has been the first among us to tell us that he's been hearing the whispers, the same ones he'd heard coming from the apartment below him,

where, according to him, his neighbours have been conspiring to kill him. He says that he hears the heavy footprints like the ones he'd heard in the apartment below him, and he is afraid that the cultists who'd used to. lived there, came back for him, or sicked their ethereal familiars at him. He was talking very convincingly, and yet, when someone tells you something so crazy, it's hard to keep a straight face. Sapog started talking about his past three wives. He said that they were the ones who locked him in there, so that they could take all the money he'd earned working for the local crime boss. He said that he'd heard other prisoners tell him about that. You can learn all kinds of

things over a prison's grapevine, he mentioned with a meaningful look. Mirren, despite usually being the sanest of the bunch, started talking about strange things. He'd usually pick a time when we were alone, and then he'd start talking about the secret experiments that he'd seen being ran underground, about the documents that confirmed the existence of some underground facilities, of a machine that could cause earthquakes and was running to this day, drawing power from some unknown sources. Whenever I asked him to show proof, to show me the documents he had supposedly found, he always refused or found some lame excuse. But things were also getting better. This week, we finally finished clearing up the wing.

We've reached the end of the corridor. Throughout the last few days, Vorova Voda was personally following us. When I first heard that she'd be the one to go in there with us, I felt dead It was already hard. I didn't need her to keep screaming at us for working too slow. But surprisingly, she was quiet, and it was the first time I'd heard her talking normally without shouting. I must admit that I was almost hypnotized by a calm voice. When you expected to roar at you at all times, hearing her speak like a normal human being feels nice for a change, almost soothing. It's like coming to hell to find out that instead of drowning the sinners in boiling acid,

they serve chocolate ice cream there. Not the best ice cream, but you're still satisfied since you know the alternative. Throughout those last two days, she'd been searching through the old cabinets. She'd instructed us to bring her all the documents and paperwork we've found. Sometimes, when she'd find something worthy of her interest, she'd put it inside a folder she kept it aside. and throughout those two days I watched the folder grow and get thicker

I feel like Mirren may have been right she is looking for something there and I think that the entire clean-up was just a ruse, a cover and it seems like on Friday we finally found what she'd been looking for in hindsight it was clear from the beginning

that that door would be the one to hold something like that it was made of the same dark wood as the door that kept the abandoned wing sealed off, just as massive and imposing, with a massive thick chain holding it closed. The only reason we hadn't spotted it before was that it was behind the corner, at the very end of the corridor. We had to clean up everything else before getting to it. The dust next to it had been littered with footprints of all sizes, coming to and from the door. After the four of us had unsealed another door, we found a spacey

room inside. One half of it was lined with rusty iron beds, some of them still adorned with handcuffs. The other one was separated by a massive grate that stretched from one wall to another, with a lone gate at the centre being locked with a hanging lock. On the other side of the cage, I could see a massive table, a chair and a few file cabinets, as well as something that looks suspiciously similar to the gun cabinet. The furthest wall had the stairwell leading down, as well as an old, out-of-place elevator, the one you'd expect to find in a mine or on a factory, rather than in the asylum.

It seemed that we found the checkpoint of some sort. I remembered Miron's words and shuddered. Perhaps he really was onto something. Stay away, get out of here, you lunatics! Vovoda burst in, screaming bloody murder. Though she was ferocious, I could see that spy, in her eyes. Jackpot.

She was too overwhelmed with emotion to conceal that from me. Get out, feast your eyes on something else. She screamed at us and pointed at the door. Go to your rooms, you're done here. You're welcome, I whispered. I thought she couldn't hear me. But as usual, I underestimated her.

What did you say? She roared at me. Stop, all of you, she demanded. We all did. She came closer to me, looked me straight in the eye. Say that again. You're welcome, I said, rising to the challenge. You know, you could be a bit more grateful to us.

We've done all this hard work for nothing, so at least treat us with dignity. With dignity, she laughed into my face. I felt the smell of her breakfast wash over me. People would treat you with dignity when you get. out of here. Here, you're just a crazy lunatic, sent here for me to look after you, because none of you could fit into the society out there." I told her that I'm not acting crazy and that you could at least take that into account. But she just laughed again, far more ominously than before.

It was a laughter that promised me nothing good. Vovoda's words still ringing my ears. You're all the crazy ones. Do you think you three are the only one special in here? You? She pointed at Anton, had burned the entire building he had lived in, claiming that his saint and his neighbors wanted to kill everyone there. A family nearby burned to a crisp, including a young girl. Anton squirmed when Vovodan mentioned her.

Still hearing her beg you for ice cream, hmm? She wondered with a smirk before turning towards Sabog. You killed two of your wives because you thought they worked for the police and wanted to rat you out, and you killed your aunt when you thought that she was one of your wives as well, didn't you? she asked Sabog. They've gotten what they deserve,

Sabag whispered, and I saw the embers of mad fire light up in his eyes, the fire of righteousness and anger. And you, she turned to me. You think you're the smartest one, huh? Think you can dodge the draft

by hiding in here? You still think you're all right? How do you know about that? I said, becoming pale. I was confident that none of the nurses had known my plan and I was extra cautious to make sure it stay that way the doctors were only supposed to know about the things I've told them for who wrote a pursed the lips

honey that word sounded like poison when it dripped from her lips you won't shut up about that to your imaginary accomplice you keep walking around and talking to him about how you've tricked everyone haven't you realized that yet have you been taking your pills I wanted to ask her who who she was talking about, but I already knew. I looked around to ask him to tell her that she was wrong, but he was nowhere to be found. Mirren, my friend since day one, the one who had come up with the same plan as me, had gone missing just at the moment when I needed him the most, making me look like I really was

the crazy one. I knew that she was talking about him, but that was just another game of hers. She wanted to get inside my head, make me believe that I've made him up. Perhaps he was even in the game. Maybe they conspired against me and came up with a plan to make me look like I was truly crazy. Why? Who knew? Perhaps she promised him something in return.

Perhaps she saw that the two of us were sane and thought that one loony is better than none. After all, if we're sane, then we're out of her jurisdiction. he wants to stay in control. I had seen Mirren only once since then. The coward hides from me. He's too scared to look me in the eyes. He only dared to show up yesterday at the entrance to the abandoned wing

not too long after Vovoda had left it. He was waving at me to follow him there, but I see through him now. He wants to have me caught there that I'm going to the places where I'm not supposed to be. Well, We'll see about that.

Perhaps if I catch him there, add a vo-vodas sight, then I'll show him what happens to those who conspire against me. First things first, last time when I posted, some of you suggested that perhaps I really am crazy and that I've made Mirren up, as well as the entire premise of me dodging the draft, that I'm really schizophrenic. It is so ridiculous, I wish I could laugh into all of your faces. Is that where you think after I pour my heart out to you? Would a crazy person be doubting their own sanity?

No. I can't believe how unbelievably stupid you have to be to think that I'm the crazy one. As I've said the last time, I'm the only one sane here. What more do you need to get that through those thick heads of yours? But no matter, keep reading. I'm a reasonable man.

I know that after you read this, even the greatest of critics will seed under the downpour of proof I'm about to shower you all with. Only a reasonable man would manage to uncover the whole truth. A crazy man would not be able to tell the reality apart from their delusions. Although it would be hard to blame them for that. The things that happen here make even me question what is real and what isn't. Only my indomitable will and my genius intellect can keep me anchored to reality.

The rest of the people here are like blind puppies. I don't even bother to convince them. What do they know? What uses them learning something new? Will an ape in a zoo become more useful to society if it learns about the patchwork of the universe around it? I doubt it. Sitting in a cage is all it'll ever be good for.

Last week, the dreams have become unbearable. I see them with more clarity and the same scenario plays out in my head every night an underground prison with thick weaving cables encapsulated in an absurd amount of insulation leading down the corridor to the source of the humming. It wasn't just the visions that I saw in those dreams that were causing me such distress. It was also the intensity of those dreams, their heavy atmosphere. I could feel that something horrible, something inhuman was going on there,

something that can't be put into words. It was like... a trip through a death camp on a day when no one was executed there. You couldn't see it with your own eyes, but the little details around the place were giving you the full scope of the dread that loomed over that place. In some dreams I saw the prisoners being led away from the humming door. They were rambling and their facial expressions left no room for doubt. Whatever had happened to them there, they'd been damaged by it beyond repair.

All that was left to do with them was to stick them in. into the asylum where no one would take their rambling seriously. One such particularly intense dream was interrupted. I think it was Wednesday. I woke up to see the sun was still down, which puzzled me for a bit. I usually woke up early in the morning, around 7 a.m. But then I started hearing the sound that had woken me up.

The rattling of metal beds, the clanking of spoons in the cafeteria. It seemed that the good, Ghosts that before that moment had inhabited the abandoned wing finally decided to move out of there. The other patients started waking up, many of them becoming agitated by the things that were happening. Damn fools. It was their panic that reminded me that I was supposed to stay calm, that I wasn't one of them. In that moment of clarity, I realised what the true culprit of the chaos was,

and it was a revelation that made my hair stand up. It was an earthquake. The impossible earthquake that wasn't supposed to happen in our town. Thirty years after the last one, it finally happened. And I suspected that I knew why. It definitely had to do that room weird and sealed last week. The room with a stairwell leading down, I knew that it was where the prison in my dreams was.

