CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 Scary REDDIT Horror Stories for a long night of horror

Episode Date: May 12, 2020

Here's a creepypasta compilation of the week. One of the longest yet. CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "How Teachers Grade Their Tests" Creepypasta►16:31 "Shower 5" Creepypasta►45:02 "How Covering a Gas Station Night Shift Went Wrong" Creepypasta►1:04:57 "Twelve Steps" Creepypasta►1:45:57 "My town has an old nursery rhyme called LICKETYSPLIT" Creepypasta►2:54:14 "No Name, No Number" Creepypasta►3:15:59 "Every summer my neighbour built a new scarecrow" 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...►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►qiao an: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/8l...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-

The festival season is Aangbroken and that betekent mudder. And so, ging Kim to Amazon.com. com. On the look to a waterdict tent,

a comfortable luggette, oh, so, knus, and Lupeart print regalarze. Miao. Now, he has Kim

not for the modder, just like that's the moddermann there, oh, wait just even,

has he now only modder on? Oh, yeah, only mudder. Drove blithe? Goar for. Find what you

need to have on Amazon.com. Mr. Fisher was always a hot-headed one. In a good way of course. He was one of those teachers that would playfully talk smack to all the stupid teenagers in the class, getting a good laugh out of all of us. And he was also one of those teachers that was excellent at their job.

Mr. Fisher's scholastic passion was American literature. And oh boy, he knew American literature. I can't even count the number of times he would rant about JD Salazar. about J.D. Salinger or Ernest Hemingway relentlessly and then just stop talking and zone out because he would ponder the greatness of their work in his silent bubble. You would just watch him sulk in his episode of awkward silence and fiery admiration for his idols. Don't get me wrong. Unlike most of the teachers in the school, that didn't give a damn about our educational process, he cared excessively. He would go out of his way and legitimately connect with us, individually, just so he could crack the code of our developing minds and learn the secrets

to how he can get us to pay attention in his class. He was a great teacher, and not to be bold, but I was a great student. I was his favorite student. Whenever he would ask the class for an answer, and he never saw any hands go up, he would just put me on the hot seat. With no problem at all, I would answer him every time. There were even times when he would walk up to my desk, put his hand on my shoulder, and commemorate me. Right in the middle of the damn class session. Now at the time, it was a bit much, yes, but I wasn't just going to deny his request for a

correct answer. The only time that I was ever concerned with in his class was that he made everything super hard. We would have to study things that we never even got close. close to becoming attached to in class. The tests were impossible. His homework assignments were too long to the brink of impossibility

and his grading system was complete BS. His damn grading system. He would grade all assignments, all quizzes, all tests on an entire class average. So, whenever there was a majority of below 50% scores,

that's what the entire class as a unit would get. He believed this tactic was brutally fair. He claimed that if we liked the ability to work with each other as a class and to learn as a class as a whole, then we should all burn for each other's inability to learn. He wanted all of us to work together. But there was always a barrier between all of the drama and all of the awkward teenage communicational blocks that would prevent each and every one of us for clicking with each other. He had six high school classes. He had six high school classes,

in the school year. We were his least successful one and he was never afraid to announce that. He was always proud to make all of us feel like a waste of his time and ours. Okay, now I feel like I'm

just rambling. The main point of this story is his grading system and the day, Fisher, went absolutely crazy in class. It was two weeks before the end of the school year we were all anticipating. the changes of the weather and the final day.

We were so excited that we even started communicating with each other. All classmates were just clicking. Summer fever was taking the entire student population by storm, and we were loving it. Mr. Fisher wasn't. This was the day we were supposed to get our tests on catching the rye back, and as a class average, we were expecting to flunk this. this. We all loved the novel. It was one of those novels where most of the classmates

even told Fisher that they can connect to the main protagonist. The story itself was well written and beautifully put together, but that didn't mean Fisher would make the test even remotely easy. As a class average, failed. I noticed the pain in Fisher's face as he was handing all of us our papers back. I knew some volcanic eruption of painful lecturing was coming. I was wrong. I was totally and completely false. Fisher walked up to the door.

Unlocked it. I noticed this action along with several other puzzled classmates. He then walked to his desk, pulled out a hammer from a cabinet, and whacked it on the desk. All of you, Stay after class. My face got warm and my heart dropped to my groin. I looked at the clock from the corner of my eye and noticed that there were 40 minutes in class left.

He walked down each student row, flicked a student's ear and announced the class average grade letter. Flick E. Flick. E. Flick. E. He did this until he approached me. He messed to my hair

and softly said. A, I started sweating, my teeth were clenched with fear and my hands were shaking underneath my ass. I sit to my hands as a nervous habit. My desk is right in front of his. So right from my desk

he jumped on his and stood up on it. He then shut the blinds on the window next to his desk and flick the light switch. The room was a shade of dark blue now, only illuminated by his computer screen and the weak ray of sunlight piercing the blind on the window. 36 minutes until lunch, one more week until final exams,

two more weeks until summer. We were all frozen. He had us in the palm of his hand. Let's see what you all know. Final exams start now. He bellowed the now and made it echo and radiate throughout the room. He grabbed the handle of his hammer and walked away from his desk. the blunt side of it scraping against his wooden desk.

My fellow classmate, Justin, from across the room, didn't take this body language with peace. He should have just sat there. He should have stayed still. Instead, he spotted the hammer in his hands and slowly began to rise out of his desk while looking Fisher right in the eyes. Justin, take your seat. Mr. Fisher, I don't know if I want to do that. He said something along the lines of that.

I don't remember, but whatever he said, Fisher would not let that fly past him. He slowly began to approach him. He taunted him by lightly tapping the hammer against his chalkboard. He did this for several moments until he stopped at the edge of the board and then drove the hammer into the black surface. Justin literally collapsed onto his seat and his hands were shaking all over the place.

Mr. Fisher then ran to his desk, waxed the hammer next to his shaking hands. Justin placed his hands on his lap and looked down at the floor. All of the students started losing their minds. They all started to get out of the desks and walked towards the door, but Mr. Fisher had one thing that could keep all of us in our desks. That hammer, and he used it on Justin. This is where things get out of hand. He swung the hammer full force at Justin's head. The force was so powerful that he made Justin fly into the bookshelf on his left. He hit the floor hard afterwards, and I remember seeing his body quiver and shake from the pain. This is where the students stopped what they were doing and just stayed quiet.

Now, in regards to all the loud banging from the hammer, you may be wondering why no one heard it. Well, let's see. his classroom was behind the gymnasium and the gymnasium was practically near the end of the school building and physical education was not in session therefore making the rest of the school faculty completely oblivious to the fact that Fisher was rampant in his classroom with a hammer

he started smacking the hammer on Justin's desk like a gavel and then he gestured all of the students to get back in their desks despite all of the trauma getting pushed into these kids' brains they still remained obedient. Despite all the hysterical students with tears streaming down their faces, they finally gave Fisher what he always wanted. Attention, obedience, organization.

Nancy, started the semester, what do we read? Nancy's posture shot up into defense and fear. I... I... He started raising his voice and stretching out his words to make him. with the head. Nancy, pay attention. What do we read at the start of the semester? His head would tilt side by side with each syllable. He was toying with her completely. And then,

his face got red. The veins in his neck started bulging. The lack of verbal communication from Nancy made him snap into another episode of violent eruption. He growled, grabbed Nancy by her hair, and threw her at the chalkboard. She kept trying to crawl away from the front of the room, but he kept kicking her back onto the wall. She was bawling her eyes out. That's when he pointed at me. He picked her up and put her in a headlock.

She was struggling, but it was pointless. He had a neck in one arm, and the other arm was extended towards me. McGrady, what did we read at the start of dismisser, eh? I was stuttering. I was turning. into a broken record. I just couldn't give him an answer.

I was panicking and my mind was at a blank. He released a neck, grabbed her by the hair again and started slamming her face into the board. McGrady, what did we read at the start of the semester? He wanted me to forget the answer.

He wanted to toy with me. Save her, McGready, you can do it. That's when the light bulb shot out of my brain. I sprang into action. Death of a Pig by E.B. White. What was that? Death of a pig by E.B. White. Fisher began to loosen his grip and the expression on his face was completely blank, absolutely empty. I had him right where I wanted him. And then he let out a deep sigh until an evil smirk stretched across his

face. And that's when he opened his mouth slowly and said, The Minister's Black Vail by Nathaniel Hawthorne. My face slowly melted into an emotion of anguish and pain. Fisher pushed the face into the chalkboard with one hand and then swung the hammer at the back of a skull with the other. She fell to the floor instantly. You could hear the sound of the skull exploding. Some kids started vomiting.

It was either Lucas or Nicholas. I know that I may seem like I'm showing no emotion to this situation, but at the time I was terrified of Fisher. I'm still remotely suffering from the guilt of letting Nancy down. I couldn't live with myself for the longest time after that. I looked at the clock and noticed there were 24 minutes left in the class. He had spent a good 20 minutes since the start of his episode antagonizing Justin and Nancy, getting us to shut up with a whack of the hammer every now and then.

After he smashed Nancy's head in, he just stared at the aftermath. He looked at Justin and then Nancy. And then... He just started hyperventilating. He dropped the hammer and collapsed onto his office chair. This is when tears started to come to my eyes. Really, they did. This is when everyone realised his pain, his anger.

I shouldn't have done this, but I did. I got out of my desk, walked up to Fisher, and then knelt down. He looked up at me from the palm. of his hands. Then he started laughing. Tears on a red, smiling face. He raised his voice and greeted. McGraedy, how you doing? Mr. Fisher, we can help you. He chuckled at my response. You, help me. Oh, McGrady, your brilliant mind has been helping me all goddamn school year, but these delinquents in front of me can't do hell for me. Mr. Fisher, listen.

Shut the hell up, McGrady. He shoved me into his office chair, and then picked up his hammer. Well, class, 18 minutes left, and look what we've accomplished. He wiped his hand on the chalkboard until his hand was red and pink

with a coagulation of blood and brain matter. He then walked up to some kid in the back. I think his name was Eric, and he grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head back, and then smear the substance. on his face. Fischer wasn't angry. This was the most calm I've seen him ever. As a class average, you are all failures, except for Magrady here. Learn from him, because he won't be

dying today, although some more of you will. He laughed, stopped walking, and then looked to his right. How you doing, Beaker? Abruptly, swiftly and carelessly, he swung to his right. He swung, the hammer at the back of his skull. Wack! The students were going insane, literally. Fisher's own insanity was radiating through the room and entered the minds of his students. Kids were crying, shaking, and frozen in absolute shock. But what concerned me is that not a single one of them tried to leave.

I didn't look at his spree of hammer swings, but I could hear it. I sat there until five minutes remaining clans. Throughout a period of 30 minutes, there were six wax. I didn't look at who. I didn't want to know who. All I know is that Justin and Nancy didn't make it. Two people died, and I killed one of them. And yes, I absolutely blame myself for Nancy's fate to this very day.

The bell rang, but all the students remained in their seats, staring at Fisher. And then suddenly, with the purpose of the people. Reverse smile, he says. Class dismissed. Some students ran and screamed. Some students just walked out slowly without complaint. I was one of those people. And I was the last student out.

Straying away from my class, Fisher shouts out to me. McGready! A thousand needle shot at my spine, and then I turned around to listen to Fisher's announcement. Looks like you've passed. He started laughing like a madman. I could hear his laugh follow me as I walked down the hall. I could hear his laugh as I took my shortcut through the gymnasium. And I could hear his laugh over the incoming police sirens.

I work as a correctional officer in a maximum security prison. Now saying that probably brings up all sorts of images and ideas, but just know that the job is very different than what you see on TV. There are no nightly escape attempt. Nightly escape attempts, no big throwdowns on the yard every afternoon, and if your roommates are drunk, it's because they've been smuggling things out of the kitchen for weeks. Night shift, which was C-shift, is not generally very exciting, but it does have its quirks. For example, all the guards on C-shift knew about the mysterious shower in quad two of

confinement. At first, it was just a curiosity to help pass the time, a mystery to be solved, or some bit of annoyance that inmates could complain about ceaselessly. No one could have known how bad it would get in the end. I've been an officer in the confinement unit of this prison pretty much since I got certified. There's a real need for mail officers in an all-mail facility. Shocking, I know, and the confinement unit is no different. Typically, the crew is small, each one filling a desired need.

And, in the two years I've been here, I've seen and heard some things that you don't see on TV. I've heard hits planned out through the back grating in the windows. I've had all manner of things thrown at me through the flaps which we push their food and clothing through. I've been called some pretty colourful names. And I've stumbled across my fair share of bodies, hanging and bleeding,

which needed immediate medical attention. Shower 5 though was definitely the weirdest thing I've ever seen. I couldn't begin to tell you why. I doubt anyone could. But sometimes when you put an inmate in shower 5, they would reappear in shower 3. For those unfamiliar with how a prison quad is set up, let me explain. Each quad holds 28 cells, 14 on the bottom floor and 14 on the top floor accessible by a catwalk. There are five showers in each quad.

Shows 1 and 5 are on either side of cell 1 and 14. Shows 2 and 4 on either side of 15 and 28. And shower 3 sits between 21 and 22. We shower 2 quads a night, which roughly takes about 3 to 4 hours and makes up the biggest part of our night. Quad 2's shower night was Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Inmates are cuffed, removed from cells, weighed, giving haircuts, and are placing the showers so we can search their cells. They are given roughly 15 minutes to wash and dry off before we come to cuff them and return them to their cells. While they're showering, they're locked

in a shower cell about the size of, well, a household shower, while we go to the next squad over to do pretty much the same thing. Sometime within that 15-minute window, the inmate will close their eyes to blink or maybe rinse their hair and suddenly appear in shower three. It would happen anywhere from two to four times a month at first. It was never anything you could count on, and we would sometimes take bets on when it would happen. It never happened in reverse either. Shower 3 was broken so we never used it.

But when we did put an inmate in shower 3 for holding, he never went anywhere until we were ready for him to go somewhere. The shower was a mystery. A mystery that provided a much needed break from a tedious job. And for the first four months, we laughed at the looks on the faces of the confused inmates who appeared in shower 3 with a head full of shampoo or frantically searching for a towel that wasn't there. It was all fun in games until inmate Ferris disappeared. Inmate Ferris was one of the few who didn't request shower 5 every shower night. The others fought like cats to get this stall each shower night and I'd come into quite many,

nights to the sound of them bickering about who would get it tonight or trying to trade their breakfast trays for someone's spot in the line. One inmate in particular, Garvey, used to trade his breakfast tray for the spot in line that would get him to shower five every shower night. He showered there nine shower nights for every ten and still never had it happen. One night in particular we had just packed him away and put the next man into shower five, only to return to find shower three occupied, shower five empty, and Garvey pouting like an angry child. They all tried, but in truth, and none of them got to experience it, like Ferris did.

When it came for Ferris to go, he said he wasn't going to shower five. Normally this wouldn't have been a problem. There were usually tons of others willing to take his place, but tonight Ferris was my last shower. Garvey immediately started hooting about wanting to take his place, but I ignored him. On that night, all I was thinking about was the food waiting for me in the fridge and the prospect of being done with another night of showers. There was also the matter of Ferris's smell. Ferris had been refusing his showers for the last seven shower nights. The other shift didn't quite enforce the rules as we did about bathing once a week, and the administration had

began to take notice of his odor. They had sent down orders after the latest inspection that Ferris would shower tonight, on his own or with assistance. Look, Ferris, you're going in that shower. It's the only one I have available and you're my last shower. I ain't going in that shower, he said evenly as he stared at me through the glass on the door. I waved Purvis off as he started walking towards us, not wanting to spook Ferris and create a situation

where there didn't need to be one. Look for us, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. If you refuse the shower, I can get a bunch of angry men down here to pull you out and put you in the shower. Or you could be an adult and go take a shower so we can be done here. What's it going to be? He argued for a bit, but in the end, he put on the cuffs and went to shower five meekly. I will always regret making him go.

He was praying when I closed the shower door It was very religious and a shower that made people vanish Was something he neither trusted nor understood I closed them in and took off his cuffs And at first I didn't think he would take the shower at all But as I descended the stairs I heard the water start And decided to make a trip to the officer station to have a quick bite 15 minutes later I returned to find three

three occupied showers and two empty showers. Well, not exactly empty, I suppose. Ferris's towel still hung off the door, and his soap dish was sitting on the ledge, but there was no sign of inmate Ferris. Purvis looked around, not quite understanding what had happened, and wondered out loud if we'd filled all the showers before we left. I said we had, and Pervis and I spent the next hour searching every shower, every cell in the quad and every cell in shower in the other three quads too.

We checked the CCTV in the station, but there was no video of him leaving the shower. The video showed him showering one minute and then gone the next. The strange shower hadn't disappeared Ferris to a different shower this time. It had simply made him disappear. The next three nights were a nightmare. Ferris' disappearance prompted an emergency search of all dorms, a compound-wide lockdown, the dispatching of the K-9 team, and a country-wide manhunt that extended into neighboring countries before it was finally called off after a fruitless two weeks.

