CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 DISTURBING Reddit Horror Stories to chill you for the winter

Episode Date: November 11, 2020

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "I Don't Go Out to Sea Anymore, Here's Why" Creepypasta►15:49 "When the wheat grew over our heads, we weren’t allowed outside" Creepypasta►39:00 "Close your vents. Or it will be waiting to make you join it inside" Creepypasta►53:59 "Something Radioactive is Buried Under My New Home" Creepypasta►1:05:17 "My Final Interview" Creepypasta►1:22:08 "Just a little hole" Creepypasta►1:33:52 "I paid $3,000 to stay at a premium AirBnB for a week. I should have read the reviews" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Nicola Samorì: http://www.nicolasamori.com/cannibal-...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

This weekend I'm in a while I'm new as I'm not on think. Oh, that dossier that morning off must be more as I'm too

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to comellllllum Magshot Liquid. Fooding Supplement forcragmire by the apotheker. The ocean can be a wonderful place. It's vast, open, and full of beauty and mystery. At least, it always was for me.

I used to go on fishing trips and sailing trips far out at sea with my dad, but he'd begun to get too old to go out for extended trips, so I would oftentimes have to sail alone. I'll admit, it is a strange feeling to be out at sea, knowing you're the only person around for miles. You could still chat with others on the radio, but as for a person-to-person interaction, you were out of luck. Unfortunately, this time, I did not have the luxury of being alone.

I still had my dad's old boat at the time. It was an average-sized boat, with a double cabin that was relatively dated. The kitchen and eating area were together, with a small table and a window looking out at sea. In the other room were the bedroom and a small bathroom. Outside of both was a flight of stairs leading to the top deck, and the partially covered bridge where the controls were. It was small but familiar. I enjoyed being there and remembering the time

that I would spend with my dad there. I had already been out at sea for two days when this took place. I was cruising along the East Coast in the Atlantic Ocean. At first my fishing experience was decent. My holes were enough to keep me well fed. Every few hours or so I would pass by a boat or two, maybe even striking up a conversation

or just simply waving as we cross paths. Most conversations took place on the radios. As I went further out to sea, however, it began to grow quiet. It was on the third night that my trip took a turn for the worse. The day was fair, with only a few clouds, the sunset accompanying it was gorgeous.

The only clouds I saw were those on the horizon, but by nightfall they'd blanketed the sky completely, aside from the moon which shone brightly above, perforating through the fire, The humidity and fog were palpable and the water below the boat was as black as ink. It gave off a smothering feeling and I definitely did not want to go for a swim that night. I was in my boxes, finishing a late-night snack and preparing for bed when I first heard it. Thump, thump, thump.

The sound was very distant at first. It had to have been coming from miles away. Had there been any sort of music playing or radio turned on, I would likely have missed it. I ignored it at first. I seemed to stop for a while, and all I could hear was a slapping of dark water against the boat. I'd waited long enough and jumped into bed,

exhausted and ready to sleep. Thump, thump, thump. I heard it again. I wasn't sure whether I'd fallen asleep or not, or how much time had elapsed since I forgot to check the time before bed. but I was exhausted nonetheless. This time the sound was a little bit louder. My heart began to beat a little faster,

but it was likely nothing. I climbed at the stairs and onto the bridge, peering out of the thick darkness surrounding me. The sound was much more audible from outside, but it was unclear which direction it was coming from. I was a little annoyed that it kept waking me up and definitely unsettled by it. I decided to throw in the spotlight

that sat just behind me on the bridge. I could only rotate it a little bit, as the bridge was very narrow, but I routinely turned the boat so that I could try and access all angles. Unfortunately, it was difficult to see more than a few dozen feet with a fog as bad as it was. After seeing nothing,

I decided I would try to go to sleep once again. Hopefully, the sound would stop. My boat lights were still on as I descended back into bed. I would always leave them on, so other boats could see me so that we didn't collide. On this night, I didn't want to, but I figured that if the sounds were coming from another boat,

then I wanted them to know where I was, so there would be no accidents. I had finally begun to drift off before I heard the noise again. This time, it was much louder. Thump, thump, thump! The thumping continued as I ascended up the ladder, but like the other two times,

it ceased as soon as I made it out of, outside. What the hell? I thought to myself, both enraged and terrified at the same time. The thought that I wasn't alone out here was very disquieting. As I reached the bridge, I flashed on the spotlight and immediately regretted it. It was very difficult to see, but way off in the distance, partially buried in the sea of fog that seemed to be clearing up somewhat, was another ship. My heart dropped to the depth of the sea. The ship was very dark. It looked dirty, almost like a ghost ship.

But I didn't think that there was a real outside of legends. It wasn't moving. I came to the disturbing realisation that whoever was on it was watching me. And even worse, as soon as they saw me emerge, they would always cut the engine. I shone the spotlight around a bit more in an effort to make it look like I hadn't yet discovered them. Afterward, I cut the power to the spotlight and everything was dark. aside for my boat. I pretended to climb down the ladder

and waited just out of sight. All was quiet for a few minutes. Suddenly, I had the thumping of another boat's motor, going louder and louder with each passing minute. I wasted no time throwing myself into the driver's seat,

killing all the lights and flooring the boat. I threw the engine into maximum power and I lurched backward as the boat flew forward into the darkness. I drove for at least 10 to 15 minutes before finally stopping far off at sea. There's no way they go to follow me, I thought to myself. I stayed on the bridge with the lights off for five minutes.

There were no sounds aside from the water slapping up against the boat. Satisfied with my work, I went to sleep. I woke again to a very bright light piercing the cabin. I was expecting a gorgeous sunrise and a peaceful rest where I could put the previous night's events behind me as nothing more than a bad memory. To my shock and horror

The cabin was still pitch black Aside from a beaming light That poured into the cabin When it turned off I realised it was the spotlight Of another ship And it was very close I rose immediately to go back upstairs

But I froze as soon as I heard What likely woke me up My heart sank There were the familiar thudding and thumping noises But this time it was the loudest it had ever been. It wasn't coming from out at sea anymore, but it was coming from above me.

The wooden floorboards were creaking with every movement. The ship would creak and moan throughout the night usually, especially being as old as it was. But this was something otherworldly and far too close and patterned for comfort. There's no way they could have found me. How did they follow me? I thought with horror.

Just the thought that they knew where I was, even with my lights off and my ship far away was horrifying. I stayed at the bedroom for a while, trying to suddenly move my way over to the cabinet where Dad kept his rifle without alerting whoever was above me that I'd awoken. I was sick to my stomach as I realised that I'd forgotten to lock the hatch

that led down into the cabins. I grabbed the rifle and threw a few rounds into the chamber, praying that the person above couldn't hear me. The boat creaked and tilted as I made my way to the cabin door. There was a small little window on the door where I could see into the hall outside, but it was too dark to see much of anything. I pushed the door to my cabin open, horrified at the creaking noise that it made,

and praying that nobody could hear me. I slowly inched my way up to the bridge as quietly as possible. Thankfully, there was nobody there. I glanced down at the dark deck below me, and I saw a grotesquistly tall and overweight man standing there. Even though it was dark, I could still see his pale skin and its long, greasy, matted hair that looked black. I was army crawling on all fours, praying that he could not see me.

Fortunately, he never turned to face me. He just kept moving around, seemingly arbitrarily, in the dark. I thought about shooting him, but I was worried that I would go to jail if he was just a random guy. How would I be able to prove his bad intentions? for all I knew he just needed help, though deep down I knew that his intentions had to be sinister. With a courage that I never know I could muster,

I jumped down from the bridge and hit the assail with the back of my rifle, causing him to fall under his own weight and knocking him into the water with an enormous splash. In a thunderous fury, I climbed back up on the bridge and floored the ship again, this time not stopping the engine until dawn. When there was finally light again, I felt comfortable enough to stop. I was the only ship out at sea, but at least the fog had cleared and there was nobody around me for miles. I didn't sleep a second during those few hours of terror.

I finally climbed back down the stairs and made my way into the hallway to the kitchen. As I brushed past the cabin door, in my peripheral vision, I saw an eye and the upper half of someone else's face. It was extremely difficult to keep walking without screaming. someone's still in here with me. I was disgusted to come to the realization that someone had been on the boat with me for the last few hours, even when I thought I was safe. I went to the kitchen and fixed myself a meal

as if nothing was wrong, wishing I had brought my rifle with me. What was even worse was the fact that the large kitchen knife that was usually in the cutlery jaw was missing. My eyes started welling up with tears at the realization that whoever was in there was probably armed

and going to butcher me. In case you were thinking that I could just call someone on my phone, phones weren't widespread in those days, and even then, who was there to call that would come in time? I was completely alone, just me and some psycho. I tiptoed over to the hallway and peeked around it. To my horror, the bedroom door was wide open. Facing the wall at the end of the hallway was the same unsightly,

grotesquely tall and overweight man at the end. He was still soaking wet, pale, and he was wearing a dirty t-shirt and stained jeans. He was barefoot and his feet were dirty as well. I stepped backward, causing the floorboard to creep beneath me. Slowly, in an enormous robotic fashion, he turned around. His face was the worst of all. He looked almost normal from behind, but when he turned around, his smile was nothing short of pure evil. As my eyes lowered, I realised that he was holding the large kitchen knife that was missing from the kitchen.

With that evil smile on his face, he charged down the hallway, running in an enormous inhuman fashion. I slammed the door shut and he collided with it, sticking the knife through the thin, wooden door that was designed not to weigh a lot. With a few solid kicks from such a lumbering beast of a man, the door flew open. By then, I grabbed the tall lamp that stood by the kitchen table and I whipped it into the side of his head, shattering the bulb and causing him to stagger backward and fall over, dropping the knife under the floor. Without thinking, I kicked it out into the hallway and ran out, locking the door to the hallway behind me.

The hatch was made of steel and would be much more difficult to break out of if he woke up, though I wasn't sure if I killed him or not. I remembered reading somewhere that a hit in the right place of the head could kill someone. At full speed, I headed straight back to port. My detour of last night cost me another two hours. By the time I was a few miles to shore, I was able to radio into the police. I hadn't heard any noises from below deck, but I sure as hell wasn't opening the hatch without them there, regardless of having my rifle. Just before sunset, I pulled into port.

The police were already waiting around the dock with guns out. I pulled in and jumped off the boat. I was never so glad as the hog land again. The cops boarded the boat and began to search inside of it. After five to ten minutes had passed, they came out. I expected them to have the freaking cuffs, but to my shock, they emerged empty-handed. They asked me if I was positive that someone was in there, and I told them to look again. A few officers did another quick sweep and told me there was nobody in there.

I stood on that dock, terrified as hell, watching the officers walk away, leaving me alone with the boat. home was still a few ports away and I was able to refill my fuel at least Sunset was in full effect now I had returned from one of the restaurants where I got dinner I walked around the dock that surrounded the boat on three sides when I went to the side facing the ocean

I gasped The kitchen window No, it's not possible The kitchen window was eerily open I remember the man was far too overweight It simply couldn't have been possible for him to fit in there. Had anyone jumped out while I was in port, the cops would have surely seen it. No, this man was out there in the ocean somewhere.

That was the only explanation. The motor had been running so fast that I never heard a splash. I was sick to my stomach, backing away from the open window slightly. What if he's already made it to shore? What if he's watching me right now? The thoughts were very disquieting. I paranoidly glanced around at the bushes and buildings around me, seeing nothing but feeling watched. It was already beginning to get dark, so I jumped on the boat,

careful to make sure nobody was on there with me. When I felt satisfied, I booked it out of that port and headed straight home. Thankfully, I made it home in one piece. The trip took me all night with the engine running at high speed. It was another long night with little to no sleep. I constantly found myself inspecting the boat, but each time there was nothing there, nor were there any ships on the horizon.

What still gets me to this day is the realization that he was still somewhere out there, and that maybe others weren't as lucky as me. I'll never know what his intentions were with me at first, who he was, and if he was alone or not. I'll never forget the way he looked, nor will I forget his run-down boat that stalked me. I never saw that man again

A few months later I sold my dad's boat and my house and used the cash to move away from the coast Now I live in the suburbs with my wife and kids None of them know this story And I hope they don't find out But one thing is for certain I will not be going out to sea

Ever again This is the first thing I remember When the weeds grew over our heads mother and father sat my brother and I down on the kitchen table, looked us each in the eye and said, You can't go into the fields. Why? I asked. I had been asking why to almost everything my parents would say.