Not for a fact, but I strongly suspected it. After a short while, the earthquake had subsided. The nurses came in to calm everyone down, telling us they all go to sleep, and then left. But I knew that something was wrong. Something had gone off that night to cause the earthquake, so I only pretended to be asleep, and instead stayed awake. I kept pinching myself under my bedsheets and broken my fingers on sharp springs that was sticking out of bed beneath my mattress to stay away.

Almost an hour later, the weight had paid off. I heard the familiar thumping pace of Vovoda, as well as shamblings of bare feet next to her. Keep going. Even Vovoda's whispers were loud. Don't you dare wake anybody up? I heard a mumbling, rambling voice answer her, and although I didn't know for sure who it was, I had a strong suspicion. carefully getting out of bed, trying my best to make sure that the springs under the mattress wouldn't betray me,

I carefully proceeded towards the door and carefully slid it open, just enough to peek through the slit. My guess turned out to be correct. It was Sasha. Somehow, Vora Voda had found him down there. He had lost almost all of his weight and was almost a walking skeleton. It was clear that he had nothing to eat in there, and I didn't even start to think about what he drank in there. The walls of that part of the building were always so moist. He was rambling something to himself as Vovoda was practically pulling him like a mannequin.

It wasn't clear what exactly he was saying, but I knew that it was nothing like how he spoke before. All of his mannerisms of a professor were gone, making way to the primitive speech patterns of an animal that leaves deep within all of us. Hey, I heard someone call from me from the other side of the corridor. Looking there, I saw Mirren, grinning at me. He had been evading me all that week. Why did he decide to show himself then?

Making a gesture for me to follow him, he disappeared into the darkness of the abandoned wing. I was tempted to follow him there, but I knew that Boa Voda would see me. but I knew that Mirren had been hiding now. It wasn't just a hunch anymore. It was all but confirmed. I needed to come up with a plan,

and, befitting for a genius like me, I came up with it before my head even hit the pillow. I needed a distraction, and I knew how I'd get it. On the next day, I approached a few of the patients from other rooms. Faining friendship, I offered them a deal. Each of them would get a cigarette if they could create a distraction for me at night. My healthy lifestyle had paid off. After weeks of slaving for the nurses, I had almost a dozen cigarettes.

One cigarette was all it took to convince someone to help me out. I also spent two cigarettes to convince Sabog to steal a flashlight for me. Without it, navigating the dark halls of the abandoned wing at night would be hard. We weren't on close terms anymore. of us avoided each other's company, so I decided to promise him something in return, promising him a reward paid off. I don't know how he'd accomplish it, but before we went to bed, he snucked me a working flashlight, one of those the nurses used.

I didn't know if the patients could be trusted with the plan, but I made it as dummy proof as possible. I told them to start screaming either at 3 a.m. sharp, or if they heard someone else scream, I didn't get an ounce of sleep. I was too excited and I feared that I might have overslept by accident. I was now out of cigarettes now. There wouldn't be another chance to pull it off. Someone started screaming at 1.30 a.m.

Not ideal, but it worked. Whoever it was, they were doing such a good job, they must have woken up the rest of the patients as well. One by one, they started screaming and lamenting. drawing the nurse's attention to them. It seemed my plan worked even better than expected. I could hear that almost the entire hospital worth of patients was screaming, even those who weren't in on the ruse had become agitated.

The wave of panic was spreading like fire through gasoline. Running past them was easier than I thought. They were too busy putting the patients to rest to notice me in the hall. I only heard some of them call for me when I'd already run into the abandoned wing, but at that point it didn't matter. I knew they wouldn't follow me in there, not after what had happened to the other nurse. I turned on my flashlight and headed for the room with a stairwell.

Luckily, the path there was pretty straightforward, so I knew where I was going. Throughout my entire trip there, I could hear the whispers coming from the rooms, slapping of bare feet. Nothing menacing, aggressive, just a sign that something else was in there with me. A few times I saw something run from one room to the next in front of me, just at a reach

from the flashlight's cone of light. It would always make me stop, make me want to reconsider what I was doing, but then I'd remember how far I've come. I was going to uncover the secret of that place for sure. I was going to find Mirren and make an answer for what he'd done. As I slipped into the room with a stairwell, I noted with pleasure with the hanging lock on door in the grate that separated the room in two halves had been broken. No doubt, Vovoda hadn't found the key and decided to brute force a way in. I slipped through the door

and headed for the stairwell. The elevator next to it didn't work, but I didn't expect it to anyway. It was probably dangerous to use anyway. Even before I started my descent, I could tell that the stairwell was very deep. The light of my flashlight couldn't eliminate. illuminate the bottom of it. Bracing myself, I started descending. I'm not sure how long it took me to go all the way down. I can tell though that it was one of the most terrifying experiences in my life. The stairwell was very dark, with walls covered in black moss absorbing all light from my flashlight, and the echoes from my footsteps were so loud that it was hard to tell if it was me walking or someone else. I expected something to jump at me at every corner.

and the length of my journey down was making me paranoid that there was no end to it. That I was stuck in a sort of limbo, a stairway between heaven and hell, and I was descending that stairway. It didn't make it easier to stay calm when I noticed the bleak red light coming from below. I imagined brimstone and fire. I strained my hearing, ready to hear the cries of tormented souls, but there was nothing like that. Only when I descended a few dozen metres more, I noticed that it wasn't the fire of hell I was seeing.

It was the red lights of the emergency system. At least my destination had some electricity, I noted. Downstairs there was a massive bunker door with a switch next to it. I instantly recognised it to be a master switch, though I had no clue where the electricity was coming from, It was nice to know that the place still had it after 30 years. Perhaps some backup generators withstood the 30-year test

and could still work as intended. I opened the door, stepped through, and immediately found myself in a corridor going in two directions from the door. I didn't know where they led, but somehow I knew which one to take. Most of my dreams were about the underground prison, which I had no doubt was somewhere there.

but I could somehow navigate my way to it, almost as if the dreams had left some residual memories in my head. Memories I had no clue about until that moment. After a few minutes of wondering through those halls and corridors flooded with red lights, I finally found it, the door leading straight to the prison. I didn't open it. I didn't open it yet, but I already knew what was on the other side. I was correct

The place which had haunted my dreams was there It felt very bizarre To be there for the first time Yet to know the room so well A dozen cages lining the walls Cables thick like anacondas on the floor And the door at the end of the room The mysterious door from my dreams

Which always separated me from the source Of their accursed humming sound Now It was open The inside was a control room of sorts I could see numerous panels the meaning of which I didn't understand and enough chairs to accommodate at least 50 people

all of that was walled off by huge dusty panes of glass on both sides leaving only a narrow path in the middle leading to another door there if my estimate was correct the prisoners which had been transferred from the prison on the other side of town were taken through here to their destination.

And the scope of the control room meant that whatever they had conducted in there was huge. No way the higher-ups of the USSR didn't know about it. I had stumbled upon one of the biggest secrets of their dead super nation. I was sure of it. I headed for the door at the end of that room.

Though it was dusty, I managed to make out the words on the plaque on it. The communication core. Who could they be communicated? communicating with at such depths. I opened the door and stepped inside. At first glance, the room was relatively small. In the middle of it stood a chair with armrests, a headrest and the belt.

No doubt the chair was meant to keep the prisoner in place, and locking above, I understood why. Above the chair, hanging from the ceiling, was a massive construction. I could see thick cables connected to it, saw the huge, top of the huge, Titanic muscles of hydraulic pistons which were meant to move it up and down, once shiny edges of Tesla coils encircling it, details which I'd never seen before in my life. And, at the centre of its bottom, there was a hole, right above the chair's headrest.

Whatever that machine was, it was meant to be put on someone's head. I could only imagine the horror of seeing that massive 20-tone construct come alive and come down onto you. But what was it for? Was this some sort of communication device? Only then did I notice that the room was much bigger than it seemed. At behind the chair there was a wide pit leading down. Half of the cables connected to the machine were leading there

and I couldn't help but come closer to take a look. The pit turned out to be bottomless. I couldn't see the end of it. But at that moment, when I pointed my flashlight down, I clearly felt it. Something down there in the abyss could see me. The feeling was too much for me. Everything I'd felt before that, it was nothing next to it. There was some animalistic panic.

My brain reacting to feelings, it was never wired to feel. The contact with that thing down there, if only visual, had shaken me too much to handle it, and I rushed out of there, through those corridors up the stairs, abandoning all caution, and falling right into Vovo's arms. She was in that room. No doubt someone had alerted her that a patient had escaped to the abandoned wing, and she rushed to the hospital to retrieve me. I could see it in her eyes that she knew where I've been.

It was a mix of fury, and strangely. panic. Her secret had been revealed. How did you manage to break the lock? Was all she asked me, pointing at the shards on the floor. I realized that it hadn't been her who broke it. She must have had the key from the start. Right now, she keeps a close eye on me.