For three days we were questioned, had to make multiple written and verbal statements, and were grilled endlessly by both local and federal officers. The cameras clearly showed that we had been absent from the quad when Ferris disappeared, so after three days they had no choice but to let us return to work. We weren't sure what to make of the incident, but we chalked it all up to the strangeness with Shower Five and went about work as usual. We didn't use Shower Five anymore though. It seemed like the strange magic had finally turned sour, and after finally making maintenance

come down and fix Shower. shower three, we stopped using it entirely. We didn't see Ferris for another three months. I've said we a lot in this story, but I haven't talked about the men I served with in confinement. Purvis was our muscle, six feet tall and built like a barrel, and I'm pretty sure all the inmates thought he communicated through grunts in the occasional, good a hell. If you weren't an inmate, though, he was one of the nicest guys you'd ever cared to know.

I've spent many afternoons on his back porch with a beer in my hand and the smell of steak on the grill as I chatted with the third member of our trio. McMahon Sergeant McMahon was a 10-year vet who spent most of his time doing paperwork or filled in questions from the brass. He let us handle most of the day-to-day drudgery while he insulated us in a warm blanket of correctly managed reports and accurately maintained logs. McMahon was far from what you'd call imposing, standing about five. two with thick glasses and a slim frame, but he was knowledgeable about his job and always had something to talk about. He was the last sergeant I ever served with in that confinement unit. Three months passed and Ferris' disappearance was starting to fade.

After the inquiries and inquest determined we'd had nothing to do with the disappearance, they put his back in confinement and told us to keep a closer watch in the future. We talked about it sometimes, speculating what could have happened to him, but ultimately we lost interest after the paperwork ended and the hype died down. He was gone and we still had a job to do, so the showers went on and days turned into weeks. It was a Sunday when he came back. Sundays were normally a pretty easy day in confinement. We didn't do showers on Sunday night and the night was spent cleaning and passing out toiletries

and generally just finding something online to watch as we ran out the clock. We brought fruit into share most Sundays, and this was no exception. I brought chicken, Purvis brought soda, and McMahon brought up a can pie that his sister had made. By 9 o'clock, we had caught up our paperwork, passed out all our toiletries, and were full as ticks and ready to find a movie. I had my feet kicked up on my desk and was getting ready to enjoy a nap, and the sound of boots on doors started in Quad 2. Purvis looked up from the screen and sighed.

I knew it was too good to be true. We headed out into the quad to see what all the kicking was about. As Purvis and I came through the door, we were buffeted by screams of Shower 3 and It's Ferris and he's dying. We came up the stairs two at a time and what I saw will haunt me until the day I die. I'd seen men get hurt in this line of work.

I'd seen men get stabbed, and I'd watched a few men die. But I had never seen anything to top this level of cruelty. It was Ferris all right. We'd arrived in time to see his last few breaths, and listened to him wheeze as his lungs finished filling with blood. He lay in the floor of the dirty shower, his blood pooling as it tried to flow into the drain and shuddered out the last minutes of his life.

It was naked and we were saved having to look at his mutilated genitalia because of the fetal position he'd taken. A nurse would later tell us that they had been cut and sliced cruelly before he died and his stomach and intestines were a mess of punctured tissue. We didn't know about this until later but what we could see was horrific enough.

His skin had been sliced by long claws, and his back looked as though something had tried to peel him a strip at a time. His arms, his legs, his neck, his face, and especially his back were bloody tatters. And when he finally died, I considered it a true mercy. Go get the serge, Purvis said. And I was relegated to the bubble while McMahon went to the floor to access the situation. They took Ferris out under a sheet and it was dripping red in its wake. This started a whole new bombardment of paperwork, CCTV footage being combed over her frame at a time and witness statements being filled out and dispositions being taken.

Luckily, we had done our rounds on time. One of us was on camera not even 30 minutes before he disappeared in the shower and it was agreed upon that the incident had been no negligence of ours. The narrative they constructed was as unsatisfying as it was unbelievable, but it kept our bacon out of the fire, so we didn't argue. Ferris had managed to worm his way into the grates through the shower and had made it into the ventilation system. The other inmates had likely been feeding him and telling him to stop moving.

This was before audio was normal in the dorms, so we couldn't check. And after three months, he'd gotten bored and wandered into one of the big fans and gotten cut up. He'd drug himself back into the shower, shower three this time, and called for help, and that's where we found him. No inmate admitted to having talked to Ferris

since he disappeared, and no blood was ever found in the vents, but this was a much better narrative than a shower that kept sending inmates from one shower to another. Sometimes the administration just wanted paperwork to look good, making sense was secondary.

After that, No inmate would go near shower 5. It spread the compound seemingly overnight, and any inmate that came into Quad 2 would refuse to go into shower 5. We were more than happy to oblige the request. One more weird occurrence, and they pull us all out and separate us between the other dorms.

We all liked being where we were, and were in no hurry to get sent somewhere else. For the next month, we kept a low profile and tried our best to keep disturbances to a minimum. If we needed a reminder of the incident, all we had to do was look at the red stains on the floor of shower three. We managed to keep the weirdness to a minimum for about a month before it came completely off the rails.

Purvis and I were conducting showers in Quad 3 and 4 when they brought in our latest wild child. Everett was what we'd call a frequent flyer, had we known he was coming in, we'd have put him in the cell they'd just release him from three days ago. He'd gotten into another fight, probably over gang politics, and now he was sitting in the Sally Port again and cussing up a storm. When they asked us where we wanted him, we didn't even think about shower five. We told them to just put him in the shower on the other side and we'd deal with him later. I don't know if he said something to them or not, but they later told us that they'd load to

him into shower 5, leaving the cuffs on because he was being competitive and left. We finished showers late that night, and just about the time my butt air at the chair, I remembered Everett. I haven't heard a peep out of him. Did they load him into a cell? McMahon looked at his board and shook his head. Pretty sure they put him in a shower. A quick look through the glass told us that he wasn't in one of the ground floor showers. How could he be?

We had used all the bottom showers to shower the other quads. When we asked him why they had put him in shower five, they answered that it had been funny to watching Pee's pants in fear of the mystery shower. It was far less funny after the events of that night. We were preparing to go put him away when a chorus of screams brought her attention to the quad. The inmates were screaming, terrified whales, that only the doomed are capable of,

and the whole quad was going nuts. We could all see the door to Shower Five, heaving and bucking, and something slammed into it with a machine-gun-like rhythm. That wasn't like any kicking I'd ever heard, and, added to the screaming, it put me on edge.

Shower Five had become something sinister, something not altogether understandable, and I did not want to see what new horror it had in store for us. I started to move, despite my apprehension, but McMahon stopped me. I've got this. Call the captain and get some help down here

while we go see what's going on. His actions... Saved me. He and Purvis left the station in a hurry, piling up at the door as they hunted with keys and came through the door one behind the other as they mounted the steps. They were at the top of the stairs

and heading towards the shower. when the door to shower five buckled outward. The door was reinforced metal, and whatever was on the other side had separated it from one of its hinges. The hinge hung lamely, concrete still clinging to it, had something dark and groping

tried to climb through the hole. The snapping mouth glistened in the overhead light as the creature scrambled and pushed to be free of its prison. I saw Purvis take a step back, bumping into McMahon, as the two tried to process what was happening, and all thoughts of calling for help had fled from me

as I watched the events unfold. The creature freed itself from the hole, black goo glistening on the torn door, and made its way up the wall with a hellish shriek and a metallic clitoring I could hear through the glass. The whole quad had started screaming, and their hellish chorus was only drowned out by the creature's screams of pain

as it left a glistening trail behind it on the car. concrete wall. The two officers, my friends, stood like statues as the thing swung its eyeless head from side to side. It seemed to be confused by all the screaming, the sound bouncing of the concrete, and I thought my fellow officers might escape as Purvis took another tentative step backward. That's when McMahon started screaming. I'd see McMahon face down, even the most hardened of inmates, seeing him hold. the line during Lassamer's riots as we held the gate against dozens of screaming inmates. But this creature was too much for him.

He screamed and it cut across the hellish sound of the quad like a knife through butter. The creature then turned its eyeless face towards him and the front of its bulbous mouth split open to reveal lines of serrated teeth and a high-pitched sound like a piece of farm equipment scream. It leapt coming stickily off the wall. But its path took it straight into Purvis, who was frozen in front of the screaming sergeant. It rode him to the ground, knocking McMahon of his feet, and the strange mouth ripped itself open to reveal the rose of black glistening teeth. Its mouth dove, and it tore chunks of flesh out of the screaming man as McMahon scooted backwards in the state of sheer terror.

He reached for his gas, a small can of chemical spray that is normally our best defense against aggressive inmates. but his hands seemed unsure of how to break the seal that held it in the holster, or even whether or not he wanted to. The creature, meanwhile, of a quickly exanguinating Purvis. Purvis was not a small man. I had seen him lay hands on men who would have given me trouble and put them on their faces as easily as someone subdues a child. Purvis was straining against a thing

as it tore stripped out of his shirt, his undershirt, and his chest but his biceps were losing purchase and he was starting to weaken. The creature raised its muzzle all at once and bit down on his face, engulfing the man's head in a single bite. And as Purvis kicked and thrashed under it, I saw McMahon get to his feet and make a run for it. The catwalk had two points of egress and McMahon seemed to think that if he could get to the other side,

he could elude the creature and put the solid steel door between them. he almost did too until the creature looked up from the stripped skull it was now chewing on and heard him running down the stairs it leapt frog-like and hit one of the overhead lights

and the cage light swung drunkenly before falling to the concrete with a shower of glass and twisted bars as it fell the creature left off of it and caught McMahon in the back as he ran for the door the door is framed by two large glass windows

that stand about 25 feet high so you can glance out of the quad and see what's happening at any given time. The creature slammed into McMahon and plastered him against one of these windows like a bug. His nose broke, his glasses shattered and, as he slid down,

I could follow his progress with a trail of bloody left. The only thing visible was one hand spasmodically grasping at the impenetrable barrier between him and freedom as the creature devoured him. I didn't know what to do.

I just stood there with a phone in one hand, dull tone blaring at me, and the radio in the other hand, putting out the same good-nature chatter it usually does at this time at night. It was so weird to think that somewhere else in the compound, there were people having normal nights.

While my two best friends were being devoured before my eyes, there were actually people out there having comfortable nights filled with nothing more pressing than a belly. ache or an unruly inmate who wouldn't go to bed. It didn't even seem possible that our universes could be on the same plane of existence. I think... I think that's when my mind snapped.

Or maybe it was when I looked up from the radio and saw the creature looking at me. It's Ayla's face staring straight at me. And my mind simply unravelled. I let the phone slip out of my hand. Let the radio clattered to the desk and simply curled. in a ball on the floor. I don't know how long I was there, but when I came back too, the captain was shaking me, and all hell had truly broken loose.

They had come in after I didn't answer the radio. They had used the emergency keys to come into the station and found me on the ground in a catatonic state. They had then looked out and seen the blood splattering on the window and feared that a riot was underway. They'd assembled their response team, a seven-year. Superman team with riot gear and proceeded into the quad. As I looked out into the shadowy hellscape, I could see that several of the cells had been opened somehow, and there was a lot more blood on the floor than I remembered.

The remains of body armour and broken shotguns lay everywhere, and the lights in the quad seemed to be in a constant state of flicker. The team had gone in and been attacked by what they thought was a mountain lion or some kind of big cat. They had been ripped to shreds in a matter of. minutes and only the team leader had managed to escape after throwing a flash grenade in the thing's face. It had battered the door a little while trying to get at him but had eventually gone back to eating the remains of the other six

members. The team leader said it looked like some of the other inmates had been killed though he couldn't figure out how this thing was getting into the cells. They looked to me for answers but I had none. The team leader joined me in the fetal ball in the corner while the captain made calls for backup. I sat in that station for the next two days, nodding off when sleep finally took me and watched as the state police and animal control tried to figure out how to get this thing out of the quad. After the third police officer was ripped as shreds, we got a visit from someone higher up.

He told us that the quad was to be quarantined until further notice, the reflective lenses on his sunglasses, making him look as inhuman as the creature, and that no one was to go in or out until this thing was dead. The captain asked him what we should do about the men trapped inside, men who hadn't eaten in two days, and he simply shrugged and said, if they were in there, then they were as good as dead already. That thing isn't going to let anyone out once they're in, and a rescue attempt isn't going to do anything but lose you more men.

Don't worry though, we'll make it so no one who's gone through that door ever existed. He was true to his word too. McMahon and Purvis were unmarried bachelors and so they could just disappear one day after work. Of the 27 inmates that had been in that quad, I don't know. The files were gone when I came back. The DC numbers and CDC records were expunged and all the cells were open and empty. The doors the quad two were sealed shut. The door welded closed and caution tape drooped across it.

I was offered McMahon's position as confinement sergeant. I took it, not because I wanted it, but because I felt it was my sake of trust to stand guard against that thing every night. I've never seen it during the day. It doesn't seem to like the light. But at night, you can catch glimpses of it in the darkness as it stalks the rats and roaches that still live in the quad. The new officers they put back there always ask me what happened to Quad 2, but I never tell

them the whole story. If they knew, they might try to get its attention and add more blood to my hands. I've seen officers come and go in the ten years since that day, but I haven't told anyone about the incident. My captain is a major now at another facility. from my old shift has either quit or moved on, and I alone keep my vigil here every night. Sometimes I see him in the semi-darkness, looking at me and thinking. After ten years, I imagine he's hungry for something more than rats.

Maybe in another ten years he'll question how thick that glass is between him and real meat when he does. I'll be here. I fully admit to being a stoner. But I promise you, I'm not making this up. No amount of roaches can cook up a fever dream like this. So don't start pulling excuses to wave off my story, alright? Let me explain to you how this went down. So, picture this.

I'm on the low end of the high I got off of popping edible and playing some mortal combat. When I get a series of texts from this chick, I'm totally head over heels for asking me for a favor. Eve was everything I wanted in a woman. She was about as goth as they come, always wearing dark lipstick that matched her hair,

some kind of fishnets on her legs, and this big, oversized beanie that holstered some spare dollar bills to spend on Pop-Tarts. She had a sharp tongue, a sharp mind, and even sharper nails. We became familiar with each other towards the tail end of high school, where I started selling a weed at a discounted price

that made a smile. We had a habit of smoking together, but our relationship never went past friends who hotboxed their dad's garage. Some time after we both graduated, she got a gig as a late-night gas station employee, whilst I stayed drifting at home, collecting scraps of cash to fund my mom's dream

of me going to college. But here she was, texting me at 9.12 p.m., begging me to fill in a shift for a couple of hours. Had this been anyone other than her, I would have either told them I was busy or ignore the text outright. But for her, well, I'd do anything. Mom wasn't home, so I had to call myself an Uber

to get to a gas station in time. I sneakily picked some of my neighbour's flowers out of the garden, holding them in a glass cup I brought from home. The last thing I grabbed from home was a tiny baggy of dope along with some rolling papers just in case. This is it, I thought to myself on the ride there. This is where I woo her off those big platform boots she wears. Maybe 15 minutes later, my Uber driver dropped me off.

I paid him a generous tip and walked to a little gas station. A cup of flowers in hand. Hot boxing may not have been the best pickup tactic, but what kind of girl doesn't like flowers? I'm a tall blonde head stoner. How could she say no? Was I overconfident? Maybe, but confidence is key fellas.

I had only been to the gas station in the middle of nowhere a few times, but tonight it felt like coming home. The doors opened on their own as I walked in, seeing her pale face smirk at me from behind the counter. Took your time showing up, she said. Running a hand through my hair, I gave her the suavest response I could. Well, you know me.

So how come you got to split from your shift? I placed the cup of flowers firmly on the counter, noticing the single swaggering pink petuner inside. She plucked it out of the cup and sniffed it pleasantly. It's some stupid anniversary for a friend of mine I forgot. I would have been boned had you not been here though. That sneaky eyelash batter she did. Her eyes widened like a puppy. Damn, she had me around a finger, and she knew it.

You bet, I said proudly. I'll do whatever you need me to do, but I want something to return. Her manicured eyebrows arched curiously. You need something. Here I thought you were here at my beck and call, she pouted. As much as I wanted to succumb to her infectious charm, I'd stay strong in playing hard to get. Well, I don't mind lending a hand, as long as you were,

let me yours, if you know what I mean. I made the motion of putting an understanding. ring over my finger, earning a chuckle from her. You're a riot, Cole. She put the petunia inside her beanie and patty my shoulder. A tall task for her, given her height difference. Even the boot she wore didn't help. I'll be back around 1 a.m., right?

She said. Once I come back, you can go home. Just be ready for when I text you tomorrow for our date. My heartbeat started thundering in my chest as soon as she said it. You can count on me, I shouted, giving her a thumbs up. She smirks back at me as she exited the store, very aware of the fact that I loved watching her from behind. Once she was out of sight, I raised my arm into the air, feeling a sense of beautiful triumph overwinning a date from her. And all I had to do was watch from gas station for three hours.

