CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 Scary REDDIT Horror Stories from r/Nosleep Creepypasta Podcast

Episode Date: February 22, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00​ "My Grandmother Returned Home From Her Own Funeral" Creepypasta►14:14​ "This call may be recorded for quality assurance" Creepypasta►28:50​"The Portrait In My Rental Keeps Looking At Me" Creepypasta►43:31​ "My aunt recovered a very unusual meteorite. It's changing her" Creepypasta►57:31​ "Black Spot" Creepypasta►1:15:24​ "My grandfather was a famous comedian. I found his final joke" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...​iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...​CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Holly Humphries: https://holboldoart.com/​SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...​►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...​►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...​►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...​FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta​►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/​►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta​►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPasta​CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic​ ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic​ ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt​ ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM​ ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

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

and let alone. Shopify grew with you with you, every step of the way. Start today not your gratis-proof-periodo on shopify. That is Shopify.b.E. used to say that I had my grandmother's stubbornness. Despite being a sparrow-like woman barely above five feet tall, her presence eclipsed everyone else in whatever room she walked into. Hardened

by the transient memories of a Dust Bowl era childhood, she worked to put each of five children through college, my father included. There seemed to be no force that she couldn't overcome. Death included. But age finally caught up to her. It started with some minor incidents, forgetting the day or names, which we chalked up to exhausting herself. It was only when we found her, crouched, sobbing in the garden, at three in the morning, snapped twigs, entangled her hair, and clutching at nothing in her arms. Save him! she screamed. Her unraveling quickened with each passing day, and her once razor-sharp brain was blunted

by neurodegeneration. She started to lose any semblance of her current reality, fogged over by childhood memories from a world long past. Her own children became strangers to her, whose hand she would slap away when they tried to help her. She would stumble about, searching for a long-departed family,

her cries growing more frantic before she would crumble into a sobbing heap with her knees drawn up to her chin, like a lost child. My parents became her carers, changing her urine-soaked sheets and assuring her confused babbling in strained, low voices.

Even in the haze, there was still a fleaerer, clicker of her former self, and ever my mother would give her a glass of water, she would snatch it in her own trembling hands and drink it, droplets soaking through the barricose vein greying folds of her neck. Being only a child back then, and lacking the adult foresight I have now, I became increasingly terrified of her. Even when my parents had sat me down and tried to phrase the situation, I struggled to understand what was happening to her. When a spindly arms strained out to hold me, I cringed away from them.

The warm woman, who had once baked me cookies and rocked me on a lap, had been snatched away, leaving a screaming, emaciated imposter in her place. She would ride about on the bed, her hands gripping the sheets. Death came as a welcome release for both of us. It had been a closed casket service, though as close to her, couldn't bear to see what she had become. I stood, squeezing my father's hand, outfitted in black funeral attire, as I watched my grandmother being swallowed up by heaps of earth. Her agony still haunted me, along with my own cowardice,

that even at the very end I had been unable to hold her. Everyone there assumed her suffering was at an end. Little did we know how wrong we were. The night, after we buried her, was rocked by the worst thunderstorm that our country had seen. in over 20 years, where the grey skies was aglow with ethereal white electricity. I struggled to sleep under the rumbling thunder that rattled the tiles on our roof. I was close to hurling off the covers and frustration, and my ears picked up on a series of crashes,

ones that seemed to be coming from inside our house. Having more courage than sense at that age, I crept down the stairs with a baseball bat gripped in my trembling hands. The gaping darkness that awaited me in the bottom of the stairs did little to ease my grown fear. Instead, my fevered mind conjured up a plethora of horrors that were hidden in it,

just waiting to seize my ankles with their sharpened claws to drag me to my certain demise. A flash of lightning illuminated a stumbling set of mud-caped bare footprints that trailed into the living room. I froze at the angered creek

of the rocking chair that escaped through the half-open door. Trembling forward, I braced my claspersed my claspersed, me hand against the door in a futile attempt to steady my gelatinous legs. Every smothered breath that escaped my mouth burned my overworked lungs as I contemplated rushing back to my room and cocooning myself in bedsheets and pretending it had been nothing more than a particularly vivid nightmare. But a morbid curiosity compelled me to grab the faded

brass handle and twist open the door. As my eyes scanned the darkened room, my rapid heartbeat eased as I made out of familiar shapes of the furniture that crowded the room. But then, my heart halted in my chest. There, hunched in the darkened corner, in a beloved rocking chair, sat my grandmother. The salmon pink funeral gown we had laid as a resting was flecked with soil and stray dark green blades of grass, her bony legs and bare feet blackened with grime. The immaculate bun that had once pinned back her hair was long and done, her snowy white strands of hair

disarrayed into an unkempt bird's nest. Her arthritis stiffened hands that gripped the arms of the chair were blooded and worn to the point that white bone glistened through split seams of skin from countless hours of scratching at the inside of her own coffin. As a vacant stare fell on me, the faint line of her mouth elasticated into a trembling, toothless grin. Christopher, she weased. I've waited so long.