For some reason, she didn't quarantine me or throw me into the solitary cell. She lets me walk around, but I understand. that she must have a reasoning for it. If not for my strength of character, the strange contact below the ground would have shaken me. But I'm glad to report that I'm still perfectly fine. My mind operates with perfect clarity, and when I send you a photo of Mirren's head,

you'll see that I was telling you all the truth. I've finally found it. I finally found the answer to what's going on. Many of you have thought that I was the crazy one. that people don't go to the asylums to dodge the draft. I know that many of you doubt that I'm telling the truth, but I've decided to give you one final update. After all, if you don't hear it,

then you'll remain ignorant and think that it's all madness. Vovoda has been keeping an eye on me throughout the entire week. I'd always felt her eyes on me. She was curious why I hadn't gone mad like the rest of the people in there. I was sure that she was going to throw me into that machine. At one night I would wake up in her arms as she was bringing me down there to make me the same fool Sasha had become. But it seemed that destiny itself intervened.

Last Wednesday, Sasha suddenly started talking. Talking loud enough to wake the entire asylum. The nurses were anxious about him. No matter what they did, they couldn't make him shut up. After a few more hours Vovoda appeared on the doorstep of my room She told me that Sasha wanted to talk to me And that he refused to talk to anyone else

I refused at first But Vovoda never took no for an answer Grabbing me in a bear hug She practically pulled me to Sasha's room And threw me in You won't come out of there until he tells you everything is seen You hear me? She hissed at me

Before closing the door behind me "'Ah, there you are, good friend,' Sasha greeted me with a smile. He was bound by a restraining jacket, and his eyes were looking in different directions. A classic loony, almost the caricature of one. Only, I didn't find it amusing. I was locked in with that person, and even though I had unrestrained movement, I felt that it wouldn't save me from him. "'Hi, Sasha,' I greeted him.

I've met my girlfriend's father recently, he said, eagerly, getting straight to the good news. I still remember his girlfriend and how she was whispering into my ear, so I didn't congratulate him on crossing such a milestone. He's a terrific person, although I don't have to tell you that. You've met him too, haven't you? He suddenly asked me, I don't know how, but I understood what he was. was talking about. The dark, mysterious presence in the depths of the underground facility. Why did you want to talk to me, Sasha?

I asked him. Why? Because we've both met him, of course. He said, like it was the most obvious thing ever. He wanted to talk to you so, so much. Too bad you haven't stepped into the machine. You were too scared of it, I understand. But don't worry.

He lowered his voice. voice to a whisper, once I tell you everything, you won't be afraid anymore. The story he told me seemed absolutely ridiculous. If I hadn't seen the things I'd seen with my very own eyes, I wouldn't believe it. It turned out that back in the 50s, the Soviet geologists, concerned with the seismic activity, which was quite unusual for the place, had found something underneath our town. a giant creature whose cyclopic size

defied all reason a creature so massive that while it thrashed around in its sleep it could create earthquakes telling about such a discovery to the world was out of the question during those terminalist times anything that could bring

even the slightest edge in warfare was a closely guarded secret and the creature of such impossible size was a curious specimen studying it would lead to new discovery There is, new findings that, the scientists had hoped, could make Russian tanks stronger and planes faster. After a few decades of studying it, the scientists came to a conclusion.

The creature was sentient. Not in the conventional way that allowed it to use tools, no. Its intelligence was, in fact, so potent that it was above that. mind was a boundless ocean, a megaccomputer that could keep an entire universe in its imagination. While we were thinking where to get money or food or how to find a fitting mating partner, it could calculate the Earth's trajectory for the next few millions of years, in just a moment, no less. Such was its mind's power, that with a mere thought it could either drive nearby people crazy

or enlighten them with the secrets of the universe. That was the edge that the military was looking for, a gateway to the secrets of the universe, which would be then inevitably weaponised. They've started constructing the communication facility immediately, and even rolled out a prototype of a communicating device. Very soon, however, they'd found out that contact with the creature's mind was usually driving people crazy. A chance of successful contact was one in a thousand, which meant to

things. First, the scientists would require a lot of test subjects, and second, they'd have to dispose of them somehow after they were used up. They needed a front, a place where they could put all the crazy people coming out of their facility, preferably nearby, which is why the asylum was constructed, right above the facility, so that they wouldn't have to move the test subjects too far. But, very quickly, it turned out that the contact had another nasty side effect. The creature was leaving an imprint on the test subject's minds, which was leading to quite unusual psychic activity,

a psychic activity that couldn't be controlled, and residual effects of which could be felt even after the test subject's death. With such dangerous side effects and almost no sizable positive results, the experiment was ultimately deemed a failure, When the Soviet Union collapsed, a new authority didn't want to keep up the operation, and they ordered to have the facility, along with the wing, to be locked down and abandoned. They didn't account for one thing, however. It turned out that while the creature's contact with humans was usually brief, it had gotten used to it,

and now it wanted more, so much so that it started tracking potential, quote, interesting conversationalists, and bringing them to the asylum. While he was locked underground, its psychic presence reached out far. It is talk to me, friend, Sasha told me, now it wants to talk to you. Naturally, I was not about that, and I didn't want Vovoda to know that too, but I couldn't stay there any longer. I called for Vovoda, and she immediately escorted me to her cabin. No doubt, she wanted to know what I've learned.

How much did he tell you about the facility downstairs? She asked me immediately as soon as I closed the door of her cabinet. Not much, I quickly lied. She gave me a suspicious look and then offered me a deal. I'd tell her everything I've learned from Sasha, as well as everything I've seen. And if she liked what she'd heard, then she'd grant me freedom. She'd sign all the necessary paperwork and forge a few signatures to let me walk away from the asylum. Since I'd already served my time there, the army wouldn't be after me either.

In their records, I was already marked down as crazy, so they had no further interest in me. Once crazy, always crazy. I agreed. I told her everything. I told her what Sasha had told me about the facilities past. I told her that I saw and heard those girls. ghosts in the abandoned wing, that I'd seen the paperwork with the prisoners were mentioned, that I've known about their conspiracy with Mirren to make me the crazy one, and that I knew

that he'd been living in the abandoned wing for the past few weeks. When she heard that, she smirked. It must have amused her how easily I saw through their charade. Of course, I didn't tell her about my involvement, and that the creature wanted to see me. I have no doubts that if I told them. of that, the deal would be off. After my moment of honesty, I gathered enough courage and asked her a couple of

questions, for example, about her involvement with the project. Strangely, she opened up to me. She told me that she found the documents mentioning the facility by accident, and that she was intrigued by the creature's ability to imbue its powers onto people.

She wanted them for herself, but of course, she couldn't risk going crazy so she was hoping to perfect the communication process so that one day she too could have an ounce of its power after that

we were done she signed the papers and I was free to go I was free at last and remember she told me before I left the building do not tell anyone what you've seen here or you'll end up

back here So, there you have it. I'm out of the hospital now. An insane person wouldn't be let go from an asylum, would he? The only reason I post on schedule is that I know that you people are used to it. So, this is my last update. Of course, I decided to go against my word to Vovoda and call the police the moment I had a chance. After all, she will keep torturing people down there if she is not stopped.

but they didn't take me very seriously and hung up, so I guess she'll continue her experiments, hoping to one day perfect the process so that she can do it on herself. Mirren still follows me around, apparently. Vovoda has let him go too. I don't want to talk to him, so I hope that if I ignore him, he'll eventually go away.

Although I do admit that he sometimes creeps me out. Right now, he's behind my window, and he keeps peeking inside my apartment. He thinks that I can't spot him, but I can. I've always been very attentive. I don't know why he'd go to such great lengths to keep stalking me. I live on the ninth floor, so if he loses his balance, he might fall to his death. But whatever, the guy has always missed a few screws in his head. There's a particular motel that's quite well known in my area.

It's about five hours away, but it's on the road to Chicago, so kids from my school end up staying there from time to time, and when they do, they always bring back the most exciting stories about their interactions with the ghost. The motel actually capitalizes on it from what I've heard. They encourage tourists to come stay, ghost hunters and the like. It's in a nice enough area.

Good views and half decent amenities and all that. So it wasn't too difficult to convince my parents to stop there on the way back home from a trip of our own. I've always wanted to check it out myself, a chance to confirm or deny the BS. And hey, I might actually get some scary stories of my own to share. My parents are at the front desk buck in the room and I'm stood on the opposite side of the lobby, looking up at the sign they have here for tourists. It's not that impressive, to be honest. to be honest. A few paragraphs of text with a clip art cartoon ghost on the top right.

At the bottom is a picture of a girl about my age, photoshopped awkwardly in. She's wearing white makeup and snarls out of the person reading the sign. The text tells the tale of a girl humiliated by a boy she'd fallen in love with. Tricked into attending a non-existent party at the climax of a cruel and false back and forth between them, She lost the mind in a fit of rage and sliced up in their neck with a blade of shattered glass. Yikes. Talk about zero to a hundred. I probably would have just gone home. My little sister comes up to me and squeezes my arm. I shrug her off. Who's that, Noah? She asks, pointing to the photo of the girl.

Is she a ghost? I think she's supposed to be, yeah, I replied. Though they definitely could have done a better job. up with it. Hmm. Hey, you know she looks kind of like your girlfriend? I squint and tilt my head. She does a bit, actually, and I'm surprised to find a shiver of discomfort ripple through me. Well, she's just an actor or a model or whatever. She's not the real ghost. Is there a real ghost, Noah? My sister asks, staring up at me. I turn and grin down to her. That's what we're going to find out. Our room, as it happens, is a boring one. Pretty nice, well kept.