How hard could that be? I... Ain't my words, pretty damn fast, when I found out the fact that I was the only person who was going to come into the gas station for my entire shift. I didn't expect a big turnout at this time, but no one at all. I've never felt this bored in my life. The apex of my excitement an hour into the shift was putting some spare change I had lining my pockets to open up and boil a package of instant ramen with the crappy electric kettle the store had in the closet. I got intimately close with all the content of the closet, mostly just dusty plastic trays and old chip packages.

I did find an old register though, I guess I got us some fun pressing the buttons and hearing the sound effects coming from them. The first hour is where I realized that in my rush, I had actually forgotten my phone, leaving me with only my wallet, the rolling paper and dope bag in my pockets. As much as I wanted to smoke it, I was kind of paranoid thinking about if someone caught me,

so I kept them sealed tight. Maybe another half hour passed, and I started to find the terrible fold-up chairs I found out back, becoming more and more comfortable as I sat down and began to close my eyes for ten-second bits. Those ten seconds surely became thirty, which then became minutes at a time. Just before I was going to fall asleep for good A sudden and loud thud jolted me awake The whole building shook for just a moment The fork I used to eat the ramen clanged to the ground

And the already damaged lights began to flicker Peering outside through the glass doors I wasn't able to see anything What had caused that tremor Did I nearly just sleep through an earthquake? I opened my ears, I was able to hear the faintest sound of plastic hitting the ground like it had been thrown with force. Snaking through the aisles, I found everything was in place, so nothing here got knocked over. The sounds of plastic could be heard again, this time dragging against the ground.

It took me a second, but I eventually got the idea that the recycling bin I saw out back was being knocked over and raided by raccoons. Always hated those furry buggers Arming myself with a broom that was huddled by the counter I made my way to the end of the gas station and kicked open the door prepared to shrew away any raccoons I saw What I didn't expect was to see the recycling bin completely torn apart

lying empty on its side This wasn't the kind of damage Trash Panders were capable of The bin was completely torn in half from the middle, with thick, stroking claw marks, like a damn bear just came through and tore it apart. Damn, was there a bear? I sure as hell couldn't defend myself with the broom if there was.

I went to open the back door, and my heart sank to realize that it had closed on its own and locked. I'm pretty sure Eve took the key needed to unlock that door with her by mistake. So I had to walk all the way around the store to get back inside via the front. As I walked, I could see slash marks remarkably similar to the ones that had torn apart the recycling bin across the building, scarring the concrete the building was made out of like it was flesh. These marks looked far bigger than any bear claw, so the bear idea was out of the window. What kind of animal was I dealing with here? Before I could come up with any more theories, I heard the most fearsome.

grumbling raw I've ever heard in all of my life. It sounded like a mountain lion being drowned in icy water, letting out its final screech for help before its life was snuffed out. The worst part, it was coming from inside the store. I peeked around the corner and saw that the automatic doors were stuck open, struggling to shut themselves closed. A tangle of sopping wet black hair entangled both of them, acting like a rope holding both doors open.

The lights inside were now flickering rapidly, chipping away at my already minuscule resolve. Swallowing deeply, I tiptoed closer inside and got an eyeful of what was making the noise. A black, scaly, alligator-like creature, with a horse-like mane running down to its rat-like tail was scurrying across the floor, lapping up crumbs and dust with its forked tongue.

The beast was easily 10 feet long and 4 feet tall bumping into aisles and knocking things over Each one of its slimy scales oozed with a dark liquid They began to pull on the floor like tar I stood no chance with God knows what this thing was So I went to turn around and sprint away But I dropped my broom in the process

The creature noticed and whipped his head around so damn fast I thought it would break its own neck. This thing had human features on its face. Dark brown eyes, a small button-like nose and the soft, pitch-black lips of a woman. All these human features plastered on its lizard body made for a disgusting sight

that looked straight out of a Photoshop nightmare. I booked it away from the store as the creature turned around and started crawling after me, hissing its forked tongue. The lizard creature was surprisingly fast despite its appearance, practically gliding across the concrete with its glittering claws. At first I made a straight dash in front of me near a road, but I made a hard left in order

to gain the upper hand and use the momentary speed advantage to escape and use someone's phone to call animal control, all the police, or anyone to deal with this thing. Unfortunately, it seemed to predict this motion wholesale because it turned around. around to its left at the precise moment I was going to hard curb it. He made a slash for my ankles, but I just barely hopped out of the way and kept running. The beast groaned and creaked as it chuckled at me, but kept its frightening pace. Feeling the stress of exhaustion weighing on me, I used my last bits of energy to run behind the store and into a small collection of thick trees, hopping onto the nearest one and climbing it

as fast as I could. I was never much of an adept climber as a kid But hysterical strength is a way stronger drug than any weed of smoked I quickly made my way onto the top layer of the branches Hearing the creature scratch of the base of the tree angrily I was afraid it would try to tear the tree down But it instead snarled and screeched at me once more Seemingly upset that its prey had evaded it

After maybe another minute of it roaring at me it trotted off in the opposite direction, practically galloping like a horse. My immense relief was short-lived, as I spotted someone walking along the dimly lit road. They were wearing a huge pea-green military coat and had long blonde hair, just walking idly down the road. I didn't allow myself to question why they were walking as the creature spotted them and started running down the road. I wanted to shout and alert the attention. of the bystander, but fear's grip on me was too tight. I slid down the tree carefully and took a full minute to gather the strength to unhook myself

from it and ran inside the gas station, peeking from the windows. By now, the bystander had walked far enough to nearly reach the parking lot of the gas station, making direct eye contact with the creature. The beast chuckled once more and started charging for the bystander, but they had far more tricks up their oversized sleeves than I anticipated. Skillfully, they rolled out of the way and pulled out a massive knife from behind them, making a precise slash against the beast's cheek. It screeched in pain and received another slash that cut along their scalp and marked a single

eye. It went into full panic rage mode as it blindly swung its claws at the mysterious man who was able to dodge all of them. He took what I thought to be some kind of fight and stance as he looked for an opening. all with a completely blank expression on his face. In a final move, the bystander leapt and plunged their blade directly into the malformed skull of the beast, twisting and digging the blade deeper and deeper until it stopped screaming and went silent. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

How the hell was this random night-walking guy able to dispatch this thing so fast? Hell, why did he even have such a massive knife on him in the first? place. The man pulled out a rag from his jacket pocket and wiped away the dark blood that coated his blade, sticking it behind his back once more. Using both hands, he dragged the beast away from all of the street lights and leaned over it like a dentist would to operate on their patients. He started rubbing the beast up and down with his bare hands, and I kid you not, it started disintegrating at his touch. He was as quick and efficient as a masseuse, causing the the beast that crumble and fade away into a mountain of ash and dust within seconds.

Looking none the bothered, he swept the ash off the road and made his way towards the gas station. I ducked under the window and huddled up in the corner, praying that he wasn't going to do the same to me. I felt like such a damn idiot for forgetting my phone. I was so damn ashamed I wasn't going to be able to call anyone, call Eve, or even my mother. I could hear the man tearing away the bow. bundles of hair that held the doors open and walk inside, his big boots sending my heart into shock with a thick reverb against the floor. I held my breath as he seemed to walk aimlessly through the aisles, picking up food and putting it down indecisively. Finally, he walked

up to the counter and placed a bag onto it. Anyone there? He asked out casually. Praying everything would turn out all right. I made the calmest face I could manage and stood up rapidly, getting an eyeful of this mysterious monster hunter. Honestly, he looked pretty average. He was just a youth, probably near the same age as me, kind of a tall and pretty long hair and thick bags under his eyes. He looked at me blankly as he waited for me to check out his bag of cough drops he had put on the counter. As I nervously checked him out, he decided to make some small talk with me.

Quiet shift. He asked. No, actually, it wasn't a quiet shift. I think it was the worst shift I've ever had in my life. I almost died for Christ's sake. But I don't think he saw me being chased by whatever the beast was. So, I played it cool. Yep, not much going on.

How come you're up so late? Before I could kick myself for asking such a stupid question, he responded. Not much, really. I'm just a night owl. The fact that he can go from killing and vaporizing a monster to casual small talk, all with the same expression on his face, killed me to the bone. And he noticed. You're right, buddy.

You look like you've seen a ghost. No, I just... My ride left me last minute. I lied. No clue how I'm going to get home now. I don't mind driving you, he said. My car's just down the road. Come on.

My heart flew into a panic. as I raised my hands to try and politely refuse his offer. Getting into a car with this guy? No chance. I'm fine, really, I stammered. Don't worry about me. The man gave me a curious look, but didn't press me on the matter. How come you don't have a name tag?

He asked earnestly. I gulped. I'm just filling in for a friend, I explained. Name's Cole. The man gave me a slight smile. and reached his hand out, which I quickly shook. His hands were so, so cold, like he had just stuck them in an icebox.

Nice to meet you, son, he said. He looked no older than I, but by the way he called me son, felt all too natural, like he was my elder in mind over body. My name's Jamie. I fumbled, giving Jamie his change for his cough drops, nearly dropping the stack of quarters in my hand.

You have yourself a good night, you hear, he said. Probably ain't too safe at this hour. I nodded my head quickly as he left the store casually, parting with a wave of his icy hand. As soon as he was out of sight, I let out the longest sigh of my life and fell to my knees, crippled with fear. It was a long walk, but I hoofed it out and ran all the way home, do my best to stay away from any streetlights.

I was terrified of running into any other creatures or Jamie, but I had to get out of there. I felt like crap for abandoning Eve's shift like that, but once I got home and called her over the phone, she would hopefully understand my situation. My legs are exhausted when I finally reached my house, which I proceeded to lock down as much as I could. I got my hands on my phone again

and sent out a dozen calls and several dozen. and messages to Eve to try and explain the situation, but as of now, I haven't gotten any responses. It's been an hour after the incident, but my heart is still very much stuck in panic mode. I think I'll just unwind with a bag in my pocket and wait till Mar gets home. I don't know what the hell the creature was, or who Jamie really was, but I'm in no mood to find out. I'm never going to that gas station again. I knew I had made a mistake in coming, but I took a seat nonetheless.

All of the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting on my side of town seemed warm and welcoming. All of the people were friendly and knew me by name. There were hugs, handshakes, slaps on the back, the rooms were well lit with comfortable chairs. There were always freshly baked cookies or doughnuts. A recent falling out with my sponsor, Ralph. had caused me to choose to avoid some of my normal meetings though.

I had already been down to two meetings a week, which Ralph had so poignantly called me to the carpet on, so I didn't want to cut those out completely. I had been feeling antsy lately, and probably needed to go to a few more. Never the type to ask for help, I was unwilling to admit it though. Instead, I decided to try a few meetings on the other side of the tracks. Whitehall. the seedy part of town.

Stupid Ralph, You're only as sick as your secrets, he said. I had made a list of all those I had harmed and went about making amends to them all. Some accepted my apologies. Some didn't. All I could do was clean on my own side of the street. There were a few amends that were impossible to make,

but I had admitted all of my sins to either my sponsor, my therapist, or my priest. All but the one thing, that is. That's what Ralph kept harping on. I had stayed sober for fifteen years. I deserved to keep the one thing to myself, didn't I? Stupid Ralph. I chose a group with the innocuous name of New Hope that met in the basement of St Pete's

Episcopal Church. While groups sometimes did actually meet in church basements, they were rarely as depicted on television or in the movies. That's just not the way things worked. Hollywood had gotten the coffee and donuts part down to a tea, but missed the mark on most of the rest. Sadly, there weren't even any donuts of the New Hope Group. I wish that I'd known.

I would have sprung for some. A.A. had given me my life back and brought a good bit of financial security with it, so I don't mind giving back now and again. I made my way over to the coffee urn, making eye contact with a few people on the way. I didn't even bother to smile. The most I got was some grunts and shrugs as I walked by. I had already decided that I wouldn't ever be coming back to this group, so why bother?

I wasn't about to walk out though. Giving up was for losers. I grabbed a styrofoam cup from the top of the stack, which already had some black smudged. a prince on the outside, and filled it with a sludge that they called coffee here at St. Pete. I threw a book into the basket on the table and plopped into a chair that seemed to be farthest away from everyone else. This was nothing like the usual meetings I hit. The church's basement room was about 40 by 40 feet square. There were eight rectangular folding tables set up in a

makeshift circle with wooden chairs set along the outside. Unfortunately, there would be no speaker. This was a discussion meeting. They would most likely read something out of some bit of AA approved literature. The big book. 12 and 12 was a meditation book. And they go around the room,

weighing in on their own personal experience, strength and hope. I didn't feel like talking. But the one bit of my sponsor's advice that I had latched onto early was to always say something. Always be part of. Even though the ceiling held banks of fluorescent light, the room still seemed cold.

Perhaps it was the type of bolt they used. Were they different types? Or perhaps it was the way the light reflected of the sickly yellow linoleum floor and institution green walls. It smelled funny too. Oh well, I thought, it's only for an hour. I'd spent twice that amount of time scraping to get the change for another bottle while fighting off the shake in the past. In comparison, this would surely be more pleasurable than that. That's what it came down to, wasn't it? For me, to drink is to die. There were times that I had done the most disgraceful

things in order to get drunk. Things that would have sickened me if I had been sober and not fiending for the next drink. So, if sitting through a boring meeting in a crappy place meant not drinking, even for only an hour, then so be it. Not a difficult choice. I am not a snob, but I thought that people there seem to be a little lower class than what I was used to. I am by no means rich, but by now I've gotten my life together. I am back in the upper middle class demographic. The meetings that I attended were regularly frequented by businessmen, doctors, realtors and other professionals.

Frankly, even the blue-collar people at my normal meetings, seemed to be upper class compared to these people. These people were, and I have to remind myself that I was being honest and not uncaring. The dregs of society. Unshaven, unkempt, tattooed, greasy, foul-smelling.

A.A. had taught me not to judge. There, but for the grace of God, go I. Still, it was hard. Just before the meeting was called to order, a man plopped down into the chair next to me. Oh come on, buddy, I thought. Ten empty chairs, plenty to keep enough distance between all of us, and you have to sit right next to me.

I sighed. At least this guy seemed friendly. Short, stout, PC for obese, with a red, round face. He introduced himself. Hi there, name's Mike. How about you?

Danny, I said, as I extended my hand. At least Mike was dressed well. Buttoned down shirt, slacks, dress shoes. He was even wearing cologne. Or was it the smell of booze? No, I decided it was cologne. The guy's breath smelled bad though.

Not smelled, as in drinking smelled, but just reaped. His teeth seemed white enough, but it was as if he hadn't brushed in ages. Mike tried to make small to I haven't seen you before. How long have you been coming to these meetings? About 16 years, I replied. I came in for a year and then decided that I wasn't ready to stop. I went back out for a while and I've been sober ever since.

15 years, one month, one week and two days. Wow! Mike seemed truly amazed. How many minutes? I just smiled. me Mike continued I've only been coming for about a month now I'll have 30 days on Wednesday well congratulations

for some people those first 30 days are the hardest real white knuckle time Mike was definitely pink-clouding it that's the term for AA's in early sobriety who think that life has suddenly become wonderful and carefree after a good period of sobriety it kicks in that drunk or not life still has challenges.

There's just no more alcohol to make the bad feelings go away. I'll be getting my chip. Mike was of course referring to the coloured aluminium medallion that, although not universally used, has become almost synonymous with AA. Sopriety coins themselves do not help people stay sober as much. It's the meaning behind them that is important. When a person receives a coin for one month, three months or a long period of time, The coin gives a sense of pride for staying sober as long as they have,

and to motivate them to continue. If a person should feel the desire to drink again, they might finger the coin in their pocket to remind them of all the headway they have made up to that point. It makes them ask themselves if they truly want to throw away all that progress. I never like the chips. I would occasionally step back and remember exactly how much sober time I had. remember that last drunk vividly,

but I didn't want a constant reminder. I felt it would make it easier to ask the question. Has it been long enough? Am I cured now? The conversation was surprisingly pleasant enough, but I was happy when the meeting began all the same. Same old, same old. Business first, then reading, then around the table sharing.

When 8 o'clock rolled around, the chairperson indicated that it was, was time to close, and they joined hands for the Lord's Prayer. AA is not a religious organisation, but saying the Lord's Prayer at the end is sort of a tradition in most, but not all groups. It's a sign of unity, if nothing else. I really didn't plan to stick around for fellowship afterwards, but I always stayed long enough to help clean up. However, before I got to the door, Mike cornered me. Hey, I...

Am I going to see you around here again? A? A balder face? Probably not. I live on the other side of town. I just stopped here tonight because... Well, it was convenient. I guess that had not technically been a lie.

A.A's had to be careful. Practice these principles in all of our affairs. Lies paved a slippery slope. Oh, Mike seemed dejected. It's just that they say to get phone numbers. You know, it's a core for when you feel like drinking. And I was wondering if I could get yours. My shoulders relaxed a little.

Of course, Mike. That's never a problem. Never feel like you can't use it. Mike wouldn't use it. Most of the noobies never did. I pulled out a pen and jotted it down in the back of Mike's meeting pamphlet anyway. There you go. Thanks, Danny.