You have to brush your teeth. Why? You have to wash your hands. Why? You can't push your brother. Why? So, when they said we weren't allowed outside, my response was almost automatic. Why? I looked over at my older brother, the one who made me laugh all day,

the one who was always being silly, not listening to mother, getting into trouble any time he could, always happy, always smiling. He wasn't smiling now. He was wide-eyed and unmoving, hand-stuck, trembling on the table, frozen, staring out the window behind me, locked in to the nightmare. My father put his hand on my shoulder,

gently, but with enough pressure to snap my eyes back to his. he breathed the words out distantly deadpan serious the gharry lo will see you the gary low will take you then the gary low will lead you year one when the wheat grew over our heads my brother and i shut the curtains in all the rooms if i could see the fields to the window i wouldn't be able to stop looking my mother found me one day standing and swaying dancing with a windblown wheat She tried to get my attention, clapping in my face, screaming my name. But if she touched me, I would let loose a shrieking, blood-curdling scream, wailing and wailing like a screeching kettle. My brother ran to the window, closed the curtains, and I stopped screaming. Then my brother, my mother and I stood there, hugging each other, crying together.

The gary low took three that year. Year two. It doesn't seem possible now, but the wheat has a little. had barely begun to burst out the ground one day, then the next morning it was just... There. A great sheet of yellow and grey, a tide a wave of weaving wheat stalks,

tossed around in the wind like kelp in a storm surge. I cried and yelled and screamed at the windows, and my mother ran to me, hugged me close and whispered, Please, be quiet, the Gary Lowe will hear you. Shhh, only one was taken that year. His head was left on the doorstep of his house. The gary low

Always left the head Year 3 When the wheat grew tall enough It began to bend and break under its own weight It would slowly droop over like an old man With a broken back Then the morning came When the wheat could no longer hold itself up

And it collapsed to the ground My father would rush into our bedroom Hooping and hollering with an unbridled joy I never saw from him any other day of the year He would whistle some tune as he put on his boots and went out to the field with the grin plastered on his face. In his hands he held a giant blade, a reaper scy, and, with eerie precision, my father would whip it through the air,

decapitating each stalk. I'll never forget the sounds. That whipping sound, as the blade cut through the air. Sh-sh! Then, the halting. Thumb, as each stalk fell to the ground, one by one the wheat would fall. sh shh thump

we called this the calling the moment when we were finally free if only for a short time it would take three days for father to clear the whole field each day I would sit at the window watching my father big and strong cutting down the stalks no not watching my father

watching the fields waiting for Garillo to take my father to eat everything but the head Each day of the calling, I would open the front door and find my father's head on the doorstep. I would scream and scream, and my mother would come and hold me, telling me father's head wasn't there. Not really. It's just in your mind. Still, I waited for Garry Lowe to come.

Year 4. It was outside my window. The Garri Lowe. Pitch black night. I could hear it through the windows, even though they were closed. Short bursts of quiet, high-pitched grunts. Then slamming. A vicious thundering on the front door that shook the floorboards.

Concussed waves that were almost rhythmic. The sound ripped my ears apart from the inside. So loud it felt like it was in the room, screaming into my face. I instinctively hit the light switch, and suddenly there was nothing. Dead quiet in a brightly lit room. A still moment as I took my breath. Scurrying noises on the wall outside my room made me scream In seconds it would be at my window

Too late I realised this and caught a glimpse of it Framed through clear glass The garrillo, monstrous and ancient An antiquitous terror, sinewy, spiderous limbs Hung low in the air Crawling, Slithering I screamed and it looked right at me I have never had asleep without nightmare since

No human deaths were recorded that year, but a herd of wild horses was found to slaughtered the next morning. Fifteen eviscerated and decapitated corpses, soaking the surrounding grass meadow in a sickly red. Year five. The wheat had begun to sprout, and it was like a permanent shadow had fallen over our home. We felt it in our bones. The garrie low was coming. For the first time, my father took me into town. The town was no more than a single main street

Something you'd dry past on your way to somewhere else We needed supplies Things elast us through the wheat season Sometimes it took weeks for the wheat to grow tall enough to fall over Sometimes it took months Weeks and months where we'd have to stay inside The thing I remember most about the visit Were the other people

I'd only ever saw Geoffrey and his father Our far-off neighbours who came around once a year to visit and to trade. Trade what, father? Whatever we needed. But, walking down that small, simple main street, I remember the other people, how they all looked away. When they saw us, they averted the gaze. Heads down, eyes almost closed. Then I would look at my father, his head high and proud, eyes always forward. Why are they looking at his father? They are ashamed. A boss father? No son. of themselves. He wouldn't tell me why they felt shame,

why they wouldn't look at him, or me. I should have asked. Maybe he would have told me. I also remember the girl, Sandy, walking hand in hand with the mother. She was the only one who looked at me. Bright blue eyes, straight blonde hair, down to her shoulder,

probably only a little older than I was at the time. Sandy's head was found the next morning, after the culling Year 6 The winter snow had melted Revealing the bare earth That would soon begin to sprout In the weeks that followed the melt

We had lots of adult visitors Come to the house I just remember my parents Sitting in the living room with the visitors Hushed voices Concent glances towards the windows Where the wheat fields loomed over us Then my father

Big and proud and strong Finally standing up and saying No we will never When the wheat grew over our heads that year. We heard the Garry Lowe every night, a mournful, angry call. Sometimes it felt far away,

distant rumblings of a passing thunderhead. Other times it was in our field. We shut the blinds, didn't turn on any lights at the dark, my father sitting on his chair and facing the front door, his huge scythe laid across his lap. Sometimes the Garry Lowe

would slam against the house, not against the door, never the door. thundering thrashes on the very foundation rattling the floorboards my mother holding my brother and I telling us to stop crying please you must be quiet then one night human screams cut through the air the next morning the wheat had fallen over

and my father started the culling one of the spring visitors came to our door he was on his knees head in his hands sobbing uncontrollably My father held on to him And the man just kept saying I'm sorry I'm sorry Over and over again

The Gary Lowe Had taken both his sons I saw him the next time we went to town But He wouldn't look at us Year 7 The Town Hall Meeting I was finally old enough to come to the annual event

The only time the whole town came together in one spot Hard to remember everything that was said. Lots of yelling, lots of people huddled together, crying, screaming at each other. Then my father stood up and everyone went quiet. Everyone here knows what they have to do, for their mothers and fathers and theirs before them knew what they had to do, he said. Those who have decided not to know where they stand with me. No one is coming to help. Then a group of men, six in total, stood up and said,

we will kill the Gariloh once and for all no one cheered no one clapped my father sat shaking his head the six had heavy jackets backpacks guns axes axes and machetes strapped to their bodies they came through our fields to the forest that lay far beyond our property

a dot on the horizon where the Garri Lowe comes from the six never came back one head did My father found it on our doorstep Year 8th, our closest neighbour, Geoffrey Farling, or Farling, as my father would call them, came to the house with his son,

Geoffrey III, as they did every year after the Colling. Geoffrey III was the same age as me. After the Colling, we would visit each other and play, as I imagine normal children did when they didn't have to think of the fields. This year, though, something was different. Farling was worn down, eyes sunken, loose skin that hung off his face.

He and my father were arguing in the kitchen. I only remember snippets. We can't keep, Fowling said. We have to. We are the only ones. Given everything, have to fight. Tried. Lost everyone.

My father turned and seemed a sense. For the first time that I was there and I could hear them, he stood up and shrewed us out of the house. We started running around the yard outside, when Geoffrey III suddenly froze in place. I asked, are you okay? He whispered back. The gari lo will get me. I shot him and looked back.

We never spoke its name outside of the wheat season. It won't, not if he follow the rules, I hushed to him. He stood with his back to me, gazing out into the fields. Just like it got my brother, he said. It was the first time he had said anything about it. Geoffrey II had been taken two seasons before. He turned around to look at me, look through me. Then he pointed a small, bony finger to the horizon.

The gary low will get all of us. And then he walked back into the house. On the day after the culling, Papa went to visit Geoffrey's farm. Farling hadn't come, which was something that hadn't happened in ten years. When he came back, father's face was pale, ashen and streaked with tears. Tears!

The man was a walking block of granite. Geoffrey Farling had woken up on the morning of the culling and couldn't find his son. Instead, he found two small fingernails dug into the soil outside the front door and drag marks going back into the wheat fields. Papa held Farling. Held him close and tight as Vali kept rocking back and forth on his knees, whispering the same thing over and over. I thought it was okay.

It was supposed to be okay. Jeffrey's head was never found. Year 9. My brother's 16th birthday. In the morning, my father came into our room and hugged him. My mother cried. I can never stand to see my mother cry. But when I went over to her, I realized she was.

was laughing. My father and brother too, all smiling and embracing and laughter coming out of them. They looked at me and must have heard the questions rolling around in my head. My brother bent down and said, Now I can help Papa, now the Garilo won't

get me. On the culling, my father gave my brother his very unsight, and they went to work. Shht, thump. I stood there on the porch, unable to touch the ground below. I scanned the horizon looking for the Garilo, daring it to come.

You can't get them now, Garry Lo. Day two of the calling had come and gone, and my brother and I sat awake in our bedroom. I was asking him about the wheat and the fields. Were you scared? Was it tiring? Will I get my own scythe? He was so tired he could barely reciprocate the energy of my youth, just non-committal grunts. I went to sleep to the sound of his snoring. I woke up to the sound of something else

The room was pitch black No moon, no light anywhere Why did I wake up Something in my dream I was being pulled across the floor No, not the floor The fields I was being pulled through the dirt

Crying and begging I took my hands into the soil And the nails ripped off I was Geoffrey the third the gary lo had come then I remember why I woke up the gari lo was in our house I could hear it

I looked over at my brother's bed but it was empty his blanket on the floor it was outside my room it had to be a dream I willed myself to wake up my brother was 16 he was going to be okay he was supposed to be okay

I summoned the courage to get out of my bed. Only then did I hear him. My brother. So soft, it was almost imperceptible. But that was my brother's voice. I followed it to the open window in our room, the one that looked out over the fields, the one that was never, ever open.

The curtains were never up. But now they were. They were up, and the window was open. and I caught my first glimpse of my brother. He was standing at the edge of the lawn. The place where the grass stopped and the wheat began. His back was to the house, to me. But I could see him out there, swaying in the wind,

matching the movement of the wheat. The wheat. There was a section that hadn't fallen over yet. Impossible. And my brother was standing right in front of it. But he was 16. He was supposed to be okay. Then, his shimmer, a wave of movement so quick I almost missed a thing, move across the air.

Sh-htk-thump. My brother's head was taken off his body so quickly that his body still moved. His hands dug themselves into the dirt in a last gasp of instinctual preservation, so primal that he was ingrained into his bones. The Gary Lowe was taking him. The Gary Lowe would eat him. My brother's head, sitting upright on the grass, the last surprised look of his open eyes, staring right back at me. Then, screaming, mine, my father's who stood on the porch, and the gari low, year ten. The wheat wouldn't stop growing, it wouldn't fall over.

We'd been inside for three months. Every morning my father would take a deep breath and open the curtains, and every morning his body would. would visibly sag. My parents shared a look. I could see the fear in both of their faces. I asked my father if this has ever happened before. He just shook his head. He hadn't spoken a word since my brother the year before.

Then the wheat stalks began to move. On the back edge of the field, they shuddered and shook. The garie low. We shut the curtains, turn off the lights. We sat together, huddled on the couch, gripping each other. other. My mother was silently saying prayers under a breath. My father just stared straight ahead, looking at the picture set on the wall above the door. The same picture he always looked at every morning. He would put his hand upon it every time he left to go outside. I asked

them about it once years ago. I asked him who the group of people were, the ones who all stood side by side with axes and sores and scythe's in their hands. There must have been a hundred of them. standing in front of a forest, the same forest that lay beyond our property. When I asked him all those years ago, all he told me was this. Those are my ancestors and yours. They took this town, they made this town. That was the last he ever spoke of it. Now he stood up, an unfamiliar look on his face.