I'm actually kind of disappointed. The whole place seems fine. This isn't at all what I had expected. The scenes painted in my head by my classmates were those of a dark and towering mansion, with twisted paintings and sourcedless windows that blew down the corridors and rattled the shutters. I asked my parents for permission to explore before it gets too late. They relent on the condition that I take my sister along too.

I roll my eyes, but do as they say, taking a hand reluctantly as I lead her on down the corridors. They're all much the same. Blank walls, repeating doors. We come out to the porch and I look out to the fields and mountains beyond as the sun starts the sink behind them. It's a decent view. It's really not a bad little place. We return inside. The halls are quiet.

Quiet, but for the gentle buzz from above in the overhead light. My sister was humming and whistling to herself happily enough, but she drops into silence as we pass beneath the light that flickers. I bring us to a stop and look up at it. The flickering becomes more incessant, angrier almost, and a chill passes through me. A water fountain gurgles softly, at the end of the hall.

I grimace and shake my head, forcing the feeling away. This isn't good enough, I mutter to Anna. I can't spin a story about a faulty light or a spooky water fountain. You think a place that wanted to capitalize on a ghost would put a little more effort into making the place actually scary, you know? She doesn't respond, but she presses a little closer to me. Come on, I say, let's keep looking. And so we do.

Our search, and the whole, is unfruitful, and it's getting a bit late. Disappointed, I'm ready to return to the room, and we're not far off when Anna suddenly points out something to me excitedly. Look Noah, look! Over there! It's a secret corridor! I raise an eyebrow as she drags me over. I wouldn't call it secret exactly, but she was lucky to spot it. It feels narrower than the others, and the entrance is tugged away behind an ice machine. I wouldn't have seen it myself if she hadn't called it to my attention. She tries to drag me down it, but I hold her still for a moment, and my heart starts to thump in my chest.

Okay, I mutter, this is more like it. The corridor is as long as any other, but there are no doors. No doors at all, except for one, directly. ahead at the far end. A small cross hangs on the wall to my right, but other than that, the corridor's walls are completely unadorned. Are we going to go check it out? Anna asks up at me, expectantly, and I find myself amused by this sudden role reversal. I pull myself together. We sure are, I whisper, taking out my phone and starting to record. If anything spook is going to happen. I want it all on camera. Then together we walk on down through the hall,

carefully and quietly, though I'm not sure why. It's not like we decided on such an approach. The wind picks up outside. I can hear it through the walls, starting to blow against the building. The lights in here are steady, but they buzz a little urgently and they glow is dim. There are no windows. A small sign beside the lone door at the far end of the corridor becomes clearer. Bathroom, it reads simply, and as the door is cracked slightly ajar upon reaching it, I look down at Anna, and she looks up at me,

and I push it slowly open. We step through. The bathroom itself is largely unremarkable. Could do the bit of work for sure. The tile is cracked and chipped. Grime lurks in the corners, the drain rumbles quietly down below, but nothing to shout about. It's the mirror that gives us cause the gasp in wonder. It's so tall, extending from the sink almost all the way up to the ceiling.

The frame is black and scarlet, an intertwined and intricate pattern, and its presence over the little room is ominous and commanding. The weirdest part of the mirror, however, lies in its glass. We are nowhere to be seen. As we move from side to side, angling our heads and waving our arms at it in amazement, we are simply not visible. Our reflections are not there. The rest of the room is plain enough, reflected mundane in that shiny surface, but we are not. Now this is what I'm talking about, I say out loud with a grin, pointing the camera up to the glass.

I wave my hand between the lens and the mirror, shaking it about as my sister goes up to touch it. She carefully presses a reflectionless hand up against the surface, her face a picture of awe. I make a face at it, I waggle my fingers. This must be a tourist thing. It's so clever. I pocket my phone and step closer, pressing my face right up against it, squinting, peering carefully from side to side, trying to work out the trip. work out the trick. I tap lightly against the glass, listening for a clue in the noise it makes, but I don't know what I'm listening for really. All I hear is the hissing of pipes above and the wind

beyond the walls. Noah, my sister whispers, tugging at my sleeve. Noah, what's this? I look up to where she's pointing. To the side of the mirror and carved into the wall is a chilling. an unsettling inscription. Marla Morgan sliced the throat and so this little rhymes she wrote. Say her name three times and clear and in the glass she will appear. Goosepoms ripple across my arms.

Oh my God, her mutter, taking out my phone to snap a quick picture. I think this might be a bit too scary for you, Anna. Is that a name, Noah? Is that the ghost? Yeah, yeah, I think so. She studies the inscription again. I probably shouldn't have let her, to be honest, but whatever.

It's grim, but it's only a prank or something. No worse than what you'd see on TV. I look back to the mirror. The strange, dim lighting in the room cast curious shadows across its features. The wind whistles outside and the pipes hiss. My sister follows along the words on the wall with a finger tracing them. She reads out loud, Say her name three times and clear and in the glass she will appear.

Do you want to try it? Her laugh, reaching down to pick her up. She squeals and giggles and I hold her above the sink out close to the reflectionless mirror. She quietens and I feel her heartbeat. Go on, I whisper. I dare you. She slowly says the name, whispering to. Marla Morgan.

And a rumble rolls along the pipes. Against my better sense of reason, against my sense of logic, I start to become nervous. I feel little buds of sweat forming across my skin. Marla Morgan. A light flickers in the corridor beyond, and the bathroom's temperature seems to drop. Tensed, and all of a sudden on the precipice of a powerful panic, I wonder if I've made a terrible, terrible mistake.

My sister opens a mouth and laughs. She pushes me away, and I drop her gently to the floor, and at once the tension is broken. I wipe my forehead and return the laugh awkwardly. I can't do it, Noah. I'm too scared, she giggles. Probably for the best, I mutter, swallowing with a dry throat. You know, just in case. Anyway, come on, let's get out of here. She merrily pushes away out of the door and back down the corridor, and I shoot one, last look at the curious mirror.

I shiver and take my leave. It's about 3 a.m. when I visit the bathroom again. I might have been two. Can't really remember. My family, all asleep, I grab the keycard to the door from the side table and stumble out of our room and down the corridor, only half awake, rubbing my eyes and holding my bladder. The bathroom with a reflectionless mirror is the one my legs carry me to.

It's not the closest, but it's the one I head to now. in my slumberous state. Eyes still half closed, I carefully push into the room. I click the door's lock and lift the seat of the toilet starting my business. I glance over to the mirror, startling myself awake once I realize where I am, once I realize that no reflection is looking back at me from the glass. My head starts the pound as my senses return to me one by one. It was bad enough being in here with Anna, let alone by my myself in the middle of the damn night. It's just a gimmick, I show myself.

A tourist trick. That's what Mom and Dad said. And yet, the mirror's very present seems to darken the whole room. It doesn't make the place feel larger as mirrors should. It somehow makes it feel smaller, claustrophobic even. I lowered the lid and stepped at the sink to wash my hands, unable to keep myself from shaking. I left my gaze.

I stare into the shadowed void beyond the glass, intently. I can't look away. I lean in close. I lean real, real close, trying to conquer my irrational fear, trying to reclaim a lost sense of pride. I tap my fingers against the glass. Anyone there? I whisper.

Silence. Marla Morgan sliced the throat, and so this little round. she wrote, say a name three times and clear, and in the glass she will appear. Ah, screw it, I say out loud. I ain't no chicken. I force out to chuckle, but it sounds anxious and rings hollow. I press my hands up to the glass. I lean my face in close. Marla Morgan, I whisper. My heart beats loud in my ear. I lean a little closer. Marla Morgan.

I can do this. I can do this. Ma... A sudden metallic clank from the corridor sends me sprawling back up against the wall in terror. My words caught to my tongue as my lungs empty of air. I dart forward and unlock the door, tearing it open and peering out into the corridor beyond. I can't see anything at first, but then an elbow appears from behind the corner of the far end. I hear the sound of a bucket.

being filled with ice, and I put a trembling hand to my forehead, sighing in grateful relief. It's just some dude using the ice machine. Oh God, oh God, I muttered to myself, running a hand through my hair. Okay, screw this, I'm going back to bed. I admit it, all right? I say to no one in particular as I make my way back to my room. I admit it, I'm a chicken. It's an otherwise uneventful night.

We pack up the next morning and my parents and my sister are waiting for me in the car. I said I'd return the key to the front desk for them. Did you have a good night then, young man? The guy behind the desk asks as I pass over the key. Yeah, it was good, thanks, I reply. Hey, so, I was actually wondering about that mirror, the one at the end of the corridor. I've got a... Oh, hey, you found the mirror.

It's a freaky-looking thing, ain't you? it. We showed off during tours and such. I breathe, a quiet sigh of relief. Oh yeah, that's what I thought. I was just wondering about, you know, the whole... The vibe, right? He interrupts as he scratches his jaw. Yeah, it's pretty weird in there.

We thought about fixing it up, but the aesthetic kind of adds to the creepiness, you know. It's the inscription that always gets to me. That freaky little rhyme. You see that? I nod. But again, it adds to the mystery and the intrigue, and it ain't just graffiti. It's been there longer than any of us guys have. The employees, I mean, could be as old as the mirror itself.