Mike shook the pamphlet. I will definitely use this. You're a lifesaver. You guys are great. Mike bounced the way. I made my way out into the parking lot and slid behind the wheel of my 2012 keir. I said a little prayer for Mike. Hope he makes it.

Who knew? Maybe being at that meeting was God's way of putting him in the right place at the right time. I rolled through the burking drive-through on the way home to pick him an artery-clogging dinner. I just wanted to flick on the television, eat, shower and get to bed. It had been an exhausting day. I'd barely pulled into my garage when my cell phone began to jingle. I finished parking, unbuck up my seatbelt and answered the phone right there in the front seat. It was an old habit, probably not a healthy one, but I just had to pick up the phone when it rang.

I could not bear the thought of someone leaving a message. I had heard stories of AAs who were never able to get through to someone, and things didn't turn out well. Once their faith in the system was broken, especially the newcomers, they didn't trust it anymore. Hello? Dano, it's Mike. Uh, I shifted the phone to my right here. What's up, Mike? Oh no, no, no, no, don't worry, Dan. I'm not thinking of drinking.

Just wanted to test out the number. Practice call, you know. They say to get used to calling when you don't need to, and that way it'll be easy to call when you need to, right? Um, yeah, Mike, that's a great idea. So, what's up? Um, well, not a whole lot since I saw you. I drove home, that's about it. I said with a smirk in my face, I'm about to have some dinner and then it's off to bed. Oh, okay, Mike replied.

you have your dinner and get a great night maybe I'll talk to you tomorrow sure Mike tomorrow I showered toweled off and padded into my bedroom I slid into a pair of silk boxes and fell into bed

I didn't imagine that I would have any problem sleeping I was physically exhausted but as usual my mind raced a mile a minute I was never able to fall asleep without the radio turned on even when I was ready to pass out. My head would hit the pillow

and the stinking thinking would kick in. That's how I discovered the wonders of talk radio. Dialed into a pundit, recapping the day's news in a soothing voice, I pulled the chain of my bedside lamp and plunged the room into darkness. The pillow was cool, my stomach was full,

my mind had calmed, sleep began to... My phone jingled. I promised up on one elbow, used the remote to turn off the radio and grab the phone from the nightstand. Its screen lit up with a number of the incoming call, but I didn't recognize it. It wasn't a name that had been programmed into my phone. I briefly considered putting the phone back down and letting it go to voicemail, but I knew that I would not be able to sleep until I heard the

message and, more than likely, called whomever it was back. I sighed Hello Danny Mike sounded grave this time Sorry to call so late I mean I know you said that you were going to hit the hay

And I didn't want to bother you But It's okay Mike Go ahead Remember how I said that I'd be getting my chip in a couple of days Yeah I can't believe it'll have been a month already

You know The day I took my last drink was a special day. Every day is a special day when it's your last drunk day, Mike. Yeah, yeah, but I mean special. It was the anniversary of...

Well... Mike began to get flustered. See, my wife and I, my ex-wife, that is, and I lost our daughter that day. I swung my legs out from under the covers and sat up. Oh, I'm sorry.

Oh, don't be Danny. It happened so long ago, long time ago. It would have been a 21st birthday, Mike trailed off. So long ago, the denial, the depression, the sadness, the anger. I started drinking afterward and just never thought to stop, until now that is. That's a long time to be suing in it, Mike. Do you want to talk about it? Nah, Danny, no sense dredging up the past, not when I'm doing so well.

You're only as sick as your life. secrets, Mike. God, I hated it when my sponsor was right. Yeah, yeah. Maybe when I'm feeling a little more stable, Danny. Maybe I'll talk about it then. I'm just not doing so well right now. I spoke with Mike for about half an hour and when I was convinced that Mike was over the urge to drink, let him off the phone and promised to meet him the following day. I lay down my phone and swung back under the covers and smiled on my face. What was it they say? Even if Mike went out and drank that night, at least I stayed sober.

Help yourself by helping others. I forgot to turn the radio back on. And that night, I dreamt about the one thing. I awoke to the sound of my phone. It wasn't the alarm tone, but the ringtone. Another call. I had come to recognise Mike's number by now. This was getting a little annoying

But sometimes that's the way it went Mike would either fall off the wagon soon Or he would start to make new contacts In the meantime I would just have to deal with it Good morning Mike Dan my man Good to hear your voice

Yeah I said scratching the back of my head It's been like six Or seven hours now Huh Oh yeah I'm not bothering you, am I? No, no. Yes, yes, I thought. So how did last night go? Didn't drink, did you?

Nope, and I owe it all to you, Dan. Well, Mike, you picked up the phone and made the call, so you can give yourself a little pat on the back. That phone can seem real heavy when it stands between you and a drink. Ain't that the truth? So, are you hitting the meeting this morning? Um, no, Mike. I have a job. I tried not to sound ticked off I have to work today I promise that we'll get to one tonight you pick it out

and call me back around six okay got it Dano six talk to you then my worst fear came true three more calls during the day Mike had picked a group called

as Bill sees it on my side of town I decided that I would need to have a talk with Mike that evening When in need, or even for occasional friendly support, was fine. But there was such a thing as abusing the system. You know, the boy who cried wolf sort of thing. I was about ready to throw my always-answered-the-phone policy out the door. I didn't look forward to the conversation, and had a rough time forcing my dinner down that evening.

I wasn't hungry, but, as usual, I tried to keep my stomach full. HALT. H-A-L-T. hungry, angry, alone, tired. Four things an alcoholic never wanted to be. Any of those could be a set-up for another drink. As I was finishing my second hot dog, wrapped in white bread with ketchup, just as I liked them, my phone rang again.

I checked the screen. Bloody Mike! Again, I decided that I wouldn't answer it and let it go to voicemail. Seconds later, it rang again. Didn't that guy get a message? I let it go to voicemail again. Another few minutes passed and it rang again.

I wondered if Mike had changed his mind. Maybe he couldn't make it to the meeting after all. Still, I let it go to voicemail. Thankfully, more minutes passed and Mike did not call back. I felt like a heel, but I just couldn't deal with it anymore. At around a quarter of seven, I tie my shoes and gather my wallet and car keys. As I headed to the door, my phone

jingled. Mike. This time I answered. Hey Mike, I'm headed out the door right now. Oh, thank God, Dan! exclaimed Mike. I couldn't get a hold of you, and then I started to worry. I wondered if maybe you went out drinking again. I... Mike, slow down, buddy.

I was beginning to let my temper get the best of me. Would you... Oh, look. just wait for me at the meeting. Outside, we need to talk. Mike was breathing more regularly now. Oh, Danny, you really had me going there. Well, anyway, you can ride with me.

What? I stride out of the back door and pressed the button to lift the garage. As the door rolled up, it gradually revealed a battered, green Honda sitting in the drive. Mike sat behind the wheel with the engine idling. I was taken aback.

I walked briskly up to the driver's side door and motioned for Mike to lower the window. After a moment, with a confused look on his face, Mike hit the button and the window glided down. What's wrong, Dan? Hop in. I thought that maybe we could ride to the meeting together. Then maybe grab a cup of coffee after. Huh? I was fed up.

No, no, Mike. No meeting, no coffee after. I don't have time for this. I don't know what to do with you. You cannot keep calling me. How the hell did you even find where I live? Oh, uh... Mike looked shamefacedly.

I guess maybe I... Uh, followed you home last night? What the hell? Sorry, Dan, I'm new at this. I really don't know how it works. How it works? Having a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics

and to practice these principles in all our affairs. I thought it over and softened. Okay, Mike, here's how it goes, I said calmly. I'll come to the meeting, but I drive there myself. We talk a little. After the meeting, I come home alone. No coffee, no more calling, unless you really need to. Like, I'm going to drink need to.

I'll be clear? Mike looked a little hurt, but replied. Okay. Clear, Dano. I got into my keir and followed Mike to the meeting. We sat next to each other, but Mike was uncharacteristically quiet. Afterward, we separated in the parking lot with a nary word. See you tomorrow, Danny.

Maybe. Oh, hey, said Mike. There's a candlelight meeting called Nighthouse tonight at the... All right, sorry. Tomorrow, Mike. I stressed. I thought that Mike may have gotten the message, but just in case I turned my phone off for the evening for what was probably the first time in years.

That night I had a nightmare about the one thing. I pulled myself from bed and showered in the morning and I almost forgotten my phone. Still wrapped in a towel with damp hair, I walked over to the nightstand and turned it on. I returned to the bathroom as it went through the boot-up process and then I heard a message tone from the next room. Hmm, wonder who that could be. Six missed calls from Mike. One, two voicemails, four texts.

Thanks for coming, Dan, said one. Sure you don't want to go to the meeting, said another. Great meeting, should have been there. And, need to talk. I didn't want any confrontation today. I turned my phone back off, dressed and left home. I knew. just knew that Mike would show up at my door

after not receiving answers for long enough. I planned to not be there. Even though it was a Saturday, I would hang out at my office. There was a couch there. I could take a nap if need be, and I did need it after the previous night. I felt silly and demoralised.

It was my own house, damn it. I was being chased away from my own home by. Well, a stalker. Should I call it? the police? No, I decided. I would talk to my sponsor first, not daring to turn myself back on for fear that it might ring in my hand. Upon arriving at my office, I picked up my desk phone and dialed in Ralph's number. Ralph was no help. At least, he didn't tell me what I wanted to hear. Just suck it up. I've had my share of pigeons who either tried too hard or didn't try hard enough. My guess is that

this might guy will turn out to be one or the other. Why don't you bring him along to tonight's meeting? I'll meet you guys at the acceptance group tonight. Maybe I can ever talk with him. Yeah, I suppose. I turned my cell back on in order to call Mike and invite him to the acceptance group that evening. Six missed calls, and it was barely noon.

I sighed and began to scroll to Mike's number when my phone jingled. I didn't even need to look at the number to know who it was. Hi Mike. Danny, I tried to... Yeah, I know, Mike. I've been at work.

I just turned my phone on and saw that you were called. A nicely thought ran down my spine. Did Mike know where I worked too? Anyway, my sponsor suggested that I introduce you to him tonight. We're going to St Andrews to a meeting called the Acceptance Group. Want to come? Are you kidding? Do you even need to ask?

I would never pass on the chance to meet my sponsor's sponsor? He's like, what? My grand sponsor? Whoa, I thought about it, and never had the talk of me being Mike's sponsor come up. A sponsor is a recovering alcoholic who has successfully made some personal progress in the AA recovery program. He or she is asked by another AA member to take on the individual responsibility of sponsorship. A sponsor shares their experiences on an individual and personal basis with another alcoholic who is trying to achieve or maintain their own sobriety through the AA.

program. They help the person focus and navigate through the stages of the program. The relationship between an AA member and his sponsor is usually a pretty close and intimate one, and not gone into lightly. Not only does an alcoholic need to carefully choose a sponsor, but also the potential sponsor must cautiously decide whether taking on a sponsor is prudent. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, though. Mike was new at this. Hey now Mike, I'm just an I'm not really in the right state of mind to sponsor anyone. Not until I rid my conscience of the one thing anyway. Oh, okay.

Don't feel bad, Mike. You're new. You'll catch on to how this works. Then, I had the thought. One that might rid me of Mike for good. Ralph really helped me out. Maybe he'd be a good choice for you to consider. Eh, you won't be the same as you, Dan.

You'd be surprised. We're all the same in one way or another. Promise me that you'll keep an open mind. Okay, anything for you, Dano. I hung up and texted directions to the meeting. Then I turned my phone back off. I decided I'm trying to catch a little nap after all and so curled up on the couch in the reception area of my office. I drifted off almost immediately, but it didn't last long. I awoke screaming and in a cold sweat just 45 minutes later I felt my face and realised that I'd been crying also I dreamt of the one thing Why thoughts of it returned and in such force

Damn Ralph He brought it up and started pressing me That would make sense Although I had a feeling that Mike had something to do with it Guilt over avoiding him constantly having to look over my shoulder and avoid phone calls, or perhaps the fact that Mike had lost his daughter. I pushed the one thing to the back of my mind once again

and decided to cross the street to McDonald's to get in at least one meal before that evening's meeting. I had to cross a four-line street in order to reach McDonald's. It was the middle of the afternoon, clear weather, and, being a Saturday, there was only light traffic. I absentmindedly glanced in both directions and crossed, not bothering to walk the corner and wait for his signal. I was about halfway across

when, seemingly, out of nowhere, a car came racing at me. The driver was noticeably straddling the double-stripped centre line of the road and over-corrected when he noticed me at the last moment. I could hear the tires screech as the driver got back into his own lane and sped off. A drunk knew the signs

when he saw another drunk driving under the influence. This guy was definitely drunk Probably drinking in his car or morning And then falling asleep at the wheel After finally deciding to go home I did it myself for many occasions Even though I could have stayed home and drank contently And safely in the comfort of my living room

I would choose to sit at a park on some mornings And drink in my car I thought of how strange the ritual was And how it was not unique to me On any given morning There would be a spattering of cars in each lot, all parked as far away from each other as a lot would allow. Each car with a single occupant seemingly just sitting there, every now and then would glance over and catch

the sight of a bottle being raised to the driver's lips. Fred, another guy from one of the meetings, would occasionally go down to the local park and work it. He'd walk around the lots and catch drunks, pretending that he had just been walking by and was looking to make conversation. Sometimes his presence was enough to make the drunk drive away. Sometimes they'd stay and talk. Sometimes they would even offer him a drink. Only twice, as far as I'm aware of, did Fred actually get a drunk to open up about his problem

and agree to take Fred's advice? It might not have seemed like a lot, but that may have been two lives saved. Plus countless others, if you figured in the innocent lives a drunk might take along with himself on the highway to hell. I began to hyperventilate. I ran the rest of the way across the street and sat on the curb, my gorge rising.

I tried to calm myself, but could not. Eventually, I threw up in the gutter. It wasn't the first time, but in the past I'd always been drunk or hung over. I realized how pitiful I must have looked. I'd never seemed to care in the past. Eating was out of the question. I went back to the parking lot of my office, crossing the street with extra care this time, and got into my car. I drove straight to the church

I would be almost an hour and a half early but that was okay someone was always there early to open up the rooms and make coffee it was nice to shop and chat sometimes not surprisingly Mike was already there when I arrived he was sitting out in the parking lot

but remained in his car it looked like he was dozing I walked over and wrapped on the driver's side window a few times Mike startled and he rolled down the window Danny you're early That's great Yep couldn't wait to get here Mike

I said sarcastically Tell you what Let's go around back and grab a bench I led Mike behind the church There was a small outdoor chapel of sorts Just a few benches facing a large wooden cross and overlooking a small stream I motioned for Mike to take a seat

And then sat down next to him Mike, let's talk. I felt surprisingly calm. I know that you're pretty new to the program, and this may be skipping ahead quite a bit, but let me explain how the fourth and fifth step of AA goes. They are, to me at least, probably the most important steps of all 12. They are where you begin healing.

Sounds great, Dan? Not really. I did a really bad job on my fifth step. Remember how I told you that you're only as sick as your secrets? Mike nodded. Yeah, Danny? The fourth and fifth steps ask you to make a searching and fearless moral inventory and then admit to God, ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

I can see where that would help. I have so much guilt and remorse, Danny. Sometimes I think it's what makes me drink. I shook my head. No, Mike. You drink. Mike, you drink because you're an alcoholic. But it's a whole lot easier to get sober when you get your head on straight.

When you get rid of all that mess that's deep down inside, the stuff that regrets are made of. So, are we going to do that now? Not we? Me. I thought you already did your steps. I nodded. I did, Mike.

I did. But the fourth and fifth steps are carried on throughout the rest. We have to continue to make a moral inventory. and do those steps over and over because we are human. Just because we get sober doesn't make us saints, we still make mistakes. Mike nodded slowly and remained quiet. It was as if he knew that I was about to say something important and it was time to keep his mouth shut.

You see, Mike, there was something that I never admitted in my fifth step, something that I couldn't admit. The one thing that I wasn't ready to give up. I don't know why, but it's catching up to me now. I'm afraid that if I don't let it go, I'm either going to drink or kill myself, or both. What is it, Dano? This is probably a mistake, telling a newcomer, especially about the one thing. In fact, this would be better left with the priest, but at this point it doesn't matter because I'm going to have to own up to it.

The one thing is something that everyone will find out about sooner or later. probably sooner now. You can tell me, Danny, your secret is safe with me. Suddenly, it was as if Mike had become the old-timer. His demeanour changed. He surely didn't seem like a newbie anymore. The whole way he was acting, he had gone from being an annoying, over-excited asshole

to a quiet, comforting soul, at least in my heart. I took a deep breath. I've been sober for about 15 years, one month, one week and four days. I told you that I came into the rooms about 16 years ago though. Well, something happened about six months into that. I'd been dry, sure, but still an alcoholic,

still exhibiting all the same behaviour. That's what the programme is for, by the way. Not to make us stop drinking, but to make us saner, healthier people. Well, Mike, aye. My breath hitched to my throat. I was already regretting bringing this up, but I felt it was too late now.