My mother began to cry and plead with him. Don't do it, she said. You can't. My father simply stood there looking at me and then smiled the saddest smile I'd ever seen I hadn't known a smile could be sad He bent down, put a big, strong hand on my shoulder And said he loved me

That he wanted me to be free That he had been wronged this whole time About the town, about the people, about my brother About the Garry low Then he walked out the door And into the field watching my father as he went into the field I saw something

open up some great gaping more of darkness my mother crying me crying for my father father come back he kept walking did he not see it the black the black father don't go

then a hideous screech everything was just Gone. In one fell motion, the entire field of wheat simply toppled over. And my father was never seen again. My mother and I waited until the snow fell, when the fields were glazed with a white sheet of ice, before moving out and away from the only place I'd ever known.

When we left, the effect was almost immediate. I began to forget about my brother, about my father, about the garillo. My mother never spoke about either of them, or the town, or any of it ever again. I don't think she forgot, though. Some nights I'd catch her crying to herself. I left her in peace. She died in asleep, old, loved, and alone. The next phase of my life was mundane and unremarkable.

I got a job, met someone, we had one child, a girl. It was when she turned 16. everything changed. She wanted to go to the country. For all my life, I'd never been interested in it. All that open space, that open air, the fundamental lack of civilization. I hated the idea of it, but I could never figure out why. Then we drove out to a farm where she could pick apples. I screamed in the car when I saw it. The wheat, fields of it all around me. I screamed and screamed and and my partner pulled us over and she grabbed my face. I saw her and heard my daughter crying as everything flooded out of me.

The Garri Lowe, I remembered. We didn't continue on that day. I couldn't move a muscle, couldn't drive, couldn't talk, couldn't do anything. Because the Garry Lowe was still out there. It would find me, it would take me, and it will eat me. About two years ago, my family of three finally found the home of our dreams, or at least that's what it seemed like on the outside. It had an enormous backyard that was almost out of a fairy tale. It was obvious that it hadn't been tended to in years, but it was almost elegant.

The front yard and the home itself was simple and quaint, giving off an almost European architecture style. A home like this would usually cost at least a million dollars, but we got lucky, grabbing it at almost 70, percent off that price. A motivated seller for sure, which made me and my wife curious about what made the cellar so eager to get it off their hands. Mold, asbestos in the walls, maybe annoying neighbours, or maybe it was because it was in such a quiet little town. Whatever the case, we weren't exactly scared away by ridiculous little things that could

be fixed or ignored, especially when it was at such a good price. The moment we moved into the home, only weeks after we signed all the papers, it had a not aura to it. Almost as if as soon as you put your foot within the entrance, your hair would stand on end, almost as if the static from thousands of balloons were against your skin. Odd, sure, but moving into new homes and such always had your mind making up crazy things, since you're not yet used to the environment. I'm not quite sure if my wife ever felt what I did that first day. I never asked to be quite honest. I didn't think it mattered. The one weird thing about our dream homes architecture

was that the vents of the home were protruding out from the wall In order to let cool air or hot air inside We had to physically use the small handle to do so Another odd thing about the vents Was how they opened up fully So you could put your whole head in the walls But old architecture tended to have weird things That were unexplainable

And I'd seen weirder Every now and then I would think I felt something should shake within the floor, almost as if a small earthquake, almost barely noticeable, had hit. The first few times it happened, I rode it off as this town being sensitive to small earthquakes or possibly mining blast. That is, until my wife told me how she'd felt the same thing, but upstairs, not even ten minutes after each of my experiences. That was the moment I felt like the house was watching us, as if it was alive in some way. Of course,

I wasn't going to believe that our house made out of wood and concrete was possibly alive, but it sure gave off the feeling that it was. And that's exactly when it began feeling like eyes were on me constantly, making the feeling of the house being alive even more evident in my day-to-day life. For my own sake, but mostly my anxious wives, I calmed it down from a hectic, confused state of rambling to settle on the conclusion that it was simply an odd earthquake, and our times were a little jumbled up.

She accepted this thankfully But I was a little less accepting of my excuse I was almost positive Some sort of animal had gotten into our walls I was crawling around randomly Making a racket Most likely something like a raccoon The idea of some rabies-infested animals

Sneaking into the house And biting our three-year-old daughter horrified me This thought alone Was enough to drive me into pest control mode Around the house I opted to place traps within the vent the only areas it was possible for anything to get inside other than the front and back door. The moment I got near maybe the third vent of the house to put a mousetrap inside, I froze in my spot.

I stood inches away from it, just staring deadpan at what was inside the vent. I hardly believed I saw it, since it seemed to disappear almost instantly once I looked. It seemed like a person almost. Almost is the key word in my description for whatever it was, since I could hardly see the rest of it, but its eyes were nearly bright enough to be a dim flashlight. The moment it disappeared, I heard pounding from above me, and then a horrified scream. It was Ellie, my three-year-old daughter in a room. As soon as the sound erupted throughout the house, I heard more pounding against the ceiling,

coming from the master bedroom, where I knew my wife was reading. without hesitation I began to sprint upstairs. The sound of my wife's screams caused me to pump my legs harder than they already were until I made it to Ellie's room at the end of the hallway. The sight that greeted me the moment I entered the room gave me an equal mixture of anger and fear. My daughter was gripping my wife's hands so hard they were almost losing circulation.

Tears filled her chubby face as she cried out for a mommy to help her. The part that really induced my mixed emotions was how our small legs were getting pulled into the now open vent in a room. Deep within the darkness of the vent, I saw those eyes once again. Those bright eyes I hardly believed I saw moments ago downstairs. This time its eyes illuminated Ellie's leg, enough to let me see its talon-like fingers gripping onto a tightly, trying hard to pull her inside towards it. Seeing someone's hand in my daughter instantly filled me with more rage than fear.

Before I even had any idea what I was doing, I practically jumped towards whatever was holding my daughter in the vent. I gripped one of Ehlers' legs in one hand and one of the creatures' talon-like hands in the other. I used as much strength as I could to pry its hands away from my daughter. But the harder I tried, the tighter it dug its nails into a leg, causing her to only scream out more. I began to feel annoyed and utterly raged. Not wanting to fail my horrified daughter, I reached into the vent, not caring or even thinking about what was really waiting for me inside. The moment I gripped onto what I assumed of his neck,

I heard low growl that sounded like a mix of a tiger and a bear. The moment his growl echoed throughout the walls, and instantly let go of Ellie, letting her plummet to the floor, still gripping her mother's hands. Whatever sense of pride filled me at the sight was short-lived, as I felt sharp nails and rough fingers laced their way around my hand. The grip I had on its neck disappeared as I felt myself tumbled towards the same. the vent. It was trying to pull me in instead. I tried my hardest to fight back, pushing my

free hand against the wall. It must have been immensely mad about the fact that I took away its dinner. I knew I wouldn't fit inside the small vent, and it knew as well. That's why he was going for such a small child. I remember telling my wife to get to the bedroom and to stay as far away from the vents as possible, and that's exactly what she did, leaving me alone in Ellie's room. The creature hardly seemed to be trying to pull me inside as hard as it was trying to with Ellie. The moment it finally yanked my whole arm inside the vent, my face squished against the hard wall.

Almost instantly, I felt a sharp pain radiate throughout my forearm. The moment I felt the intense pain, I also felt its cold hands let go of me. Without hesitation, I ripped my arm from the vent, falling backwards into the foot of Erli's bed. With that, I felt the shaking I always rode off as earthquakes beneath me

as I heard it scuttle around in the floor away from the room. It bit me. This whole time I was terrified of my daughter being bit by an animal that was carrying rabies and I had just been bitten by something that was probably carrying more than just that. The bite marks that were pierced into my forearm

would deep enough to draw quite a bit of blood and leave near perfect teeth marks. The injury almost had me lightheaded. The mark would have almost been human if it wasn't for the long bottom row of teeth that were dented into my skin. For almost a week straight afterwards, nothing like that happened again.

Although any time we heard, without the floorboard shake, we would stop in our tracks, making sure to stay as quiet as possible and away from the vents. To make matters worse, the overwhelming sense of something watching us grew unbearable

any time we're in the vicinity of a vent. One thing that was also slightly unnerving was how odd I felt ever since that night. That wording may make it sound as if I felt uncomfortable because of the events that transpired, but it was a physical feeling rather than mental. I was constantly feeling almost not all there, as if I was floating away from my body, almost a drunken feeling if I had to describe it in normal

terms. Sometimes I get random aches in my bones, as if I aged 50 years in seconds. Then came the most pain I had ever felt in my life. My blood felt as if it was boiling in my veins like molten larvae as if I were going to explode at any moment. Anytime the pain filled my body, I almost always doubled over, falling over and laying down to ride it out. I had conned the doctors about my arm. I had gotten a rabies shot and all just in case, so there was no possible reason for me to be feeling so out of place

and getting such intense pains. Because I didn't want to seem weak or bother my wife to take me to the hospital for a second time. I simply dealt with the feelings that overcame me randomly every day instead. But I should have just swallowed my pride or shame and gone, because what happened next could have been stopped for all I know. It had almost been two weeks since that horrible night,

and we finally stopped hearing whatever was roaming within our floors and walls. We finally stopped feeling its animalistic eyes burning through us as we walked through the house. It was all beginning to look up. It was beginning to feel like a home, rather than a prison of sorts. But then, I started blacking out, as if I had too much to drink and just forgot everything that happened. Most of the time, it was later at night, right when I was about to sleep. So I thought I had started sleepwalking from all the stress that the home was causing me.

That was something I had always done when I was a child. At least that's what I would have thought. If I wouldn't have woken up from my blackouts, inches away from the various vents in the home. Any vent I seemed to wake up near was always so. slightly open, which was odd as ever since the night in Ellie's room we made sure they were shut tightly. The moment I confided

in my wife about what had been happening, she told me I was probably just sleepwalking from stress, just as I thought myself. I made sure to leave the vents out of our talk, so I wouldn't worry her more than she already was with our new home. Not even a day after our conversation,

I blacked out once again, but this time I woke up to something that haunts me to this day. something that has my family absolutely horrified of me. I remember waking up, standing in the middle of the living room, nearly broken lights flickering ominously as if they were ready to burst at any moment. All the vents that I could see from my position were opened up, the complete opposite to how we always left them.

The entire house looked almost as if a hurricane had whirled its way through it. Tables were flipped, chairs and mirrors were broken, random splatters of blood covered parts of the walls as well as the wooden floorboards. I remember so vividly the warm liquid that I felt around my chin, the intense metallic taste that danced against my tongue. At first I thought I hit my head somehow and there was an intruder. That was, until I heard the cries from behind me. My wife and Ellie, they sounded absolutely petrified.

As soon as I turned around, I regretted it. My wife had multiple bites and scratch marks against the body, the blood that covered the floor and walls, obviously being hers. The only thing that relieved me was how Ellie was unscathed. The moment I looked at myself in the large mirror above them, I got a good look at myself. Blood tripped from my mouth, splattered against my clothing and face. I'd scratch marks of my own against my face and arms,

as if someone had been trying to get away from me. Once I tried rushing towards my family to try to try, and help them. My wife gripped early tighter, turning her away from me and crying more intensely. As soon as she pleaded for me to just leave them alone and have mercy, it all finally clicked. I... I did this to them. I was the intruder. No matter how much I apologized and told them we were going to get the hell out of this cursed home, they wouldn't budge. By the time, I was finally able to get my wife to believe how I had blacked out, she began to slowly approach me with Ellie in her arms,

shaking harder and harder the closer she got. She told me how inhuman I'd been that night. How I had growled, just as the creature had that night in Ellie's room, how I threw everything and anything I could at them as I ran throughout the house. How I had grabbed her, tossing her down and sinking my teeth into her as hard as I could as if she was a piece of steak. How I tried so hard to pull them into the vents just as that thing had. and how it stood inside the vents,

simply staring as everything went down, as if I was its minion in some way. After that, I didn't care that that place was I supposed a dream home or that we had nowhere else to go. We just left to the closest clinic to help my wife and then got as far away as we could from that hellhouse. She didn't and still doesn't look at me the same anymore.

Neither does my daughter. Even though the moment we left that place, I somehow stopped blacking out, as if whatever that thing was was tied to me, forcing me to do things I couldn't possibly stomach thinking about. I wouldn't blame them. I'd almost killed them. But it still hurts to see such fear in their eyes most of the time.

