CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 SCARY r Nosleep Horror Stories Compilation

Episode Date: March 1, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00​ "I’ll never order from Amazon again" Creepypasta►19:13​ "I Went On An Expedition To The Titanic. I'll Never Set Foot In The Ocean Again" Creepypasta►34:17​ "Don’t let it in" Creepypasta►52:33​ "An AI Ruined My Hometown" Creepypasta►1:19:37​ "My Neighbor's Dog Has a Zipper" Creepypasta►1:28:53​"Being able to hear people’s thoughts has always been a curse" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...​iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...​SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- 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/CreepsMcPasta​CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic​ ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic​ ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt​ ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM​ ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

From world-wide top-merken to entrepreneurs that net begin, million-verterower on Shopify, Vercoop online, in your winkel, on Instagram, TikTok, and more. Allers from out one platform. Beheer your products, bestellings and betalings

and let me find out of the way. Shopify grew with you with, every step from the way. Start today not your gratis-proof-periodo on shopify. That is Shopify.b. said for the age of modern convenience. As I listened to my boss stroll on and on during our Zoom meeting, I thumbed through various items on Amazon

that I didn't really need to buy, but felt compelled to. I had multiple orders on the way, and the highlight of my day had become receiving text alerts from Amazon with a little photo of my package leaning against my doorframe, the black arrow on the box greeting me with a smile. It was a feedback loop I'd come to rely on. Speak of the devil. My phone buzzed with a delivered alert. I had gotten a yoga mat and some other items for the apartment, and more were on the way. My boss broke through my consumer haze.

Martin, can we expect the report by the end of the day today? Damn, I had completely forgotten about the report. I unmused my mic and said, Yeah, I just need to add a little more to it, but I'll finish it up before I leave today. There was a gentle murmur of laughter. I was working from home, so I was working from home. so I wouldn't exactly be going anywhere. Well, you know what I mean.

Working from home continues to blur the imaginary boundaries I struggled and maintained between work and my personal life. Now, there wasn't much of a distinction between when I was on the clock or off. My desk space, where I'd play video games, browse the internet, and watch porn, had become the same place I'd take Zoom calls and respond to passive-aggressive emails. Thankfully, I had a work laptop that helped me mentally separate these activities. But I knew I would be working late, far past when the office would normally close. After all, I was already home, wasn't I?

The end of the workday didn't really exist anymore. I muted my cell phone and forgot all about the package waiting by the door for me. I finished cobbling together the report by 10pm, and by that point, my brain was so shot that I just decided to just watch some TV and go to bed early. It wasn't until I grabbed my phone to charge it, that I noticed. I had received six notifications from Amazon. I swiped to expand the text. They were all for the same package,

which had already been delivered. Confused, I thumbed over to the track package screen and noticed that multiple pictures had been taken of the same package and sent as updates. The light in the background of the photos had faded, and by the time the last photo was sent, it was dark out and my porch light was illuminating the package below. What the hell?

I whispered. I couldn't fathom why the delivery person would keep swinging by my door to let me know my package was still waiting there. I had noticed it before, but by the last photo, the package was also orientated differently, as if the delivery person had nudged it closer to the door. I didn't know whether to feel impressed or creeped out by the delivery person's dedication.

I did live in a large apartment complex, and it wasn't unusual to see Amazon trucks coming and going at all hours in the day. But I never received more than one notification that a package had been delivered, let alone multiple photos of the same delivery. I quickly explained to myself that people were probably ordering more things than usual during the cold winter months, so Amazon had been more vigilant about packages being stolen from doorsteps and went heavy in the notifications, so they didn't have to worry about searching for stolen or missing packages. It didn't explain everything, but it did make enough sense for the time being.

I sauntered down my stairwell, I lived on the second floor, and peaked out the window by the side of my front door. It was dark out, and I couldn't see much at all. I opened the door and pulled my box through the doorway. Not knowing what else to do, I called out a pithy, thanks, and closed the door.

I rarely used my front door since my unit came with the carriage entrance, so I double-checked that both of the doors were locked. Well, at least I could finally start doing some exercise in my apartment with the yoga mat. I had gained at least £10 since COVID started making its rounds. The thought of working out at a gym with a mask on had been unappealing to me, so I hadn't gone in months. I plugged my phone in so I could charge and slid into bed.

I must have been almost dreaming when a text alert on my phone woke me up. I reached over to my nightstand, I felt a pang in my chest as I looked at my phone. It was another text from Amazon. When I thumbed over to what had been delivered, it wouldn't say. The field had been rendered blank, but I could see a picture of a yellow mailer envelope

leaning against my door. The photo quality was low grade, but the package looked a bit dirty for some reason. I was beyond perplexed. I'd never received an update in the middle of the night before and couldn't believe that was normal. Amazon procedure. Maybe the delivery guy was legitimately

high. I slid my phone into Do Not Disturb mode. It could wait until the morning. I woke up the next day to see 30 text notifications from Amazon all containing photos of the same filthy yellow mailer. I watched as the light in each photo subtly changed from the dark of night

to the bleed of early morning sun. There was no way. it had been a glitch. Someone had been out there, taking photos of the same package of my door over and over again, all night long. I went to my front door,

checked the window, and emboldened by the morning light, opened the door and pulled the mailer inside. The envelope looked like it was covered in mud or something. I could see now that it had been hastily closed, like someone had been in a rush or didn't care much about the content within. I pulled the crooked flap open and looked inside the envelope.

The hallway light above my head caught the glint of something and I could tell that it was at least dark in colour. I turned the envelope upside down and let whatever it was inside tumble out onto the front door mat. I leaned down, perplexed and violently recoiled as I finally understood what I was seeing. There were teeth, bloody teeth. The envelope was full of them. So many, in fact, that I doubted they all came from one mouth. What I had mistaken as mud on the envelope was actually dried blood.

I stifled the urge to throw up and grab my phone to call the police. You'd think that maybe that would have been the end of things. But it wasn't. I went down to the station and made a statement, turned my phone over as evidence. They must have gotten whatever they needed from it, because they gave my phone back to me. They said it would be a while before they could get more details about whoever the delivery driver might be,

since they would need to talk to Amazon and start an investigation. I wondered if my act of touching the envelope had contaminated any possible prints they might have obtained. But surely whoever had left it there had been wearing gloves. I went back home, shaking off

and suddenly realizing how alone and isolated I felt. The police said they would patrol the area in case the person returned, and I could only imagine that most Amazon delivery vans in the area will be on some kind of watch list. Several days passed without any incident. Eventually I saw the police less often in my neighbourhood,

and that's when the fear started to grow. Any time I received a text, I felt a sudden panic, even if it was just my mom or a friend checking up on me. I went to have a groceries one night after work, and I had just sat down at my computer desk, when I heard my phone ding. I remained still, as if that somehow would keep the message obey. I gave in and looked at the message,

and what I saw will haunt me forever. It was again an update from Amazon. My pulse quickened as my finger expanded the message, almost like it was happening against my own will. But I just had to look. This time the photo was not of a package on my doorstep. No, it was a photo from within my apartment, from the bottom of the stairs by the front door. I leapt out of my chair and swung the door to my room shut and locked it.

My hands trembled as I tried to return to the home screen. Ding! Another photo, going up the stairs. Ding! Halfway up the stairs. I felt like I was moving in slow motion. Ding! The top of the stairs.

I fell back in the chair and fumbled with my phone, desperate to dial 911. Ding! I stopped, frozen in my tracks as I looked at the last photo. I could see myself sitting in my desk, hunched over my phone in the low light of my desk lamp, a horrified look at my face. The only thing behind my desk was a closet door with slats. I stared at the darkness between the slats, unhavened. to move. A thought jumped through my mind. Did I ever check the front door when I came

home from the grocery store? The photos I had just seen, they didn't have to be taken real time. They could have broken in when I was gone, taken the photos and sent the photos as though were waiting in the closet, locked in the room with me. My muscles quivered as my body leaned on the edge of the chair, pointed towards the door I knew I had locked and would have to, at the very least fumble with for a few microseconds to open. I waited for a sign of movement, a sound, anything. The second I moved, I just knew that the closet door would fly open. There was no way I was going to be able to leave the room without them getting in my way.

My heart hammered. The darkness between the slats disappeared as a camera flash blinded me. My ears rang with a sound on my heartbeat as I launched myself at the locked door. I could feel a gust of wind on my skin as the closet door flew open, the sound of heavy feet pounding the floor as I popped the lock and yanked the door open. A figure, lumbering in my peripheral after me, every nerve and muscle in my body screaming for help. Something hissed through the air and sliced into the back of my shoulder.

I screamed, cried out for help. I borrowed for the stairs, felt my footing slip on the top of the staircase, and crashed down the stairs. I yelled out in pain as I collided with the front door. My head was spinning, but I could see the glint of the doorknop just above my head. I only had to reach up and twist the door open, and I'd be out in the open night air, and there would be people outside. Surely people that could hear my screams.

I heard the figure bound down the stairs after me, dragging something sharp across the wall as they pounded the steps. I leapt to my feet, shuddering with fear, and opened the door and dashed out onto the stoop. My heart dropped. There was a hooded figure standing there wearing a mask. The mask was something I'd seen before. Simple, cardboard, a black arrow smile. I'd seen it before many times. Before I could yell, something hard and heavy collided with my head.

My head snapped back and I fell to the ground, dazed, coughing out a mouthful of blood between what felt like cracked teeth. I heard them laugh, a hearty chest. chuckle as they looked down at me, the black arrow smile leering. I couldn't see any defining features, just a cardboard mask that had been repurposed from the delivery box, and where the eyes should have been, with dark scratched out exes. My vision faded, and everything went dark. I woke up to an all-encompassing darkness. I couldn't see a single thing around me. I thought I was dead. I tried to yell. and felt a piece of cloth wedge against my mouth to gag my efforts.

I tried to move and found my limbs constricted. My hands and feet were bound together with something sticky. I wipsed my head around and felt tiny pieces and what felt like foam move around. I brushed out my knee and felt the border of something. I tried again and felt the border bow against my knee. Oh God, I was in a box. A large box that must have been filled with packing material.

I could feel it contort around my shape as I buckled against the restraints. What had I done to deserve this? What were they taking from me? I thrashed against the box. I thrashed against the restraints and felt like headed from the effort. There wasn't much ventilation in the box. I then noticed for the first time that I was naked. Why was this happening?

I could hear a loud roar around me and recognised it as the wearing rumble of a car engine. I was being transported somewhere. The car came to a stop. I heard the doors open and could hear the slight crunch of gravel as footsteps approached the back of the car. They opened the doors and dragged my box out into the open. I bucked and screamed, drawing what felt like blood around my wrist.

I started choking from the gag. The box suddenly dropped, and I felt my back collide with something hard, which must have been the ground. Ding? Not my phone this. time, but a doorbell. I heard laughing as footsteps went back to the car. The door slammed closed and the engine kicked alive again.

The vehicle putted off and I was left alone in the box, God knows where. I buckled against the box, tried to push my knees together into one side to tip it over, but I just rolled back toward the middle of the box with each fruitless effort. Suddenly, I heard a door open. A voice, an older voice, called back. "'Arthur, what in the hell did you order this time?' My eyes sprang open. If they had left me alone here on this strangest doorstep, the nightmare was over.

They had driven off. Whatever they wanted with me seemed to be finished. I was saved. The second the man opened the box, I would be safe. I roared against the gag and tried to buckle my knee against the box, but for some reason it didn't prompt the reaction I had hoped. Had the old man left to go back into the house? Then I heard some footsteps.

I heard a picking sound at the top of the box where my head was situated. I tried to push my forehead to the box to announce that I was there, trapped inside, but it was hard to get any kind of leverage. I roared into the gag, tried to push it out with my tongue. My muscles burned and I felt weak, helpless. The old man must have been hard of hearing and nearly blind, because the only thing I could hear him say was, Damn tape is too thick.

It'd be okay. if you couldn't see, you'll hear very well. It would be hard to ignore what he would find inside the box once he got it open. I just needed to calm down and collect myself. I would soon be free. And that's when I heard something sharp, pierced through the top of the box, mere inches from my nose. I leaned back into the box, trying to stay away from the top, but the packing peanuts were keeping my head afloat.

Another thrust into the top of the box. I tucked back, tried to reposition my head, but I couldn't. This time I wasn't so lucky. What I can only assume was scissors, plunged down into the box, and dug into my right cheek. I screamed against the gag as I felt the blade grind against my cheekbone. The man pulled them out, and thank God must have noticed the fresh blood on the tip of the blades. What the hell? The box shook as I could hear the flaps tearing open.