A beat of sweat, butts and trickles down my neck. I feel the colour start to drain from my face. Old as the mirror. But I thought you said it was a tourist thing. You put it up for the tourists, right? Oh, it's a tourist thing alright, but we didn't put it up. He's been there since before the beginning. We decided to keep everything pretty much as we found it,

since that's the room the girl killed us off in after all. Marla Morgan adds to the legitimacy. She was a real person. I take a slow, step back in horror, but the desk worker seems oblivious to my distress. There's actually a story about that mirror, you know. He goes on They say that if she's there

If she's watching you from behind the glass Then your own reflection Completely disappears Poised Tensed unseen on the other side Her eyes white and wide Teeth bared and that shard of bloody glass Held high, gripped and pale

And shaking fingers Just waiting Waiting He chuggles and shake his head So anything else I can do for you young man? I politely tell him no And I turn My vision throbbing at the edges

And a fear within me As cold as a shot of ice And I get the hell out I don't say a word on the drive back home But I don't mess around with paranormal stuff anymore And I hug my sister Just a little bit tighter I've been on the run for seven

I have no idea where I am, not exactly. I know I'm somewhere in the new forest, but after the first few hours I completely lost my bearings, and now that it's dark out, I don't have any idea at all. It doesn't matter. None of it matters anymore. What matters is I can finally see lights bobbing through the pine trees in the distance, yellow lights in the dark. I'm crouched in a ditch, half hidden in the undergrowth, haven't moved in ten minutes. My skin is dirty and sweat soaked, my feet hurt, legs feel like they're on fire. I think my time at the run might finally be coming to an end.

I hope I still have enough time yet though, enough time to tell this story. I only have two things in my pockets and one of them is my phone. I've kept a little running diary in the note section ever since I got it. Just a few thoughts each day. Over the past few days, I've been writing in it more than usual. A lot more. I've had good reason to. What follows is everything I wrote down since last Tuesday.

That was the day after my little brother's birthday. The day after Jamie turned 12. The same day, we used this brand new metal detector for the first and last time. Thursday. Jamie wanted to use the metal detector ever since he unwrapped it, but yesterday was a no-go.

Too much rain. I was kind of hoping it might rain again today, so I wouldn't be roped into helping him, but no luck. Bright, screaming sunshine, not a cloud in the sky. The little turd burst into my room before 10 a.m., this manic grin on his face,

and that was it. Any hopes of a quiet day playing video games were over. I shouldn't be too harsh on Jamie, though. I know I'm a few years older than he is, but I still enjoy hanging out with him. He asks a lot of annoying questions, and he can be a pain, but he's okay, really.

Our session with a metal detector was more fun than I was expecting too, at least at first. I didn't think the thing would work, but we ended up finding a bunch of stuff. A couple of screws and nails, a tent peg, a few coins. They were only pennies, but Jamie's eyes lit up when we dug them out as if he'd stumbled across a box of gold.

The whole ritual was sort of entertaining. Walking up and down the garden, scanning the detector back and forth over the grass, waiting for the beeps to change to a solid hum of sound. I'll admit it, Whenever the thing picked something up, even though I knew it was probably going to be junk, I felt a flare of excitement in my stomach. And the last reading we got had us both going.

It was our strongest signal yet, by quite some way. With the coins and the screws, the metal detector only briefly hummed as it passed over them, probably because they were so small. But the reading we got in the far corner of the garden, in the shadows of the silver birch tree was way better. A long, drawn-out beep. It sounds like that hospital show

mum watches when someone dies, and I couldn't help but grin. Then I started digging. Finding what the detector had picked up didn't take long. The thing was only buried about eight inches from the surface. We didn't know what it was at first.

To begin with, looking down at his dirt and crest. shape, I assumed it was just some random junk. It wasn't, though. Jamie dusted the crud off, and I saw that it wasn't. It was this little cube of metal, not much bigger in size than a matchbox. The face is smooth and flat, just a single, unbroken line running around its middle. Jamie held the thing up above his head, staring at it, his eyes wide and round.

When I called his name a second later, he didn't even react, just stared at the thing as though he couldn't hear me. He only jerked out of his trance when I reached out to try to grab it off him. Get lost, Max, it's mine! Yanked his arms away and stepped out of my reach. For a second, I saw something flash across Jamie's eyes, something that almost made me take a step back. It was a flash of something I'd never seen on my little brother's face before Not anger, exactly

I'd seen that plenty of times But a sort of darkness That's the only way I can describe it And it was gone so quickly I thought I might have only imagined it A second later Jamie was stuffing the cube in his pocket Along with the other things we'd found

And muttering something about it only being rubbish Before I had a chance to question him, Mom called us in for lunch. Friday. I'm worried about Jamie. Really, I am. I didn't see the kid all morning, and when he finally came down for lunch, he looked like he hadn't slept. He definitely hadn't showered either. His hair looked like a bird's nest, and the corners of his eyes were caked with crust.

They had bags beneath them, too. dark semi-circles like bruises Jamie sat at the table without saying anything and he barely touched a mouthful of his beans on toast just pushed them around the plate with his fork when mum asked him if he was okay he mumbled something about feeling poorly then left for his room

I followed him not straight away but after a gap of five minutes or so once I'd finished eating crept up the staircase of our cottage as quietly as I could, Jamie's door was shut. No sound on the far side of it. You can normally hear YouTube

or the gunshots from some video game when you walk past it, so this was already unusual. I tiptoed over and pressed in ear to the wood. I couldn't hear anything. Not at first. Just a weird, seashell-like rush of my own blood.

But then, after a few seconds, I caught the sound of James' voice. A constant, low murmur, as though he was whispering to someone. The noise made the skin of my neck prickle. Could the kid be on his phone in there? It was possible, of course. Not out of the question. Maybe he was chatting to one of his friends.

I didn't think so, though. The sound of his voice was low and unbroken, almost like he was singing under his breath, or chanting. There were no pauses while he waited for someone else to respond. After a couple more seconds, I decided to bite the bullet. Jamie? I knocked lightly on his door.

Jamie, you there? Silence. The murmuring cut off. All I could hear now was my heartbeat and that constant background rush of my own blood. Jamie? still no response. I was a little creeped out, but I was also starting to get a bit annoyed by this point. Why the hell was he ignoring me?

After a couple more seconds of silence, I lost the last of my patience. Jamie's door doesn't have a lock on it, so on an impulse I twisted the handle and shoved it open. Jamie was sat on his bed by the window, staring at something in his hands. As the door opened, he stuffed the thing back in his pocket before I could get a look at it. Then he stayed up at me with white eyes. What the hell are you doing in here? I asked, staring around Jamie's dark room. The curtains were drawn and clothes are strewn across the floor.

His bed clothes were ruffled. You know Mom's going to kill you if you don't tidy this place up? Jamie didn't say anything. just stared at me with an expression I couldn't place. Hello? Am I talking to a brick wall? Jamie kept staring for a few more moments. Then, abruptly, he flopped back onto his bed.

Lay completely still. I told you, he muttered. I'm not feeling well. I opened my mouth to say something else. Then gave up. Reached out and pulled the door to his room. shut. As I was walking away down the corridor, I thought I heard a faint rustling sound as if Jamie had started moving in there again the moment I left Saturday.

I don't know what to do. I'm writing this in the darkness of my bedroom at 4 a.m. The house around me is silent. I can't sleep. I tried to for a while, but it was never going to happen. My mind is too active, too busy swirling with images of what I saw in the garden, what I saw when I looked out the window. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I need to get my thoughts in order. Start at the beginning. I went out with my friends yesterday afternoon, so I didn't see Jamie for the rest of Friday. I got home after dinner and went straight upstairs to watch a film. Then I fell asleep around 11. I woke up about an hour ago. It was a noise that did it. You ever wake up knowing you've heard something, some outside sound, but when you open

your eyes, you're so disoriented, you can't tell what it is. It was like that earlier. I fought my way out of some bad dream, my skin covered in sweat, and at first, First, all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart. Thump, thump, thump. I sat up in bed, listening, feeling on edge for a reason I couldn't place. The house around me was quiet. There was no faint downstairs noise from the TV, which meant it really must be late.

Dad normally goes to bed around midnight, so the house is only really quiet during the early morning hours. I was about to live. back down when I heard it. The soft, faint click of a door shutting. Somewhere downstairs. I tensed. Could it be mum or dad heading down to get a drink of water?

That was my first thought, but I dismissed it straight away. The sound had been too quiet, as if the person making the sound was trying not to make any noise at all. and dad might be a bit careful if they got up in the night, but they were never that careful. I swung my legs out from under my duvet and touched them down on the carpet. My room was warm, but my skin prickled with goosebumps. Burglar. That was the only thing running through my sleep fogged brain right then.

Oh Jesus, what if someone's breaking in? I stumbled over to my window and peaked through a crack in the curtains. My room overlooks the back garden And I immediately had a view of moonlight spilling over grass Illuminating everything with its silver glow The bird's tree stood in the back corner casting a shadow across the lawn that looked like a giant talon Someone was standing beneath it

I felt my heart push its way up to my throat Every inch my skin prickled There was a person standing at the base of the tree, their face hidden in the shadows. I stared down at them, completely frozen, and it was only when the person moved that I suddenly realized. It was Jamie. He shifted from his position and moonlight struck his face.

I couldn't see his expression from where I was standing, but I could see where he was looking. The kid was staring down at an object, cupped in the palms of his hands, an object that glinted in the light from the moon. It was the thing we'd found buried in the garden.