Go on, Dano, I'm listening. It was late summer, around 7 o'clock dusk. I was driving up Parkside Avenue. You know the place. Yeah, as a matter of fact, I used to live in a cold sack off Parkside. Then, you know the hill about midways. Anyway, I was coming up over the crest of the hill, talling along, pink clouding it, stone cold sober, mind you.

A girl. A little girl, damn it. She came out from between two parked cars and just, just ran out in front of me. Oh God, Danny, no. Yeah, I couldn't stop it. I ran her down, Mike, a little girl. That's horrible, Mike grimaced. But it was an accident, Danny. You said so yourself. You were sober. She ran out from between the cars. You couldn't have known. No, but it was what I did next that was unforgivable. What then? Mike rocked back, laced his fingers together and knitted his brow. He had a clear-headed look about him, one that I had never seen on Mike's face before. What was unforgivable?

I took a deep breath. I didn't stop. I just kept on driving. I panicked. It was like I'd been drinking. I didn't want to get caught. caught. Afterward, I realised that it was a mistake. At the

time, I just panicked. I acted just like a drunk would have. I left her there, Mike. Maybe she was still alive. But I left her there. What if she was just hurt and could have been saved if I'd just stopped? She was dead the instant you hit her, Dan.

You couldn't know that. I didn't know that, and I was there. I do know it, Danny. That's what the EMT said. Dead on impact, I jerked my head up. It was as if my stomach had dropped out from under me, like the first hill on a roller coaster. What did you say?

When I got there, that's what the E&T told me. Dead on impact. She didn't suffer. She probably had no idea what had happened. What the hell are you talking about, Mike? She was my daughter, Danny. I was speechless. I sat still for a moment and then started shaking my head violently.

No, screw you, Mike. Her father is dead. I followed the story in the papers. He killed himself two months after the accident. Got drunk and drove into a bridge. Why the hell would you even say something like that? Mike are tears running up in the corners of his eyes? Because now I know, Danny.

Now I know that you are ready to free yourself of the one thing. Screw you, Mike. How can you pull something like that? this. How can you even say something like that? Do you think that this is a joke? I stormed away, sobbing and walked toward the church. Ralph had arrived and was walking in himself. He noticed how upset I was and stopped me, grabbing my shoulder and turning me around somewhat forcefully. Danny, what's wrong? What's going on? That asshole. I told him, Ralph. I told him the one thing. And do you know what he said? Slow down, Danny, said Ralph.

If you're ready, why don't you tell me what the one thing is first? My secret is no longer a secret. I told Ralph exactly what I told Mike. And he said that he's a father. That dick. Who, Danny? Who? Mike!

That idiot who's been harassing me. Where is he, Danny? Is he here? I'll talk to him. I turned and pointed at the bench. He was sitting right there. Ralph cocked his head. Danny, are you okay?

No, I'm upset and with good reason. I just told him the one thing and he goes out and says that. Ralph's brow wrinkled with concern. Danny, I've been here for 20 minutes waiting for you to go inside. I saw you sitting there on the bench talking to yourself and thought that you were praying or needed some time to yourself. You're alone the whole time, Danny. I scanned the parking lot.

No battered green hinder. I started to breathe heavily and pulled out my phone. I scroll through my call log. All of the calls I had made and received, all of the texts, nothing. The only call in the last three days was the one I had made to Ralph that same morning. There was one message waiting in my inbox. It had no number associated with it. I forgive you, Danny.

Across the bridge, over the creek, and down to Beckford's Hollow. mind your head and don't turn back. Lickety split will follow. The call is about one in the morning. I didn't know you were back in town. As a pause, I don't have a number saved, but I recognise the voice. The slight stutter, the round vowels. Sure, yeah, staying in my uncle's caravan park for a little while,

till I'm back on my feet at least. How did you know I was here, that I was back? Brain beats against the thin metal of the caravan. News travels in itch. Her concentration lapses for a second, as if she's seen something. Don't you remember? I do remember, at least some of it. I'm trying to organise my thoughts into something that might actually make sense

when a voice changes, grows lower, concerned. You're okay though, right? I don't know what she's asking about. If she's just checking up, or if she heard about my breakdown, about how I ended up chewing my lips until my pillows were brown, encrusted with blood, staring at the ceiling until they had to break down my door. Maybe she's just being nice. I'm fine, Blake. I'm all good.

Sure, swing by tomorrow, yeah? It'll at least give me something to do. She hangs up before I have a chance to respond. Good to know she hasn't changed. still finding ways to get you to do what she wants. Little turns of phrase or actions that make us so hard to say no to. I wonder if she's changed as much as I have, if it affected her as much as it did to me,

if she still has trouble sleeping. I hear it then, in the dark. Someone off in the distance singing it. Probably drunk on their way to the camp toilets or walking back from the pub. The same song that's been seen. sung in this town since I was a boy, since my father was a boy. The verses changed with the times, but the melody never changes.

Lickety split. My phone buzzes, a text, 1.28. Make sure you come tomorrow, have something to tell you, it's important. The drunkard gets closer, singing louder now, and I think they must have woken half the sight up when they stagger and steady themselves against my caravan. The noise makes me jump.

makes my heart start racing. They continue the song. Losing the melodies somewhere, but soldiering on regardless, word slurred. Under the branches, through the trees, the flower are a touching. Watch your tongue and hold it now.

Lickety Split is watching. It reminds me of how we'd sing it as children in the playground, the woods, the creek. I wake early the next morning. Wash my meds down with cold coffee from the night before. stretch.

On the walk to the showers, I see that whoever was drunk had vomited just behind my caravan. Damn, real nice. It's dark, almost the colour of ink, and I can vaguely make out the shapes of Loughbury's, a small dark berry that grew in the woods each bordered. I make a mental note to call my uncle, let him know. The walk to Blake's doesn't take too long, maybe half an hour, and it's nice to be out in the morning air. Despite the season, it's cold.

Nips my exposed skin between my fingers under my jaw. As I get closer, memories start to flood back. Half-formed things, after-school walks, a first cigarette. I ring the doorbell, stand back. Her house is huge, imposing, although empty. I stoded the vines crawling up the side. the vast windows on the ground floor the small windows of a room

we used to open to smoke from the top floor was apparent although I guess now just a mother it's hard to see but for a moment it seems as if there's something in the top window against the glass

someone I make eye contact with her mother so much older than when I last saw her her hair a white mess her cheek sunken eyes fixed on me. I want to look away and focus on the footsteps that I can hear coming to the front door, but I can't. I swear she's mouthing something to me or herself. And just as I'm trying to

decipher what it is, Blake opens the door. Damn, Isaac, I'm lost for words. It's been so long. Red hair is still a mess, glasses still perched so far down her nose, I'm not convinced she can see out of them at all. Her grin, all teeth. Older though. For a moment I can see something in her eyes. A brief sadness. But she pushes through, pulls me into a hug. It's been so long.

I hug her back. Too long. I know, I know. I should have moved out by now. But since Mom got sick, she's been bedridden. Can't even get up to dress herself or go to the toilet. I'm cheaper than a nurse, right? Rent's cheap too.

She smiles wide. smiles wide, but I can see she wanted to get this out of the way, that she had this prepared beforehand, maybe even rehearsed it, and that talking about it is painful. I think about mentioning her mother in the window, the words she was mouthing, but I decide against it. It must be hard enough already. In the same way my body still knew the hills and the turns of the town, it still knew her. We knew the rhyme of each other's conversations, of our jokes, our silences, and, after five minutes, we're talking like old friends.

She shows me into the kitchen, makes a cup of tea, offers me some food. We talk a while until she pauses, chewing her lip, concentrating on something. Then her mind springs into action all at once. Upstairs, I want to show you something. I don't say much, nod. This way, I leave my tea on the table, follow her. I have no idea what it is she wants to show me, what it could possibly be, but it must be important. She's acting different, no longer all jokes and smiles.

The stairs groan underfoot and the landing is bare. She gestures to a door, after you. I push it open slowly and take a second to absorb what's inside. Stacks of paper piled on the floor, on the tables. plates of food and mugs of tea dotting the floor, whiteboards covered in scribbles of black pen, corkboards on the walls, huge and ancient books stacked under the tables. She moves through the mess with a practiced ease, picking her feet up just before they knock something over,

bending at just the right time to avoid a stack. She turns to me. Look, uh, I know it's a lot to take in, but I figured... Well, I don't know if there's a nice way to say this. I figured that you, out of anyone, would have a little more sympathy for all of this. I'm thinking about what she means, what any of this is for, and as if to answer my question, she continues. Lickety split, the nursery rhyme.

I remember the verse from the night before. The endless shifting verses of my childhood. Who do you think wrote it? She waits, expecting a reply. Look, Blake, I don't know. I don't know if this is... She guts me off. The verses change year on year.

They shift and they change and no one notices. It just happens. I think of the conversation we had downstairs. Of how she seemed a little preoccupied, tired. This has been keeping her up and I'm not sure how much good it's doing her and... I've been talking to Michael. I don't know if you guys keep in contact but he'd take her.

but he teaches at Manchester uni now for the linguistics department. The name Michael brings to mind a face and sets of memories. Jealousy. The three of us drinking in fields, the shed we built. He's specialising in local dialects and songs.

He's been really helpful. She starts going through the stack of papers now, putting some in her teeth as she flicks through. We've been logging the appearance of verses as best we can when they crop up in home videos. The yearly short film the school makes with the kids, which isn't easy to get, trust me. She shifts, collecting all the pieces of paper she has, now pushing her glasses a little further up a nose to read. These verses just change.

One day, the kids are singing one thing, the next they're singing another. No one knows why they change, has any memory of changing them. It's like they come from a sort of collective unconscious. wrinkles a nose, choose her lips. Now, this is where me and Michael disagree. He thinks that they're in response to events, that the readings we have aren't accurate enough, that they're an unconscious response to trauma,

deaths in the town. This is... This is... She stammers a little. Her brain obviously working faster than a mouth. You need to trust me okay. This looks weird, sure. And the next bit will sound weird,

but I'm not making it up. All the deaths that happen in this town and the forest. Hannah Blotten in 2003. Tim Jones, 2007. All the rest. The rhymes predict them. She looks to me. Her eyes wide now.

As she just shared something private. A secret. The look you give when you tell a friend how you really feel. Or when you confess. The rhyme predicts the deaths, Isaac. And I don't know why. I don't know if it's a collective premonition Or if there's something

Someone out there using us It's my turn to cut her off now Blake, this isn't fair I can't do this You know I can't do this I haven't been well I'm not well I tap on my temple

Indicating where the illness is I've just recovered I'm meant to be taking it easy All that stuff from when we were teenagers I couldn't handle it I don't know if you could but I can't do this with you I don't wait around to

see if she'll try and persuade me, to see if she's got some way of reeling me in. I thank her for her hospitality and head down the steps and out of the door. As I open a gate, I turn to look at the house one more time to see if she's watching from a window. Nothing. Except on the top floor, her mother, same as she was before, but closer to the window now, as if she's desperate to see me, mouthing some words, almost shaped. her eyes fixed on me going through me the walk home takes a long time I wanted to help her I really did and I wanted so much to have a friend again but I know what I can and can't do what this will do to my mental health but it stays in my mind the way she'd explained it to me

not just frantic but almost pleading as if each new fact about her theory was a reason for me to stay not to leave her alone in that huge and empty house with the mother. I pass a playground on my way back and stop for a while. The swings in frame are the same. Fresh coat of paint maybe. But I can still see where we'd climb, where we'd hide at night, drinking stolen spirit. And I listen.

A few kids are playing, climbing, and their parents sit on the sides watching. And as they watch, the kids begin to sing through the gate and into the house let your friends come near you talk as if you know what's right the kiddie split can hear you

the last line makes me uncomfortable makes my chest ache I have an image of her mother again her eyes wide her mouth moving as if on its own I could hear Blake tell me about how sick she was it didn't make sense the room we were in was below her mother's

room I knew that much. But no, the children continue. The day is new, the day is old, these thoughts are pearly crowning. Junk and rain and stuck in mud, Lickety split is drowning. As if on cue, it begins to rain again, gently. And as I walk, it picks up. The rain thrown by wind, growing thicker and faster, until I have to lean into it. Thunder, path turning from grey stone to black. I hurry home, trying to stay as dry as possible, breaking into a little jog. My lungs hurt, and before long I'm soaked through and out of breath. I stop, leaning back, groping down air. I haven't run in years, and my body isn't nearly as up for it as I thought. I half walk, half jogged the rest of the way. Although, when I finally get

back to the caravan park, there's a huge commotion. A crowd of people gathered around a caravan not too far from me. The caravan I was sure belonged to the drunken singer from the night before. I bused through them to get to mine, ignoring the faces they pull at me. That is, until I see him. The story they'd tell after was that he fell whilst blackout drunk, slipped on the wet metal steps holding a bottle. Face first onto the glass had dislocated his jaw, torn his lips to shreds,

and then when his face pressed into the wet mud, he'd been too drunk to pull himself out. The blood and the earth had made a sort of suction, and you could see the thin scores in the mud either side of him, or he desperately tried to pull himself out. They'd say he drowned in that mud, not even a foot from his own home, but that he'd really drowned in the bottle 20 years earlier, that he was waiting to die anyway. No kids, dead wife.

But I saw the, the body as they pulled it under the stretcher. I saw the look in his eyes. Terror. The way his mouth was bloody and his jaw hung loose. There's no way he drowned in the mud. I'd seen faces like that before, Blake and Michael too. I'd spent so long in therapy, convincing myself it didn't happen like that. It couldn't happen like that. And now it had happened again, right in front of me. there was no denying it I thought on it for the rest of the day

until night came I called Blake she picked up instantly as something happened are you okay Blake yeah sort of but it's complicated let's just speak tomorrow

I think I she got me off hold that thought speak tomorrow got it hold up sorry noises upstairs your mom probably

She doesn't walk anymore sometimes falls out of bed have to help her get back in got to go She hung up before I had a chance to interrupt her to ask about her mother to explain what I'd seen It's probably nothing anyway I try calling her a couple of times but it doesn't go through I watched news online with the volume as loud as possible to drain out the noise from outside Someone's reporting from the local school on the roof that collapsed in a building in the store In the background, a couple of kids mill about, waiting to be picked up by their parents. The reporter moves closer, to ask them something, but they seemed engross in their game instead.

Together, in their small voices, slightly out of tune, they sing. Now you're here, now you're back, collected your composure, locked the door and hold your breath, lickety split grows closer. This town was built with bloody hands. and we are done with waiting. Keep it hush, bite your tongue. Lickety split is escaping. I find it hard to sleep.

I can't stop thinking about the accident, what it did to all of us, the way it changed us. I think about Blake, and her mother, and that vast, empty house. Who made our three or four and how much I wanted to apologize to her,

how much I wanted to take it all back. I think of the black water, the oil slick of her blood on the surface, though here teeth hung just below the surface like fishing lures. It turns inside me, all these thoughts, these old anxieties, and I do the only thing I can do to control it. I hold my breath. I hold my breath until my lungs feel like they're going to burst

until all the pressure inside of me builds up to match the pressure I feel from the outside. And, as I'm in this state, chest hurting, I swear to God, I feel as if something out of the airs, side is holding its breath with me. I feel as if through the thin metal something is on the other side mimicking me, breathing as I breathe. Sometimes I think I can hear it. This breathing slightly out of tempo with mine. I hold my breath until I fall asleep. Longs run ragged. And I dream of mud, of broken bottles, songs half forgotten. I wake early. There's nothing in the way of sound intillation in a cheap caravan, and I can hear all the sounds of the sight starting up,

the spot-over generator, conversations between neighbours, the faint hiss of the showers. It's only when I look in the mirror that I see it. Blood. In my sleep I've chewed my lip, compulsively, and now my chin and pillow are brown with old blood. I tried to centre myself, try and think calming thoughts. I haven't done this in a while, sure, but I tell myself that this isn't a relapse, isn't a return to where I was before. It comes off in the showers, turning to a red puddle around my feet. I decide to head over to Blake's as early as possible, slightly concerned by a message from the night before.

I'm lost in daydreams when someone calls out to me. An old man sat on a bench, both hands clasped over a walking stick. He smiles broad, shrunken gums, missing teeth. Lovely day for it. I nod and keep walking, hoping that passes for a greeting. He repeats himself, Lovely day for it, all things considered. That stops me in my tracks.

I think of the drunk the night before, drowned, face caved in by the bottle. I think of the shallow marks in the soil where he desperately tried to pull him himself up as he felt himself drowning. The old man suddenly seemed less friendly, less charming and it's as if he knew. I realized then that although his face is fixing a smile, his eyes don't smile at all. They are level, probing, set in a face they were entirely at odds with. We stand like that for a while. I'm unsure whether to say anything and he just stares back, shaking slightly on his stick. Then he stands and tips his cap before walking off, singing, just loud enough for me to hear. Pay attention, little ones, the morning is abating. We

shall sing this song for you, for Lickety Split is waiting. It occurs to me that something might have happened to Blake, that she might be in some sort of danger, and I begin to feel my heart pound. I can hear it. It's beating so fast. and for the last minute of the walk I hold my breath again until I feel my lungs swell and I see spots in my vision. I stop outside her house. Breathe. I ring the buzzer and step back. Perhaps it's habit now, or a morbid curiosity, but I look up to a mother's room.