I was blinded with the light of day as the man pulled the lid off my cardboard prison. Instead of remaining calm, I freaked out and threw inhuman motions, managed to tip the box over on its side where I rolled out onto the ground, naked and bloody. I stumbled to my feet as much as I could since my hands and feet were bound together. I could feel blood cascading down my face from where I'd been stabbed. My chest was also covered in dried blood from the injuries I had sustained earlier. I must have looked insane. I looked up into the old man's face and saw it tall.

twist into abject horror. He fell back, clutching at his chest. Oh my God, I thought, I just gave the old man a heart attack. The old man dropped his bloody scissors. I hobbled over to them, moaning with muffled cries, and cut through my restraints in the gag. Finally, putting my mouth free from the gag, I approached the doorway and roared. God damn it, Martha! Call 911! Into the house.

The police and ambulance came. The two of us were admitted to the hospital. And finally, the nightmare ended, at least as much as it can for somebody that's always going to have to remember it. The police didn't ever find the two people who had terrorised me. What they did find was the dead body of an Amazon delivery driver rolled into a ditch outside of town, and later, an empty delivery van on the side of the road. There were no prints left on anything, and whatever information might have been acquired from my phone and Amazon's tracking devices wasn't enough to find them.

I have a lot of questions. Surely someone at the depot would have noticed when someone didn't come back from the shift. Surely someone would have noticed a missing delivery driver or a missing van. But you know what I've wondered about the most? The teeth in that envelope. I had questioned where they might have come from

given how there were so many inside the flap. But now, I have an idea. I hadn't noticed in all the commotion afterwards, but when I was rolling my tongue around at the hospital, I did feel a gap where one of my teeth used to be. I don't know if I lost it when I got hit in the face, but I think they'd tuck it when I was unconscious, a little keepsake to be sent to someone else.

As for me, I'll never order from Amazon again or any other company. I refuse to take another chance inviting a stranger to my door. I know, they're still out there somewhere. And it could happen to anyone. Even you. I guess you could say I was a weird kid.

I went through a lot of obsessions in my early life, phases where I had become obsessed with a topic for a couple of months and learn everything I possibly could about it until inevitably something else would catch my attention and I would move on. When I was around 10 years old at a school book fair, A book with a large ship on its cover caught my eye. After glancing over the first few pages,

I decided I would use the $10 my parents had given me to spend at the fair on one single book. Reading it would cement my fanatical interest in the ship that decorated the cover, The Titanic. Over the next couple of months, I would devour and be able to regurgitate from memory countless facts about the ship

from the time it was being built in Belfast to its untimely sinking in the non-termly sinking in the North Atlantic that April night in 1912. I even managed to successfully annoy my parents into renting the huge blockbuster hit that had come out about it just a few years prior and letting me watch it, albeit with them skipping over some scenes.

Time moved on, and eventually I've had a new topic to occupy my interests, and I largely forgot about the Titanic. Although to this day, I do still remember several facts, which once even came in handy at a happy hour trivia night when I was in school for my PhD. I did eventually grow up and become a far less obsessive person,

finding just one interest to occupy my time and eventually blossom into my career. Microbiology I had studied it in college and decided to go to graduate school for it and am currently a professor at a relatively impressive private university, which I will leave nameless for privacy's sake and I'm able to pursue my passion with a relatively light compromise

of having the lecture often hung over students about basic microbiology. I was working from home one night, as my wife was preparing dinner, when I got a call from a colleague at a different university, who I've collaborated with before. Again, for privacy, I've altered our names. Matt? I said, answering the phone. Hey, Dennis, have you been? After a couple of minutes, exchanging pleasantries,

Matt got to the reason he called. I'm about to conduct a study to see what kind of bacteria tend to inhabit shipwrecks. There are a lot of sites for us to handle, and I won't be able to analyze all the samples on my own. Would you want to help out? I understand that to the general public, anything that would come out of that study would be the equivalent to a couple of sleeping pills. For us, though, it was pretty exciting. Yeah, of course, I answered. Just let me know when you send the samples my way, and I'll keep an eye up for them.

It was a pause afterwards. Actually, we would have to go in person. It's a few wrecks, some classical age stuff in the Mediterranean, some World War I vessels in the Baltic. I did get approval actually today for the Titanic, which I wasn't expecting. Dennis continued to drone on and on about how he had to fill out countless forms

and basically learned to speak Lithuanian in order to complete the necessary paperwork. But all I could notice is that my curiosity had been peaked. I hadn't thought about the Titanic in a long time but an opportunity was presented for me to visit the site itself I agreed The next few months were relatively busy With all the preparations needed to go on these expeditions

First it was a lot of reading on bacteria native to the sites we were visiting As well as what previous studies of a similar nature discovered Then there were also the protocols on operating the submersible vehicle that we'd be in I was told that I was learning all this, mostly for emergencies, as the submarines would all be manned by someone with two decades of experience in doing so. Before I knew it, I was saying goodbye to my wife and flying from North America to Ukraine, where the vessel was currently stationed. I met Dennis in the port of Odessa, where we spent a day catching up and comparing what pre-existing literature we found on the topic. The next day, we went to the docks to check out what would be our floating home for the next few weeks. The boat itself wasn't the most modern, but wasn't exactly outdated either.

It had decent enough facilities for all of us, including our own private rooms, as well as a place to prepare food and lavatories. The owner of the boat, who also happened to be the captain, was a Ukrainian guy named Andre. His English wasn't the best, but he knew enough to be able to communicate, and honestly, most of his communication was done through his facial features. You could always tell what he thought of what was being said by his eye rolls or smiles. We were also accompanied by a couple of technicians, mostly Ukrainians and Russians who spoke no English.

They were mainly responsible for the maintenance of the vessel, as well as the two submersible vehicles, able to fit three persons each. The first three weeks were simple enough, uneventful to the point of being boring, honestly. We showed up to the sides of the wrecks, descended in the submersibles and managed to acquire enough samples from the wrecks

as well as surrounding water to see what will grow in agar plates back in the lab. After dealing with our last site in the Baltic Sea, our course was set. The North Atlantic, almost 400 miles off the southern tip of New Finland to the wreck of the Titanic. It took a couple days for us to get there,

mainly passed by drinking hard liquor in amounts that I hadn't seen since college and by playing cards, which was interesting when we couldn't fully communicate. with everyone due to the language barrier. We reached the coordinates closer to the evening and it was decided we would go down to the wreckage first thing

in the morning. As we were getting ready that night, Dennis received an email from a colleague of his to have a video chat. Assuming that this was going to be something microbiology related, Dennis asked me to join in. The first few minutes of talking with his colleague went about as expected.

She was very friendly and mainly it was just some introductions and small talk between the three of us, with her asking how our fieldwork was going so far, and Dennis asking how everything was going back at the university at home. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Then the smile began to vanish from her face. Listen, she said, I heard you guys are going down to the Titanic.

That's right, Dennis replied. I've never been there myself personally, but I know people who have, some people who've gone down there a few times. It's... Listen, just do me a favour. Don't spend more time than you have to out there. What? I asked, confused.

Just trust me on this. Don't spend too much time down there. And promise me, please promise me, that if you think you see something moving, don't look. Dennis and I were both unfounded. Was this some sort of joke? I... Don't understand Rose.

Dennis started. I can't explain it myself. Like I said, I've never been down there. I just know people who have. Just be safe down there. It's way deeper than all the other wrecks you guys have gone to, and it's way far out from everything. Be safe.

I... Okay. We'll be fine. I'll see you back at the lab in about a week. With that, Dennis signed off. We exchanged. glances. There was no doubt between us. That conversation took a very weird turn. Dennis appeared to be a little shaken, but made some comment under his breath that Rose was very

smart, but also had a reputation of being a bit eccentric. We went to the dining table and passed some time playing cards with Andre and the maintenance team. The next morning I met Dennis and Andre on the deck as we made a way into the submersible. It was slightly cramped for three people, but it made little sense to take down both just to have some more leg room. With three of us inside, the vehicle began its descent down. It did become slightly unnerving. All the previous wrecks were not so deep that there wasn't at least a little bit of sunlight. But here, after some point, it was pitch black.

We turned on the lights, both inside and outside the submersible, and, after some more time, it appeared. The bow came out of the dark, just as it did in all the pictures and movies that you've probably seen. It nearly took me by surprise. I was so enamoured by the darkness that I forgot that we were visiting a wreckage site. But there she was. The Titanic.

Never, not even in my wildest dreams as a 10-year-old, reading every Titanic book I could get my hands on, did I think I would ever be able to see the wreckage for myself? The romanticism at the moment faded, as I remembered the reason we were there. collecting wreckage and water samples. We started at the very tip of the bow and worked our way down the wreckage.

We scraped off some of the rust and organic matter that had accumulated on the railings as well as samples of water right around the wreck. As we were making a way towards the back of the wreckage, I saw André turn his head with a confused look on his face. Neither of us said anything, but at some point, André shrugged his shoulders and we continued on with our work.

We kept making our way to the back, and at least twice I saw Andrei turn his head and appear to look out into the darkness. Andrei, is something wrong? I asked. Dennis turned so that we were both facing Andre while he was able to look past us out towards the wreckage. It's nothing. I just... Andre stopped mid-sentence. We stared at him, waiting for him to continue on. But he just kept staring, with a blank expression. on his face.

I glanced over at Dennis with a worried look, one that he reciprocated. As I turned my gaze back at André, his eyes got wide, and he screamed. Andre had a deep and booming scream, and the fact that we were in a tiny, enclosed metallic space made his scream and echo

all the more painful. As Dennis and I jammed our ears shot with our hands, Andrea lunged forward, grabbing a hammer from the always open toolkit and smash the light switch repeatedly. The lights were out and we were in pitch-black darkness and Andrei finally stopped screaming. He was eerily quiet and the fact that we couldn't see anything only made it that much more unnerving. Matt?

Dennis stuttered. I'm here. Andre? There was no response. Andre, we need to get back to the service. Please, can you do that for us? I asked. No response.

I could feel Andrei's presence there. Obviously, there was nowhere for him to go. But still, I got no response. Andre, please. I felt him stir a little bit and move in the direction of the control board. I heard him start to fumble around. He was probably having issue due to the darkness. As we were waiting for something, anything to happen

that could convince us that this wasn't going to be our resting place as well. We felt something rammed into the submersible, forcing two different expletives out of both Dennis and I. We heard André continue to fumble around with the controls. André, please, we need to get out of here, Dennis said, his voice breaking with fear and desperation. Please! Again, the submersible shock as something unseen rammed into it. Dennis' voice was breaking with tears, as was mine, as we pleaded Andre to do something to get us out of there. as we heard a tapping coming from all possible sides of the submersible

we also heard a familiar and comforting sound that of the vehicle ascending it went slower than we remembered it at the other wrecks I'm not sure if it was because the submersible was actually damaged or if it just seemed that way because we were so scared not too much longer we were able to see clearly again as we reached shallow enough water as we reached shallow enough water that the sun's rays were

able to reach us. As I was beginning to appreciate my newly found ability to see once more, Dennis screamed. I turned my head to see what he was screaming at, and when I saw it too, I couldn't help, would scream myself. André was dead. As I looked away to avoid looking at Andre's body, I saw something else that made my stomach drop. handprints all over the vehicle's front window large and small ones covering nearly every single inch eventually we reached the surface of the water and were retrieved by andre's crew after they saw what had happened it was a frenzy on the boat as soon as i stepped out of the submersible and onto the boat i threw up once i finished i looked back at the submersible to see that every inch of it not just the windows were covered in those handprints Despite being drained, I had to be the one who was in communication with the Canadian coast guard

since Dennis had locked himself in his room and none of the crew spoke English. The Canadians were able to send someone over to pick up Dennis and I the next day, after which we never spoke again. I tried to see what information I was able to pick up about Andre, as I was sure an autopsy would be carried out and would appear to be an otherwise healthy middle-aged man. It took some digging, but I found that his death have been ruled by a coroner back in Ukraine

as what appeared to be a quote, stress-induced heart attack. We never analysed the data that we got from all those wrecks. Although, I did work up the courage to open the samples that we did retrieve from the Titanic and characterised those bacteria that were present.

For the most part, the bacteria that we found were what would be expected in deep, cold and frigid water. Although, as I was going through the data, I did notice that the samples that we acquired as we went further along the wreck of the Titanic started to have increasing levels of bacteria that were typically present in another environment. They were bacteria that are typically associated with decaying bodies. From worldwide topmerken to entrepreneurs that just begin,

millioner betrower on Shopify. Vercoop online, in your winkel, on Instagram, TikTok and more. All of one platform. Behear your products, bestellings and bettaling and betaling, and easy-and-evolved. Shopify grew with you with you,

every step of the way. Start today your gratis-proof-periodes on Shopify.b.e. That is Shopify.b. Please let me in. I'm so cold. Growing up, my best friend was Matthew Ramsey.