The pressure of the scream that had been building in my throat was too much to contain. The sound sent my parents barreling down the stairs. We're unseeing her, their cries soon joined my own in a horrific symphony. No one had any real idea to deal with the insane circumstances we found ourselves plunged into. My father had fiercely refuted my grandmother's ginger suggestions of calling the hospital. He was afraid that he would sentence his mother to an eternity of being prodded with needles and electrodes on a sterile lab table. in some covert government facility. He wasn't going to lose her again.

So we drew the curtains on the room, sequestering her away from the curious eyes of neighbours, the very same who had attended a funeral and left her to sit there. No matter how many bottles of air freshener we sprayed or scrubbed out with bleach, the stench of putrefaction pervaded the house. Blue bottles soon climbed at the walls, swarming around that forbidden room.

A throaty humming of a forgotten lullaby would drift out through the walls. She became our shameful secret, one no one wanted to acknowledge, but whose strain weighed more heavily on our lives with each passing day. She would just sit, endlessly undulating,

oblivious to the conflict her return had caused, humming over the faint blare of the television set. The brilliant twinkle in her eyes had been snuffed out, staring at the walls with a dead in bravinity. She wasn't even human, anymore. Just a slowly rotting hunk of meat who transformed her house into a tomb. My parents' debate grew more fevered, eventually escalating to raised voices and slamming doors.

I took every opportunity to stay out to the house, either playing video games at a friend's house or at the local park. Just the thought of stumbling around through the putrid darkness and seeing her undead eyes glint out at me was enough to twist my stomach into knots. As much as I tried to banish her from my mind, One question continued to fester inside of me, along with her. One day, I just couldn't take it anymore. Who's Christopher? I asked. My mother's hand tensed over the shirt she'd been in the middle of folding, crumpling the material. I shifted around, the temporary release overtaken by anxiety, as I wondered if I ever should have voiced it.

She turned to me, the corners of her eyes glistening. with a distant grief, that only accentuated the sleepless bags that hung under them. You've heard her too, she murmured. I swallowed. She called me that on the night she came back. Her gaze dipped back to the bundle cloth on the ironing board, unfolding it in a futile attempt to refocus herself on the task. But whatever thoughts transpired through her head, sapt her of the ability to focus on anything else. She shoved it aside, leaning over the ironing board. Her eyes started surreptitiously from side to side,

all too aware of my father's shuffling presents down the hallway as he went to tend to her. I know I shouldn't be telling you this, but back when your granny was a little girl, she had a brother, Christopher. He was the second youngest out of all her siblings. She was like a second mother to him. She even sang to him at night. The faint smile slipped from her face.

One day, her mother told her, her to watch him while she was milking the cows. They decided to play hide-and-seek and the hay-bells together, but their father went out to shift them. He had no idea either of them were inside. Dredd prickled through me. The kind you get at the pinnacle

of a roller coaster, right before you plunge down at high velocity. I nodded my head, a masochistic side pushing to hear the rest of the story, as terrible as I knew it would be. Your grandmother was only grazed, but that poor little boy was completely

run through. She concluded with a grimace. Five years old, played out before they could even fetch a doctor. She shook her head. It was an accident. That's what everyone said. But not your grandmother.

She always blamed herself for it. A cold solemnity hung over us both. I stared agape at my mother. Her face creased into a stoic frown. The images seared into my mind before I could erase them. I could practically hear. hear her desperate wails echoing in my head.

She had been suffering long before a descent. Her cheery smile and razor wit had hidden a pain that permeated her very soul. It was then I knew what I had to do. That night, instead of my usual, hasty ascent upstairs to the haven of my bedroom, I made a detour to the forbidden room. One, I swore, I would never again enter.

The muscles in my hands seized up, as I reached out towards the door, but I forced myself to open it. She sat in the corner of her room, her rocking chair turned to face me, and she had been awaiting my arrival. Her eyes glowed in the faint light from the brightly lit hallway

that trickled through the half-open door. Christopher! She beamed. Pushing down the revulsion that burned in the back of my esophagus, I clambered up onto a lap, the way I had always done when I had been little. a rigamort just stiffened arms encasing me.