From this angle I can see less of it, and I think for a second she's not there. But as I wait, Tapping my foot, she appears again, now looking down at me, still mouthing those same words. She looks stranger now, more hunched, her face meaner, and her mouth moves fast. I pressed the buzzer again, text her. Her mother is watching me more intently now, and I start hammering on the door, images fill my mind. Blake dead on the kitchen floor, hanging from the rafters, half drowned and... I can't take my eyes off of the mother.

As she speaks, it seems like something is crawling out of her mouth. Something is slow, a spider perhaps, with long white limbs. No, not a spider, but a hand. Fingers. Slowly, a hand is pulling its way out of a mouth, resting its fingers on a sunken cheeks, more and more emerging from the dark of the throat. I'm leaning on the buzzer now, banging the door with my fist and...

It opens. Blake is in an old t-shirt with a cup of tea. Isaac? I was just upstairs, listening to her. I pushed past her. Your mother, Blake. She was at the window, saying something. Has been before. And there was something in her mouth. I'm sure of it. Hey, hey, slow down. She speaks the way she did when we were hurt, or upset.

putting her hand on my arm. Easy. We have to go upstairs. Your mother Blake. She's been watching me from the window. I start up the steps. She follows, trying to reason with me, to calm me down as we go up, explaining that her mother never gets out of bed,

can't get out of bed, hasn't walked on her own in years, and... I stop outside the door. I think I can see a shadow against it, as if someone stood on the other side, waiting. waiting. I feel sick. I can smell rot and old wood. Blake pushes it open. Her mother lies completely still in bed. The sheets tucked over her as if they were made this morning. Her eyes, however, are wide open, staring, bolt upright, fixed on the ceiling. Happy now?

I immediately feel a pang of guilt. I try and explain myself that I'm I saw her by the window, speaking. I was sure of it. When Blake speaks, I can hear the pain in a voice. It makes it thick and strained. She's looking at me now, like I'm not a friend, but an intruder. Like I'm mocking her. Isaac, my mother wasn't by the window,

because she hasn't gotten out of bed in years. She hasn't said a word in years, let alone a whole sentence. I try and interrupt to apologize, eyes. But she can't stop. So don't burst into my house at God knows when in the morning, telling me my mum's up and talking, talking to you of all people, when I've been here every single day, every single day in this town, praying she gets better and she won't even look at me. It takes it out of her and she deflates. Her shoulders slouch. She looks to the floor. Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't sleep and... She shakes her head. It's a

right. We're standing in a strange silence now when I notice something on the window sill, what looks like scratch marks in the white paint, revealing the wood beneath, and then we hear it. From downstairs, something repeated over and over. A voice, several voices chanting, lickety split, lickety split, lickety split, lickety split, lickety split, lickety split, lickety split. The sound carries itself through the the empty house, creeps up the stairs, and hangs between us. That word, over and over again, and I don't want to mention her mother again, but I swear the expression on her face changes. Those comatose eyes suddenly seem to have intention behind them. A life.

Blake's eyes go wide, and she runs down the stairs. I follow into the room she'd been conducting her research in. A needle had skipped on an old rome. record of lickety split she'd had that had been pressed on vinyl. But there was something weird about it. Each time it skipped, the voices changed. Not just higher and lower, but different textures, accents, as if each new skip came from someone new. She lifts the needle. We talk for a while. I try and be as understanding as possible, give her time to talk to explain her theories and research, hoping to make up for upsetting her earlier. I explained about the drunk at the campsite, the way he drowned in the mud, the songs I heard

before it. Hey, Isaac, uh, I hope this isn't weird, but Michael called me the other day. I should have mentioned that last time, but he's driving down to come see me, to help out. I think, I mean, he's probably on his way now. I feel jealousy nest between my ribs under my tongue. She shows me a video he sent of him talking. He looks older, handsome, clear-frame glasses. The way he says he's excited to meet her makes my stomach turn.

He mentions my name, says he's excited to see me too, all things considered, and for a moment I forget about the jealousy. I remember him as a boy, the way he'd throw his head back when he'd throw his head back when he'd laughed. This big yap of laugh, so loud you couldn't help but laugh too, even if you were trying to sulk. She suggested we go for a walk around the woods, clear our minds, and that she's managed to pinpoint the rough locations of a few local deaths and disappearances. Can't hurt to check it out. The idea of spending the day with her winds me over, eager to make up for the way I'd barged in this morning. I almost, for a second, forget about

lickety forget about the song offhand I mentioned the strange man this morning Blake freezes missing teeth little hat wore it like this she makes a gesture about this high I nod yeah that's him she goes pale withdraws into herself for a moment runs a hand through a tangled hair that's Jane's dad He looked so different to how he did that night, I think. And images flashed through my mind. The collapse, trying to get her out, the sound of metal on bone, doubled over heaving on grass.

I remember how Blake held her until the ambulance came. How I could do nothing but sit and heave and heave until I thought I'd run out of air to breathe. We leave the house, packing a few supplies for a walk, food, bottles of water. It's strange, but on our walk to the same. start of the woods, it seems as if, by coincidence, everyone in town is coming out to see us. Old women and men are standing by the bedroom windows, watching us walk past.

Children step out into the road, people sit still in their cars. A few children kick the odd ball down the road ahead of us, scattering leaves, singing. Be polite and well behaved or they will be furious. He wonders where you're going now. Lickety split is curious. Her phone buzzes. It's Michael, trying to FaceTime. She picks up, putting him on speaker, but on his end, it's just black. We wait for a while to see if he'll realize, but nothing. She goes to hang up. Wait, listen. And so we do, putting our ears closer to the phone, and we can hear him talking, to himself. This frenzied monologue, speaking so fast, is like the words are pouring out of him, as if he has no control over it, and we only catch snippets of what

is saying. They're wrong, they're wrong, they're wrong, they're wrong. People assume language and reality are distinct, but they're the same, always have been. We cannot understand it all without language. You must understand. Language changes. It is fluid. The dead dream and the thieves speak gutter, and this town, this town sings and sings.

We're shouting now into the phone, hoping you'll hear our tiny voices. from his pocket and stop. Something about it freaks me out. The way the words just tumble out, the deranged stream of consciousness style of it. None of it makes any sense. The town sings, has always sung, built with bloody hands,

built with bloody hands. Reach out louder and there's the sound of fumbling. Michael pauses up. We can see his face now. He's completely changed from the man who sent the video a few days ago to put it bluntly. He looked like hell.

Bruised purple bags under his eyes. Hair greasy and face covered in sweat. When he sees us, his eyes go wide and he looks away. I think he's driving? He looks back. You called? Michael, you called us? Pocket call.

How long ago? I don't know. We've been listening to you ramble for what? A couple minutes? If it was possible, His face grew a little paler. His teeth worked against the inside of his lip. I was talking?

Rambling? He pulls over. What was I talking about, Blake? What was I talking about? I don't know. Language? Singing? It didn't make any sense.

I could see the panic spread across his face. Watch it as it reaches his eyes, the corners of his mouth. Jesus. There's a sound of fumbling, something being cut and he leans over. Blake turns to me, pulling her face. And then Michael sits back up, and, covering the bottom of his face, are two thick strips of black electrical tape.

They cross over his mouth, which he seems determined to keep shut. We have nothing to say, can say nothing, can only stare as he nods to us. Face now forcibly held in a state of panic. and hangs up he texts a second later 1123 we'll explain have brought books and then 1123 stay safe the overcast skies cast a dim light on the forest and the roots and earth seem to merge into one as if the whole forest is this one dark organism we pick our way across it following a well-known path Beckford's hollow until we we find the sight of the first death, Hannah Blotten. The sights now covered in wildflowers, lilac and pale blue against the stone. We stand in silence for a while,

unsure really of what to look for, of what we expect. Hey, Blake calls me over. I like the way she speaks outside, the way she makes a voice a little quieter, like she's trying to respect the forest around her. She's crouched down and pointing a something. I follow her finger. There, planted in the earth like a seed. Was a tooth? Milk white. Blake picks it up and drops it in a pocket. And as she does so, we see an older couple walking down the path, heading out of the woods. They nod. And as they pass, I hear the song they're singing. This new season, these new seeds, bald and white and bony. Don't get lost, stay on the path. Lickety split is lonely. I feel this need to get out of the forest. The verses feel as if they're

following me, as if they match the world around me, and as the melody fades, I feel like the forest turns on me. The trees swell and the shadows grow darker. We need to go. Blake nods. As we make our way out of the forest, we see more and more teeth on the ground, enamel shining through dirt, and realize that the whole of the forest floor is covered in them, these new seeds. We pick up our pace, sounds echo in the spaces between the trees, rustling and humming. I feel my back stiffen, fear works its way up my spine and into the base of my skull. When did we walk so far in? I feel as if there's something else out there, something watching us, peering from the spaces

under roots, from beneath stones, hidden in piles of leaves, we push on. I swear I can hear it occasionally, the sound of a foot breaking on a twig or a foot on bark, something behind us, keeping its distance. Eventually the woods thin and we find ourselves back in the town. We both take a deep breath and I think secret. Don't want to admit to the other how scared we were. It doesn't take long for us to find our way back to her house. Eat, spend the afternoon discussing the teeth, the recordings she has.

We decide that we need to take a deeper look into this town's history, see if we can find anything in the local library or online, when she gets a text. 1925, at Bickford's Road. Must be Michael. And then. 1926, help. And then a phone doesn't stop buzzing,

and it's message after message, text after text, all just one word repeating himself over and over and over. 1926, help, 1926, help, 1926, help, 1926, help, 1926, help, 1927, help, 1927, help. We have no choice. We run out the house. What's the fastest route? She takes a moment, looks me in the eyes, winters.

Through the woods? Damn. And as we make our way back to the woods, we see them. Figures coming to their windows, peering around corners, endless pale faces in the half-light. We hear what they're singing as they move forward, all in unison. You've heard the words, you know it's true. It's starting to be clear now. Watching, waiting and coming for you. Lickety Split is here now.

Our mind has depth we don't forget, born from the embers. Try as you might you cannot hide. Lickety Split remembers. We move towards the woods. The night is heavy. The shadows and oil slick on our skin. As we draw closer to the woods, the tall black trees, the new seeds that winked us from the earth, earth. I feel my chest tighten. I brace myself. I can't help it. Images of Jane come to mind.

The situation plays itself out in slow motion. Drunk, cheap cider, locking her in the shed, making noises, telling her something was locked in there with her, unable to get out. I remember the way she hammered against the door, begging us to let her out. We start trying, we can't. Lock stuck. She's saying it's It's not funny. It's not a joke. There's something in there with her. She's sure of it.

It's getting closer in the dark and we're shouting back that we're trying, we're trying, we're trying. We actually are now. We actually are trying. But the door stuck and the woods are a different kind of dark, imposing. Try as we might. We can't help but shake the feeling we're not alone. No birds. I want to say something to Blake.

Say something that might make this better. easier, but I'm mute. We pick away along the path by the light of a torch and then slowly make her way down a hill, trying to move as quickly as possible, scanning the earth for roots or stones. All we can see. His teeth. She's kicking the door now, and it swings open. Jane stumbles out, younger than us by a year or two, and the momentum carries her.

She staggers to her right, slips on the edge, falls into the river. Her head catches on the edge of the boat with a brief, sharp crunch. Then, silence for a moment. The sound of water lapping against the hull, against the shore, we push on. Blake's talking out loud periodically, reassuring herself, reassuring me, saying that we're not far now, that we're getting closer, that she hopes Michael's okay. Doesn't know what's gone into him.

I can hear the slight shake, the tremor in the longer words. She's just as scared as I am. Occasionally I can hear twigs crack in the distance, the sound of dislodged soil. Something's following us, at least shadowing us. Whatever it is keeps its distance, chooses instead to watch us, both following this white circle, panting, plate goes first to help her, leans over the edge to try and grab hold of her, but she stumbles, steadies herself against the rear of the boat,

which starts to drift away. She shouts. Michael and I, too drunk to react for a second, then we come over, both grabbing the back of the boat, taller, heaving it towards shore. Blake joins in two,

and for a second we think it's okay. Jane comes out of the water, head against the lip of the shore, a cut on a forehead. She's gasping for air. It happens in slow motion. It's too late. The boat's in the water.

There's no friction, not really. Tons of metal and wood that we've managed the pull. The boat won't stop, slowly gliding towards the stone shore. The only thing between the two is Jane's head. We can see streetlights through the trees. Beckford's Road. Blake begins to shout Michael's name, sprinting now, stumbling but steadying herself against the trunk of a tree, running out onto the grass, and then we can see.

And then we can see his car. Expensive, black. And Michael doubled over the hood, as if retching, boat won't stop. Tons move slick over water. Jane's head services, resting ahead against the stone for a moment. A wet crunch as the boat makes impact. Her teeth like popcorn scattered over the shore. Blood and clear liquid burst from her nose.

I don't remember much else. I remember coming two on the grass. tasting bile and hunched over. Blake, with something in her arms. Some wet and red mess. Sirens. Michael pacing up and down, tank. Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God.

The stones at the shore slick with something as black in the moonlight. White teeth scattered. And Michael bent over the hood of his car, his retching. Something's coming out of his mouth, hanging there for a moment. A hand with long and grasping fingers. slowly pulling its way out, and then a wrist and a forearm reaching, and we can see that Michael's eyes are wide in terror and he's shaking. And he can't hear us now we're both shouting his name as loud as we can, maybe 20 seconds away. He staggers, falls behind his car.

We can't see him. There's a wet tear, a sound like stones against the car door. Then as we draw closer to the car, we see it. some shape white and hunched all bone and joints and it's running off into the woods we find Michael glassy-eyed on the other side of the car dead his throat popped like a ripe fruit his jaw in two he stares up at us motionless as if to say too late this isn't like when we were teenagers i don't wretch Blake doesn't cry We stand there in silence, stealing ourselves.

We can see the paint of his car scratched, four long trails dragging from his door to the hood. The CD he was listening to has caught, like the vinyl, and so quiet we can hear it now. It says, Nickety-split, neckety-split, nickety-split, Nickety-split, Nickety-split. Blake brings her sleeves to her eyes, leans forward, and takes a bundle of letters and papers from the front seat.

She bends down, takes his phone from his pocket, no passcode. She thumbs in 999, calls them, reports an accident, then drops the phone, still on the call into his lap. We need to go, now. I try to protest, but she cuts me off. We don't have time to explain. She looks to Michael, his corpse. What would we even say?

Try explaining. She gestures to the state of his face. That. And so we move back through the forest in a grim and determined silence now. And Blake's saying that we have to get to the library, to read Michael's notes, and to hold up there and see if we can figure out what this is, what's happening. That thing. I raised the point that it might be out here following us on our trail.

It went the other way, Isaac. At least I hope it did. Cold sweats. chewing my lip now so much my mouth begins to taste like iron. My hand's shaking, even in my pockets. I think of the way rabbits react when picked up, stiff and terrified, but helpless. I am a rabbit, I think,

caught in the headlights of something I do not understand. Whatever it was has not followed us through the forest. We emerge in town, picking away through the street silently, found the library, an old building, Stacks of books leaning against dust-gray windows, paint peeling on the door. Blake moves ahead. Follow me. We hop the wooden fence to the side of it, find some bins, a small stairway that leads to the basement. They never lock it, Blake says.

I must look confused because she follows up with, Look, you don't spend your life here without picking up a few tricks. Good point. I think Michael's death hasn't hit either of us yet. that our bodies are running on pure adrenaline. We make a way down the stairs, open the door. It creaks, a staggered, lonely sound. The room stinks of old books, of mothballs, damp wood.