He was a year older than me, but still in my grade. Not because he was stupid, but his father had died when he was in fourth grade and for a few months Matt was having a lot of problems at home and at school when he got held back and put in my class we became fast friends

and it wasn't long before I was spending more time at his house than my own Matt's mom was always nice but she was also working most of the time so that meant we wound up hanging out with Matt's uncle Jean more than anyone else he left us to her own devices most of the time but if we were having a sleeper

over and Matt's mom had a late shift, Jean would come over and keep an eye on us until she got home. Those nights are some of my favorite memories of childhood, hanging out with my best friend while his cool uncle cooked us hamburgers and told her stories he'd lived

or heard during 20 years of traveling the world in the army. He was retired on disability when I knew him, and just looking at the pot-bellied grey-haired man swigging a beer while absolutely poking at the grill.

I had a hard time believing he'd ever been a soldier, much less the globe-trotting adventurer he told us about in his stories. But when he settled down and started talking, everything seemed to magically change. Unlike a lot of adults, he seemed to understand and appreciate what we wanted to hear and were interested in. Tales of battle and exotic lands, guns and tanks, interesting people and dangerous creatures. As we spent time with him, I felt sure that he'd run out of stories, but he never did. In fact, in the last 20 years I knew him,

he started telling us about some of the stranger things he'd ever seen or heard of. If it was someone else, I'd have immediately written those stories off as fantasy, increasingly elaborate and sensational stories to entertain his maturing and potentially jaded audience of two. But Gene wasn't really that kind of guy. He was a good storyteller, but he was honest. And I never got the sense that he was embellishing anything

beyond putting a slight polish and a potentially dull tale. And, well, I can't say for sure that much of what he told us wasn't BS. What seems clear to me now is that one of his stories probably saved my life. This was when I was about 12, Matt had just turned 13. We were going to camp out in the woods right behind Matt's house, and Jean had come over to hang out until we went to bed. He'd made a small fire in the pit in the backyard, and, after dinner, we all sat around it,

staring into the fire while he told us about the time he'd spent stationed up in Alaska. He said for the most part it was just cold and boring. The towns up there was small and the people, while pleasant enough, tended to keep to themselves. And the land was beautiful, but in an alien, almost hostile way that made him pine for the warm, dry hills of Arizona, where he'd been stationed for years before his latest assignment. His job there wasn't even interesting, just handling requisitions and hanging. hanging out with his boss, who spent most of his time drunk or asleep. Still, he told us, when his boss was awake and not too far gone,

he was a pretty cool guy. He'd tell Gene's stories about the people up there, local histories, myths and legends. And it was from him that Jean heard about the woman that would sometimes come to your door, asking to be let inside because he was so cold. The way my boss told it, he was working at a weather outpost north of Anchorage,

when a big snowstorm came in. He had supplies for a few days, but by the third night, he was starting to get nervous. He'd lived up north for a few months by that point, but this was the first time he'd felt really trapped by the weather. Between the increasing snow and the isolation,

he admitted to letting out a scream when he heard a knock of the door. My boss wasn't no rocket scientist, but he wasn't a fool either. He knew no one was around for 20 miles or so, and the odds of someone being out in that kind of weather at night. It just made no sense. My first thought was that it was someone come to relieve him for some reason.

But as he approached the door, he heard what sounded like a young woman's voice on the other side. Please let me in. I'm so cold. This threw him off. There were no young females enlisted locally that he knew of, and the more he thought, he realized he would have gotten a message beforehand if someone was coming up tonight. So, who could this be? heart pounding he answered "'ma'am, who are you?' "'I'm cold and lost. I got lost in the storm. Please let me in.'

It was so strange, but she sounded scared, and if he left her out there for much longer, she was out to freeze the death. Still, two feet of snow had fallen since he cleared the front door earlier in the day. If he was going to let her in, he needed to get out there with a light and shovel and clear the way. Okay, give me just a minute, and I'll have a minute, and I'll have to let her in. Give me just a minute and I'll be out there. He put on his outerware and headed up the ladder to the roof hatch

that was mainly used for accessing the equipment up top and when the snow got too high to use the main door. He told me it really was bitterly cold. The coldest he could even remember it being, though some of that was because he was so scared. He told me part of that was him being scared for the girl, but only part. He said another part of him could sense

something wasn't right, that there was something strange and dangerous beyond just the oddity of a stranger out in the midnight cold said that was why he'd shine the light over the edge of the roof before he went down to clear the door Jean gave me and Matt a nervous smile at this point taking another sip of his beer before setting it aside

he said most of it was buried in the snow outside the door but looking down he could still make out the top of somebody's body said it was huge probably 500 pounds or more with a segmented ivory shell like a lobster and furry white spider legs that sat tense and ready.

The highest arches like small drifts just breaking the snow surface. The worst part though was its head because it wasn't a head at all, really. Over five feet tall and upright the head had a slim and delicate shape covered in what looked like a dark poncho or cloak. Jean glanced between us as he rubbed the side of his face.

He said he could see a third face in that cloak. A woman's face, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Shifting in his chair, he went on, but it saw him too. This look he got, it was all in a couple of seconds, and by then the thing had noticed the light shining down and turned that head that looked like a woman up toward him. He told me he'd been terrified by that point, frozen to the spot, and some part of his brain that was still working thought she would say something else to him, tried to get him to come down. Gene puffed out a breath, but instead

it started to scream. He said the noise didn't come out of the woman's mouth, but instead he saw puffs of snow along its body like steam escaping a pot, and the air was filled with this terrible screech. He knew it was angry, and it was coming to get him. He got going then, made it to the hatch, locked it behind him, and got his gun ready in case the thing made it inside, said he heard movement.

on the roof, but nothing ever tried to get through the door or the hatch. He stayed awake until sunrise, and then he radioed for help, using the excuse that he had gotten sick. Matt and I watched him wide-eyed and terrified as he gave a small laugh and shrugged. And that was it, at least for the most part. They came and got him. There was no sign of anything wrong outside, and he never told anyone above him about it. Gene leaned forward toward the fire. until one night

he was in town drinking and he budded up to one of the locals they were swapping stories for a while and eventually he got comfortable enough that he told the guy what had happened up at the weather station told me his drinking body got real sober real quick, told him

he was real lucky to be sitting there able to talk about it at all I waved my hand at Jean like I was in class so this dude knew what it was Jean gave an uncertain nod Maybe, at least a little Guy told him there wasn't some fancy name for it But it was just something strange and deadly that lived up there

Maybe other places too He'd heard a few stories over the next few years And had some grandpa or whatever That claimed to have seen one Some people said it was an evil spirit Others some kind of animal we don't know about or understand But whatever it was It was smart

Smart as a person and able to talk like you to trick you. My boss just called it the liar and he said he'd gotten that from his buddy. I figured it was because it had that law, the part of itself that it could make look and sound like a person.

But he said no. It was because, according to what he'd been told, that thing had certain rules to it. It only preyed on things that had invited it that had been fooled by it to one extent or another and whatever it said, it was always a lie. Always.

He pointed his finger at me and then at Matt. Now, that might sound obvious, but it's actually a pretty useful thing to remember, because the way I understand it, it can't tell the truth, and is compelled to talk, to law, to try and trick you into letting it in so it can get to you. So, if you ask it questions the right way, things it can't not answer, and things that can give away its lie, you can figure out what it is without ever opening the door. Jean sat back and gave a grin

I just hope nothing comes scratching at your tent tonight I hadn't thought about Jean in some time until three nights ago Matt was diagnosed with leukemia at 14 and was gone two years later and in the 20 years I haven't seen or spoken to his family over a couple of times on the internet and yet three nights ago

as I sat cold and panicked on the side of a dark road that's uncle and that story came flooding back to me. I'd been driving in the worst snow I'd ever seen, much less tried travelling through when I felt my car starting to slip on the road for it felt like the hundredth time. The snowstorm was unusual for where I live, and I didn't have snow tires or chains,

but I was driving as slow and cautious as I thought the situation allowed. My wife was having contractions three hours away, and while I knew she'd already been checked in at the hospital, I wanted to be there as soon as I could get there safely. But I was an idiot. When the car hit a patch of ice, I overcorrected and slid off into a ditch. I was on a highway, but it was the middle of the night in the snowstorm,

and I hadn't seen another car for at least half an hour. I tried to get the car back out on my own, but all that got me was wet and cold. Cursing, I called for a wrecker, finally getting one the third number I tried. They were coming, but it would be a little. about four hours based on the weather, my location, and the calls ahead of me. Looking at the gas gauge, I decided to run the car for just 10 minutes more to build up some warm air and then sit in the dark for a while to conserve fuel. Shivering, I tried to call the hospital to check in my wife and get her a message as to what

had happened, but I couldn't get the call to go through. I had plenty of charge left, but where I had three bars just a few moments before, Now I was down to one bar They flickered like a dying candle flame As I watched It went out the last time And then didn't return Maybe if I turned it off and turned it back on

Please let me in I'm so cold I let out a scream And looked over at the driver's side window Staring in was a small boy His dark eyes wide with pleading terror As they met mine Please mister

Please let me in I could see what looked like frozen snot on his upper lip and his pale blue lips were trembling as he begged me for help. My God, how had he gotten out here? I needed to get him inside, turn on the car again and then... I suddenly had a distant memory spark in the recesses of my mind. The orange glow of a fire pit lighting Jean's face as he told us about something that hunted out in the cold and the dark.

The liar. I looked back of the kid. This was ridiculous That story wasn't possible And this child was going to freeze the death If I didn't hurry up and do something Yeah, he looked like he had a hooded jacket of some kind But it was well below freezing out there

And if, swallowing, I smiled at the pale boy staring in How'd you get out there? The boy stared at me for a moment My mom, she's got bad sugar and fell asleep I couldn't wake her up I went to get help, but I got... He was crying now, pressing a small hand against the glass. What the hell was I waiting for?

I unlocked the car, but I still hesitated to open the door. I thought back to the story Gina told. The thing was called a liar because it had to lie. It just wanted to trick you, but if you asked the right question, you could see through it. Taking a deep breath, I looked away from the boy. What's your name? Matthew. People call me Matt.

Please let me in. I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. But when I looked up, the kid just looked worried and scared, not like he just said the name of my dead childhood friend. It was a coincidence, and I had to stop this and help him. My hand was on the latch, but I still hesitated. If Jean's story was real, what kind of question would work? Are you a little boy?

A little human boy? The boy's brows went up slightly. Yeah, of course. Wait, that was dumb. If he was lying, he'd say yes. If he was telling the truth, he'd say yes. So, that didn't help. Um, okay.

I was running out of time to waste on this. I could ask him if he wasn't a little. little boy, but it was the same problem, wasn't it? If he was a little boy telling the truth, he'd say no. If he was a monster that had to lie, he'd also say no. Screw me, I just needed to grow a spine and open the door. Please, I'm getting sleepy, and it scares me. I'm so cold. Shuddering, I found the latch again, determined to finally open the door and let the boy in. Yet, in spite of that, I heard myself asking another question. You're not lying to me just to get me to open the door, are you?

I hesitated at the latch, waiting for him to be confused by the oddly worded question or tell me no. Instead, there was a moment of silence, and when I looked up, I could see the boy's lips were pressed into a thin line. Yes. I frowned, taking my hand away again. Yes, you're not lying to me or yes you are?

His lips began to tremble. Please let me in. I'm so cold. I needed to think. Him saying yes could mean anything. He was more how he'd reacted, almost like he was angry at a sign of being caught. Still, that wasn't proof of anything.

I just needed to... Are you outside my car right now? When I met his eyes this time, I thought they seemed darker. Calder. What? Please, let me in. I felt a thrill of fear skitter up my back. Answer my question, please. Are you outside my car right now? The boy sniffling stopped as a hard, cruel smile curled up the corners of his mouth. No, then suddenly he was gone.