Fear towards me. The man that's supposed to keep them safe in the house. I'll never forget that home. And I'm pretty sure it will never forget me or my family. And that's terrifying to me. especially since lately I've been starting to black out again but I'm afraid to tell my wife

especially since the trust between us has just been starting to get back to semi-normal I hardly think anything could possibly happen again it's been almost two years since then and with thousands of miles away from that home but just in case close your vents and get the cops to check on your home if you don't hear from me again

the rain dribbled softly on the roof like a light finger tapping. George, the previous owner, was down in the basement, digging into the foundation, deep into the earth with just a pickax and shovel. Covered in mud and his own vomit, George clawed at his head, pulling out large chunks of his own hair.

He was practically bald for a man in his thirties who'd once had such vibrant, luscious hair. His fingernails were bloody, rubbed raw down to the stumps. This was the normal, George. In the past few weeks, George had lost a great deal of weight, barely over 100 pounds. His skin was pulled tight, burn red from head to toe.

Through the mock of vomiting diarrhea, George, despite his weakened state, continued to dig. He reported to his friends and family in the previous weeks of increased headaches, bouts of dizziness, and constantly nauseous. At one point, he stopped answering their calls. Despite their pleas for him to seek medical attention, his friends and family figured he needed to some time alone after his breakup, allowing him some time to get situated in his new house. When the authorities found his decaying corpse, lying in a vast hole in the basement, the mystery and conspiracy theories came in full swing. God, I wish I knew all about George before I bought the house, before everything had changed. I purchased the house that autumn. It was only listed

on the market for a few weeks before I put an offer in. I visited the house a few times with the realtor. Two bedrooms and two and a half bathrooms, perfect for what I needed at the time. The only thing out of the ordinary was the fully cleared out basement down to the concrete base. The realtor told me the owners were fixing the foundations as an explanation for the covered up hole on the floor. I thought nothing of it as my knowledge of homes was not too vast. One trip to the house later and I noticed the hole in the basement was fully filled with fresh concrete. I put in an offer which was accepted by the sellers in three days. They were eager to sell, according to my realtor, moving quickly on the closing.

My first two nights at the house, I started feeling strange. There was a constant shooting pain inside my head. I would head out to work, go out with a few friends, and the headaches would lessen. When I came home, I noticed they started back up. I triple-checked the carbon monoxide detectors, but nothing came up. out of the ordinary. The waves of dizziness came in quick after. Following an extended weekend indoors, I didn't feel comfortable walking down the large flight of steps, fearing I'd take a tumble. The disorientation was troubling. I was losing my sense of time and direction. My art was all over the place, no semblance of direction it was heading in. I chalked it up to just

the creative artist block. Maybe I had that new flu everyone was so concerned about, I assured myself. When Tuesday hit, it was time to head back to work. My body was fully drained. Despite resting all of the long weekend, I felt as if I hadn't slept a minute, that pounding headache echoed deep inside my skull. As I put on my suit Tuesday morning and full autopilot, the sun was barely rising in the sky.

I failed to notice the blood stain in my shirt. This was no ordinary nosebleed. It was flowing hard. The shock that hit me as a sudden. I saw myself in the mirror for the first time that morning, as if I had been hit in the nose with a hockey pocket close range. The crimson blood stay in my face and the top of my shirt. Blood was still slowly trickling down.

Waves of dizziness hit me quick. The room spun like a twisted carousel. My stomach churned and bubbled inside me, forcing me to dash towards the toilet. As I heaved my dinner and stomach bile, I frantically texted my boss, saying I wasn't coming in that day. I awoke on the couch, a white washcloth stained bloody red from my nose. My body ached with each slight movement. The dull lights in the house burned my eyes. I drove my head into the nearest pillow, feeling the headache wash over me again. The rest of the week, I saw no improvements in my health. Constant headaches, nosebleeds and vomiting. This bright red rash

had started appearing in my body, sore, stinging to the touch. It was a little bit of the touch. It was a until that Friday they rushed to the hospital when my hair started falling out. I had lost a good deal of weight that week, barely able to keep down any food. I was skinny, the reddish rash covering most of my body. My hair was coming out in thin strands

all the way to the ER. I sat in the cold emergency room waiting for the doctor. Nurses took my vitals, the stinging pain radiated through my body as they gave me an IV drip. The bright white room burned my eyes. I laid down on the examination table, feeling that rumbling in my stomach, building, while the doctors and nurses ran various tests.

After what felt like a century, they finally returned. Three burly nurses came in full white protective suit. The doctor, who was previously in his scrubs, was also in the same protective suit. The nurse grabbed me hard under my arms. My limp legs swayed underneath me. Through my disoriented state, I could barely mutter out. What's going on? I was brought into a square room, blast panes on all sides.

Like a giant shower room, large shower heads protruded from the ceiling. I collapsed under the floor, my skin burning brighter. Sounds of water running filled my head as the pipes reverberated around me. The showers exploded open, covering me in a watery-like oil substance. My skin burned as the liquid covered me. Darkness swept over me. The last images of the stainless steel shower heads raining down on me. I awoke sometime later, laying in a hospital bed, IVs poking out all along my arms.

The heartbeat sensor beeps softly in the background. I was alone in the dark room. My head ached slightly. I stirred in bed, feeling weak and achy. Put steps echoed down the hall. A doctor and a team of nurses stepped into the room. What happened? I muttered to them. Eric, how are you feeling?

A nurse asked. Tired, I guess. Are you feeling nauseous? Another nurse asked, scribbling something on a notepad. Not at the moment. I wriggled in bed, feeling the pain shoot at my spine. The head doctor stepped forward. Eric, I need to ask you some important questions.

Where have you been these past few weeks? I thought for a second, feeling like my memory had been wiped. Just home, been feeling sick all week. Did you visit any places? Were you out of the country? The doctor asked, taking a seat next to me. No, I was home. I just moved in not too long ago.

That's impossible, one of the nurses quipped silently. Easy. The main doctor shushed her away. Listen, Eric, you were exposed the higher levels of radiation, none that I've ever seen in my 24 years on the job, especially not in this town. Now, if you are telling me that you were home all week and hadn't left the country recently,

then something does not add up here. How long was I out? I mumbled, feeling a wetness run down my nose. A nurse came over and wiped blood from my nose. A few days, we have it under control, and the levels are lowering, you may still feel some of the side effects of the radiation poisoning.

Radiation poisoning? Whose words seared into my head, drowning out whatever the doctor was talking about. Where the hell was there radiation near me? I wondered. My mind kept flashing back to the hole in the basement for some strange reason. Eric, Eric, the doctor snapped.

Yes, sorry, what were you saying? You are lucky to be here, Eric, any longer in that house and you wouldn't be here with us today. Radiation is highly toxic. It's a miracle you lasted that long in there. I managed to nod my weak head as the doctor continued to speak. Emergency services have been contacted. Last I heard they were heading towards your house, looking to investigate.

Rest up, we want to keep you here for a few more days before the radiation is fully taken control of. My head rolled to the side, feeling the darkness wash over me once again. I was nudged the wake by a familiar touch. Allison, my sister was next to me, a mask covering her face. Oh, Eric, you gave us all such a scare, she cried. I'm okay, sis. I feel a lot better. I groaned.

What is going on in the house? You've got to see what's going on there. It's something out of a horror movie. My head felt like rolling ocean waves as Allison spoke. They found something, Eric. The level's in your house. God, I don't even know how it's possible you're in there. Radiation is seeping into your home.

They think it's coming from the basement. You could have died. Allison crashed the head into my side. Her tears, standing down my blanket. It's okay. I'm still here now. Giving Allison a weak smile. Good.

Mother doctors say that you can leave in a couple of days. You can come stay with me, okay? Sure, sounds good, sis. There's just one thing. Yeah, what's that? Allison asked. I closed my eyes. The hole in the basement was creeping back in my head again.

Images of that hole had been appearing in my thoughts and dreams since I got here, like it was drawing me in. I just need to get something from the house, okay? Allison sat back down in a chair. No, Eric, that's not possible. Your house is being condemned. Everything inside it, it's poisoned by the radiation. Alison continued to speak, expressing her worries and pleading to me I couldn't go back.

I watched my reflection on the blank television screen. Seeing my red, burned skin stare back at me like I was some charred gaw. Blisters in my skin were full, ready to burst. But I was planning to get back to the house. Despite what Alison or anyone else would say, the hole in the basement was growing stronger in my mind. Mr Carlson, they're ready for you on stage, sir. I looked up for my reflection in the mirror and turned to look at the young woman in the doorway.

How do I look? I asked her, smiling hugely as I fixed her with my regard. She flushed a little. You look great. I was hoping I can get an autograph if it's not too much to ask. The young woman looked flushed as she held out the paper. I grinned and took it, scrolling my name across the front before handing it back. She took it, shyly, sliding a lock of a brown hair beyond an ear. Another fan, of course. But I was used to them by now.

I'd been signing autographs for the last ten years, but this was the first one that I felt like I'd earned it. No more raunchy Roger or audiences of drunken prep boys. I was done with that now. all that was behind me. Maybe now I could bask in the light of honest fans who weren't just here for my juvenile humour. Maybe now that I had some serious work,

it would take me seriously. So, what did you think of the movie? Oh yeah, it was okay. I've been a fan for a while, though. I used to love your stand-up. That surprised me a little. The general consensus from female viewers had always been pretty negative.

Rangy Roger had been beloved by stoners and drunks, and my humour had followed suit pretty well. The character had been great back when I was doing stand-up, and it had followed me through the last seven years as the studio I worked for pumped out one dumb movie after another. Rangie Roger goes to college, Ronji Roger private eye, Ronci Roger and the booby trap,

and on and on and on. I wasn't used to girls telling me how much they liked my work. She looked like she wanted to say more, but, at that moment, the band picked up, and she looked flustered. I think they're playing you on. Knock them dead, she said. I gave her a wink and walked towards the stage.

The crowd erupted into applause as I came out and I basked in their warm regard as I walked over to the couch. My manager had been adamant about me doing the talk show circuits. Guy David was my first stop, and if I made a good impression here, I could keep making the rounds and pumping my new movie. This was no raunchy Roger flick either. I had starred in a serious role for once, and I needed this movie to do well.

I desperately needed to move out from under the shadow of Ranchi Roger. Guy came out to shake my hand, and as we sat, I heard a chorus of male voices yell, Ranchi Roger, from the back row. I gave them a polite wave and turned my attention to Guy. Here are my couch tonight. We have a real legend of the world of comedy. Raunchy Roger himself. Roger Carlson, everybody.

The applause was twins with some booze this time, but I felt it was the same level of appreciation as before. Thanks, Guy. It's a pleasure to be here. So, you went from starring at a series of bee-less movies that appealed to college kids and habitual drinkers to starring in a major box of a smash. What's that like? Guy's teeth gleamed widely in the overhead,

and I felt almost blinded. Guy wore the same dark blue suit. His greying hair swooped back in one of those Johnny Carson imitations thos that he had worn since his first show. Guy was a relic. He had been on the show since the late 70s, and he showed no signs of going anywhere. I imagine there was probably a girl or two in the wings,

getting ready to sniper's career, but maybe she would wait until he was done with this interview if I was lucky. It's been an amazing ride, Guy, to go from doing something like Rauci Roger to starring in a big Hollywood picture like Carter's Promise. The crew I worked with was amazing and it was an honour to work with the beautiful Margot Thames. A wolf whistle

came from the back and the crowd laughed. Speaking of Miss Thames you two appear to have some real chemistry on screen anything there with you two. The crowd made some owing noises but I ignored them and as called acting guy I can assure you that while Miss Thames is a lovely woman

there is nothing romantic going on between us. That had been by design that had been me breaking a habit. I had been lying in a bathtub in New Mexico last year, mostly filled with my own vomit, and looked up stuporiously to see my agent, Claude, sitting on the toilet with a long-suffering look and puke drying on his shirt.

I had been travelling, which is what I called blackout drinking, and I had been hitting it hard the night before. I had come out of my stupor quick enough, though, when Claude told me that he'd been giving me CPR for the last ten minutes. That was a wake-up call. You need to sort yourself out. I'm tired of hauling your ass out of the fire. I'm your agent, not your mother,

and the next time you decide to self-destruct, don't drag me down with you. I had cried, tears, cutting lines through the crime and the puke, and Claudia put her hand on my shoulder. Let me help you. Let me help you get out of this loop. Claude had dropped me off at rehab the same day.