I don't know how I knew this, but I did. I knew it straight away. It was a little cube we found using the metal detector. The same cube, I suddenly realized, that Jamie had been studying in his room when I barged in on him

yesterday. As I watched, Jamie continued to stare down at it, and then abruptly he twisted it in his hands. I don't really know what happened or rather I know what I think happened, but I don't know if I believe it or not. I don't know how I can. Writing this down in the darkness on my bedroom, a part of me thinks I might have simply imagined it, that my half-a-sleep brain might have just conjured it all up. I don't think so though. Despite what the nagging voice of my head is suggesting, I really don't think I did.

The whole thing felt too vivid for that. What I saw next were the lights. Bright yellow globes of light, drifting down for the branches of the silver birch tree, floating down like fireflies. Those lights bobbed on the air in an invisible current, dancing around Jamie's head like insects. jobs, each about the size of a fist. Jamie turned his head to look at each of them in turn, his mouth hanging slightly open, and then his head snapped in my direction. I fell back away from the window. Adrenaline flooded through me. As I scrambled backwards across the carpet,

I felt my heart thumping in my chest. He'd seen me. I knew he'd seen me. His eyes. He'd had been on the floating light, and then his head had moved sharply and suddenly in the direction of my window. He'd seen me watching him. For a reason, I didn't really understand. The thought filled my stomach with a cold well of fear. I hurried across my room, locked the door, and called back into bed. I heard the back door click open a few moments later, heard soft footsteps, patting through the ground floor of the house. The creaking. of the stairs. I stared at my bedroom door, ears strained, waiting with a sudden terror to see if the footsteps would start moving in the direction of my room. They didn't though.

They paused for an impossibly long time on the landing, and then they moved off in the direction of Jamie's room. I kept listening until I heard his door click shut Sunday. I planned it perfectly. Forced myself to get up early, despite a second bad night's sleep, then went to join mom for breakfast, told her I was worried about Jamie, said I didn't know if he was nervous about going back to school or something,

but he hadn't show over the past couple of days, had barely left his room. I knew she'd react to that, and I wasn't disappointed. She put a coffee down and marched straight upstairs, and I crept up after her, waited just outside my own room and listened as she barged into Jamie's. I couldn't hear what they were saying to each other at first,

but after a while I heard Mom ordering Jamie downstairs to the bathroom. Heard a saying that he needed a good wash and a meal, and then they'd talk. And a couple of seconds later, I heard a saying something that cut my heart raising even quicker. No, don't even think about taking any toys with you. She wasn't shouting, but her voice was stern. That thing stays here. I want you in there giving yourself a proper wash today, mister. No messing around.

I heard Jamie mumbled something I couldn't hear, and then a moment later I heard both of them trudging downstairs. The bathroom door clicked shut and I listened as mom's footsteps pat in the direction of the kitchen below me. I heard the flick of the kettle being switched on. Then I ran. I tried to move as quickly as I possibly could without making a sound. As I passed the staircase, I heard the shower being turned on downstairs.

I quickened my pace. Jamie's door reared up in front of me and I pushed it open, just wide enough so I could slip inside. The place was a mess. The curtains were drawn and the room was a nest of shadows. But even in the darkness, I couldn't see how untidy it was. was strewn about on the floor, drawers left hanging open, dirty glasses and a couple of bowls sat on Jamie's desk.

Mom must be worried about him too, I thought, or there's no way she'd have let him off so lightly just now. I scanned my eyes across the room. I was looking for the little metal cube, but I couldn't see it on Jamie's desk. It wasn't on his bedside either, or on top of the chest of drawers. He was playing with it on the bed the other day, whispered a voice in my mind. He was sat up in bed, staring down at the thing.

That sounded right. If mum had forced him to leave it where he was when she came in, maybe it was hidden in a fold of his rumpled duvet. I made my way in that direction, keeping my footsteps light. Downstairs, I could still hear the rush of the shower. The kettle was rummling towards a boil in the kitchen too. We lived in an old house, and the noises carry, but sometimes it's useful.

The little metal cube wasn't on Jamie's bed. I straightened out his duvet, making a mental note to rumble it back up again before I left, but there was no sign of anything. I was about to turn away when I caught sight of his pillow. I reached out, but something held me back from rummaging beneath it with my hand. Instead, I grabbed the pillow by the top of its case, took a breath and lifted it to one side.

The little metal cube stared up at me. It looked exactly the same way as it had the day we'd found it, only cleaner. Without dirt encrusting it, I could now clearly make out the unbroken line running around its middle. Its metal was a dull silver. I stared at it for a second longer, and then I reached out and picked it up.

I don't know what happened next. I still don't know what happened. I've been thinking about it ever since. It's all I've been thinking about, and I don't have the answers. All I know for sure is that when I touched the thing, I felt a sensation, a little like electricity, go running up my arm. And then, I was somewhere else. I felt the light shift and change around me.

One moment I'd been sat in shadows. The next I was standing in a wide, open space filled with a purple glow. Wind whipped around me. It was warm against my skin, and I could feel tiny grains on its current. Little particles of grit or sand strike in my face. I still held the cube in my hand. My eyes were fixed on it at first, but at a sudden change in my surroundings, I pour my gaze away from it. I raised my head and stared.

I was standing outside in the middle of a massive open space. Dark sand crunched beneath my feet. I could see nothing around me for what looked like miles and miles. An impossibly distant row of mountains stood on the horizon, but that was it. I felt a mixture of terror and awe fighting in my stomach, and I tried to tell myself it was only a dream. Of course it was a dream. I was in Jamie's bedroom, at home, in our cottage.

I must have fallen asleep on his bed. Wind gusted against my skin, as if in protest, had the thought. I squinted my eyes, and then, after a moment, I looked up. Purple light covered my skin, and I guess I was searching for its source. I angled my head to stare at the sky above. My eyes were still narrowed, and at first all I could see were thin ribbons of light. But then the wind died down again, and I opened my eyes fully. I felt small.

I felt smaller than I'd ever felt before in my life. Standing there, looking up at the night sky above me, a sky I didn't even vaguely recognize. I felt a sense of terror in my stomach that I'd never experienced before. The space above me was like a yawning black ocean. Tiny stars glittered inside it like jewels. Thousands and thousands of stars. More than I'd ever seen during the camping trips our dad sometimes took us on when we were younger.

It wasn't the sight of those stars that scared me the most though. It wasn't the gaping black sky either. No, what really put the fear in me? What filled me with the realization that I was so far out of my depth I might never be able to swim back what was the sight of the moon or rather moons

the giant purple twin moons that hung in the sky above me each twice the size of our human sun I don't have much time left now the lights are getting closer it's damp in this ditch

damp and cold My clothes are soaked through And I can no longer hold my phone Without my hands shaking I'll have to be quick It was the sound of the bathroom door shutting That jerked me from my chance in the end That brought me back to James' room

I came to sitting on his bed The metal cube clutched so tightly my hand That my knuckles are white I dropped the thing as if it was burning Put the pillow over it and manoeuvied it back into place Then I crept out of James' room forcing myself to move carefully, despite the fact I could hear his footsteps on the stairs. As I walked past the staircase, I saw him, head down with a towel wrapped around his skinny waist, trudging up.

He didn't see me. Once I was back in my room, I locked the door, then crawled under the covers. I tried to stop my hands from shaking, but they wouldn't. Jamie found me in the kitchen later. Mom had gone out to get us dinner and Dad was still off with his friends at the golf course We were home alone I was making myself a cup of tea

Staring into space as the kettle boiled Thinking about what I'd seen Movement in my peripheral vision made me jump I looked up and saw Jamie He was standing in the doorway Hands pushed deep into his pockets of his hoodie Thick bags bruised under the skin of his eyes Jamie stared at me, his hands rustling back and forth in his pockets.

You saw it, didn't you? He didn't smile as he spoke. I stared at him, trying to keep my face as neutral as I could. So what? Don't try and play stupid. I know you saw it. I know you went into my room. I don't know what you're talking about, Jamie.

He stepped into the kitchen, moved towards me. For some reason, I almost flinched, but I forced myself to stand my ground. This was Jamie, my little brother, a scrawny, 12-year-old kid. I had nothing to be afraid of. But even as I told myself that, I did feel afraid. I felt afraid ever since I left Jamie's room earlier. It was no good trying to pretend otherwise. and when Jamie walked even closer

I saw his hands shift once more in his pockets my heart began to beat rapidly my chest you need to keep your hands off my stuff Jamie stood about a meter away from me now his eyes locked a mine you need to stay out of my room or else I think looking back that was the tipping point

the moment everything began to slide out to control I was still afraid, see, but something about Jamie's childish threat, or else, caused me to let out a bark of laughter I couldn't contain. As soon as I did, Jamie's expression changed. Something darkened behind his eyes. A second later, he stepped toward me and pulled his right hand out of the pocket of his hoodie. I saw a flash of silver and tensed, thinking it was the metal cube. I... was wrong. As Jamie waved his right hand at me,

I saw the thing clutching his grip was a Swiss army knife. Another birthday gift, this one from my uncle Tony. Jamie had already pulled out the little blade attachment. What the? Jamie stepped forward again, and I reached out and grabbed his wrist without thinking. Looking back, I don't think he was going to do anything. I think the main thing. he wanted was for me to take him seriously. But the fear into my stomach made me panic,

and a second later we were wrestling with each other in the kitchen, fighting for control of the knife. Jamie let out a yelp of anger. I'm much bigger than he is, but there was a strength in the kid that day that I'd never seen before. He was like a cornered animal. He wrenched his arm back and forth in an attempt to break my grip, then started swinging kicks into my legs I grunted in pain and gripped his wrists in both hands, pushing it towards the floor. I don't understand what happened next. I still don't understand it. Those last moments have been replaying on a loop in my head ever since I left home, ever since I ran away.