I wriggled in a lap at her icy fingertips, seeming intent on crushing whatever breath was in my lungs. My body eased into it, overcome by the familiar warmth. She wasn't a monster. She was the person who'd stayed up nights with me to make sure they weren't any monsters hiding in my closet. She had devoted the last years of her life to me. I rested my head against the bony ridge of her cloud.

A sickly, sweet smell of death filtered into my nostrils, making my eyelids droop down. She pulled me close, her scratchy whisper, invading my ears. Christopher, I'm so sorry. A voice trembled in the verge of a sob. It was all my fault. We shouldn't have gone into the barn. I should have just done, like Mama told me to. She tucked a messy lock of hair behind my ear with a mutilated finger.

The oversized collar slid down her bony wrist, revealing a pink scar that stretched from her wrist to mid-forearm. It's okay, I murmured into a vein-line neck. I forgive you. Hot tears splashed down into my scalp, and she cradled my head in a wrinkled hands. She slumped back with a sigh of contentment, which, coming from her aged lungs, sounded like air, escaping. a half deflated balloon, safe in her arms. I finally succumbed to sleep. It was the pattering of sunlight against my cheek through the narrow cracks in the boarded-up windows

that roused me from the darkness. I blinked awake, a heavy, groggy mist of confusion having settled on me, obscuring the events of the previous night. But, with each passing second, they acquired further clarity. I turned around to face her, but instead a holode-eyed skeleton stared back at me. The only thing that kept me from tumbling to the floor were the skeletal hands that squeezed my body like a vice.

The rotting skin had slid off her bones, along with a degenerating muscle, pulling onto the floor in a putrid slick. Viscuous traces of vitreous humor trickled from the corners of her empty eye sockets. There was no more regret, no more grief, no more confusion that had plagued for so long.

Only peace. The frantic jolt of my heartbeat eased as relief overcame me. I enclassed myself in my deathly grasp, folding her arms over a chest. I reached up and pressed my lips to her exposed frontal bone. Rest now, I thought. This call may be recorded for quality assurance. There is a chance this phrase makes you tense up a little. A Pavlonian response to hours of your life lost waiting.

memories of silent prayers to a higher power that whoever answers can help fix whatever is malfunctioning in your life. In the back of your mind, dreading the conclusion, it's another department's problem, and your call will be unceremoniously transferred again into limbo, all the while anger and helplessness mixed together to the sound of music. On the occasions where my internet craps out, or my refrigerator stops running properly, I have a different reaction to these words, closer to the feeling of being far too familiar with something but not in the current context

like running into a teacher outside of school because over the last few years it has been my job to listen to the recording in order to assure the quality promised mind you I don't actually know much about whatever goods or service is being discussed the company I work for is a third party focused on keeping the customer service process

as smooth as possible my job is more about ensuring the customers aren't showing more than the usual low-grade rage common to the calls. On occasions where a significant outburst occurs, I recommend ways to keep future customers pacified. Putting it simply, my job is to listen to angry people call about their broken things and figure out how to make them less angry in the future.

It's usually about as eventful as you were thinking, at least until a few months ago when I was given a set of recordings that were different. Thank you for your patience. You're a valued customer whose concerns are very important to us. Your customer service agent will be with you momentarily. Be aware this call may be recorded for quality assurance. I scribbled a note down to add to my recommendation list for the client. It has been my observation that people don't like being told they are valued after being on hold for an extended period of time. Hello, my name is Amanda. I will be your customer service agent for this call.

I may assist you today. The moment Amanda's voice came on over the recording, I couldn't help but roar my eyes. There was no Amanda on the line, of course. It was one of those response spots that were quickly becoming the norm. People hate them, but it's cheaper than hiring someone to do the job. To make matters worse, it is one designed to sound like an actual person. I got a pen ready to take a note of when I caller realized it and got annoyed. Hello? Yes, hello?

The caller responded, their voice a bit lethargic. I'm calling about the digital assistant that came in the mail. Could you be more specific, caller? Amanda, the bot replied. What is the model of your digital assistant? Uh, the caller stammered, accompanied by the sounds of shuffling papers. It says here, it's the all-in-one integrated assistant. I'm not sure if that's what...

Thank you, Amanda, the bot interrupted, in the first. a simile of a human tone. I just need a little bit more information to help you with your problem. What is your name? My name is Jared Keen. Thank you, Jared Keen. Amanda the bot replied, impressively quick for a bot.