After six months of puking and shaking and going to countless meetings, I felt like I might be getting better. Another six months and I had been ready to leave and see if I could maintain this new, sober life. I had made a promise to myself in rehab, a promise that I would do better. Rancho Roger was not the cause of my problems, but here was a symptom. Ronchy Roger liked the party. Ronchy Roger liked to sleep with anything with a pulse.

Ronchy Roger liked to abuse prescription medication. If I was going to get my life back together, I had to cleave from Rancho Roger. from Ranti Roger. When Claude had come to me with the script for Carter's promise, he had made it clear that I couldn't, quote, Roger up the set. Rodering up something was a word Claude had for ruining it, and I agreed.

I had drunk lemon juice and water, kept up my workout routine, and put nothing stronger than aspirin into my body since coming out of rehab. I said what have accessed the things from my past, working on a set again would be a real test of my mental. In the eight months of shooting, I had been tempted, but I had not succumbed. I was sitting here now, a better man.

This is quite a transition for you, isn't it? From doing something like raunchy Roger to a serious film like Carter Promise. I realised I'd been wall-gathering and snapped out of it. It was quite a change, but a change for the better, I said, smiling out of the crowd. The audience didn't clap this. time, and that seemed a little off-putting. So, Glimnir Studios hasn't issued any statement on whether the next Ronji Roger film will come out.

Care to give us any insight? I furrowed my brow. Of course, this is why they wanted me here. As far as I know, the series is cancelled. The last film will be the end of them. Several people in the audience gave displeased noises, but somewhere, someone in the back laughed. It was an odd sound amongst the discomfort, and I found myself looking for whoever had made it. I was used to people laughing at me, but it sounded so alien at the moment.

It sounded not altogether real. Guy seemed shocked. After all this time, we're talking about a series that's been going on for nearly seven years. Yes, well, now I've moved on. I think we can finally put the character to rest. In the low rumbles from the crowd, I heard that laughter again. It was subtle, maybe one or two people, but it rankled me. I searched again for the source, but couldn't see anything.

The house lights were always down when someone was on stage, and it made a murky soup out of the audience. The lights in my eyes didn't help much either, and I found myself squinting against them. Well, out of respect for the recently deceased, maybe you could give us some classic raunchy-roger lines. Guy said, looking out at the audience who began to clap my good little sheep. I felt like screaming. Claudia told me this interview was about my new movie, not my past.

I didn't ever want to think back on those drunken days those days when Roger had ruled my life. But it seemed to be all anyone ever wanted. The crowd was actually laughing now, cheering and egging me on. That greating laughter still lingered amongst them. He was like a nice pick against my temple, the mechanical laughter that skittered through the crowd too fast to be discovered.

They quieted down when I didn't laugh along with them or stand up to oblige. I don't think so, Guy. I'm here to talk about Carter's promise, not to rehash old material. I tried to ignore that grating chuckle, but it became harder and harder to keep my call. Oh, come on, just a few bits. What about the priest and the communion wine? I know that always makes me chuckle. How about it, folks? They applauded, but I barely heard them. All I could hear were the giggles, the chuckles, those mean little titters from the lips of fools. Look, I appreciate how many of you are fans of raunchy Roger, but that's not me anymore.

That's a part of my life that I'm trying to put behind myself, and I just want to forget about it, and move on to more important things. A chuckle rumbled up from the audience. Not altogether the artificial laughter I'd been hearing, and I felt his temper flare. I told the studio I wasn't going to do it anymore, okay? I'm a real actor now, I shouted. The back of the house bubbled with canned laughter, and I thought I saw people standing up in the back row. Were they?

Smiling? They moved up, blackness swirming in that tepity of shadows that threatened to take in the next row. The scowling faces in front of them also seemed to melt into smiles. Their sudden laughter joined the rising den from the back of the house. They were laughing. They were laughing at me. I had been laughed at all my life,

but this was the first time it had truly made me furious. I'm glad I did it. I killed Rancho Roger. He was made of the worst, the darkest part of me, and I'm glad he's dead. I shouted at the audience, rising up from the couch,

and stalking towards them. I bowled my fists. They hadn't come to hear about my new project. They had come to pick the meat of the carcass of my old work. They wanted to hear the jokes about the lesbian sisters, the nun who moonlighted as a dominatrix, the menacing priest that I barely escaped to my youth. They wanted all those Roger classics that had transcended my stand-up and made it onto the screen. Uh, maybe you could calm down a little. Guy began, but I got him off.

I'm not doing this anymore, you hear me? I shouted into the crowd. I'm done dancing for your amusement. Ranchi Roger was a misogynistic dick, a cancer that I had removed. I'm a better person now. I... The crowd erupted into a friend. glory of that can laughter. They were really laughing now. They were mocking my suffering. They were mocking my journey.

I had escaped a life that meant to kill me, and these assholes were mocking me. They didn't have the slightest idea what it was like to live under the shadow of Ranchi Roger. They didn't have any clue what it felt like to step out from underneath that weight. I'm a real actor, I screamed at them. Not some clown that struts about to make you laugh at his antics. I moved on. Maybe you should move on too. I...

I... But, the closer I got to the crowd, the more I noticed them change. The blackness tore through them like a disease, and what had begun in the back was now rioting through the middle and working its way stage-side. The crowd, buried in that hazy blackness,

grinned at me with two white smiles and two white teeth. They leered, jumping seats, and coming forward in a horror-movie shuffle of propelled bodies. I backed away a step, almost tripping on the rug that stretched over the same, stage. I could hear that can laughter rippling through the whole studio, and one of the band members began to chortle, even as I backed away. The chortler fell over suddenly, his drum set falling with him, and he convulsed as the laughter was ripped from him, and became the same

mirthless scree that ran through the crowd. Guy began to giggle from behind his desk, the laughter bubbling up painfully, as his quaffed flew, and his face became a rictus of pain and mirth. I turned to run, the tide of laughter oozing behind me. I ran for the exit door as fast as I could, pumping into the pretty receptionist who would wish me luck. She was already doubled over as her skin began to mottle and run, and I felt fear moved my feet as I charged for the stage door. I hit it like a fallback going for a tackle, but bounced off as the door refused to open.

I slammed into them again and again, but they wouldn't budge. I turned, running down the hall for the side door, but the laughing was already coming up that way towards me. I was trapped. I'd nowhere to go. There would get me and... I saw the broom closet standing open and dived inside. I sat amongst the mops and cleaning implements,

my back against the wall, and a mop stuck up under the door handle to keep it shut. Outside, I could hear things moving. Here, their laughter, as they got closer and closer. I took out my phone and tried 911. I could get some help. Someone could surely come to help. help me. The number rang and rang, and after the 12th ring, I hung up. I called the police,

the fire department, and finally called my manager, Claude, when I was completely out of ideas. If Claude hadn't picked up, my next option was my mother, whom I hadn't spoken to in years. I think at that point I just wanted someone to reassure me. Claude picked up in the third ring. What's wrong? You're supposed to be on stage. Claude, something's going on at the studio. people are trying to attack me. I need help. I need you? Claude cut in.

Who would be trying to attack you? He asked. His voice almost condescending. You'll raunch you, Roger, he said, laughing a little as he said it. Everyone loves you. Why would anyone care enough to hurt someone like you? He broke into laughs between every word.

His laughter, cutting, and jagged, as it seemed to tear his throat apart with his intensity. He held like a beast on the other end of the phone. and I can imagine him gasping his life away as he laughed on and on. His laughter sounded like the lunatic chorus you'd hear from an asylum's windows. It sounded like the laughter you'd hear in hell. The voice that came back on the phone was very different. It was liquid, oily, but still recognisable.

It was the voice I knew as well as my own. How many times had I cultivated it on stage? How many nights had I talked to myself in just that voice? I found myself talking to raunchy Roger himself, and the realization made me shudder. Why would anyone care if you live or die, you stupid hack? They all want me, raunchy Roger. No one gives a damn about whatever little movie you manage to spew out.

You might as well come out and embrace it, Bucco. I'm not going anywhere. His voice was backlit, overpowered, drowned out by the laughter that suddenly bubbled up from the phone, and I sat against the wall as the laughter on my phone matched the laughter approaching the door. I'm hoping that maybe someone will find this

after they get me and know what happened. This wasn't some freak accident, it wasn't some publicity stunt. I'd be the victim of something I don't quite understand. As I sit here, breathing in the smells of pintle and window cleaner, I can take solace in the fact that at least I went out clean.

If this is it, then at least I did. die a waste of a human being. And at least I got to make something I could be proud of before Ronji Rogers' corpse finally smothered the life out of me. As I'm writing this, I suddenly snorted and had to cover my face to stop it. I couldn't help it. Something about this situation was suddenly... Just so damn funny. Before you call me stupid, I want you to think about your skin.

It's not rare to find little marks or blemishes that you don't remember receiving. that you don't remember receiving. Nothing major. Maybe a paper cut sized mark on your arm or a bruise on your leg. Stuff no one thinks about. It just happens. So, I wasn't concerned

when I saw the blood under my fingernails. Anything could have caused the little scab to form on my arm, and it didn't hurt when I'd carelessly scratched it off. The only reason I noticed did it all was because it wouldn't stop bleeding. And I didn't want to stay my shirt.

So, after almost like, half an hour of dabbing at the cut with a tissue and noticing no decline in the volume of blood bleeding out, I got a band-aid from the first aid kit buried under my sink and stuck it on. Then I continued to live my life. When I woke up the next morning, I found that the band-aid had almost soaked through. And yeah, that freaked me out. But what was I supposed to do? Go to the doctor and tell him about the tiny scrape of my arm.

So, I used the thicker band-aid the second time, and it took hours for the blood. to soak through that one. I cleaned it with alcohol and a cotton swab and covered it again. It really had no effect to me. It was just a little cut on my arm and I hardly even thought about it after the first day.

I became accustomed to switching out the band-aids at morning, noon and night. I stopped cleaning it. But cleaning it didn't seem to be helping anyway. Eventually, it just became part of my routine and whenever I left the house I made sure I had a band-aid in my pocket. The few times someone asked about it, I told them it was just a tiny cut in my arm, and I didn't even remember how I'd gotten it, and they'd understood, because who hasn't experienced that?

I think the problem really boils down to routine. I took the band-aid off and slapped a new one on quick, before anything leaked out. I stopped really looking at it, and when the bleeding started to let up a few weeks later, I was relieved. One day when I was at work I was interrupted halfway through switching the bandage out by one of my co-workers a man named Mark Jesus Christ

he said What is that Mark and I were co-workers Friendly but not friends Oh just a little cut I don't even know how I got it I said casually I don't know what that is

He said But it's not a little cut The thing was on the back of my arm a place where it wasn't very accessible to my eyes without the help of a mirror, but the look on Mark's face made my other hand unconsciously feel at the place that was usually covered by a bandage. Where I expected to feel a rough and healing scab. I felt nothing. The skin was smoothed and stretched tightly, right up to a hard ridge,

and then my fingers sank into a space in my arm. I felt thin, dry membrane brake underneath the light pressures as they sunk deeper, but I felt no pain. Mark gagged watching me. Then he started sniffing the air like a lunatic. Oh God, that's sick, he said. I was wondering what that smell was. You need a doctor.

I didn't respond. The cabin in my arm had left me speechless. I excused myself and headed for the restroom. There, I used the mirror to get a better look. It wasn't really that bad. The skin was fine around it. maybe a little pale, but otherwise fine. The hole itself was small.

Inside the flesh was black, but there wasn't any blood. A faint ranted smell emanated from it. I replaced the bandage and went back to work. It was just a little hole. Mark was overreacting. In the weeks that followed, it began to get a little bigger and a little deeper, but my arms still felt fine. It didn't even hurt when I stuck my finger inside of it,

but the smell was becoming a problem. I could see the people around me scrunching up their faces and wondering where the stench was coming from. At first, few realized it was me. I was always very clean-looking, but eventually its strength made the source easier to pinpoint. Someone, probably Mark, had complained about it to my boss who called me into his office and told me to sort it out.