Over and over again. So many times that I no longer know which details are real and which ones my tired mind had invented. All I know for sure is that at some point during our struggle I twisted my hands in the opposite direction in an attempt to catch Jamie off guard. It worked. Jamie had been putting all his energy into resisting me, so when I abruptly shifted direction, it completely overbalanced him. The effect was much greater than I'd been expecting, and it sent the knife swinging upwards in a frantic arc. Jamie screamed. I stumbled backwards and let go of his wrist.

There was a brief, fleeting moment when nothing happened, where he simply stood facing each other in the silence of the kitchen. Then Jamie sank to his knees, and I saw blood start to bubble from a cut in his throat. The lights are around me now. Although the glow from my phone screen is dim, I'm going to have to put it away soon. Otherwise, they'll see me.

Otherwise, my hiding place in this ditch will be revealed to whoever's hunting for me in these woods. I don't know what happened after I ran. I don't know what the sequence of events was after I left my brother dying in the kitchen and took off into the forest. But I think I can guess. I have 96 missed calls on my phone from my mom,

a bunch more from my dad too. plus a fair few from a number I don't recognise people outlooking for me The only real question Is who's found me first The search parties Or the floating yellow lights I saw that night in the garden The lights I saw drifting around Jamie

And the cube he held in his hands The little middle cube That's currently resting In my front pocket I don't know what may we take it in the end I did it without thinking grabbed a tea towel from the oven rail and scooped it out of the pocket

in Jamie's hoodie without touching it shoved it into my jeans I thought Jamie was already unconscious by then but as I bent down to get the thing out he whispered something in my ear something that sent a cold shiver running down my back

I've seen it Max blood leaked and gurgled from Jamie's throat his voice was a gravely whispered "'whole worlds in that thing.' He opened his lips and closed them a few more times, but no more sound came out. His glassy eyes looked straight through me. I turned and fled the kitchen.

I've been turning those last words over in my mind ever since. I've been turning them over as I run through the trees and as I've crouched shivering in this ditch. Whole worlds in that thing. If I close my eyes, I can still picture the windswept deserts I saw in James' room. I can still see those giant twin moons, and I can still remember the feeling of awe and terror I felt looking up at them. But was that feeling really any worse than the way I feel now? I'm not sure.

I'm really not sure. All I do know is that the cube in my pocket at least gives me an option. A final get out. It means that when the time comes and whatever's behind those lights in the trees catches up with me, I don't have to face them if I don't want to. I can pull the cube out of my pocket,

twisted open in my hands, and go somewhere else. I've been on a lot of walks lately. There haven't been many other opportunities to get out of the house after all. I've been taking quarantine very seriously. One of my best friends got sick with coronavirus and had to be hospitalized for several weeks, so I'm treading carefully during this pandemic.

On top of that, I recently quit my job and decided to take a few weeks off while I figured out what I wanted to do next. So I'm spending almost all of my time at home. For the most part, I don't mind. I'm not a particularly social person, so the distancing doesn't bother me. And I've got plenty to do at home. Still, I do start to get a little stir crazy being cooped up in the house all the time. Besides, I've always enjoyed taking a walk around the neighbourhood to get a little fresh air and clear my mind. Walking helps me think through my problems, make decisions and come up with ideas.

So, I've been trying to take a walk around my neighbourhood once a day, just to help me stay sane. Of course, I live in Arizona, where it is currently about 115 degrees outside, So walks are tricky. I usually go out either at night or early in the morning before the sun comes up. That way, it's a little cooler outside, and they usually aren't too many people out for me to worry about avoiding. As an added bonus, walks in the dark can be quite creepy, which suits me just fine as a lifelong horror fan.

Sometimes I even listen to a spooky podcast in my headphones to try to scare myself. I had my headphones on when I went for my walk six nights ago. I left the house about 11pm, a little later than usual. It had been a particularly hot day and I had been feeling lazy, so I thought about skipping the walk entirely, but I knew that if I did, my legs would get restless and I would have trouble sleeping that night, so I decided to go ahead and go.

As always, I brought my switchblade, just to be on the safe side. The knife was a gift from my brother, and while I'd never used it, I never really expected to need to. I kept it sharp and always brought it along with me when I went out after dark. Better safe than sorry. At that time of night, the neighbourhood streets were quiet and mostly deserted. Save for a few passing cars, I didn't encounter anyone as I walked peacefully. I followed my normal route for a few minutes.

but stopped when I got to the little neighbourhood park. I usually made my way through this park on my walks. It was normally well lit by a series of old-fashioned lampposts strategically placed throughout the park. But at this late hour, all of the lampposts were off. It occurred to me that I had no idea when this park technically closed. Of course, even if it was closed, there was nothing really stopping me from walking through it. I thought about it, but I knew that a lot of people walked their dogs through this park and even though there were signs posted everywhere telling pet owners to clean up after their animals,

a lot of them didn't. With the park shrouded in darkness that was only disturbed by the gentle moonlight, I wouldn't be able to see where I was placing my feet and I didn't want to risk stepping in anything. I decided I would take a different route that night and explore a different part of the neighbourhood. Instead of cutting through the park, I walked around his outskirts. I kept walking until I came across a well-lit alleyway.

I live in a fairly nice neighbourhood, as you can probably gather from the fact that we have our own park. In addition to the park, there are also a few alleys that sort of tie in with a park system, and this appeared to be one of them. The gravel alleyway was extra wide with a paved path in the middle for walking and bicycling. The path was lined with a series of waist-eye lampposts which cast a gentle glow in the alley, illuminating the scattered trees and bushes which grew in the gravel. The lampost themselves were painted in gentle grey to blend in with the landscape. The whole scene almost felt more like a hiking trail than an alley.

It looked like a nice place to walk. So I crossed the street and turned onto the paved path. Almost immediately I noticed the small. rock placed at the base of the first lamppost on the left side of the path. Painted with a bright blue sheen, the rock caught the gentle light of the lamppost and stood out from the grey gravel around it. The word welcome was painted on the rock in yellow lettering. I smiled. Ever since the pandemic hit, I had been seeing little painted rocks like these around the neighbourhood. They were usually painted in bright colours with happy little messages.

I assumed they were the work of bored neighbours, a nice little art project from people stuck inside with too much time of their hands. Whoever it was, I appreciated them for taking the time to spread a little positivity during the pandemic. Finding these rocks and my walks always brought a little smile to my face. I looked ahead to the next lamppost, which was about 15 feet ahead, and on the alternate side of the path. Sure enough, I saw that another rock was glittered at the base of the second lamppost. This one painted a glossy red with orange lettering. As they approached,

the letters came into clearer view. Smile, it said, so I did. I kept walking down the path, and made a mental note to remember the location of this alley. I might have to adjust my normal route and walk this path more often. There was a lamppost every 15 or 20 feet on alternating sides of the path. As I suspected, at each lamppost, I found a colourful, glossy rock with a painted message. I made a point to pause and read them all as I walked.

Be kind, one of them said. We love you, said another. One just had a little yellow smiley face. Have fun. Lance, stay safe, stop. I paused. This one was different from the others. The word stop was painted in red,

but the rock itself had not been painted at all. It was a smooth greystone that blended in well with the gravel surrounding it. The message gave me pause as well, as it didn't fit with the tone of the others at all. I stared at it for a moment, then shrugged and moved on. I wondered if maybe that.

that rock was unfinished. Maybe someone would be back to add to it later. Maybe it would eventually say, stop worrying, or something like that. I moved my gaze ahead to the next lamppost, and frowned. Once again there was a rock, but it wasn't painted with any bright or glossy colours. I could see red letters on the plain grey stone, and as I got closer, I read them. Wait. Puzzled, I kept walking. The next rock was similar to the last two. Turn back, it said in red lettering. But of course, I didn't turn back. At this point, my curiosity was peaked, and there was no way I was going to turn back now. In fact, I walked faster, eager to see what the next rock said. Don't, was next.

At the next lamppost again, but in a bolder lettering and all capital letters. Don't. I started to grin. This was starting to get just a tiny bit creepy, and I loved it. I wondered if there was a horror fan in the neighbourhood, someone who decided to break up the positivity with a little spookiness. It seemed like something I would do, frankly. I glanced ahead to the next lamppost and saw that there were two rocks under this one.

As I got closer, I noticed that their letters were not painted at all. Instead, it looked like someone had written in these in black Sharpie. One of them said, really. The other, and very bold lettering. Stop. But of course, I kept walking. The next lamp-post had four rocks, each of them plain grey stone, each with a single word scribbled in Sharpie.

What are you doing? Then at the next lamppost two more. Turn back. Now. At this point, I have to admit that I was starting to get a little creeped out. I wasn't sure why. They were just rocks after all. No different than the colourful ones from before,

except that these were put here by someone with a slightly darker sense of fun. It probably didn't help that I was still listening to my horror podcast and it was pretty late at night. For whatever reason, I found myself glancing at shadows as I walked, looking for signs of movement. When I reached the next lamppost, I finally stopped in my tracks. The rock under this post was larger than the others and the message that was scrawled on it sent shivers running up and down my spine.