Blake shuts the door behind her. Her torch is the only light now, giving our faces a white glow and casting long shadows in the rest of the room. She walks to the corner, a single desk facing the wall. She flicks on a dim lamp Sit here

Start to Michael's notes I'm going to She pauses Head upstairs A few books I think might be important Stay quiet Remember We're not meant to be here

And with that she's gone I'm alone In a room I realise I do not know the size of That's completely dark Except for one dim lamp in front of me I start reading There are bundles of action

academic papers, pages and pages of handwritten notes that are, I assume, Michaels, photocopies of older books, of nursery rhymes written in Old English, images of old wood etchings, of witches and beasts with goats' heads and men's bodies round fires, women with horses' legs and hanged men, newspaper clippings. I don't know where to start, and all I can do is flick through them, trying to absorb them, to see if I can pick up on what Michael and Blake seem to know. this hidden thing that links all of these. I read about a language called gutter,

that thieves and tramps speak, that it can mean two things at once, that they use it to communicate, that with it you can say things that aren't possible in the tongues we speak. I read an old text from some group in the 1800s called The Next of Kinn, at least a member of the Next of Kinn, called M.T. Miller, who suggests that the dead speak a language of their own,

that they dream and that if you could somehow harness these dreams you could my attention wanes it makes no sense the ravings of mad people a noise behind me the flicking of a page as if someone stood behind me in the rows and rows of books watching me casually slowly leaving through a book waiting my breath grows shallow I can feel their eyes on me and the room suddenly feels so huge. Blake? My voice is hoarse and quiet, too scared to commit to normal volume, instead only offering a half-whisper. Footsteps, something moving behind me. I turn around trying to see what it is, but the lamp only goes so far and most of the

rows and rows of books are completely obscured in shadow. For a moment, like something swimming in the corner. corner of your eye. I think I see a shape, something pale, humanoid on all fours. I tried to collect myself, tell myself I'm just imagining it. But there it is again. As I feel my heartbeat rise, I can hear it. In no voice I recognize, a voice that's somewhere between a child and a man, as if some alien voice is forming around words not meant for it. We've tasted now that hidden fruit, trust me, we will free you. Stay where you are. Don't go now. Lickety split can see you. Then, before I know it. I'm running. Running towards where I think the

stairs are, as fast as I can, not caring if I slam into something or knock something over, only wanting to be out of here, to be back with Blake, not to be so alone. And I can hear whatever it is running after me, uneven and scratching footfall. I keep running as fast as I can, and the books never end. It's as if there are now thousands of shelves stretching on for so much longer, and the room seems to be endless, and I just keep running as it grows darker, barely able to see now, except for in the gaps between shelves. When I come to the end of one, and just before another starts, in that gap, I can see

something bounding after me, only separated by rows and rows of books that's keeping pace with me, taunting me. The room cannot be this big, cannot be this long. I want to turn back to see if the lamp is still there, only a few feet away, but I can't. I have to keep going, not allow whatever this is to catch up with me, to get me, to find me. It's playing with me, I know that. And then it's gone from the gaps, and I think for a second I might have lost it. But then I hear it, and I know it's changed lanes. He's now behind me, grasping from my heels, and... I slam into Blake, knocking her books everywhere, the two of us over.

Her back hits the wall. I stumble through the doorway and skin my elbows on the carpet. Lie there for a moment. What the hell? She stands up, torch in my face, and I can tell she's angry, but then she sees my face. How real the terror is. I sit up, trying to explain in short sentences. I can't help but shake the feeling that it wanted me alone, that it's gone now, at least for a while. We walk around the room with the torch. It's tiny. I don't know how I

could have run for that long. We check each corner. Empty. Blake sits at the desk, takes out a Then, hey, get some sleep. She gestures to the carpet, better than nothing. Sleep takes me almost instantly. I want to stay awake to keep watch, but my eyelids are so heavy and... I wake to Blake shaking me. She meets my eyes, speaking too quickly. I know what it is.

She leans back, looks around as if she can't believe it. Isaac, I know what Lickety Split is. She starts to stack the books on the desk, takes a few pieces of paper and puts them in a pocket. And, I know how we stop it. Try as they might. They can't escape. The truth is drawing closer. Of blood and fire and guilt and song.

Lickety splits not over. We walk this land in bolts and chains. Oh, what pain these men bring? Our skin is torn. Our body's tired. For lickety split we sing. Before the Roman. Romans came to this wet spit of rock, before they brought their endless roads and numerals

and sweet wines, the land belonged to someone else. Before they called it Britannia or England, it belonged to them. Tribes who roamed and bred and painted and fought, who sang and moaned on the salt rocks of the coast, who knew the land and its gifts, the deer, the wolves, the small red berries that grew to your shins, the thorns and thistles and bowels. wild dogs, who prayed to things that had no name and needed no names. Things that moved in the dark at the edge of the glow of the fire, things that lived in the streams and trees and earth beneath their feet, things that lived in song, that were song. And when the Romans came, to the town, now known

as itch, and made cattle of its people, the men's throat slit on hungry earth, the women and children made slaves, the weak and old thrown into cold water and told to swim. They thought they could banish what the tribes sang to. But the tribes would not stop singing, even in shackles and marched away, marched to the coast and to slave ships, and they would not stop singing in between gulps of muddy river water or when flogged until their skin was raw and wet and ragged. They sang even when their lips bruised, when their throats were so dry it hurt to be breathe. They sang into the storms and the sea spray, even when the wind stole their voices

and threw them back. The words changed from man to man, from woman to woman. They changed as the world around them changed, but the melody stayed the same, and even once they were driven out, the Romans could not lose the melody. It was stuck in their heads, leering at them from the dark corners of the forest, in the chattering of roguess. the quiet roll of thunder. And the melody knew them. It knew this strange and cruel invasion, and it would not let them forget. They tried to control it, tried to ban the song, but it failed.

It was not their song to finish. They found men dead, jaws and throats popped like wine skins, men who had taken the sword to themselves, men who would sing the song to anyone who would listen until they drank themselves. until they drank themselves to death, men who'd been singing the melody on top of cliffs and then never seen again. This land was not theirs, and they knew it. That's what it is Isaac. The song, look at his split, they're the same.

I try and wrap my head around it. Something, a spirit, a fay creature, ancient, that stayed in the minds of this town, that uses the town and lets the town use it. something unpredictable, powerful. But the thing we saw, the thing I saw, she cut me off. It's the song. They're not distinct things, Isaac.

The thing can only exist with the song, and the song needs it to exist. But it's the town's conscious. It uses people, works through them, in its own way. It thinks it's defending the town, the same way it's defended the town for years. But the murders, the death.

They didn't do anything, at least, not that we know of, no. But I don't think Ligity Split works like that. I don't think it weighs things the same way we do. It feeds when it wants to feed. It protects who it wants to protect. Old pagans believed in spirit in rivers, in trees. Well, this is the spirit of song. It falls silent for a while.

Blake speaks up. If it's the town conscious, Isaac, you know what we have to do. I did, but I didn't want to admit it. We have to go to the shed to where Jane fell. I closed my eyes, tried to steady myself, and we have to hope it forgives us. There's a pocket of time we have before we leave, as we brace ourselves.

You both know what this means, what it might cost. I think of my breakdown, of waking up in a bed, face crusted with dried blood, having chewed a hole in my lip, of the numbness that spread from the centre of my brain to my toes. I thought of Blake, here all these years, with no one but a mother, comatose and silent, only a mile or so away where it happened, left in some small village in England. Before we leave, Blake turns around and puts her arms around me, rests her face against my neck, and I can feel that it's wet with tears.

We stand like that for a moment. Amongst the old books, the scattered papers, wet with sweat and rain, clothes dirty, and just breathe. In? Out. Then she pulls away, and we're off. As we make our way through the streets, more and more people start to emerge. Not just old and young now, but everyone. Faces we recognise and faces we don't.

crowding windows and doorways that appear at us singing and now we know why that they know what happened have always known that this song has to happen this time there is no other way things end as they begin you can't hold the past or your guilt let lickety split in

we keep moving and as we draw closer to the river we notice the crowd change more and more and more of them hundreds now coming from all angles from the roads walking from the woods all looking at us some dressed in torn suits

some in what seemed to be sackcloths and leather some with war paint dubbed on their faces some in tunics and robes some lurching drunk some smoking pipes some naked some carrying tools and weapons and books and they're all looking at us

singing the same song the same melody and between them occasionally we see flits of colour of white a creature all bone and joints and all fours scurrying between their legs over their shoulders peering from between their teeth from the darkness of their throats something that thrives on the song they all sing that needs it that is it and as we step foot on the grass and can see the shed where we use the tie up the boat the singing cuts go silent We move across the grass Wet with do hand in hand And it plays out in front of us again

In agonising detail We see the four of us drinking Jane not noticing the faces When she turns her back Hear the stories we tell About what hides in the shed on the shore What horrid and monstrous things Live there after dark

And we see a walk in On a dare Disperate to prove herself To be our friend We can do nothing but watch as we lock it behind her, as we hear her scream, pound on the door to be let out. I wanted to turn away, want to pretend this never happened, but I have no choice. The fall, the sound of her forehead against the boat, the panic, desperately trying to reach her, the boat gliding in so heavy, the sound of her skull fracturing, her teeth breaking, the top of her

spine failing. And I can't take it, can't handle watching it again, knowing I'm powerless to stop it, until I run forward to the edge of the river, leaning over, trying to push these apparitions away, to help of myself, and I can hear Blake calling, and I'm unsure whether it's her ghost or her. I lean over the small gap between the boat and the shore where the blood is an oil slick on the surface of the water, I try and grab Jane, desperate to pull her out. But it's not Jane. What grabs my hand from the water is bony, and all joints and teeth and leering at me. Lickety split. They have my wrist now, tugging me, pulling me harder, and I'm trying to scramble back, but I can't. Two hands down my wrist, climbing up my arm, gripping me so tight my finger

fingers are going numb and slow, and I can hear the melody now, coming from underwater, and I can see what Lickety Split wants. Me, lungs filled, eyes glazed over. It tugs, sinking below the surface, and I feel myself come with it, losing my grip, my centre of gravity shifting, and then I'm falling in, unable to stop myself. All I can see is the churning water in Lickety Split's mouth and teeth and eyes, on me and there's a moment of stillness under water. It is silent.

I do not yet need to breathe and I can see nothing. I am alone. There, in the darkness, I see it all play out before me, around me. I'm in those ancient fires, dancing at the edge, singing the same song that my ancestors sung, joining hands leaping over hot embers. Hot embers. And with the centurions, sick and freezing in these new wetlands, the melody stuck in our heads,

trying not to sing it, eyeing the swords, the height of the cliffs. I'm in the rivers, in the woods, so many places, so many wends, and the people change. But the song stays the same. This melody that's just as much a part of this land as the earth, as the roots or the valleys. I'm generation after generation a niche. I'm all their secrets, their worries, their private guilt and hopes, their loves, their songs, their regrets and dreams and... I'm Jane's dad. Silent and numb with grief.

Anger like a wound. I'm Jane's mom, who can't take it anymore, who stops eating, who refuses to drink, who lets go and fades. I'm Blake, younger, with Jane in her own. her lap, her face bloody and unrecognizable. And I'm singing Jane a song, stroking her hair, despite it all trying to keep her conscious until the ambulance comes, until a parent's come. I'm Michael pacing up and down, my heart hammering my ribs, guilt so intense it's like a coal under my skin, my mouth dry, hot tears in my face, but I don't know whose. And for the previous moment

I'm Jane herself terrified, desperate to make friends to impress her somehow for us to love her like she loves us to have us doad on her the way she doads on us and I'm her terror as she stumbles out the cold shock of the water the sensation of a skull fracturing

Lickety Split wants me to know wants me to know all of this and more, wants me to see my place in the song, wants me to understand that it is not my song, but I am just a part of it, that the song has been going for so much longer than I have, and will continue for so much longer after, that I am just a small part of it, and that this part, this part of the song that's so horrid and pained is partially mine, and that no one else can own that for me. I do not know how long I've been underwater.

I do not know much who I am anymore. I open my mouth to breathe. You've come so far, reached the end, gone as far as you can go. Ancient songs in fresh new gilts. Lickety split nose. Lickety split nose. Lickety split nose. I come too in bed.

A familiar sensation. My chin, my throat, coated with dried blood. I've been chewing my lip, staring at the ceiling. I think I'm alone. I think it started again. But I've been comatose, forgotten the exact events after impact, lost it again,

covered in blood and mind broken. And I realised, I have no idea how I got out of the water, that Blake may have come in after me, may have hurt herself, that the town may have to go to her, or lickety-split. And the feeling of not knowing

makes me so powerless, makes me realize that anything could have happened, that I'm alone again, and I let it happen, happen as it did all those years ago. That Likdi Split got what it wanted, has always wanted, and you're awake. Blake comes through the door, hair down, holding a mug. Been out for a while, whatever it was, it's finished with us. The questions I want to ask must register on my face, because she nods, takes a seat next to me, takes my hand in hers. It's done now. Over. A pause, birds outside, the wind in the leaves. I'm here, though.

The morning sun flitters through clouds. She squeezes my hand. I'm here. You've come this far. You've seen it all. The singers take a bow. These things so old, I will not. go. It's all over now. It's all over now. It's all over now. I work in a hospital call

centre. It's not great work, but it pays the bills. Working for a hospital call center, you get a lot of calls during your eight-hour shift. Usually it was just people trying to find a relative who might be there or someone trying to schedule an appointment in the surgery department or maybe even people seeking medical advice. I'm apparently not qualified. I'm apparently not to do any of those things. So, the job becomes a lot of one moment while I transfer you. Then, they are sent to the desired department.

You get a lot of angry people too. Most looking for the billing department because the hospital dared to charge them for their services. Those people are best sent off quickly before they can get a good head of steam under them. There are four to six of us in the basement at any given time,

mostly college kids or older people, and in all, I think around 10 of us work the switchboard. We take turns covering the midnight shift, most of us working the day or midday primarily, and at the end of the month, we all walk away with a nice chunk of overtime for our trouble. People being people, there's always 12 to 16 hours of overtime a month.

No one minds much. The job is easy. I used to really like having a job where I could finish my schoolwork or playing my phone for 8 to 16 hours and still get paid. That was before the heavy breather. Ah, brava! I turned to see Mary sitting down a headset and making a notation in the call log.

The notations were supposed to be for strange slash unusual calls, and for the last few months, most of the entries had been for, quote, a heavy breather. We had named the call of that, because all their calls were the same. You'd pick up the phone and hear the tell-tell heavy breather. breathing on the other end and know what was going on. We all figured it was some pervert, some lonely sicko trying to get his rocks off to someone on the other end. He would hang up before he could get the satisfaction and make a note of it in the logbook.

I say these things like there were regular occurrences, but in truth, I had yet to get the mystery caller. Every other operator had gotten him at least twice, sometimes three or four. but I never managed to see what all the fuss was about. He said anything this time? I asked her without really expecting any great revelations. Just heavy breathing as usual. I wish this pervert would get a life and find someone else to bother.

I agreed, though I'd never spoken to him. I knew he was a nuisance. But secretly I wished I could get this mystery caller like everyone else. I wanted to be part of the outrage. I knew it was petty, but I wanted to hear the ragged breaths on the other end. I wanted to be like everyone else who'd gotten the call. But I look back now and wish I'd never heard of the mystery caller. I would get my wish three days later.

Three days of midnight? My boss shrugged at me as she sank the pushpins into the bulletin board. She posted our schedule by hand every week. despite the rest of the hospital having access to an electronic payroll system that generates the schedule for the week. Martha is old school though. Probably been here since they pulled her out the foundation when they broke ground. And she's one of the best bosses I've ever had. She doesn't like how short-handed we are any more than we do.

Sorry, Roger says he's taking the weekend off to go visit his boyfriend. I swear, I'd have fired him in the spot if we weren't so short-handed. You're the only one with an open schedule kid. I'll give you next weekend off for it if you want. Scout Turner. My other couldn't have known that this would likely be the last weekend I ever sat behind the desk. Friday night went normally. I arrived at 11 p.m.

brewed a thermos of coffee and got to my desk around 11.15. Jordan and Aidan were there, finishing up their calls or cleaning up their stations as they waited for midnight. We chatted a little as I logged on, discussing. all volumes and talking about tonight's call-in schedule. Apparently there was a team I needed to call in at 4 a.m. for a.m. case. And they added that the heavy breather had been calling a lot today. They don't say anything. They just keep calling about once an hour like they're looking for someone. Pam swears she heard them say a name before they hung up, but Pam likes to make stuff up for

attention. I got a little excited when Jordan told me that. If they were calling more often, then maybe I'd get to talk to them. I know it's weird to hope that a crazy pervert will call you up and breathe from the phone, but I really wanted the experience. I felt like it would make me like everyone else, and I was a little sore that I hadn't gotten him yet. I would get my wish about an hour later.

It was around 12.30 when they called. I was sitting in the call center basement, sipping coffee and checking Reddit on my phone. when I heard the computer chirp and inform me that I had a call. It was from an unlisted number. Not that uncommon. And when I picked it up, it sounded like someone was sitting too close to a fan

or driving with a window down. The blowing was annoying, but I was professional and I tried to power through it. Southwest Medical Center, how may I help you? The noise on the other end sounded different slightly. I realized that it wasn't a fan but rain coming down hard on a window somewhere was it raining outside it hadn't been when I came in

there hadn't been a cloud in the sky the rain covered it slightly but as I sat in silence I began to hear the deep breathing on the other end there he was there was the weird caller hello Southwest Medical can I help you the breathing persisted I overtopped by the rain that hit hard on the windows of wherever they were. I reached the book to start scribbling down the usual message when I heard something over the phone. I heard a voice, I'm sorry, I asked, taken aback. It's... the pen fell out of my hand.

No one had ever heard this person talk before. It was always just heavy breathing for a couple of minutes before they hung up. Have they been waiting for something? I wondered for a moment if they talked before and maybe no one had told me. Or was I the first person they talked to? It's always dark here. They repeated. And this time I stopped thinking and really listened.

Where are you? I asked. Not sure what else to say. The rain is so low. loud tonight, they said. The voice was neither male nor female and sounded low and growly like someone was getting over a cold. Look, I'm not sure who you are, but you've called a hospital. If you need some help, I'll be happy to help you, but otherwise I need to...