I started covering up the stench with different substances. I tried using a cotton swab, drenched in our car, but it wasn't completely effective. Once, before a meeting, at which I knew I would be in close proximity to others for an extended period of time, I resorted to using a small piece of lemon. But even that didn't seem to do the trick, and I was reprimanded a second time. But in my desperation the next morning, I actually found a convenient solution. I filled it with toothpaste.

The label said that baking soda was the main ingredient in the almond hammer kind that I used, And I think that's why it works so well at absorbing the odour. So, every morning, as I got ready for work, I would squeeze the toothpaste into the opening until it was flushed with my arm before I covered it. There were no more complaints about the smell at my work. This solution, however, was becoming more expensive. It seemed like every day the hole in my arm was absorbing more and more,

and once I started going through over a tube a week, I knew it was unsustainable. So, I finally decided to see it. doctor. I live in a small town and the doctor I've had since I was a kid is an unreliable guy at best and a minor addict at worst, greatly assisting the spread of the opioid epidemic in his own small corner of the rural Midwest. I made an appointment anyway because at this point I knew that I might have a problem. That morning I didn't fill the hole in my arm with toothpaste, so it would be easy for him to see the inside. The smell was terrible and it made the drive there

very unpleasant. When I entered the waiting room and saw the lady at the desk immediately make a face and lock me up and down, I knew I had made the right choice in coming to the doctor. If the smell had crossed the room that fast,

who knows the problems of my cause for me in the day to day? She smiled and handed me the sign-in sheet. Maybe it wasn't that bad. I was probably just psyching myself out. Everyone in town knew about the wait times in Dr. Murphy's office. It was so little.

legendary that people had taken to bring in thick novels and discreetly leaving them on the waiting room tables, as if they'd finished them. It was a very mid-western way to complain. I was there barely a minute before being called back. The lady at the desk took my vitals with a tight smile and sent me to the exam room, where I was promptly met by Dr. Murphy. What seems to be the problem today? He asked, but his eyes had already trailed to the gorse around my arm. This sounds silly, I told him, but I had a little cut to my arm. I don't even know where I got it, but now I think it's infected. When I started to remove the wrap, the smell got impossibly worse.

Actually, I acknowledged, I'm pretty sure it's infected. Dr. Mervis's face twisted, repulsed by the thing of my arm. He was very unprofessional. He looked at it, then at me. son are you feeling okay he asked the man was despicable and i didn't appreciate being patronised i'm feeling fine i said even if the hole in my arm was deep its diameter was barely larger than my fist okay the man said let's take a look the way he moved towards me was hesitant his disgust was clearly evident in his posture he was a doctor regarded sake. Was he really incapable of handling such a small injury?

It probably had something to do with the fact that he couldn't just throw a prescription at me and send me on my way. Lay it up here, he said, gesturing to the arm of the examination chair. I cautiously obliged, and, when I did, he started to pick at my arm

with his sharp little tools. I felt a tugging, tearing sensation, like peeling back a roll of packing tape. Dr. Murphy made a noise in his throat, As I glanced at my upper arm. He had peeled back the skin, the perfectly healthy skin. The skin of my upper arm was now dangling from his instruments like used tissue paper.

There was a sickly, minty smell, and I saw goops of dark-colored paste dripping onto the floor between us. I caught it in my hand and tried to rub it back into my arm. That stuff was expensive. What did you do? I demanded, leaping from the chair. Dr. Murphy, pale and speechless, watched me with horrified eyes. Calm down, he pleaded. But how could I be calm when I could look down and see the ligament of my arm? The bunches of yellow fat and networks of capillaries, right down to the gleaming white bone.

Get away from me! I shouted, grabbing my gauze and recovering the area. He was panicking now. You need to get to a hospital, he said. I'm going to call an ambulance. No way, I interrepresent. I'm not going to sit here and let you take off the rest of my skin. I barged out the examination room. He called after me, but I was already out the door.

The drive home was even worse than the trip there. The smell was horrid, and when I opened the windows, the cold winter air sent sharp pain to my newly exposed flesh. That's the medical system for you. For all of his fancy degrees, the man had only managed to make the situation worse. I stopped at the drugstore to pick up more toothpaste, but as I walked around

I noticed looks from the other customers and even some of the workers they whispered and pointed in a way probably meant to be discreet at the place of my arm where the course could not completely cover why can't people mind their own business the smell wasn't that bad

I bought the toothpaste quickly in such a hurry to be out of there that I didn't even wait for my change the next Monday as I got ready for work I found that not even an entire tube of tooth base could cover up the smell. Thanks to Dr. Murphy,

the rest of the flesh had started to peel and it had finally affected the mobility of my arm. I could barely twitch my fingers anymore. Worse, I think something might have gotten into it when I left it exposed on my way back from the office. Maybe even in the office.

The place was hardly sterile. I couldn't be sure, but I swear some of the white bits were wriggling around. I knew what I needed to do if I wanted to keep my job. The arm had to go. I called out sick. I know that doing it myself seems like a bad idea, but I hardly trust Dr. Murphy, and it's a fact that amputations aren't hard to perform, especially since I don't have any feeling in the arm. Think of all the people who've had their

arms sown off on the battlefield. At least no one will be shooting at me while they do it. I told my boss I'll be out for a few days, and he didn't seem to mind very much. Hopefully he'll understand why it was worth it when I get back in. It really isn't that big of a deal. I stood still for a moment, awestruck. The pictures didn't do it justice. It was a large but quaint home located on a secluded island near Cape Cod, a small piece of land devoid of life, only the cottage and a lighthouse visible across the water. Verified as an Airbnb plus rental, one week's rent came to a little over $3,000. The price was steep. but completely worth it.

This would be the best place to clear my head and finish writing my novel. I happily trotted across the stone walkway to the front door and grabbed the knob, ready to map out the rest of my book. It would be my second release. My publisher had been breathing down my neck for months, constantly asking for updates. Now I had the perfect environment to complete it. Upon opening the door, I was caught off guard.

Hello? I nearly jumped out of my skin. There was a man inside, late 50s, average build, grey moustache. It took me a moment to match the face to the one of the super host profile. It was Garrett, the owner of the property. Sorry, Garrett, you startled me. I didn't expect anyone to be here. He smiled.

I greet all of my guests. You people are my livelihood after all. Please, come in. we have some important matters to discuss. I joined him in the living room where he sat in armchairs on opposite sides of the long coffee table. Garrett simply continued to smile.

So, what did you want to discuss? I asked. He pulled a folded sheet of paper out from his jacket and slid it across the table. It stopped in front of me. I picked it up for a closer look. The edges worn and it felt almost canvas-like between my

fingers. I began unfolding, but Gareth stopped me. Don't. You'll have plenty of time for that later. Just listen. I looked up at him, confused but compliant. This house has been in my family for generations. Staying here can be a rewarding experience, but it can also be a dreadful one, if you're not careful. Come on, Garrett, don't tell me the place is haunted. I was the only one smiling now. Garrett looked at me thoroughly amused. My smile vanished and I gestured for him to continue. On that sheet of paper are some rules. You must follow every last one of them.

There are no exceptions. So long as you do this, your vacation will be a pleasant one. With that, Garrett stood up from the chair and walked to the front door. He turned to me on his way out and offered a final sentiment before leaving. Follow the rules, Jack. If you don't, you're in for a bumpy ride. When he left, I enfolded the list, expecting to see a reiteration of his stay requirements. No pets, no modifications, clean up after yourself, that sort of thing.

This was not the case. On the paper was a set of rules that only served to bookend our strange encounter with further confusion. Number one, no lights on past 1125pm. Number two, do not answer your phone. Callers cannot be trusted. Number three, only two people are permitted inside. Hank Penston and Jessica Covenwood ask for last names. Number four, do not exit the house after midnight until sunrise.

Number five, if your room changes locations, close your door and try again. Only leave when connection has been re-established. Number six, the voices are harmless. Do not converse with them. Number 7. Never lock the doors. Number 8. If you have any trouble, call Jessica Covenwood at this number, followed by a number. This is the only phone call you can trust. This lifeline may only be used once during your rental period.

At the bottom of the page was a final note. I will come to collect you, but only when the rental period is over, not a moment sooner. There was no leaving until then. As I sat there, mulling over the list, it all became clear. Garrett It was a lunatic Either that or this was a poor attempt at humour Either way I brushed off our meeting and the list of rules altogether

placing the paper on the coffee table Where it stayed for the rest of the night A majority of the first night was peaceful After my novel's final six chapters that needed completing I was able to stay up late and finish two of them First drafts at least There was still a lot left to do Final days on the island would have to be spent proofreading the entire manuscript

and filling cracks in the narrative before sending it to my editor. Still, two chapters was not a bad night's work, all things considered. After patting myself on the back for a job well done, I looked at my phone. It was 12, 18 a.m. My lips spread into a slight smile as I looked at the desk light, wavering in and out of life. It's past 1125, Garrett. Was this why I needed to turn off the light? so they wouldn't flicker.

I chuckled to myself as another rule came to mind. Number four, if I remembered correctly, do not exit the house after midnight. I continued to laugh at myself as I ventured downstairs, opened the front door, and stepped out into the night. The view was brilliant,

a blankets of stars covering the cape, only broken up by the gorgeous lighthouse jutting upward, practically cutting a hole in the night sky. It was a breathtaking, well worth a partial advance for my book. What's the reasoning behind the rule, Garrett? You didn't want me to enjoy the view?

I turned and then stepped back into the house. I then locked the door. Oops, that's another rule broken. Hope the house doesn't chastise me. With that, I travelled upstairs to the bedroom and fell into a blissful sleep the moment my body met the sheet. My slumber would not last.

3.27 a.m. I awoke to a thunderous banging at the front door. In a groggy slur of motion, my legs just barely managed to pull the rest of my body out of bed. Practically sleepwalking, I eventually made my way downstairs and opened the door. Outside, there were no longer any stairs. Their light was replaced with a thick fog, rolling over the ocean. The water and air was still, frozen in place. There was no one there but me

I closed the door and went back to bed certain that the sounds I heard were remnants of a dream overlapping with waking life my body fell under the bed and sleep took a hold once more 442 a.m. I woke again, ripped from a dream state where I was turning in my novel to the publishing house

for whatever reason in this dream Garrett was my boss he held the manuscript to my face and flew the pages revealing a lack of ink. There's nothing here, Jack. All that time and nothing to show for it. He continued to flip through before stopping somewhere in the middle.

Unlike the other pages, this one had text. The words were familiar, but they weren't written by me. Garrett's rules were painted on the page, the pitch black ink slowly dripping from the paper. His form soon followed, melting into the floor below.

You should have followed the rules, Jack. That's when I sprung to life. My heart pounding as I sat up in bed. The sound of pages turning rang in my ears, but it hadn't leaked over from my nightmare. Over on the desk was my manuscript, its paper wildly flapping about. My heart nearly sank before I noticed the chill in the room. I had left the window open. It was just the wind.

Relieved, I shut the window and went back to sleep. 5.19 a.m. No sound woke me this time. Instead, it was nature calling, beckoning me to take a late-night trip to the bathroom. Unfortunately for me, this would not be an easy task. Upon opening the bedroom door, I was greeted by a deeply unsettling sight. It was a hallway, not the hall that should have been there, mind you. An entirely different hallway, noticeably different.

It was narrow, almost too thin for a person to walk down. through, and it was long, very long, seemingly longer than the building itself. Linding the sides was a plethora of doors, more doors than I knew the house to have. It was, by all means, unexplainable. I rubbed my eyes to test her acuity, the hallway was still there. I wondered for a moment if I was dreaming, but quickly discarded the notion, certain that I could tell the difference between what was real and what wasn't. but if not a dream, then what?

With an air of hesitance about me, my feet patted into the narrow void. I tried each door along the way, but they were all locked. Halfway in, a harrowing sound cut through the air. I turned my head to see the bedroom door had shut itself. Running back and turning the knob was futile. It wouldn't budge. Without a whole lot of options, I continued down the hall. At the end it was a final door, different than the rest.