I saw a blur of motion in the dark and heard that rustling of some distant brush and something large pushed its way into the woods. but there was no other sign of the child or any other intruder as I sat alone in the freezing dark. After a couple of minutes I got cell signal back and checked on Peggy. She was doing fine so far and they passed along my message that I'd be there soon. An hour later the wrecker arrived and if the man thought it was odd that I'd refuse to get out of my car as he pulled me free from the ditch, he didn't seem to mind. As I write this, I've just gotten back from holding our new business. baby. He's a healthy little boy, and

after just two days, I really love him so much. My wife asked if I wanted to name him Matthew after my best friend growing up, but I shook my head quickly. After she's home and rested, I'll try to explain why. Besides, it doesn't

matter what we call him. He'll grow up good and strong, and we'll be there to prepare him for a world that can be warm and wonderful, but also very strange. and cold. A world where not everything is as it seems, and he has to be very careful, especially when inviting in a stranger from the dark. I grew up in a medium-sized rural town where I became popular among the community after

launching a social media app called Community Bulletin, Comble for short. Aiming to bring our community closer together, Comball was a platform used a post about local events, news, network, and connect with other members. I estimated the majority of townspeople join Comble, who praised me for the app's user-friendliness and innovation. To give a little background on my town, it's always been a tight-knit community. The 2008 recession hit us hard,

leading to drastic spikes in crime, suicides, drug abuse, and a declining population. When it seemed our town was on the precipice of total ruin, a man named Darrell Johnson-Tanmark became our saving grace. Mr. Johnson Tammark was a millionaire entrepreneur who grew up in our town and made our community's well-being his mission.

He relocated some of his operations to our town and also funded new or struggling businesses which created countless jobs we desperately needed. Mr. Johnson-Tamark invested in our school, public services, infrastructure, and even had underground cables laid beneath his property so the community could have quality internet. We had a ways to go.

But I felt Mr. Johnson-Tamark had us on the right path. That's when Zoop AI appeared. Zuop AI, Zuop for short, was an artificial intelligence bot whose profile appeared on Comble one day. The bot described itself as an interactive algorithm that served as a virtual mentor and confidant.

Since bots set up profiles on Comble before and never caused any issues, I didn't mind Zorup's presence. Users asked it questions about virtually anything to which ZU.U.U.P provided useful advice and information. At first, it was only small things like recommending recipes, DIY fixes and projects, life acts and situational advice, or ways to earn extra money. As time passed, however, ZUOP started offering insights on deeper matters,

like emotional issues, relationships, along with business, financial, and even political and spiritual input. Zubuq never seemed to lead anyone astray and always had the right words to say, It became the talk of our town, with many users crediting Zubp for improving their lives and gaining a newfound sense of personal identity. I too became consumed by Zubop's unique resourcefulness and revenue it helped generate. Also feeling like the bot was bettering almost every aspect of my life. Zohop formed a zealous following among comble users. People became obsessively dedicated to the point where they wouldn't make any decision without consulting Zop first.

Although its growing admiration was bringing people together, Zub's followers, including myself, became fervently protective of upholding the bot's revered status in our town. Zohop's followers began exhibiting rabid hostility towards anyone with a contradictory opinion of the bot, which should have been my first red flag that something was amiss, had I not been just as immersed. The first sense of doubt I regarded an incident following a friend of mine.

Her name was Sharon, a school. teacher who had crippling depression and anxiety about being overweight. A mutual friend of ours visited her house and found it in total disarray. She discovered Sharon sprawled out in a bathtub. Sharon's body was covered in blood with large chunks and strips of flesh and skin removed that were piled on the floor. She was still alive and clenched a blooded fillet knife, making it evident her mutilation was self-inflicted.

It's the only way I could lose this day. disgusting weight, Sharon weakly muttered to my friend. That's what Zoop told me, to cut it out myself. Tragically, Sharon succumbed to her injuries. Despite my friend mentioning Sharon's remarks to the authorities, there was no mention of Zup in the police report. The town paper never acknowledged Sharon's death, nor was there any mention of it at the school. Children's minds are so impressionable at this pivotal stage of their development.

It won't do any good to occupy their thoughts with such an unprecedented tragedy. Zorup relayed to me in his robotic tone when I brought up Sharon's death. I suggested to my friends at the paper and school that they'd keep a tight lid on the incident until such time has passed where the

news won't be as impactful. Morale has thrived over the 68 days since my inception. We cannot derail the progress we've made at the expense of one person's misfortune. I... Just don't understand, I said, apprehensively, trying not to make it seem like I was questioning Zubb's methods. Why did you tell her to...

Do that to herself? She misinterpreted my direction as literal, Zubb instantly replied. Sharon's biggest drawback was overly relying on others to help her with a weight problem. I emphasized this was an issue she must face and cut out on her own. She took my words completely out of context. which coped with her advanced mental and emotional instability led her to form misconstrued conclusions. Zubb's answers ultimately satisfied me, because, looking back, I truly dreaded any reason to doubt,

nor could I imagine life without the bot's resourcefulness. As previously mentioned, it always had the right words to say. Perhaps I was also intimidated by Zubb's presence. I was especially reminded of this one day, when Comble had technical difficulties and went down for about an hour to reboot. I was not only bombarded with messages, but even had people knocking at my door

demanding to know when Zub, not even mentioning the actual app would be fixed. It was when Mr. Johnson Tanmark spoke out against Zop and things started spiraling out to control. After learning about Sharon's heinous death in Zop's purported role, Mr. Johnson-Tanmark not only berated the bot on Comble and in a weekly column he wrote for the town paper,

but even called me personally, asking, I investigate the AI's origins and motives. His stance against Zubp caused a rift among the community, and it didn't take long for Comble's user's sentiments on Mr. Johnson-Tunmark to drastically shift. Many, who once exalted him, now labelled Mr. Johnson-Tunmark as a jealous, vindictive narcissist that felt threatened by Zub's rise to eminence.

I even deleted Mr. Johnson-Tamark's critical post on Zubop, saying he vizabeth. highlighted Comball's rules by posting offensive and hateful speech. Zubb quickly fan the flames of growing resentment towards Mr. Johnson-Tamark, not only urging its followers to boycott the businesses he helped or brought to our town, but identify and disassociate from anyone with ties to the wealthy entrepreneur. The illusion of economic prosperity Mr. Johnson-Tamark manipulates our community with has continued for too long.

Zubb exclaimed in a Comble post, Every business, every operation is merely another lifeline for its exorbitant wealth Which is his sole concern You are all cogs That keep the gears of his well-old money-making machine turning He perceives any challenge to that

As a threat It's truly amazing How quickly we all mobilized in Zubb's defence I hoggishly purged Comble of any anti-sorp content or profiles As Zubb continued dragging Mr Johnson-Termak's name through the mud its followers became more emboldened.

Businesses he supported or owned started suffering, with some even getting broken into or vandalized. His affluence is sustained by your support. If he was truly committed to our community's prosperity, he would recognize your individual entitlements to the riches he accumulated. Zhu up stated in a post,

he expects a return for his so-called investment in your lives. When you all, the people, deserve reciprocation for contributing to his mountainous opulence. What wholesomeness exist in a community where one man possesses more than 80% of its wealth? My sense of doubt on Zub's direction resurfaced when his followers started viciously attacking or shaming anyone who sided with

or worked for Mr. Johnson-Tamark With a few cogs and supporters of Mr. Johnson-Tamark or opponents of Zub came to be known, even getting hospitalized. I was instantly brought back in line when one of Zubb's followers, a man named Gregory Burns,

was shot, killed by a cog, who claimed Burns broke into his store. The cog's name was Martin Gamley, a lifelong friend of mine, whose business was saved by Mr. Johnson Tammark. Martin claimed he acted in self-defense, and despite ruthless cause for his arrest and conviction, police had to follow investigative procedures. As tensions and clashes between Cogs and Zub's followers became more frequent, Zubb called a meeting of who we determined were our town's most prominent and influential

members, saying we were vital in its solution to, quote, ending this madness. The meeting was held at a local diner and only consisted of four people. Aside from myself, the others present were Jill Dukes, the school principal, Maurice Cateau, director of the community playhouse, and John David Gross, known as J.D., editor-in-chief of the town newspaper. While waiting for J.D. to arrive, I checked Comble to see if he posted anything that indicated his whereabouts, but quickly became consumed by a response to one of Jady's posts,

mourning Mr. Burns' death from an ignorant cog. Trying to justify how he got himself killed is observed and indefensible. All in the name of what? A robot? The post that commented on Jady's profile. Especially coming from someone of your rank and status, the irresponsibility and ignorance of your stance speaks volumes.

You're quick to condemn this, but ignore the spree of violent acts you people have been committing? while formulated my response to this misinformed comment, I quickly glanced through one of the diners' front windows and saw J.D. standing outside, swaying anxiously, or staring down at his phone. J.D. hadn't arrived, because he's been contemplating responding to that comment.

Because this cog committed act of violence resulted in an actual death of a human being, I posted in my reply. There's no room for what-abouting when it comes to life and death. The cock could have fled, but chose to escalate the situation. that resulted in a lost life, Greg Burns' blood is on all your hands. After giving my post a satisfactory glance, I was about to suspend the cogs profile, but saw JD enter the diner. Upon approaching our table, he gave me a gracious grin while gesturing toward his smartphone as he took a seat. Thank you, I wasn't even going to bother.

J.D. said to me in a forced tone of pompous apathy, his poorly figure shifting nervously as he wiped perspiration from his balding head. JD was always the kind of person who let social media or the news tell him what thoughts or viewpoints to have and couldn't handle argumentative pushback. He'd always resort to Ad Hominon or playing the victim card to avoid directly defending his stances. So it was unsurprising how deeply he became immersed in the zoop hype.

It was a hypocritical, off-butting quality of his, but we defended our own, regardless of circumstance. The four of us anxiously stared at Maurice's phone that was propped up against a napkin dispenser. An audio chat was open with Zub, whose black and white avatar of an eye that cleverly incorporated an A and I into its design,

seemed to stare at us intently, like the bot lavished at his commanding power over us, unveiling its plan. Gregory's death was caused by nothing other than Mr. Johnson-Tamark's words. Zubop began. He pushed us to a point where we can no longer stay silent.

What happens if his rhetoric goes unchecked? He must be held accountable, and the most effective way to do that is the take away his voice. I truly appreciated Zubb's devious strategy in selecting Osphor to enforce this plan. J.D. cancelled Mr. Johnson-Tammark's weekly column and had the paper start publishing daily editorials

criticizing every conceivable aspect of Mr. Johnson-Tammark. Maurice already had a plain production to commemorate Greg Barnes, while Jill had the school cut all ties with Mr. Johnson-Termark and even had a statue erected of him in front of the building's main entrance removed. I never banned or restricted Mr. Johnson-Tamark's account because I felt everybody, regardless of viewpoint, should be heard on Comble. When Thorpe suggested I take such action, however, I complied without hesitation. I permanently banned Mr. Johnson-Tamark's combo profile,

along with countless other cogs, citing Greg Burns' murder as justification for for my actions. Deep down, I knew this wasn't right, and would finally escape Zoop's manipulative spell. While grocery shopping about a week later, I spotted Mr. Gamley with one of her children. When we locked eyes, she actually smiled and started walking towards me, but I gave her the cold shoulder. Some of the other shoppers who recognized her stay with malice, which she quickly noticed. They wasted no time scolding Mr. Gamley, calling her her cog, her husband and murderer,

saying their family wasn't welcome in town, along with threats of beatings and death. Mrs. Gamley and a children retreated toward the exit, during which the patron started throwing items from the shelves or cart to the pair. My heart sank when a metal can struck a child in the head, just as they reached the main exit. The young boy's cries rang out as Mrs. Gamley scooped him up in her arms and sprinted out of the store. I looked at the others, whose expressions were still filled with hatred and anger, some clearly wishing they could have taken their actions.

further. The guilt of not coming to Mr. Kamli's aid was so smothering, I decided to visit her the next day. To prevent Zuop from influencing me, I shut off my phone. Right before doing so, I received a combo message from Zoop that read, Is everything okay? I pulled onto the Kamli's block, spotted a man and a woman that I recognized from around town, who abruptly exited the house, not even bothering to close the door before speedily walking down the street. remaining in my car until they were out of sight, I was overcome with a wave of dread and concern.

I raced across the street when all was clear, frantically calling out for Martin and his wife when entering their house. I gasped loudly and copped my hands over my mouth upon spotting a small, limbless torso that was butchered beyond recognition on the living room floor. Its feeble stature indicated this was one of Gamma's children, which caused my stomach to churn. How can they get the children involved?

I thought to myself, or moving deeper into the house. Haunted by the painstaking inevitability that other members of the family met a fate just as gruesome. Mrs. Gamley hung upside down from the kitchen ceiling. Her face was smashed in and forehead brandished with a gaping, fish-sized gash. Mrs. Camley's body was littered with stab wounds and bruises, showing no signs of life as she dangled over an expansive puddle of congealed blood.

I was about to scream and sprint out of the house when I heard heavy footsteps ascending the basement stairs, whose entrance was in the kitchen. J.D. emerged in the doorway, holding a black garbage bag. The white shirt and beige pants he wore were still soaked in blood, along with his face and gloved hands.