Cherish says hi, the voice whispered. That made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I had a sister named Cherish. She was about 12, and as far as I knew, she was asleep at my parents' house. I shook off the fear and began to become angry. Whoever this was, they were obviously having a laugh on my account, and it really wasn't funny. Who is this? Roger, if this is you, then I swear to God I'm going to HR. This isn't a little bit funny, and you need to... But that's when the line went dead. I held the phone against my ear for a few more seconds

before putting it in the cradle and looking around nervously. I expected Roger or Jordan to pop out of the break room with their cell phone, laughing because they had spooked me. But all the company I got was the sound of the air conditioning cycling overhead. I sat for a few more minutes, drumming my fingers and trying to forget the call. but the more I thought about it, the weirder it got. My co-workers would have called back to make fun of me if this had been a prank. If it wasn't them, then some stranger on the phone had called up and said my sister's name.

Coincidence or not, I needed to be sure. My mom picked up on the fourth ring and I could hear Dad grumbling in the background. Hello? She asked, literally. Mom, hey, I'm sorry. Is Cherish okay? I know that's a weird question, but... I could hear Mom sitting up in bed. Are you okay? You sound very upset. Please, just answer me. Is Cherish okay?

I don't know, hon. She's asleep, away at camp this week. My blood ran cold. I need you to call down there and make sure that she's okay. Hun, what's all this about? she asked grogly I just I got a weird call a minute ago and I have to make sure she's okay

my phone rang and I looked at the number unknown name and unknown number it couldn't be them again mom I need to call you back just promise me you'll call the camp and make sure she's okay mom said she would

and I hung up and picked the phone back up I was immediately bombarded by the sound of rain on glass and muffled heavy breathing. McCuller's voice sounded watery, slurry, like they'd recently choked on some water. They sounded like someone with a sore throat and a bad case of pneumonia, like a drowned person.

Hello, who is this? Cherish, you're... I gritted my teeth and tried not to scream into the phone. Whoever this is, you need to stop. I'm not immune. and you were not funny. I want you to... He's... get her. She thinks he's her friend.

But he isn't. He wants to hurt her. You have to stop her. Who's gone to get her? The woodsman. He's a bad man. And he wants your sister. I didn't have the slightest idea

who this person was talking about. But what was talking about? whatever their game was, I was starting to freak out. Look, this isn't funny. If this is a joke or something, it's really gone to. The line went dead then, and I was left with static. I spent the next hour in a fitful state. I didn't want to call Mom back and bother her with this,

but what if whoever that was wasn't kidding around? Surely my sister wasn't stupid enough to go off with someone into the woods, right? I didn't know and that lack of knowledge made me nervous. I began to feel the walls of the basement

closing in on me and the claustrophobia feeling made me shake and the phone rang again I caught it on the first ring without even looking Hello? I could hear the quiver in my voice

The rain was softer now but the voice was no less intrusive He has her It all but screamed at me And I thought I could hear someone in the background Crying and screaming Just under the raspy husk

He's hurting her Please hurry Where are you? I screamed I was crushing the phone in my hand Where is he taking her? If this was a prank I was buying it hook line and sinker.

I could hear someone. A small girl it sounded like screaming and crying and someone did God knows what to her. My cell phone roared to life. I looked down to see that it was Mom and picked it up without thinking. Mom was hysterical on the other end.

She and Dad were in the car and driving up to the camp. The counsellors had gone to check on Cherish and found her bed empty. What's more, they found money boot tracks going into a cabin and then leaving out the same way. They can't seem to track them. The rain here has been torrential.

But the state police are bringing in tracking dogs and they're going to get started as soon as they can. She's in the woods, mom. Someone has her. I spotted. Still hearing there screams on the phone. My mom was silent for a few breaths. How do you know that? I've got a caller on the phone who says she's a call her on the phone who says she's

alive, but it sounds like it's hurting her. They're in the woods, mom. Tell them to search the woods. She hung up on me, and when I picked up the phone, it had gone dead again. I sat in the silence and felt utterly impotent. Should I leave and go help them look? My job wasn't really the thing holding me here. I was sure people would understand if I abandoned my post, but I was hoping that the mystery caller would give me more information. Every second counted now. If my information could help them find her a little quicker, then all the better. I modelled through a few late-night calls while I waited,

and I'm sure the people near the end could tell I was tense. After an hour, Mom called to let me know they had arrived. The rain had made it very difficult for the dogs to find a trail, but they'd started searching the woods anyway. The police were confident they could locate her, but Mom wasn't so sure. She sounded scared and tired and just plain defeated. When she hung up, I stared at the phone on my desk

and willed the mystery caller to call me. They'd been so chatty before. Why have they gone silent now? I pulled up the call logs on my computer then and started trying to find the number. No name, no number was all I ever got though. I know in movies, the police, can easily decode these private numbers, but I work for a hospital, and not even the emergency

part of the hospital. My resources were limited to what I could do on the out-of-date computer I'd been given to work with. When the phone rang 20 minutes later, I looked at the number and almost knocked it off the desk in my haste. No name, no number. Hello? Hello, where are you? I need to do... He's killing her! The voice whispered harshly. He's trying to make it last, but he's killing her. Where are you? The police are looking for her, but I need to know where you are.

The voice went silent for a moment, and I thought I had lost them again. On the other end, I could hear whimpering, and the person making those noises sounded broken. Hot tears ran down my face as I listened to what could be my sister's final breath. and I began to beg the voice to tell me where they were. I lay my head on the desk and cried and let the tears flow as the voice seemed to contemplate how to answer me. When played here, it was about a mile from the camp, over a creek, past the Blackberry fields and up a little hill. His house is at the top of that hill. I've been here for so long though.

I don't know if any of those things I'm not. any of those things are still there. Please, hurry. She doesn't have much longer. The line went dead then. I called my mom and gave her the information. When she relayed it to some of the

counsellors, they knew exactly where she was talking about. The house had belonged to the groundskeeper, and he had lived there for a long time. She said, the police were on their way now to check it out, and she asked me to thank the person on the phone if they called back.

I waited for an hour, another long and agonizing hour, and when my cell phone rang, the number made my skin crawl. Unknown name, unknown caller. Were they calling my cell phone this time? That seemed unlikely, and when I picked it up, I was greeted, not by the raspy voice of a sick child, but by the stony voice of Officer Darroway from the state police. He told me they had found Cherish and the groundskeeper in his cabin. She's not in a good way. The guy used the time he had for some pretty upsetting things.

She's alive and was sending her by life flight to the nearest hospital, the one you work at, I believe. I thanked him and told him to tell my parents that I would be waiting for her when she got here. Your mother tells us that you've been in contact with another child and that they gave you directions to finding your sister. Yeah, she just called me out of the blue. I don't even know how she knew my number. He was silent for a moment. You'll forgive me for saying so, but that seems highly unlikely.

I started. How do you mean? The groundskeeper didn't have a phone in his cabin. His cell phone was on his person when we recovered him, and there was no other children in the cabin. That's impossible. They said they'd been there for a very long time. They've been calling for weeks.

Look, I appreciate you helping us find your sister. But this whole story seems very far-fetched. That being said, I don't think we'd have found your sister without your help. I want to take a statement from you when we get there. But just know that we don't consider you in any way connected with this, despite the oddness of your claim. I thanked him, and he hung up. I was getting ready to call Marta.

the 6am person so she could come in to relieve me when a familiar caller popped up on my screen, no name, no number, and I picked it up as I prepared to thank the caller for their help. I just started thanking them when I heard the heavy breathing on the other end and stopped. The sound was completely different. The caller had a husky tone to his breathing, and you could clearly hear their breaths jagged, up and down as they went about whatever they were doing. This was no child's breathing.

This was an adult. And I hung up the call before I could think about it too much. I sat there in a daze as I pulled the call log towards me. I logged the heavy breather, but thought for a moment about recording the other caller too. They had saved my sister's life, whoever they had been, and I thought better of adding them to the log. I called Marta and told her what had happened.

She agreed to come in for me and I said I'd see her soon before I hung up. I'm sitting with my sister now in the ICU but I can't help but wonder who that mystery caller was. How did they call me? How did they know where to find me? My sister is heavily sedated right now but I'm a little afraid of what she's

might tell me when she comes out. Does she know who the girl is? Did she tell her how to contact me? I'm afraid to go back to work now. I'm afraid of who else might call me when I again man the desk. What other lost souls might be just a phone call away. The rural area I grew up in made the smallest towns appear densely populated. It was the sort of place where you had to cycle a mile or so to the nearest neighbour, and the bus only came through twice a day. Most kids think growing up on a farm is some sort of constantly thrilling adventure. The kids in my school in the nearest town certainly did. They didn't see me waking up at 4 in the morning just to get ready in time for my parents to get me there,

or how lonely weekends were when your friends lived so far away. No, they thought it was all just chickens and tractors. In truth, I resented it. The farm was on a large plot of land, yet acres surrounding the house, ending in a thick forested border that separated us from two distant neighbours and some fields. My parents would let me play freely on the farm from a young age. My only rule was a stay in the land that we owned. Where the trees started, I should have always stopped. Bordom was a killer.

Chickens aren't so exciting when they're your day-to-day life, and there's only so much fun a kid can have on his own. When I was about eight years old, I started to explore the woods that made up the border, at first, weaving in and out of the trees on the edge of the farm and eventually building up the courage to go deeper into the forest. I was careful, making sure that I embarked to my adventures almost as soon as I left the house

so that I had maximum time to explore without being caught by mom or dad. The day I first made it through the border, I was trying to time how long it took to walk through the trees. It was 15 minutes until I reached the clearing owned by Mr. Hinchcliff, an elderly potato farmer to the left of us. He was known by the local people for being insular and quiet. It was a large, circular clearing, cut off from the rest of his land by a separate species of trees to the ones in the forest.

It's like they'd been planted years before to create and keep the clearing separate and hidden. in the centre of the circle was a man stood facing me and moving. He was terrifying at first, convinced that Mr. Hinchcliff was about to march me home for trespassing. I tried to conceal myself behind a tree whilst keeping an eye on the man, realising that he hadn't moved an inch. It took me a moment, but the poles eventually gave it away. That and the lack of feet, the figure started from the ankles.

The man in the clearing wasn't a man at all. He was a scarecrow. I was fascinated. I stayed behind my tree, but strained my eyes to try and get a better look. My parents put scarecrows up around our crops, but none of ours were ever as elaborate as the one stood in the middle of Mr. Hinchcliff's clearing. He was realistic, more realistic than anything I'd seen before. He wore a red chequered shirt, a straw hat,

and a wide smile stitched across his face from the corners of his lips. I wanted to get closer, but as I started to emerge from the trees, I could feel his eyes on me, and I could have sworn that I saw his fingers move. I ran back through the woods to the farm, eager to get home and tried to forget about what I'd seen, my little heart pounding. I didn't tell my parents about the scarecrow or the clearing, but as I laid you, bed that night, all I could think about was that smile, stitched across his face. I spent hours that night convincing myself that scarecrow's couldn't move. What I'd seen

must have been the wind. I was just freaking out over nothing. I tried to stop myself going back, but I desperately wanted to get a closer look. I wondered what Mr. Hinchcliff had used to make his scarecrow look so realistic, and my curiosity. curiosity eventually got the better of me. Three days after my initial discovery, I left the farm and made my way through the same dense section of woods until I reached the clearing again.

I stopped behind the same tree, inspecting the scarecrow until I gathered the bravery to get a little closer. Mr. Hinchcliff's creation was more spectacular up close. I couldn't work out what material he had used to make the face, but it was like something out of a

film. I touched the skin to try and understand what it was, but I couldn't. It felt like my own, just colder. I was in complete awe. The smile had been hand-stitched into the skin-like material. It must have taken the old man hours. If the scarecrow had ever had feet, they had been buried in the dirt to try and help him stand. The poles were driven into the ground behind him and tied to his torso, keeping him propped up and secured. The longer I looked at the scarecrow, the more I started to feel like he were alive in ways. I was certain that he occasionally blinked

and that his chest rose and fell. I was curious, more than a little unsettled, but I took my time and inspected him as much as I could. Walking back to the farm through the forest, I couldn't get the scarecrow out of my thoughts. I struggled to make conversation over dinner, my mind completely filled with that stitched-up smile. I became obsessed. I returned every day for the next three weeks.

The clearing became my place of solace and the scarecrow that stood there, my best friend. I would sit by his planted ankles, reading and drawing in my sketchbook. I named the scarecrow Peter, and I spoke to him whenever I could. I told him my deepest thoughts and feelings. cried to him when I was sad and spent every moment that I could with him. I was careful not to sit in the clearing for too long, and always returned to the farm before my parents felt I was gone too long. I wished I could spend more time with Peter.

It's sad when I think back to what a lonely kid I must have been to spend so much time with an object. A glorified effigy of a human. With every visit, the rising and falling of Peter's chest lessened. I stopped catching him blinking and his skin started to sag and grey after a few days of rain I knew it must be me

getting used to him realising that he was never going to spring to life and answer me like a real friend but it still made me a little sad after a while Peter's magic was gone I would go and visit like always but it didn't feel the same

the clearing was as empty as the rest of my life and my propped-up friend in the middle was in a sorry state. The stitch smile barely held itself in place and lumps of the material that made up his skin and started to dry and fall off. He couldn't even scare the birds away anymore and often had multiple perched on his straw hat and shoulders pecking at his face.

One day towards the end of that summer I made my way through the clearing to find it empty. Peter was gone. There wasn't a trace of him left, bar the pole, that still stuck firmly in the ground. Despite the fact that my initial fascination with Peter had already depleted, it still felt like a loss. My parents couldn't understand why I was so withdrawn. I was grieving for someone that had never actually existed. Eight years old, and I already understood what it was to mourn a friend.

I visited the clearing multiple times and it remained empty. School restarted and the autumn hit, bringing with it the ice-cold winds that would frost the entire land. I spent less time outside and barely visited Mr. Hinchcliff's clearing through the winter. By the time we reached the next summer, Peter and the time I'd spent with my silent friend was all but forgotten. It was by chance on a sunny day that I decided to walk through the woods one way, more time to my old sanctuary.

I didn't expect it. I thought that part of my life was over. But there she was. An entirely new scarecrow, propped up just like Peter had been. ankles pressed firmly into the ground with poles behind her. She wore a different outfit, gung wrees and a yellow chequered shirt,

but the straw hat was unmistakably the same. Her chest rose and fell gently, like Peter's once had, and her eyes appeared to move barely minimeters as I looked into them. It was almost impossible to see, but I was sure that she was alive. She gave me hope that I wouldn't have to spend a summer, lonely and sad on the farm. Her stitch smile gave me the same familiar comforting feeling as a warm hot chocolate and a chilly night. The process repeated, just like it had with Peter. As the weeks passed, she started to look more haggard and less alive.

The magic became less. The loneliness returned, and eventually she disappeared entirely. Every year would be the same. Summer would come, and with it, Mr. Hinchcliff would build a new scarecrow. They came in every age, shape and gender. A new friend that I knew would wither and vanish, just like the others. regardless I grew attached to every single one of them as I got older and my parents awarded me with more freedom

I was able to spend more time in the town with friends that spoke back after a while I started to forget about the scarecrows entirely favouring girls and nights out to sitting with inanimate objects years passed by and I left home to take a degree in art university changed my life for the first time I had a group of friends around me all the time, ones that weren't planted in the ground. I moved in with them and only went home for Christmas. I never forgot about Mr Hinchcliff's scarecrow's.

They were my lifeline for so long, but I did move on. I didn't need them anymore. It's been three years since I last spent summer on the farm and a lockdown has forced me back here. When my housemates all returned to their families, I couldn't bear the idea. of just me in the house, so I did the same. I wasn't intending to visit the clearing. In fact, it's been years since I really thought about it. I've been too wrapped up in a social life that I never had as a kid.

It was only when my mother brought up a new friend Linda, who now lives on the farm to the left, that I was reminded of my childhood secret, one that I now wish I could erase. What happened to Mr. Hinchcliff? I asked. my heart sinking at the sudden realization that I would never get to see another one of his amazing creations. My mother hung ahead, trying to plan her response.

It was awful, Charlie, all over the local news. He stopped responding to his sister's calls last year, and after a while she sent local police to do a welfare check. When they arrived, he wasn't in the house, so they started searching the land, and they found him, collapsed in a wooden bit, just the other side of our trees. He died of a heart attack. Why would that make news? I asked, a beat of sweat running down my neck,

as I imagined Mr. Hinchcliff dead in the clearing. My clearing. My mother's face somehow lowered further. He wasn't alone, Charlie. They found a woman strapped to a pole next to his body. He'd been injecting her with some sort of drug that kept her completely paralysed or conscious. He'd planted her feet in the ground to keep her upright

and dressed her up like a scarecrow. Police combed the land and found 45 bodies buried. He'd been at it for years. I felt bile rise in my throat. My mind started to connect dots that I'd never imagined. What happened to the girl? I asked. She survived barely.

When they finally got a conscious, she wrote a letter explaining that she'd been strapped to the pole for two weeks before she was found. Hinchcliff took every precaution possible to keep her alive up there. Worst of all, she can only communicate through writing now after what he did to her face. The sicker cut her mouth up, only to stitch it back into a smile.