A fixed to it was a plaque with a designation, like one you might see in a hotel. According to the text, he was room 371. The knob offered no resistance as I turned it and gently pushed the door open. There was no light inside. Still, I could make out something standing in the centre of the room facing me. He was a shadowy figure. slightly darker than the blackness around it. A vague glow outlined its form. It was tall, taller than any man. I had the inclination to close the door and turn back, but fear kept me anchored

in place. My breathing became erratic and my heart rate saw to new heights as it took a step towards me. In a flash it lunged to my position. Everything went black. My eyes opened to sunlight pouring into the room. I was back in bed. This was strange. Every bone in my body told me it wasn't a dream, but rational thinking dictated otherwise. I had no choice but to entertain the idea

that I was having vivid night terrors in the face of a fast approaching publishing deadline. The sooner I finished the book, I thought, the sooner they would vanish. Though it didn't sit well with me, it was the only explanation I had. My phone buzzed, the bedside table. I knew who it was, but with my deadline on the horizon, I couldn't afford

the distraction. When the buzzing ceased, I crawled out to bed and started the day. My first few hours awake were productive. I was able to write over half the next chapter and tweak some final details throughout the rest of the book. My progress was, however, impeded by a knock at the front door. Unlike the night previous, there was someone out there. A man, Can I help you? I asked, confused. I was hoping I could help you actually. The name's Hank.

I'm a locksmith from the mainland. Garrett sent me to check the locks in all the doors. I pondered for a moment and then grabbed a list of rules from the coffee table. I locked it over before meeting Hank back at the door. Well, it looks like you're on the list. Splendid. May I come in then? And a naturally white smile danced across his cheeks.

Yeah, sure, come in. Hank walked past the threshold and sighed. There was a long moment of silence before he spoke again. What a lovely place. Can't wait to sing my teeth in and get to work. He then sauntered off upstairs. I sat on the couch and continued writing, hoping my creative breakthrough hadn't subsided.

An hour passed, then another. I was able to finish up some more work, but something kept scratching at the back of my mind. I knew locksmithing wasn't the loudest job out there, but I expected to hear at least some sort of tinkering coming from upstairs, the distant sound of keys scraping against the locks inner chambers. But no, there was only silence. I then wondered why Hank was there to begin with.

This was far from a typical rental experience, especially one on a secluded island. I skimmed the list again. Two things stood out. Rule number seven, never lock the doors. Even if Garrett was deranged, it was clear he didn't want the doors locked. So why then would he send a locksmith? Who'd be breaking in and out of here anyway?

The second thing that jumped out to me was the end of rule number three. Ask for last names. Something wasn't adding up, but I intended to get to the bottom of it. Hank? I yelled out, hoping to get his attention. There was no answer. Hank, can you please come down here? No response, only silence. This was my cue to investigate.

To my dismay, the second floor was completely vacant. I scoured every room, every nook and cranny the house had to offer to no avail. Hank was nowhere to be found. I couldn't make heads or tails of it. How could a person just up and vanish like that? I returned to the first floor Hank was there sitting on the couch, looking over my manuscript

There was no way he could have snuck by me Say, this is pretty good I wonder how it's going to play out Help me out here Jack Is there a happy ending Or does the man succumbed to his own demons I stood Frozen at the bottom of the stairs

Hank? I asked What's your last name? A grin formed beneath his nose Reiden My name's Hank Reiden Why do you ask? I looked down at the list in my hand

Penston His name was supposed to be Hank Penston No reason, just curious Hey, do you mind tossing me my phone? Hank looked down to my phone On the coffee table A few moments passed

Before he grabbed it and looked over at me He stared for a long while Almost as if calculating the distance and then finally threw it over. I caught it and ran for the front door. Thanks, I'll be right back. I sprinted at the edge of the island, unsure of who or what was inside the house.

It was becoming ever apparent that Garrett might not be so crazy after all. Something truly strange was afoot, and I wanted no part of it. At first I called the ferry station. No answer. Then Garrett. Still no answer.

Before I could try another number, my ex-wife called me. I'd been ignoring her cause for weeks. Charlotte, thank God. I'm at an Airbnb off the cape. I needed to... She interjected. Leslie's dead, Jack. My blood ran cold.

It was said with the same tone and resentment as it was two years before. All at once, the floodgates opened, and a slew of memories poured in. Once, I tried desperately to repress. Leslie was our daughter Before Charlotte and I divorced She was struck by a car and away home from school Charlotte was at work And I was supposed to pick up Leslie

But I was too wrapped up in my first novel I forgot all about her My own daughter She walked a good mile before the collision I never forgave myself Neither did Charlotte Charlotte Charlotte

Why are you saying this Tears rolled down my face She's dead, Jack. It's your fault. My baby's dead. All because of you. My voice became louder and less distinct until I could barely recognize the cadence,

an inhuman growl. You're to blame, Jack. You belong where you are. I hope you rot in that house. I look down at the list, now stained with steady streams of droplets dripping from my cheeks. That's when I remembered rule number two.

Do not answer your phone. Collas cannot be trusted. As much as it pained me, I hung up on her. It wasn't real, but as sure as health felt like it was. I wiped away my tears and looked at the last rule. Braving the fierce current of the ocean likely wouldn't end well, ashore nearly 16 miles away. So, Jessica was my only hope.

The only phone call you can trust, according to Garrett. I dialed the number and waited. After two tones, my ear was met with a female voice. You broke a rule, didn't you? A few actually, give or take. She let out a sigh. Did you let anyone in?

Yes, Hank Penston? No, Hank Redon. There was another disappointed sigh. Okay, listen carefully. I want you to go to the back of the house, but act natural. No sudden moves or conspicuous behavior. Any slight change in your attitude could set him off. Walk slow and be cautious.

Okay. I did as instructed. On my way around the house, I looked through the window. Hank was no longer in the living room. There was a slight spike in my adrenaline, but I held my composure, until turning the corner that is. Standing at the back of the house,

waiting for me was Hank. Hey there, Jack. What are you up to? Jessica chimed in. stay calm and repeat what I say verbatim Hank I have Garrett on the phone he wants to know if you can check on the lock of the front door he says it's been sticking lately

in the most casual voice I could muster I repeated what Jessica said Hank bore a stoke expression for a few moments and then spoke that darn thing I'll see what I can do he walked past me and went off to the front of the house I was officially rattled Jessica's voice broke the tension.

About a dozen yards from the box is an electrical box. Do you see it? I survived the area and noticed the box. It was embedded in a tree stump of all places. One that stuck out of the ground at an awkward angle. Yes, I see it. Good. Open the hatch.

There is a lever there. I want you to pull it down and wait exactly ten seconds, after which you will place it back in his original position and close the hatch. I was confused. How is this going to help exactly? There was a third sigh of frustration. That's the master switch. When you pull the lever, it will deactivate all energy in the island.

When you reset the lever, the house will reconstitute. This will wipe their sleep clean. I didn't understand how it all worked, but I'd heard enough to warrant an obvious follow-up question. Couldn't I just leave it off? There was no sigh this time, just anger. No, the island is far worse when the energies are at bay. Ten seconds is all you're allowed.

At this point, I saw Hank walking alongside the house. I fixed that lock for you, Jack. Jessica must have heard, because the voice adopted a tone of urgency. Pull the lever now. I did as she said and begun counting. Hank continues to walk towards me, his form pacing in and out like a car. a bad television signal. Jack, what are you doing? Need a hand? His pace grew faster until his walk

became a run. My heart was pounding. Just as he was closing in, the ten seconds were up, and I forced the lever back. Hank vanished completely, and the stump receded into the earth below. I fell back onto the ground in relief. Jessica, we did it. Click. She clearly wasn't as pleased with the victory as I was. That was fine. I was just thankful to be alive. Once inside the house, I lay down in bed and held the list to my face,

scrutinizing every last detail. I was determined not to break another rule for the rest of my stay. That night was peaceful. I made sure all of the doors were unlocked, turn off the lights by 1125 and refused to answer any calls. When I slept, there were no strange dreams.

No dreams at all, in fact. It was a truly restful night, the best sleep I'd had in years. Despite my predicament, I awoke hopeful, hopeful that I could weather the storm and survive the week. I was even able to write some more of my book, not much but enough to jumpstart my creativity. The next night didn't go nearly as well. 2.12 a.m. I had woken without cause. In an effort to fall back asleep, I shut my eyes.

and allowed my mind to wonder. I thought of my book and the deadline. I thought of my eventual departure from the island. Before long, I thought of Charlotte and Leslie. The image of our once happy family would forever be seared into my broken heart. I thought my eyes began to water, but something interrupted the sadness.

A sound. Footsteps. My eyes opened and I sprang to life, sitting upright in bed. The footsteps stopped. just outside the room. With a great deal of apprehension, I got out of bed and tiptoed to the door.

When I turned the knob and opened it, I found myself at the entrance of the house. With rule number five in mind, I shut the door and opened it again. I was now at the living room. Next was the bathroom, then a hallway. A familiar hallway.

Off in the distance, I heard the click of room 371's door, The tall shadow stepped out. The hall began to shrink. The figure closed the cap between us in a matter of seconds. Luckily, my will to live outweighed the fear that held me in place. I managed to shut the door just in time to prevent my demise. When I opened it again, the room was back to where it was supposed to be.

3.47am. Just as I was finally drifting back to sleep, the voices started. Hey, Jack, enjoying your stay. though frightened, rule number six came to mind and I followed it. The voices were harmless and I was not to converse with them. What's wrong, Jack? Hung up on Garrett's rules. That's no fun.

I closed my eyes as the voice grew louder and hid beneath the covers. Don't hide, Jack. We won't hurt you, honest. The footsteps were back, walking outside the room. They stopped at the door. He's here now, Jack. I can tell you how to make him go away, but you have to talk to me. The door creaked open, and the footsteps recommenced, walking over to the side of the bed.

He's leaning over you now. I can make him leave. Just say the word. I couldn't give in to the ploy. I had to obey the rules. But then there was a tug on the sheets. My heart nearly stopped. Wake up, Jack! I jolted to a sitting position. The room was empty, and the room was empty, and the room. the door shut. It was a dream, but that didn't explain the hand-shaped impression on the edge of the bed. No matter the culprit, I would endure the torment. It was only a week. You can get through

this jack. Leslie's face flashed through my mind and forced an unexpected tear out. You've been through so much worse. The next few nights came and went without issue. There were some dicey moments, but I learned to handle the odd voice here and there and the room moving every now and again. I ignored knocks of the front door altogether, avoiding any and all potential repeats of the Hank incident. Night six, however, was by far the worst. Some things never change. Dark clouds loomed over the ocean as waves crashed into the island. Just like the night Leslie was killed, I became deeply engrossed in my writing, to the point that nothing the world could have pulled me away. Even after everything that had happened in the house, I was somehow able to finish the book.

Maybe the shock to my system inspired me. My fear had transformed into focus, granting me a greater mental clarity. When all was said and done and the editing complete, there was a horrible revelation. According to my phone, it was 11.24 p.m. My heart sank to the depths of my soul as I raced across the house, shutting lights off, knocking over furniture and decorations in the process. When I came back to the bedroom to turn off the final light at the desk, I glanced that my phone once more.

The readout is now etched into my memory. 11.26pm. I clicked off the light, praying that my phone's readout was somehow wrong, and that I still had time. 1127 p.m. The bedroom door slammed itself shut behind me. I jostled a knob and pushed my weight against it.

but it remained unmoved. A swirling black vortex of smoke was expelled from beneath the bed. It covered the floor in an instant I began to rise and fill the rest of the room. I had no intention of waiting to see what would happen to me in the darkness, so I flung myself at the window and shattered the glass, landing on my back in a bed of shrubbery below. The impact knocked the wind out of me. Shortly thereafter, I passed out.

11.38 p.m. I dreamt I know it was a dream Another house is doing Because it was one I'd had many times before The setting, my daughter's school The bell rang and a stambido Children rushed out into the world

Excited to leave of the day and see their parents The last person out was Leslie Left alone to her own devices Daddy Where are you? Her eyes started back and forth I tried to call out to her But, much like the day in question, I wasn't there.

In the dream, I was only an observer, forced the watch as the horror unfolded before me. Leslie waited for 15 long minutes before heading off in the direction of our home. I bore witness to a trek, a poor girl alone in the cold, and then it happened. Dream tears flooded my field of view as a cast swerved and the heart-wrenching scream of that beautiful young girl rang through the winter air. 11.56 p.m. I woke up on the ground, covered in tears and broken glass. The ocean waves crashed against the walls of the house. There was no time to waste.