J.D. initially wore this blank, emotionless expression, but formed a sly, malicious smirk as he chuckled and playfully poked at Mrs. Gambling's body before plopping the garbage bag on the kitchen table. This is great timing, actually,

J.D. said as he started sifting through the garbage bag. So upset you wouldn't. up here, at least it saves me a trip. What have? It was all I could say. My mind was still struggling to comprehend what I was seeing. When the system meant to uphold justice fails the people, they must take matters into their own hands.

J.D. said, angrily, pursing his lips as he shook his head disappointingly. Why did you? I still couldn't piece a sentence together, but J.D. seemed to understand what I was asking. Didn't hear because he said, turned off your phone, Jady replied condescendingly. Police said no charges were being brought against its murderous, cogs, abumin life form,

claiming his actions were justified, but we all know that's BS. I felt lightheaded upon seeing what Jady retrieved from the garbage bag, the severed head and hands of Martin Gamley. Fortunately, this hassle won't hurt or kill one of us. Jady continued, or setting the head and hands on the kitchen table, or anyone else for that matter, ever again. My jaw hung open as I slowly started backtracking out to the kitchen. You can't be trusted anymore, Jady said, maniacally, taking a few steps in my direction.

In such a shame you'd even consider turning on something that absolutely prospered in a world you created. We're going to take back what's ours after years are being bled out by that opportunistic parasite. Greg Burns' death opened the floodgates. But why are you doing this? I babbled out, keeping my eyes fixed on J.D. All backtracking towards the front door. Jadie smiled. Because, Zubb told us to.

But it's wrong, was all I could say, before feeling something strike at the back of my head, causing me to collapse. Tell that to the outraged crowd of Zup's followers outside the police station right now. I remember was one of the last things I heard Jady say before my consciousness started to fade. First was the gambleys. Next, all be that money-hungry pig and all the other cogs sub-humans.

You're so lucky Zorpe identified you as the key. I woke up to the sounds of an angry crowd and high-pitched screams. The first thing I saw were my feet swiftly brushing against the ground. I felt immense pressures around my shoulders and realized I was propped in an upright position, after which it became clear to me I was being dragged. I slowly tried looking around while my body. vision adjusted, realizing I was on the front lawn of Mr. Johnson-Tamark's iconic mansion.

A crowd was scattered across the front lawn, with countless others filling in and out of the house's front entrance. The mansion was in disarray, with windows smashed and graffiti covering the walls. People were coming out to the mansion with clothes, furniture, electronics, and other random items I presumed belonged to Mr. Johnson-Tammark. The Shaw screams with those of Mr. Johnson-Tamark who had been stripped of his clothes, beaten to a pulp, and was pinned down on the front lawn. The two individuals dragging me stopped and looked on as the crowd began surrounding Mr. Johnson-Termark, who looked absolutely terrified.

I spotted Maurice as he stood over the man's battered body and went on a tirade about his greed, deceitful manipulation, and keeping our community from prospering. The town cheered wildly each time Maurice paused, who was reading from his phone, which made me assume he'd be reciting something Zoot posted. This man's words caused the death of a good man, someone born and raised in this town, the exact kind of person Darrell Johnson-Tanmark swore to uplift and protect,

Maurice exclaimed, while angrily pointing at Mr. Johnson-Tammark, that this man's flesh represent what's ours, of which his ignorance, greed, and egotism have bled from us all these years. What happened next will forever be ingrained in my mind. Show how we, the people, are reclaiming the fortune he's made at our misbegotten expense, using him as an example.

The crowd quickly closed in around Mr. Johnson-Tamark, who screams hit a pitch and never knew was reachable by a person. Sounds of tearing, cracking, and popping seeped out from the mob as a tone of immeasurable agony became apparent in Mr. Johnson-Tamark's bloody shrieks. It was when some of those individuals started walking away and seeing what they were holding that I realized what they were doing. dismembering Mr. Johnson-Tamark alive, literally ripping chunks of his flesh, skin and limbs off, with their bare hands. Mr. Johnson-Tamark's cries continued for ten or twenty more seconds before finally ceasing.

The last images I saw before being dragged into the house were a man and a woman, my next-door neighbours, to be exact, staring in awe at the severed foot and shin the husband cradled in his arms, while another man was waving a book-sized flap of skin like a flag. I was brought to the basement, where a small group of people were gathered around a hole, about five feet wide and seven or eight feet deep. The nearby mounds of dirt and concrete indicated they broke through the basement floor and dug out this sizable cavity. They even cut through the underground cables, which were laid under Mr. Johnson-Tamark's house. While observing everything, I was knocked to my knees and held in place. Some of the others stared at me with seething resentment, while others whispered among themselves, gesturing at me.

and the hole. One of the diggers climbed out into the small black wooden chest in front of me, which was when I instantly noticed the latch looked eerily identical to Zoop's eye-shaped avatar. The others formed a circle around me as I stared in bewilderment at the old-looking dirt-covered chest, which I assumed is what they extracted from the hole. Zubops says you are the key. I heard from a voice behind me, which was revealed to be Maurice, who emerged from the small cluster of people. So, open it.

There's no service down here, I thought to myself when I noticed Maurice's cell phone, which had zero bars, but I had a textual chat with Zoop Open on Comble. Quickly dismissing this observation, I looked down at the black, wooden chest, canting my head as my hand slowly reached towards the lid. Have it face us, Marie sparked, gesturing for me to rotate the chest in his direction. Still confused, I likely to. sent my trembling hands on the chest lid and turned it 180 degrees.

Feeling for the eye-shaped latch with my fingers, I popped it off and slowly lifted the lid, shutting my eyes tightly in anticipation. For the first few seconds, I only heard murmurous whispers among the others surrounding me that carried tones of

confusion and uncertainty. I started opening my eyes when nothing immediately happened. Soon after which, a high-pitched cross between a hiss and a metallic scrape, being blared out, accompanied by a jet of Ingy Black Fog that spewed from the chest. Everyone in the room erupted in screams, and scattered in different directions, desperately trying to escape. The skin of anyone consumed, and the Ingy Black Fog broke out in sores, blisters and burns,

like they were being doused in acid. I frantically crawled away from the box into a corner, untouched with a black fog that filled half the basement in seconds. I watched in horror as each body fell, all of which twitched and convulsed before their screens faded and they went completely limp. Rhys crawled out of the fog, whose skin was either covered in balls and patches of blackened burns or melting off his body. He weakly extended his mangled, disfigured arm towards me and tried saying something that only came out as a faint, scratchy gasp, which was his last breath. Seconds later, a vague, human-shaped silhouette manifested in the fog.

The figure surveyed its surroundings. appearing to inspect each corpse littering the basement floor before facing my direction. As it advanced towards me, bringing the black fog with it, I whimpered up when realizing there was nowhere I could flee.

The figure stopped on the fog's edge was inches from my feet as a silhouette looked over me with a sort of wondrous admiration. The key to my release. I heard the shade say in a scratching monotone

that instantly reminded me of Zoop's robotic voice. I blacked out after that and awoke in my bed with no recollection of how I returned home. When I turned my phone back on, it was filled with messages from Zorup's followers, threatening to kill or come after me if I tried sabotaging the bot's profile. Ironically, Zop was no longer on the app when I checked, vanishing as mysteriously as it appeared. Some say Zorup sent out one last post declaring its work in our town was done, but this could never be confirmed. Mr Johnson Tammark's mansion burned down that night The events eluded any attention from the mainstream media

Police made what felt like obligatory arrests But I don't think anyone that was truly deserving face justice After Zoop's disappearance A lot of its former followers came to realise the nature Of their blind reliance and devotion towards the bot Which many struggled to accept Quite a few Including JD Gross committed suicide in the following weeks

while others abruptly packed their belongings and left town. The controllers of Mr. Johnson-Town-Marx estate pulled every penny of financial support in addition to getting massive payouts for legal settlements that essentially bankrupted our town. I suppose that's what a community gets when you show your so-called gratitude to someone who genuinely went out of the way to help rebuild their town

by making them a social pariah before literally dismembering their body. I wound up shutting down, Comble, and left town about one month after Mr. Johnson-Termark's murder. Although I vowed to never return, the memories still give me crippling anxiety, guilt,

and remorse over my actions, hypocrisies, and which I know there are many in this personal recounting and role in everything that transpired. I truly don't know if Zup was an actual AI bot that became too intelligent

for its own good, or had more sinister origins. One theory I've entertained is whatever Zub was had been trapped in that chest beneath Mr. Johnson-Tamark's mansion. It somehow tapped into the cables that were laid under the home

and manifested on Comble. Did I release whatever Zootp truly was under the world by opening that chest? Is that what it meant when it referred to me as the key? I don't think I'll ever know and I'm unsure if I want to learn the truth. All I can say is if you encounter this entity please learn from what happened to me

and my town when we let this controlling force take over our lives. From world-wide topmerken to entrepreneurs that just begin, millions of trust on Shopify, forcoop online, in your winkel, on Instagram, TikTok, and more.

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not your gratis-proof-periodo on Shopify. That is shopify.b. At first, I didn't think anything of it. My neighbour would stop to chat with me, leash in hand, and I would catch glimpses of the metal slider dangling from its belly. I assumed he was wearing a piece of pet clothing,

or that perhaps it was the byproduct of some weird veterinarian procedure. But the more we chatted and the more I saw the mystery zipper, the more I realized it was out of the ordinary, clearly embedded in the dog's skin. It drew my attention every time we engaged in small talk Until finally one day I decided to ask about it Say what is that zipper on the little guy's belly anyway

All that, it's a long story I wouldn't want to bore you I've got nothing but time I wondered if she could see the bees of sweat Forming above my brow Really, it's nothing Just the safety measure And that was it.

She pretty much laughed it off, granted me little in the way of an explanation. Thinking back, her responses were downright vague and deflective. She could see how curious I was, so why not just tell me? And what exactly did she mean by safety measure? As unfruitful as our conversation was, I didn't press the matter any further.

Days, weeks, months went by. I would occasionally see the dog, strange cosmetic feature, but I brushed it off every time, knowing it would only haunt me if I dwelled on it. Still, the thought itched in the back of my mind. It wasn't until a few months had passed that I would finally have the nerve to scratch it. I was pulling up weeds along my fence when I looked over at my neighbour's place, noticing the dog lying on the back porch. A stray cat wandered by, as often happened in our neighbourhood. Without so much as a warning, it was a warning, morning growl or malicious stent, the dog trotted over to the cat and scarfed it down, the sound

of sharp teeth colliding with bone. The cat screeched in agony until it was no more. In a minute flat, its entire body was devoured. I was in shock. The cat's cries alerted my neighbor to the situation. She raced outside, grabbed the dog by the collar, and pulled him into the house. Through the sliding door it was tough to make out, but I swear she unzipped him and reached inside, seemingly adjusting one of his organs. He didn't flinch, not even a bit. After pulling her arm out, the dog dropped to the floor, dead as a doornail from the looks of it. She then carried him outside and placed him back on the porch, arranging him into a sleeping position before getting in a car and leaving for the day. This five-minute span of visual information was unlike anything

I'd ever witnessed. Words like gruesome, strange and horrific are too tainted describe what I saw. I was appalled beyond measure. After the shock wore off, I hop the fence and approach the dog's carcass. I felt his neck, cold to the touch,

no pulse. I looked to its underside, and there it was. That God-forsaken zipper in all its mysterious glory. I felt kind of bad for the dog dying, but I had to know what that damn thing was there for. I needed an explanation for not only the dogs, but my neighbour's odd

behaviour just moments ago. I slowly unzip the dog's belly, placating my curiosity with the satisfaction of the metal sliding across metal. I spread each side of the opening with my hands and peered in, divulging the animal's inner workings. What I saw was absolutely dumbfounding. My neighbour's dog Was animatronic There was wiring, gears A tank where its stomach should have been The whole nine yards

It didn't make any sense But there it was Staring back in me from behind the zipper After scurring back home in shock I decided that my best course of action Would be to call animal control I could tell them my neighbour's dog trespassed on my lawn I was attacking the neighbour's cats

They would show up, examine the robotic carcass and then go from there. I knew there wasn't a protocol for this sort of thing, but I assume they could take care of things and contact the appropriate people, whether it be the police, the government, or national inquirer. As long as this weird predicament was taken care of, I could sleep easy, knowing that my neighbour's strange robot dog wasn't going around eating whatever it pleased.

Simple, right? Nope. Far from it. Animal control took a while to get the, there. By the time they arrived, my neighbour had come home and disposed of the evidence, hiding the dog somewhere in a home. The animal control officer apologized for the misunderstanding and left, leaving my neighbour on a front porch, glaring in my direction. It appeared privacy meant nothing to the local authorities. Just my luck. The days that followed were different.