He'll kill you. It seemed to me that this one went a little too far. I was actually surprised that someone had gotten away with writing something like that in a public place, on a path where parents probably walked their children. I glanced their head down the gently winding path. From where I was standing, I could only see three more lampposts. After that was pitch-black darkness. I guess that some of the lampposts were probably broken,

which was a common problem in these alleyways. I thought about turning back. This was creepy enough that I wasn't sure how I would feel about continuing once there was no light. But the logical part of my brain insisted that I was being silly. They were just rocks after all, just someone's silly joke. And I wasn't scared of the dark. Besides, if I really had trouble seeing, I could always use the flashlight on my phone. There was no point in turning back.

I'd been walking in this alley for several minutes now, so I had to be approaching another street soon anyway. Still, I stood there indecisively for a few moments. I'd almost talked myself into turning back when something else caught my eye. I squinted ahead at the next lamppost. There was no rock on the ground at its base. Instead, it looked like someone had written

something on the lamppost itself. The text was not facing me, but was instead angled toward the path, so I couldn't quite make out what it said from where I was standing. But this was another escalation. Writing creepy messages on scattered rocks was one thing, but this was actual vandalism now. I hesitated, thinking. In the end, curiosity won out. The horror fan in me wanted to see what came next.

and wouldn't let me turn back. I kept walking at a slower pace this time, creeping forward until I could read the text that had been scribbled on the lamppost in black sharpie. This is not a joke. While my logical brain protested the silly precaution, instinct ignored logic, and I found myself reaching into my pocket

and pulling out the switchblade. I held it in one hand, my thumb resting on the button, that would extend the blade if I needed it. Better safe than sorry, I guess. Looking ahead, I saw that more words had been written on the next lamppost, and I kept moving. Stop, was written at the top of the post in bold lettering.

Below that, in a more hasty scribble, the warning from before was repeated. He will kill you. I frowned and looked ahead again, eyeballing the last lamppost I could see. Its light illuminated the path for a few feet past it. Beyond that, was total darkness. Again, I could see writing in the post, but I couldn't make it out.

At this point, I was committed. I had to know. Feeling genuinely unsettled now, I pushed the button on my switchblade and the inner spring mechanism extended the blade in an instant. I tightened my fist around the knife and held it at the ready as I crept forward. toward the last light. I stopped a few feet away when I could finally make out what was written on the post. He is here.

As soon as I read the words, the light flickered off. I gasped. In that moment I almost turned and ran for it. I probably would have, except that when I turned around, the light from the next closest lamp post flickered off too, and I found my face. standing in almost total darkness. My balls quickened. I yanked my headphones off and hung them around my neck, then listened, half expecting to hear the sound of gravel

crunching beneath footsteps. I could hear a cicada chirping somewhere nearby. Otherwise, the world was silent. I stood perfectly still, doing everything in my power, not to disturb that silence. My eyes darting around in an effort to probably darkness that had so suddenly surrounded me. After a moment, I finally remembered my cell phone. I took it out of my pocket with my free hand, turned on the screen, and switched on the flashlight app. The light was plenty bright enough to illuminate my surroundings, so I spun around on the spot,

holding my phone out in front of me, shining it on the path and the surrounding alleyway. Some part of my brain was expecting to find a shadowy figure, someone lurking and the the night, but I was alone. I did notice something else, though. More painted rocks, lots of them. They littered the ground behind the lamppost, whose light had gone out as I approached it. There were dozens of them.

Some of them painted bright colours, others plain grey. From what I could see, they all had messages written on them. Some painted in glossy colours, others scrawled in sharpie. I didn't even try to read them all, but a few caught my eye as I scanned the area. Love, peace, there will be blood. Keep safe, you will die here. Here he is. Oh no.

Help each other. Wash your hands. Don't turn around. I swept my gaze further and further from the path. And then I froze. In the light of my phone, I could see the fence on the side of the side of the road. the alley. The fence itself looked perfectly ordinary, constructed from cinder blocks, just like the fence in my own backyard, but my gaze settled on a wooden gate set in the fence, almost

directly behind the lamppost. Even from where I was standing, I could see that the wood was warped and rotted. It almost looked like it was older than the fent it was set in. That was odd enough in and of itself, but that wasn't what caught my attention. A single word was written on the gate in enormous crimson letters. Run, I should have. But I was captivated. I stared at the letters, gently glittering in the light from my phone, as if the paint was fresh.

All of a sudden, a light came on from the other side of the fence, and I heard the sound of a door closing. My eyes widened. someone was outside. I hurried to turn the flashlight off on my phone, plunging myself back into darkness. In my other hand, I held the switchblade in a tight grip, my hand shaking. Every ounce of me was conflicted between the desire to flee and the need to stay still and avoid making any noise.

I waited and I listened. For a moment there was silence, and then came a sound that I would have seen. sounded like a whispering voice, except it was coming from the other side of the fence, and I wasn't close enough to hear anyone whispering. Perhaps I hissing then? And then a sound that might have been a bird flapping its wings. I stayed perfectly still, holding my breath.

I don't know if I could have moved if I wanted to. I don't know how much time passed. My gaze was fixed on the gate, looking for any signs of movement. Everything was quiet, everything was still. Several moments passed in this tense stalemate while I waited for something to happen. Then finally I noticed them. A pair of eyes peering at me over the gate.

I shouldn't have been able to see them. With my phone off and the alley dark, the only light came from the house behind them. But there they were. blue eyes, glinting in a non-existent light. They were motionless, unblinking, as if they were part of the gate, as if they'd been there all along. I stared at them in object terror, unable to believe what I was seeing, and they stared right back at me.

Then they began to rise, higher and higher above the gate. The silhouette of a hooded figure slowly came into a very much. view around my eyes. Its arms were outstretched towards me, yet it continued to rise steadily, and I was struck with the icy thought that it was not climbing the gate, but instead floating up. Apart from the eyes, I could not see its face under the hood, but I swear it was smiling at me. I could feel it in my bones. Finally, the spell was broken. Vital flight instinct kicked in and I had zero intention of fighting, switchplate be damned. I turned and ran in the direction I'd come from as fast as my legs would carry me.

While the lamppost's nearest to me had flicked out, I could see the other lamppost ahead, and I welcomed the light as I sprinted down the path. I never looked back, and I never slowed down. I could hear the strange whispering sound, even over the noise of my own pounding footsteps, I didn't dare look back. Before long, I could see the end of the alley ahead of me,

and the open space of the park beyond it. I burst out of the alley, turned sharply toward home, and ran along beside the park. I did not stop running until I reached my home front door. Only then did I finally allow myself to look back over my shoulder. Everything looked normal, and I didn't hear the whispering anymore. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched.

I hastily unlocked my front door, went inside, slammed the door shut behind me, and locked it once more. After a second's hesitation, I put the chain on, which I normally never feel the need to do. I pressed my eye to the peephole, and waited, I don't know how long I stood there, breathing heavily, staring out the peephole. I know I didn't see anything out of the ordinary

and eventually I took a deep breath and backed away I thought about putting my switchblade away but I honestly felt better holding it I glanced at my phone and did a double take when I saw the time 206 a.m. I'd been gone for three hours I thought it had only been maybe 40 minutes just how long had I stood there in the darkness with those eyes watching me.

As you can probably tell, I didn't sleep that night. I didn't sleep very much for the next three nights, in fact, and I certainly didn't take any walks. As much as I tried to put the whole incident out of my mind, I just couldn't.

The image kept creeping back into my mind. A hooded figure floating up over the gate, arms outstretched towards me, eyes glowing in the darkness. Every time I look at, outside into my own backyard, part of me expected to see that hooded figure hovering over my own fence coming for me. I thought about my own alley, and I worried about what messages

I might find scribble there on rocks if I looked. I tried to convince myself that it had just be my imagination. I had been listening to a scary podcast after all, and walking later at night than I was used to. Maybe I just scared myself and let my mind play tricks on me in the darkness of the night. After three days of paranoia, I decided to go back to the alley. I didn't want to, but I felt like I needed to. I needed to see the alley in the comforting light of day. I needed to see that they were just rocks. It didn't take me long to find the alley, but I didn't recognize it at first. I'm sure I found the right one, because the waist-high lampposts were unmistakable. But I was confused

because there were no coloured rocks when I looked more closely I saw indentations in the gravel where the rocks had been before and I decided that someone must have removed them I walked down the alley switch blade in hand despite the daylight everything seemed normal

I did feel a spike of trepidation when I found the warped and rotted gate but even that didn't quite look so weird in the light of day. There was no painted word on it. It was just an old gate. The vent itself wasn't exactly new either. There was certainly no peering eyes of the gate, no hooded figure, no rocks littering the ground. There wasn't even any graffiti in the lampposts. I sighed, feeling both relieved and a bit silly. I put the switchblade away and turned to walk home again.

By the time I got back to my house, I'd almost convinced myself that I had imagined everything. But that all fell apart. When I got inside, I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary at first. I closed and locked the door behind me. I put my keys and switched by it on the table in the entryway. I walked toward the kitchen to get a glass of water. And then I saw it and froze. There, right in the centre of my kitchen table was a small blue rock with a word,

welcome, painted on it, in yellow lettering.