Without my phone, I didn't know exactly what time it was, but it had to be close to midnight. Another broken rule would only make matters worse. I raced to the front door, opened it, and swiftly shut it behind me. Somewhat thankful to be back in the house, but also somewhat terrified. The coming moments would echo the latter emotion, adding to my woes, 12.05 a.m. I was able to open the bedroom door and retrieve my phone. Luckily, the smoke had vanished.

Upon venturing back down to the living room, I was shattered, just like the glass on the ground outside. There, sitting on the couch where Hank sat before her. It was Leslie. My Leslie. I reached the bottom. step, I nearly fell to my knees, almost forgetting to breathe in the process. She was... The same.

Exactly the same. Every feature identical to the day I last saw her. How was this possible? Hi, Daddy. Her voice pulled a wave of emotion out of me, stronger than anything I had ever felt before. Was it really her? Was this really my precious Leslie, brought back to life? Surely this wasn't the house is doing, was it?

Sweetheart, is that you? Is it really you? She looked over at me with innocent eyes. Yes, Daddy, it's me. I ran over to her and took her in my arms. My face now drenched in an ocean of tears. Oh, Leslie, sweetheart, I missed you so much. I pulled away to get a better look at her.

That's when I saw it. For an instant, in between blinks, her eyes were solid pools of black. This was not my Leslie. I backed away at once. What's wrong, Daddy? I continued my retreat to the stairs. You're not real. This isn't real. We buried you. An X-word stopped me in my tracks.

No, Daddy, you buried me. Her eyes locked with mine as I cried. You killed me You're the reason I'm dead I took a pain breath Before responding You right I was a terrible father

And I deserve every moment of torture This house puts me through If I ever get out of here I'm going to visit your grave For the first time And tell you how sorry I am How much I've missed you over the years Not a day goes by

That the guilt doesn't eat me up inside I swallowed the lump in my throat And wiped away the tears And she looked up at me her head tilted in observation. But you're not her. I ran up the stairs as fast as I could. Leslie's piercing screams echoed through the house,

followed by the sound of every window breaking in reaction to the pitch. Once in the bedroom, I closed the door behind me and slid down to a sitting position on the floor against it, utterly defeated and emotionally drained. I pulled out my phone and dialed Jessica's number. After two tones, she picked up. What is it this time? Don't tell me you broke another rule.

I think I'm going to die tonight, Jessica. A perturbed tone vanished, replaced with a concern. Jack, what did you do? What's going on over there? I can't fight it anymore. It's too much. As much as I wanted to live, I could feel myself giving up. I don't even know why I called her.

She couldn't help. The lever was gone. and it was past midnight. The storm outside was destroying the house. Soon I would be swept out to sea, never to be heard from again. Hold on Jack. I'll be there soon. Click. She wouldn't be coming. Even if the ferries ran that late, they wouldn't dare operate in a storm that violent. The end was near and I could feel it. 1.13 a.m. After a good long while of wallowing in self-pity, there was a knock at the front door. Jessica?

No, it couldn't be. I cautiously exited the bedroom and slowly descended the staircase to the living room below. The storm raged on outside, the gust of the wind howling through the house. In reaching the bottom step, I noticed that the ghost was clear.

Leslie's ghost was nowhere in sight. As quickly as I could, without drawing any unwanted attention to myself, I patted over to the door and opened it. Behind it was a beautiful woman in the 30s, black hair, peach skin, and a tasteful splattering of feckles on the side of a nose. Jessica? I asked.

Who else would it be? Her voice and sassy attitude answered my question in spades. I stepped aside as she barged in, clearly upset. I closed the door behind her, careful not to lock it and risk breaking another rule. I was less scared of the supernatural consequences than I was of Jessica's fury. You really had me worried, Jack. What did you do anyway? Before I could answer, a small figure appeared from behind the couch.

It was Leslie. Jessica followed my gaze and looked across the room. Jack? Who's that? My daughter. I didn't know she was here with you. You don't understand. My daughter has been dead for two years. Jessica backed up to the door where I was still standing Oh, I see Just as before, Leslie let out an awful shriek that rang through the house

It was louder than before, much louder Jessica turned to me, our hands cupping her ears Jack, we need to get out of here, follow me We race past Leslie and up the stairs to the bedroom Okay Jack, let's get going She shut the door and opened it. She continued this routine, revealing the many rooms of the house. At one point, it opened up to the living room.

Jessica quickly slammed it shut before Leslie could make a way in to get us. Finally, it opened up into the hallway. Yes, that hallway. Jessica grabbed my wrist. Come on, let's go. I hanged my arm back in refusal. Are you insane? I've been in there.

and I don't plan on going back. Have you seen 371? Jessica let out one of her signature size. Yes, I know all about it. So long as we get to where we're going before the shadow notices, we'll be fine. Now come on, we don't have a lot of time here. I reluctantly respected her wishes.

I wasn't keen on facing that ominous stretch of hall again, but Jessica's advice hadn't failed me yet. Besides, I was ready to die just an hour ago. Whatever fate would before me, in there, couldn't be any worse than see my dead daughter resurrected. Okay, Jessica, I'm ready.

1.36 a.m. Matching with each other's pace, step for step, we disappeared into the dark hallway, the bedroom door closing behind us. I whispered, so we're not wake the beast. Where are we going anyway? None of the doors down here open. Without hesitation, she answered.

One does. It took a moment for it to sink in. No, Jessica, are you serious? I can't go in that room. It lives in there. She turned to me and put her hands on either side of my face. She stared into my eyes with a lock of pure kindness. I was taken aback by the unexpected intimacy.

Jack, you need to stay calm. Just trust me, we are going to be fine, I promise. As far as explanations go, that was pretty vague. Still, it was reassuring. I can't explain it, but I was compelled to believe her. There was something about Jessica I really liked, a warmth that radiated around her, a contagious, soothing force.

We continued down the hall, and I didn't bring up my reservations again. 1.42 a.m. We reached the door. That was it. The moment of truth. I was about to open it when Jessica pulled my hand back. In order for this to work, you need to knock three times, no more and no less.

I nodded in agreement. I raised my hand to the wood and knocked precisely three times. A deep anxiety wracked my nerves as the anticipation grew. After a few moments, the door was pulled open, revealing the shadowy figure within. It stepped away and motioned for us to enter. I looked over to Jessica for approval. She nodded and followed me in. The entity softly closed the door behind us.

It then walked over to where we stood and changed. Its dark form turned to light, illuminating the rest of the room. It was the bedroom, only it wasn't exactly the same. Something was amiss. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. It just felt... Different. The bright figure then shrunk down into a glowing orb and drifted away, phasing through one of the walls, leaving us by ourselves.

Moonlight shone through the window. The glass wasn't even broken anymore. There was no storm outside. Everything was pristine. Jessica, what just happened? This is the house's safe space, and fail safer when too many rules are broken. She could tell I wasn't following. It's a copy of the bedroom from just before things went south, a moment suspended in time that we can stay in for a while. At dawn, everything will revert to normal.

Why didn't you tell me about it before? Honestly, it's a risky move. The shadow is a fickle being. When you enter room 371, there's a 50% chance he'll accept your entrance, otherwise you're doomed. I couldn't believe it. You're telling me we could have died?

You risked our lives on a 50% chance? She came over and placed the hand of my face again. Jack, we're safe. There's no need to be angry. Relax. We would have died anyway at the hands of the house. This was our only option. She was right.

Honestly, I was happy she was there. Without her, I would have been a goner. 3.17 a.m. Jessica spent some time going over my manuscript. I filled in some of the blanks, so she could skip the more fatty sections and finish before bed. Jack, this is beautiful. I wasn't so sure. Maybe I put too much myself in it.

Maybe the blood I poured onto the pages, covered up the meaning. Who in their right mind would want to swim through my despair to reach a story even I wasn't sure I believed in? It's about you, isn't it, Jack? This is your life from the moment your daughter died to now. I felt myself unraveling. I'm tired, Jessica. I think I'm going to call it a night. I offered her a half-smile, waltzed over to the bed, and laid down.

To my surprise, she lay down with me and placed the hand in my chest. It's okay, Jack. I've never lost the child, so I can't imagine the kind of things you're dealing with. I do know that. Things will never be the same. That doesn't mean you have to give up. What would your daughter have wanted? There was no fighting the tears any longer.

You don't understand, Jessica. I'm responsible. She was waiting for me when it happened. I was a father and I wasn't there for her when she needed me. Jessica didn't respond. I sobbed until there was nothing left to me. When the moment passed, I asked her a question. Why do these things happen here?

Honestly, I don't really know. We turned to each other Her warmth reared its head again Inviting me to come to it Our lips met And with it An intense feeling was born Like nothing I had ever felt

A somber quiet energy filled the air And coated the room In a turn of events I will never fully fathom Jessica and I Made love 532 a.m Jessica fell asleep in my arms

I stayed awake content for the first time in years then a familiar disembodied voice buried into my ear and poisoned my mind What your feeling isn't real By this point I was all too familiar with the voices and their antics I ignored its statement She does this to every tenant

She's as a doctoress I was tempted to reply But conversing was forbidden I couldn't afford a broken rule this close to the finish line Only two people are allowed in Jack. Two, it's a simple rule. What did that have to do with anything? What was the voice up to?

Jessica was one of the two. Despite my unrest, I continued to bite my tongue. Always ask for last names. There was a moment of pause before the realisation washed over me. I gasped. A rule had indeed been broken. I jumped and backed into the corner. of the room, Jessica was standing next of the bed. I hadn't even seen a get up. Jack,

are you okay? My breathing became labored. It was hard to construct my query in a normal fashion. Jessica, are you really you? Was this... What is your last name? The light left her face. Her now empty eyes cut right through me. I slid to the floor. A long period of silence passed before anything changed, before she changed. 5.51 a.m. Jessica's face widened. Her eyes became large, as it physically engorged with bloodlust. She lunged at me. I dodged the attack and hit the door hard. I reached for the knob, but it wouldn't turn. Jessica's new form spoke, a gurgling,

metallic sound that ricocheted off the walls. It looks like you're stuck with me, Jack. She lunged again I slid under the bed to escape a reach Her feet paced around its perimeter Her predator circling its prey It was just a matter of time now I closed my eyes and thought of Charlotte and Leslie Playing in the snow

This would be my final thought As death approached As beautiful a thought as one could have before dying At least now I could be with her again A pained outcry from Jessica broke my concentration. The light in the room had changed. I rolled out from underneath the bed and saw her writhing in the corner. The sun was coming up over the horizon outside. This was my chance.

I raced over to Jessica and clenched her neck. She struggled but was too weak to break free. I forced her against the window. Her skin melted, dripping like candle wax to the floor. Her head burned to her crisp. I looked into her eyes for even a shred of humanity. something that might convince me to spare her for all she had meant to me. There was none, only malice. In that moment, I sincerely wished that she had been real. Goodbye, Jessica. With as much force as I could muster, I pushed her through the window.

Her form disintegrated before it could reach the ground. The wind carried her ashes away into the endless expanse of the ocean. She was no more. The house was still Hours passed As my rental period came to a close I sat in the living room

and reflected on the events of the week In a weird way I had come to terms with Leslie's death The guilt would always be there But I felt I could move on now Free of the restraints that once bound me Knock

I open the door and let Garrett in Your ferry awaits I nodded and gathered my things I was anxious to leave but felt the need to ask him something first Garrett What is this place He smirked

Many words come to mind Anomily, portal impossibility I personally think it's a mirror Showing us ourselves in a way we never thought possible A place where our past and present To intersect Perhaps the right word for it

is closure. I smiled. You might be on to something, Garrett. Splendid. Does that mean you'll leave a good review? I chuckled. You know what? I'll do it right now.

I opened the app and click through to the listing. A bit of information caught my eye as I scrolled. Checkout time. 12 p.m. I looked up at the readout at the top of my phone's display. It turned to from 1159 to 12 as I watched. I let someone in before the time was up,

meaning a rule had been broken. The note at the end of the list came to mind as dread set in. I will come to collect you, but only when the rental period is over, not a moment sooner. That wasn't Garrett. I looked up to see him standing directly in front of me. something wrong jack i dropped my things and ran out to the dock as fast as i could the ferry had just arrived the real garret on board motioning for me to hurry after boarding i turned back and looked at the house one last time

a silhouette stood at the window waving goodbye