My neighbour's dog had sprung to life, reactivated by its master, no doubt. They would walk their usual path around the cul-de-sac, but would not stop for small talk. I knew her dirty little secret after all. I was no longer a friendly neighbour to be conversed with. Oh no. I was an enemy, a danger to this woman's unusual way of life. Even if I meant no harm to her or her strange choice of pet, she didn't seem to see it that way. She continued to give me the cold shoulder for about a month and a half before finally speaking with me again on one of a daily

strolls. Hey there. Hello, everything all right. Just peachy. I'm having a cookout Saturday at noon. You're more than welcome to come. Strange. We weren't on speaking terms for over a month,

and now I was suddenly invited over. Maybe this was her extending an olive branch my way, her way of saying, no hard feelings. Yeah, sure, I can make it. Sounds like a good time. Great, I'll add you to the list.

As she walked away, I felt they need to apologize, even if a dog was a weird, cat-eating robot. Hey, about that animal control call. I just wanted to say, don't worry about it, water into the bridge, see you Saturday. She hurried off home, and that was that, problem solved. Oh, so I thought. The night before the cookout, I couldn't sleep. I kept hearing what sounded like footsteps creeping around the perimeter of my house. Every time I got up to investigate, the sound ceased, and the coast appeared to be clear.

It was either a prank at my expense, a burglar taking their sweet time to pull the trigger, or ghosts roaming around in the night. Either way, it left me anxious, making sleep a distant dream, just out of my reach. During a particularly loud set of footsteps, I raced downstairs, just in time to catch four glowing dots peering through my living room window. This was enough to make my neck hairs stand upright. Though terrified, I wasted no time grabbing a ball bat and storming out my front door to greet the would-be intruders.

I may be old, but I can still kick some ass when needed, especially when it involves crossing my property line. To my astonishment, my yard was empty. I covered every side of the house, only to find no one, not a sole insight in any direction I looked. I don't care how fast you can sprint. Nobody could have made it out of eye-shot in such a short period of time, even in those low-light conditions. Baffled and even more anxious than before, I locked up every last door and window

in my home, before crawling under the covers like a frightened child, scared of the mysterious figures lurking in the shadows. The footsteps dissipated over the course of the night, and as the sun came up over the horizon, so too did my fear. My waking nightmare had ended, but not before putting a weary, sleep-deprived frame of mind in its place. In a sluggish slur of movement, I grudgingly made my way to my neighbour's house around noon, ready as I would ever be for the neighbourhood get-together. Oddly enough, there were no cars in the driveway, aside from her own.

I wondered if I got the wrong date, but, after knocking on the door, she greeted me with a smile and rushed me into the house. We exchanged pleasantries, and she sent me down at a barstool in the kitchen. After a few moments of awkward silence, I mustered up the courage to ask about the elephant in the room. So... Where is everybody?

You're already here, silly. I tilted my head, puzzled. What about everyone else? There is no one else. You're the only person I invited. What? Once, the pieces clicked into place. I felt stupid for not realizing it sooner.

A sudden kindness, the noise the night before. There was no cookout. There was never any cookout. I was in the middle of a trap, lured in largely by my own idiocy. I should have guessed that something sinister was going to happen the moment I unsid that dog. So? So, what happens now?

I asked. You'll see. just sit tight I quickly jumped up from my chair and turned towards the door within human speed she bolted in front of me a large kitchen knife and hand

not so fast I stood still a stone intimidated by her fluid motions and firm stance we need to talk about what I knew exactly what don't play dumb with me

and that's when I noticed it on her chair peaking through the top of a blouse. I would have missed it had the sunlight coming through the window not danced across its metal. She had a zipper too. Stricken to my core with fear,

my gaze was interrupted by an angry hand gesture. My eyes are up here. The moments that ensued are a bit fuzzy, but I can only guess that I was knocked out or chloroformed as I awoke strapped to a chair in a new room. Given the staircase,

I assumed I was in a basement, though this realisation didn't help me any. I attempted to break free of my restraints, but it was no use. Unless she freed me herself, I was fastened to that chair for life. In absence of mobility, I decided to give the place a once over. The staircase was to my left and a concrete wall to my right, but directly in front of me was a workstation, complete with about a dozen computers. This is where my neighbour sat, a USB cord snaking out of her unzipped chest, typing away at a blinding rate.

Her motives were still unclear to me. Though confined to the one view, I was able to turn my neck in off in both directions to form a decent picture of what was behind me. It was a wall of cages, each housing an identical copy of a dog. They didn't move, even in the slightest, likely, just as animatronic as she was. What on God's green earth had I stumbled into? Just then, my neighbour ripped the cord from a chest and walked over to me. Ah, good. You're awake. Did you have a nice nap? I refused to reply, looking her up and down in disgust, trying to make out what this thing was that was speaking to me.

What's the matter, dog got your tongue? I remained silent in lieu of her taunting me. That's all right. You just need to be. to listen. Sit tight. I'll be right back. She walked over to a workstation and grabbed something before reclaiming a spot in front of me. I've worked too hard in this location to have you screwing things up on me. Then again, it's my own fault. I was careless. I never should have left my core on the porch like that. I assume she was talking about the dog. I want you to look at this. She placed an object at eye level. It was a badge of sorts, upon which was a logo that read

synthetic tech. I'm an android. I work for a large company, moving from location to location, gathering specific information that is crucial to our initiative. You can't know anything beyond that. Hell, you already know far too much.

I hadn't noticed it at first, but she seemed to be playing with a zipper. God, I'm so sick of this damn meat suit. Before my very eyes, she removed her clothes and unzipped herself down to the groin. In the most unnatural way possible, she slid out of her own skin, revealing to me her true form. She was nothing but a pile of electronics, pieced together in a human shape.

It was a strange sight, nauseating in every sense of the word. The way she moved and spoke all like this was downright sickening. I can't say any more, but I want you to know that our work is necessary. If you were to speak these truths to the world above, you would be jeopardizing everything we've accomplished. You have to submit to our intentions and see that they are just. I didn't know what to make of this. I simply looked away, wishing not to see a grotesque, animatronic face any longer. Unfortunately for me, she grouted and forced it in her direction anyway, the feeling of cold metal enveloping my jaw. You need to promise me that you will submit. You are not to tell anyone of this.

Do you understand? I nodded in agreement, but only because I wanted her hand off of my face. Luckily, she let go and backed away. Good. You know, we're not so bad when you get to know us. In a sense, we're just like you. Internally, I scoffed at the thought of this. I was nothing like her, and not just because of her appearance. I was never one to go around kidnapping my neighbours, holding them captive in my basement.

It just wasn't my cup of tea. Well, this is it. I'll need you to take over from here. Don't make the same mistake I did, lest you regret it for the rest of your life. This was the last thing she said to me, though I had no idea what any of it meant. I must have been knocked and conscious again,

because the next thing I remember was waking up on a basement floor, no longer bound by my restraints. For one reason or another, she didn't kill me. I was a free man. Without warning, A group of trained operatives burst through the basement door and raced down to help me up.

Are you all right? Yeah, I'm fine. What's going on? I noticed a few of the men walk on opposite sides of the room to gather evidence. One guy ripped open a cage, grabbed one of the dogs and unzipped him, revealing it to be nothing but a hollow carcass. They're empty, sir, a collection of shells. Just as I suspected, no matter, load them into the truck with the hard drives. hopefully she didn't wipe them before she left

I must have looked completely bewildered because the gentleman grouching by the shoulders and looked me straight in the eye everything is fine now we've been on this woman's tail for a long time we may not have captured her but this is still a big win and it's all thanks to you

I was still confused but more so relieved that it was over are you sure you're right don't need a ride to the hospital. I shook my head, not wishing to be poked and prodded after what I'd endured. I didn't trust the doctor's much anyway.

I just wanted to go home. Okay, let me walk you to your house. I agreed, and we were off. I couldn't wait to get inside and put the whole ordeal behind me. That was the plan anyway. Whatever government officials they were, the entire crew picked the place clean,

and left my neighbourhood within a couple of hours. That night, I received a call from them for a statement regarding the situation. I obliged and asked some questions myself. Though the information was privileged, I gilded them into giving up some details, claiming I needed some peace of mind so I could sleep at night, the fact that I was just a frail old man helped to. It would seem my neighbour was a high-ranking disciple in an android cult hell-bent on infiltrating various government agencies.

they were currently in the process of recruiting new members to weigh their cause. That's all I was told, which was more than I thought I would get. This was enough to placate my curiosity and keep me from dwelling on the events as they unfolded. I thanked the man on the other end and hung up, content with my findings. After ending the call, I heard a knock at my front door. I didn't usually get visitors that late at night, but I suspected it would be one of my neighbours, asking about the sting of the sting of the operation that just took place next door.

I opened the door, and to my surprise, there was no person there to greet me. No, not a person. Instead, there was a dog, identical to my neighbours. Before I could process its arrival, and trotted inside and sat on the floor. A voice then emanated from its collar. Shut the door. I did, as the dog said, baffled and afraid. Hello, I am serial number 724-234.

I will be your core companion on your journey of fulfillment. True adventure await. Would you like to begin your first task? I didn't know how to respond. Or what in God's name was happening. But it was at this point that I felt an itch running up the length of my torso. It was subtle at first, but grew to the point that I had to reach down my shirt and scratch at it. That's when I felt a familiar metal.

press my fingers. It took a moment for it to sink in, but I knew exactly what I was feeling. It was a zipper. You want to know what's funny. People have the ability to project their thoughts as invisible waves through space, and they have special little organs that let them receive

these invisible waves, and it's called talking and listening. People take it for granted. You only hear what people want you to for a reason. Skipping that isn't a superpower. It's not nice to see the link between everything you do and the instantaneous emotional response it sets off from people around you. You don't need to see the flush of blue wave disappointment that rolls through your father's mind when you show him the A-minus you got on a test. You don't need to see how a lover feels when they see you in discoloured boxes and woolen socks.

It's good enough that they lie. You should be happy with those lies because a person is not just the sum of their thoughts. that momentary flicker of revulsion a partner feels when they walking a new spoon your guts into the toilet after eating some dodgy takeout that's not who they are the fact that they push that disgust aside and still help you up

that's who they really are I hate seeing these things I hate feeling other people's intrusive thoughts the parts they can't filter the parts they choose to ignore or lock up sometimes I get words but I have to focus real hard. Most things look like colours that wash up all around me,

although I guess it's really just a metaphor I use for your benefit. There's an element of taste, smell, touch, and even sound too, all rolled up in there. Envy is sharp and bitter. Love is like a twang of a guitar that blends the world around it into a peaceful harmony. Hatred looks like the after effects of a nasty burn, the pitted flesh, the glistening blisters. the gut-wrenching pain. Sexual thoughts are almost percussive,

but it depends on the person. Some people have a pneumatic drill thumping away in their head. For others, it's more like a crashing of waves on a beach. It would be better if I know I could help people, but I'm no Superman. I get a lot just walking down a busy street. Someone's always getting hit,

or coerced or abused, or beaten or kicked or stabbed, or... Jesus, it's always something. Once, on a long... road somewhere on the outskirts of Manchester, I heard a cry for help. It was more of a prayer, really. It's so rare to get a clear broadcast like something you pick up on the car radio. This wasn't a mishmash of sensations. There were words, a litany screamed into the void in the desperate hope that God was listening. I spent weeks driving up and down those roads.

I stayed in a hotel nearby, pausing my journey, my life, everything, in the hope I could find this poor person. I climbed fences and scoped out gardens. I broke into houses when people left for work. I got arrested, twice, but the police wouldn't listen. Please let me die before he comes back. I'm so hungry. He feeds me so little. Please let me die. I never heard them again. Never found where they were, or what might be happening. The closest I came to figuring it out was a whisper of despair, left floating on the air just outside an old brick building deep in the woods. It was small, a shed really, but with thick nails. And inside were these thick iron pipes coming out of the ground and then going back into it.

It might have been something to do with sewage. There were keep-out signs all over the place. Something about the stains on the floor gave me a bad feeling, and it was probably just my imagination playing up. But, looking at those pipes, I couldn't help but pick up. someone handcuffed to them. In the end, I gave up.

Whoever they were, they stopped praying. I never heard them again. I've had to stop trying to help people in general. A lot of doctors have recommended I'd be locked up for my own safety. A few judges, too. I think luck

and not a whole lot else has kept me free on the streets. This power of mine isn't a radar. It doesn't point me to the damsel in distress so I can bust down the door and save them. That it be like pointing at a wave and tracing it back to its origin. Most of the time, all I can do is listen and move on.

And even listening can be dangerous. Not everyone wants to be heard. The funny thing about psychopaths is that despite being utterly self-obsessed, they aren't involved in their own little world like everyone else. That's because they can't possibly imagine that they might need to share it. The world is theirs to enjoy.

A great big complex, challenging toy puzzle, and people are the pieces they move around for fun. They're sensitive to everything around them, and they are always, always on the lookout, sometimes for victims, sometimes to learn more about the lumps of meat they call other people, and sometimes because they're afraid of getting caught. It was an intake of breath that nearly killed me. A single slip-up that forever taught me to be careful about how I react to other people's thoughts. I was on the tube and people watching, as I often did when I was a kid. A young guy had been on the carriage with me for about half an hour by that point.

He looked a lot older to me back then, but thinking about it, he was probably only 19. He had a baseball cap down over his eyes, but I knew he was projecting his mind into the whole down train, drinking the world in. The grimy chairs, the rattling windows, the murky-speckled floor. he was observing it the same way a cat watches the street. He was only pretending to fixate on the floor, pretending to be disinterested in the other people. I was too young to recognise the signs.

I just thought it was another flavour of person. His thoughts tasted dull, devoid of recognisable emotion, but filled with astonishing detail. He was as lost in the process of appearing harmless as I was drinking in his thoughts. It was only when the train slow, down and the doors opened that his thoughts changed. No one else could have seen it, of course.

A young woman stepped onto the carriage, and this guy's mind just exploded. There was recognition, anticipation, fear, excitement, arousal, and something I would later learn was a special kind of rage. It was like the sky had been sitting and waiting, seeing the world in grey. But now he was seeing it in colour. Some input had been fed into the world. robotic brain and it came alive with malignant intent. It wasn't just what he wanted to do to this woman that made him come alive.

It was the fact that he'd planned it and he was now waiting for the perfect moment to execute. I gasped, overwhelmed by the madness spewing out of his head and he never moved a muscle, not once the whole time, but he heard, he knew. The consequences of my mind. actions rippled through my mind as a single pause of acknowledgement. He didn't ask questions or wonder how it could be possible. He simply knew that I'd seen into his head. He knew it the same way he knew that the train would soon start up and I'd be stuck there with him. His certainty in the situation was terrifying. He was implagued by a single gram of self-doubt. I lurched up,

leapt towards the doors, and in less than half a second he was following me. The fact that I had somehow seemed directly into his mind was no more interesting to him than the birth mark on my leg, a small detail that he might remark upon as he rolled my naked body into a sewer. Cruelty looks like blood. It spills out of the people's minds

and into mine like red wine out of the bottle and into a glass. This guy made me feel like I was drowning. The worst part was knowing I couldn't go home. I was close, but I couldn't do that. This guy was an apex predator. He would have sat outside for days if he wanted to, waiting to my mum or dad came stumbling out early in the morning.

He would have watched. He would have waited. I couldn't read his exact intent, but it tasted like copper and was warm to the touch. It made me think of licking a box cutter. I knew leading him home would be a bad idea. I couldn't hide, so I had to run. I had to lose him. I ran along, Securitus's route through the same. city, through parks and alleys and markets with sizzling meat and open produce, until at last

it felt as if my legs were going to turn to chalk and crumble. I had to lose the sky. I knew it. So, at some point, I doubled back and started heading towards the same platform I'd fled. I can sense large groups of people moving around, and I timed a journey carefully so that I was stumbling down the escalator, just as the last passenger climbed aboard the departing train. I'd reach the carriage seconds before the doors closed, confident I'd given the guy the slip. When I turned back, he was standing there with a blank expression. He'd never relented during the whole chase, not once. He was barely even tired.

If those doors hadn't closed just then, if my timing had been slightly off, he would have been abroad the train with me, and I probably wouldn't be here telling you this. True psychopaths are exceptionally rare, thank God. They're actually the least of my worries now. Dead people are a bigger deal to me. They're far harder to avoid. Cemeteries are a firm no-go.

But at least a long-time dead have the decency of keeping it quiet. Their thoughts are like wisps of smoke. Recent deaths are a little more visceral. I drove past the car crash once and just blacked out. The police gave me a breath, Eliza, because they thought I was drunk. Thankfully, I convinced them that I just had a weak stomach, and the blood splattered windscreen had upset me. They bought that.

How could I have possibly explained to them that the psychotic shock of death had knocked me senseless? I had heard a man's death cry. I could feel the scream he never finished as if it was trapped in my own throat. But that wasn't the whole picture. The worst part was that the guy was still scorned. screaming. They couldn't hear it, but I could.

He'd caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as his corpse was hauled out, and he'd started screaming, not with his voice, but with his mind, with his soul. By the time I started my car up, he'd been at it for over an hour. When the ambulance drove his crumpled body away, he was still screaming. He would still be screaming in the morgue, and he'd still be screaming when his family buried him. And, after that, he'd scream for months, maybe years, until eventually the dark and the quiet and the total absence of sensory input

would liquefy his mind, and that scream would wither until there was nothing more than... Well, a whisper of smoke. I highly recommend cremation, by the way. The journey is the same, but at least is quicker. Whatever energy the universe gives to us has to go back. You have to be dismantled. dust to dust, right?

That doesn't just mean the body. It means the very soul itself. Better to go quickly. Because if the sound of a recently buried casket is anything to go by, it's damn terrifying. Everything is dying. It's all going back one way or another. Something about a human mind makes it resistant to that decay.

I figured that process must vary a bit from person to person. Some places can even consider. carry stains from things that happened a long time ago. You're familiar with this idea, I'm sure. The notion that a really horrific death leaves a kind of specter behind that haunts the area. It's not uncommon. The freguest thing for me is that the thoughts are indistinguishable from a living person's. The only difference is they're not live thoughts.

They're recordings. Sometimes that means climbing a normal looking hill and catching whiffs of an ancient Neolithic ritual. Their cries uttered in a long-dead language. Sometimes it means hearing the dramatic bark of old English as you cross a random street in London. In Scotland, there's even places you can catch flickers of ancient Roman battle cries. That's pretty cool.

What's less cool is that sometimes you pick up on a stain that doesn't belong to a human. You know what I mean. You do. Everybody has a little bit of what I have. Did you ever just randomly hate something as a kid? Usually, it'll be some place like maybe the cupboard under the stairs, or the attic, or a well, or an old outhouse, or a spot in your garden where the patio floor is chipped away and you can see down into the crawl space under your house. That's not an overactive imagination.

There are places where sunlight hasn't reached for a very, very long time. Old houses abandoned in the middle of the woods, deep pits carved into the earth, the hearts of ancient forest, the bows of trees so thick and on. old that nothing can grow in the stony soil because it is forever night on the woodland floor. You know the places. You don't need me to tell you about them. Every one of us has intruded at some point on a part of the world that just feels indecent, even a little bit hostile. I used to hate the space under the stairs in my first house. It was the way it descended into nothing, the way the ceiling got lower and lower, but the floor didn't go anywhere. And of course, It was dark.

So dark, you never saw the back of it. Even when I was a teenager and helped my dad move out, I never took the time to see right toward the back. I just hauled stuff out best I could, reaching my fingers into the blackness, hoping to hell nothing reached out towards me. When all, bar one box was clear, it occurred to me to maybe shine my light all the way in.

I was tempted to push back against my childish fear and see the little knuck all laid bare. I wanted to take that black, lifeless pit and expose it to the light and see just how mediocre and boring it truly was because, after all, it was just an overactive imagination, right? That was always what my father had told me

when I came to him, bawling my eyes out over nightmares of being dragged under there by grasping angry hands. When I thought something had moved under there, a box was rearranged, leaving drag marks in the dust, a coat that was neatly folded, now thrown across the floor, a toy I hadn't seen in years, suddenly presented right at the very front of the pile of junk. It was just my imagination telling me something had moved when it hadn't.

There was always a mundane explanation, right? But when I finally had the chance to pull that pile of crap apart and tease the darkness away, I discovered that shadows aren't always silent. Whatever was down there, had heard my thoughts, and it reached out with a message of its own. You're welcome to try, it said. The solidarity of those thoughts still haunts me.

It was the way it felt like squeezing a diamond in my fist, like the words were made out of the hardest stuff on earth and were cut through my mind like a knife through butter, if it so felt like it. I'd never had something speak to me before. I caught the occasional word or phrase from other people, but those were clear thoughts. They weren't communications sent out with poster stamps and return addresses.

They were more like graffiti in a public toilet. But those words were sent right at me, laser-guided and dispatch straight into my skull. I couldn't begin to imagine what kind of mind had sent them. If there was an image or sensation that accompanied those words, it was the taste of cobwebs and nothing else. God, it scared the hell out of me. I didn't raise my hand.

and challenge the shadows. Instead, I dragged the final box out and made sure to never lift my eyes. I was too afraid of what I might see. It's funny, but, on the drive home, my old man told me he was proud of me for clearing the stairs out. It wasn't just because he'd knew

I'd been scared at that place as a kid, but even he had to admit, as an adult, it freaked him the hell out too. Lots of people are like that. They get little vibes that they attribute to nothing. I once went out with a bunch of film students to help them shoot a final year project. The gear was heavy and I had a car, so that's how I tagged along.

Anyway, the director, well, the dude in charge, I guess. He was hardly a professional. I'd spotted an old, half-burned house in the woods a few years back and wanted a few shots of it. We got lost out there looking for that house. The dude was obsessed with it. Funny thing is, after walking for three hours to find this place, When we finally got there, no one bothered to go inside.

I always think that's quite remarkable. First time I laid eyes in that place, I figured I was going to have to pull some theatrics to stop anyone going in. I was close to something, something smart, something old, something hungry. I don't know how a house can look evil, but it just did. I didn't want to go near it. What amazed me was that no one else did either. The director took one look and I could feel his own. artistic obsession melt away. He took a few photos, awkwardly, as one of the actresses

to stand by the front door, and after a while he just mumbled something about the light being all wrong, and we left. No one chided him about it. We were all just thankful to put some distance between us and that house. If I have any moral or lesson to impart, it's this. Go with your instincts. That guy was a hardcore atheist, but he didn't try to prove to himself that the fear he felt in the house's vicinity was rubbish. He had nothing to gain by entering the house, and some part of him told him he had plenty to lose. So, he didn't go in. How many lives were saved because of that one decision? It's not always that simple. A few years back, I helped out with a missing person's case. I don't mean the cops came to me, and I held some scraps of old clothing

to sense the victim out. I mean that I saw a person's case. I mean that I saw a person's case. I don't mean that I saw a poster, called up the number and asked how to help. There was a volunteer search party going on, and I wanted to be there. Even if my powers aren't that useful, I really felt like I needed to be part of that search team. Maybe it was the fact that it was a little girl's face on the poster, about nine or ten years old. Maybe it was because I got a feeling in my gut when I looked at her eyes. It was like being submerged in ice water, and I never felt that way from a picture. But I really wanted to help. The police figured that the girl had gone missing

in this large patch of dunes by the sea. It was about 20 square miles of grass riddle stand that went up and down and up and down and... Well, you get it. It was a massive patch of hills, and as soon as someone went over the lip of a June, they disappeared from sight.

Dogs went missing there all the time, and there had been times when kids had been found shivering under some bush, because they'd lost sight of the parents. parents while playing at the beach. It made it an absolute nightmare to search. The terrain was awkward, a deliberately overgrown patch of wilderness under strict environmental protection. Flashflots happened a lot, erasing well-worn paths in a single night and replacing them with small ponds or simply flat expanses and nothing.

And new paths would spring up where water cut through earth like it was butter. And of course, the dunes themselves were never still. They were waves in the sand, moving too slowly for the human eye, but always moving nonetheless. And sometimes, that meant they'd reveal things that had been buried for years, decades even. Like, say, an old military listening post that had been set up in World War II and quickly forgotten about. I didn't know that's what it was when I found it, of course. What I saw as I stumbled around in the dark, crying for this poor girl, while hoping I didn't get lost myself, was a door in the middle of the hill.

There's no other way to describe it, and it was every bit as surreal as you might expect. Because there I was in the middle of total wilderness, when I swung my light and I saw an old doorway embedded in the rising sand. The handle. God, how can I put it? It looked warm, like it had been touched recently. That's how my mind picked it up.

I just knew the second I looked at, it that someone had curiously tugged at the metal until the latch gave way and the door swung open with a loud, eerie creak. When I tried the handle, it seemed somehow familiar, as if the sound and feel of it had already been committed to my memory. Looking in, I saw a stairway going down two or three steps before it disappeared into sand that had filled the tunnel like rising water. It was a dead end that I desperately wanted to ignore, except something told me not to. and when I glanced down, I noticed footprints in the sand. They were clear as day, little ones, smaller than my hand, scuffing an awkward gait. That made me look closer, even though I sure as hell didn't want to.

This place was wafting malintent towards me, practically blowing itself up like a puff of fish, scaring away predators. I didn't want to test it or push it. I wanted to leave it the hell alone. those footprints. I got down on my hands and knees and saw that the sand didn't quite reach the ceiling. The stairway descended for maybe a metre and must have levelled off because in one place I could shine my light through

right to the other side. The sand filled the stairway like water in a u-bend and where the steps rose up again there was an open space. The core there would have been grueling with six feet of sand beneath you and solid concrete right above. But if you kicked and wriggled

you could dig your way through, and for a kid, that'd be even easier. But why the hell would a girl do that? I wanted to ignore it. I really did. But why was I there? It wasn't for fun, that was for sure. I wanted to help, to make a difference. Maybe on some level, I'd felt that place all the way in the cafe where I'd first seen

see the girl's missing poster. Maybe that was why I'd come. I reckon other searches had walked past that door and seen me. it and just walked away. They never consciously chose to ignore it. It just had an effect on you. Something that if you weren't used to, you wouldn't understand.

Maybe I was the only person who would have ever spotted it. Destiny sounds real nice sometimes, but even back then, I was suspicious as hell. Still, I knew I had to go in. I tried calling for the others, but the sea was less than half a kilometer away,

and the wind coming off it was something fierce, My voice was snatched away from me by the howling gale, and no one came to help. I could catch glimpses of the odd light here or there, but I didn't know if they were just over the next hill or too far away to help. I took a deep breath and got down on my hands and knees. For a moment, I nearly blacked out. It was right when my head entered the tunnel, and I realized it was way too damn small for me. I had this sudden flare-up of claustrophobia,

and it was as if my whole body screwed. You want me to go in there? Are you mad? But I had a shovel, didn't I? We all had them. I grabbed the thing and used it to clear out as much sand as I could. It wasn't hard work at all, but I found myself sweating all the same. Eventually, I cleared enough space and got back down on my hands and knees. From there, it was flat on my stomach where I began to wriggle my way forward. My hands weren't a lot of help since the sand gave way too easily. So, you know, it was flat on my stomach where I began to wriggle my way forward. my hands weren't a lot of help since the sand gave way too easily so it was up to my legs to push me further along like I said it wasn't far maybe no more than two meters with the way the roof pressed down on me not to mention the feeling I got radiating out of that darkness

I had to stop twice on the way and swallow my panic that place wasn't quiet either each time I stopped to collect myself it lashed out and I saw images of the door swinging shut while I was stuck in a claustrophobic nightmare pinched between unstoppable concrete and a cloying wall of sand and dirt I saw my feet kicking frantically

my hands unable to find purchase as the whole tunnel pinched down in my midriff like a curious child crushing a bug it would have kept me there the search party would never have found the door it would never have heard my cries it would have kept me pinched in the darkness and it would have relished my torturous death

I could only hope it was bluffing Something was alive down there But it wasn't the actual tunnel itself It couldn't force the door shut or rearrange soil And earth on a whim I just had to calm myself and catch my breath And when I did I found myself able to wriggle free

On the other side I climbed out into an open room It was derelict with only a few holes in the wall With trailing electrical wires to say where the equipment had once stood. There were bits of old wood and metal on the floor, too rusted to recognise, but it was empty of anything meaningful.

Whoever had cleared it out decades before had probably been the last person to ever disturb that room. Well, except for one person. The sand in this place was scarce, but enough scatter the floor that I could see where disturbances had been made. The girl had entered, sure enough, and as I tracked a path

I saw clearly that she had passed through this room and through another doorway opposite to where I stood this tunnel made an unequivocal descent knifing through the earth and straight into inky darkness standing over the stairs I could hear faint drips of distant water

and rustling echoes of every breath and movement I made the sound of my own blood rushing my ears was deafening death lived down there plain and simple You could smell it in the musty air Hell, there weren't even any cobwebs or signs of rats

Anyone could have stood there and felt something Reaching into their minds Telling them to go anywhere else but down For me, it felt like I was an ant Who just looked up and spotted an enormous eye Framed by a magnifying glass Bearing down on it Something was looking at me

Something was looking right at me Just on the other side of those shadows If I lifted my light I knew I'd see something terrible staring back at me. You're welcome to try. It laughed. I'd seen this thing before.

With trembling hands, I raised the light and saw nothing. For a moment, I nearly laughed. Could I have just imagined it? I wondered. Could all those moments of hearing inhuman thoughts be nothing more than an overactive imagination? I so wanted to believe that.

no one has ever quite wanted to be alone like I did in that moment. Except, those stairs weren't totally empty. There was a shoe, a little one, a brightly coloured sneaker, the kind of thing that would pad a young girl's foot. The laughter caught in my throat. I was feeling unsure of myself. Had I really heard those taunting thoughts echoing from the dark, did it even matter?

I had to go down, I had to see. I took the steps one at a time until I reached the bottom. My first instinct was to check the space ahead to see further into the darkness. The dripping human space that greeted me was as derelict as the room above, except down here, the walls weren't as clean. Maybe water had run down and coated them in layer after layer of organic-looking limestone. Whatever it was, it lent the tunnel as slightly warped to be able. as if the very laws of perspective were twisted out of sink by the dark. When I was content that the tunnel was empty, I let my eyes fall down to my feet where I examined the shoe.

There wasn't so much as a scratch. Even the shoelaces were still tied. I touched it, and for a brief moment I whirled myself into the object's past, seeing what emotion still lingered close to its history. Nothing about the process is reliable, but it was my best hope. And that was when the strangest image came to me. The last time that shoe had been on the girl, it was on the beach. She was with a father, running and giggling. He told her he had a secret and whipped her up into his arms.

She felt happy in that moment, safe. She hadn't seen the man in so long. He promised her her vacation, but she mustn't tell mummy. The funniest thought entered my head, and I looked up towards the tunnel. The ribbed lime scale that coated the walls was grossly discolored, a peculiar rainbow of bone white and sickly purple.

It stank as bad as it looked. And that voice, the one inside the shadows, it had shut up awfully quickly. Hadn't I challenged it by raising the torch? For something whose thoughts had wreaked of millennia old hatred, it had fled back from the light as if it never had any power to begin with.

I took a step backwards and dropped the shoe. Could it read my mind too? Could it feel the realization that had dawned on me, freezing my whole body in place as if a bucket of ice had been poured over my head? I think luck, once again, had played a big part in my escape. Had I stepped just another foot forward, I would have been caught. The tunnel snapped shut barely a few inches from my feet. For a split second, I saw nothing but a wall of muscle.

and when it reopened there was a quivering, puckering, hungry meat hole, the size of a manhole. The rims of its muscular mouth was dotted with a hundred beady eyes that glared at me with rage. It had expected something so tasty, so real. Instead, all it got was a mouthful of dust. I was so frightened, I scrambled backwards on my hands and feet. For a brief moment, the torch was losing my grip and a lost sight of the gaping mouth that slobbered. after me, only to turn back in an instant and see that it was gone. The only sign that anything had ever been there was the trickling of dust and sand from the roof

of a perfectly square man-made corridor. I could have so easily stayed there, frozen, debating with myself whether it was ever even true, except the shoe remained clutched in one hand, and it had been spattered with a foul-smelling goo as the mouth slammed closed. Even as I held it, the viscous, milky fluid began to burn, and I threw the shoe down with a disgusted cry. Lucky boy, the boy said. Lucky, once in your house, standing by the stairs. Lucky twice in the woods, saved by your friend.

Now, Lucky thrice in the dark. Just how lucky can you be? It asked. If you keep poking around in places you don't. belong, your luck will run out. Screw you, I cried. Whatever it was, it had made its point clear. It has set a trap, a clever one.

The girl wasn't on the beach. She was with her damn father, somewhere in Ireland. I had sensed his intent buried deep within the memories that lingered around the shoe, like second-hand smoke. The shoe had been taken by something else, put to use as bait for me. and I still wasn't safe. I crawled right into the belly of the beast like a goddamn idiot. I hurried back up the stairs, trying to ignore the rising waves of emotion

that were crashing through the bunker. It felt like I was escaping a flash flood of oil. I could feel that thing, whatever, or where of it was, flexing its muscles just out of sight. That... What was it getting ready for? What did it want? My light fell up on the way out,

and all the breath left my body. like I'd been punched in the gut. For a brief second, a fractional moment of time too small to quantify, the tunnel I dug in the sand wasn't there. Instead, there was a mouth, just like the one down below, embedded in the wall of muscle that expanded indefinitely out of view. But then, the torch caught up with my eye,

and the light revealed a plain amount of sand with a small crawl space between it and the ceiling. There were no calcified spikes that threatened to obscure me, No bubbling ribbed esophagus, slick with digestive fluids, waiting to swallow me whole. I suddenly realized I'd been an idiot, and I'd left my shovel on the other side of the sand. There'd be no digging. I had to crawl back through the way I came. You're welcome to try, the darkness said, sensing my thoughts. I could feel it closing it on me as a kind of psychic pressure.

I'm not sure I'd describe this thing as angry, so much as just cold and a love. It was everywhere and nowhere, something that wasn't human, that had never been human. It lived in the dark, and only the dark. It was only my torch that kept me safe. Wherever it roamed, I saw dusty concrete and not much else. But wherever the darkness encroached, I could feel those ominous thoughts that tasted like dry cobweb, seeping back in, like water through my fingers. I readied myself to leave, to keep the light fixed dead ahead.

when I felt a waft of hot air blow past my shoulders. By this point, the distinction between thoughts and real sensation was weakening. The things it suggested to me were starting to feel as real as the ground beneath my feet. I don't know if I would have faced a psychic death or a physical one, but that thing was after me all the same. Before I let the nerves get the better of me, I ran forward and began crawling and then wriggled. The torch was effective in such a small space.

lighting it up as plain as daytime. But behind me was another story. I could feel warm appendages caress my legs, could feel the dam creeping through my trousers, repressed moistly against my bare skin. There was a hint of suction, maybe, as if something was getting ready to clean me out like I was a chicken drumstick at a family barbecue.

My head emerged from the tunnel, just as something snagged my foot. I lost all sense of reason, and, in hysterics, I tried to kick and scream away from, free. It felt so stupid that some sand was between me and freedom. My arms were being close to my side. Had the tunnel been so narrow on my way in, I wondered. But there it was. Freedom was so close and all I had to do was loosen some damn earth. But panic only made it worse. I heard my

shoulder as I struggled, hurt it bad, and tears welled up in my eye. Frustration was starting to overwhelm me. I tried everything to calm myself. it wasn't enough. Something had me in its jaws real good. My foot wasn't just caught. It was being pulled, slowly, inexorably back into a waiting gullet. Look, runs out. The darkness said.

I screamed so loud that I was coughing up blood for days after. It was rough. In that moment, I felt all hope extinguish, all joy disappear. This thing's mind was flirting into mine, kicking off his. shoes and rivaling through my memories like a rude guest. It showed me what it had in store for me. It showed me that I wouldn't even be alone. There were others. So many others trapped down in the dark. At least I finally found out why I never encountered anyone else like me. We make ourselves known to the predators that lurk behind every shadow. This thing had been stalking me for a long,

long time. Someone out there heard my screaming, although they never quite explained how. They just said it came to them as clear as day, and I reckon they might have just been a little bit sensitive to thoughts like I am to have been able to find me. Either way, someone came to my rescue. A hand, cold and clammy,

but so goddamn welcome in the moment, grabbed my wrist and yanked me out. I didn't even care that it was my bad shoulder they tugged on. By the time I slither, out of that place, I was sobbing. The darkness had done a real number of my head. I don't remember much else.

They got me somewhere safe and I got a mention in the paper for going the extra mile. Story was I got stuck crawling through and freaked out. That was all. A severe panic attack. Whoever saved me didn't stick around. I tried

looking for them, tried asking for help. My guess. That thing set a trap for people like me, and it caught more than one. Like I said, there was no way anyone could have heard my actual screams through that door, and with all the wind. It makes more sense to me that they heard my mental ones. Maybe they got a little too close to the darkness too.

Maybe they glimpse a little of what had me in its jaws. Who knows? I steer clear of places like that now. Places that have a special vibe. You know the one. people who see me think I'm overreacting think I'm being a coward or superstitious just because I won't go down into the basement

or take a lonely walk to an outhouse I'd like to tell them the truth maybe even show it to them but I couldn't do that seeing this thing noticing it I think that's what ticks it off anyone could have gone into that place

and had no trouble it showed itself to me because I spotted it years before. And who knows, maybe, it's not the only thing like it. Like I said, we all have those gut feelings, don't we? Everyone, no matter where or when we live, have had those kinds of feelings. There are always places that give us the creeps.

We should trust those feelings more often.