When did you get the all-in-one integrated assistant? It came in the mail today, Jared Keen answered. But I'm... What I'm confused... Thank you, Amanda the bot interrupted again. You have indicated that you

received the all-in-one integrated assistant through the mail. Can I inquire which marketplace you ordered it from, Jared Keene? Well, that's the thing, Jared said, seeming to realize he wasn't talking to an actual person. I didn't order the thing. It was just on my door this morning when I woke up. Congratulations, Jared Kean. Amanda the bot replied. If you found the all-in-one integrated assistant at your doorstep, it means you had chosen at random to beta test our new upgraded version of the product. Please remember to fill out the survey on the last three pages of the instruction manual and place them in the return envelope also found in the box after a week.

How exciting, Jared Keane. At this point, I had written several notes on the level of enthusiasm they had put into the bot's responses. I found it more than a little off-putting, not to mention the over-repetition of the name of the product and customer. Judging by the amount of times it had interrupted Jared and the quiver in his voice, I'd have guessed he felt similar. At this rate, I was expecting a bit of an outburst sooner rather than later. I have a bit of a question about what is supposed to do, though,

because I plugged it in and... How exciting, Jared Kean, Amanda, the bot repeated. If you're having issues getting your all-in-one integrated assistant to start, please remember to place your thumb on the activation button indicated by the Penrose Hourglass for an uninterrupted 30 seconds. You should know from the indicator when the all-in-one integrated integrated assistant is activated. The thing is, I think the thing is busted.

What makes you think your all-in-one integrated assistant is malfunctioning, Jared Keene? Well, the thing zapped me, Jared answered. I put my finger on the little hourglass button, and it shocked me pretty bad. I have great news for you, Jared Keen. Amanda, the bot responded, in a still overly chipper tone. Your all-in-one integrated assistant is not malfunctioning. The process of bio-integration is completed through the electronic connection. Congratulations, Jared Keane.

You're saying it was supposed to zap me? Yes, Amanda the bot replied. This is a necessary function for the all-in-one integrated assistant and also the indicator the process has worked. Congratulations, Jared Keene. I have a bad heart, Jared said. The thing could have shorted my pacemaker. But the first time, the last time.

lethargy in Jared's voice was replaced by annoyance. I couldn't say I blamed him much. I couldn't make notes criticizing the product's purposeful use of electricity, but I did write the recommendation, but maybe the bot shouldn't sound so pleased about it. Don't worry, Jared Keane, the Amanda Bot responded cheerfully. The only one integrated assistant is designed

to integrate with both biological and technological functions within the body. If anything, the Metronic adapter pacemaker, model number ADD R-06 should be functioning better than ever. How exciting, Jared Kean. How did you know what kind of pacemaker I had? Jared asked with alarm. I didn't sign off for this trial thing.

What the hell is going... Don't worry, Jared Kean. The Amanda Bot responded again. The only one integrated assistant is designed to integrate with both biological and technological functions within the body. By activating the only one integrated assistant, you accepted the user agreement.

and a loud, company name, access to your medical history through the device. How exciting! There was a short silence, as Jared seemed to grapple with all the information he had received. I was aware no one really read the fine print in these types of situations, but this all seemed like a lot of information to sign away by just pressing a button. I made note to ask if this was all legal, before scratching it out.

It wasn't really my place to point that out. I... Jared stuttered after some time. I would like to talk to a supervisor, if I can. It really seems like I need to send this back to you, and my head's been a little fuzzy since the shot. I'm sorry, Chad Keen. Amanda, the bot interrupted for the first time,

sounding a bit somber. But for the beta test for the all-in-one integrated assistant to be successful, we must limit the information being given out. Please remember to sending the survey at the end of the week. I don't want this thing any... Jared's voice was interrupted once again, but this time it wasn't by Amanda the Bot's voice. Instead, a high-pitched set of tones played over the receiver for about five seconds. I winced as it played over the speaker.

After a moment of silence, Jared spoke again. What the hell? The line went dead. With the recording completed, I looked down at the notes I had taken. They were noticeably light on the back half of the conversation. admittedly I had been distracted by the interaction so starting it again I tried to only take note that were within the parameters of my job

but it was difficult in particular the second time through I was struck by the centering of the company name it had been my understanding that these recordings come directly to us after completion the idea being that you can't get reliable data from interactions that have been tampered with by the client which would mean the centering would have

had to happen in real time. Over the next few days, I went over many recordings about this specific beta test. Amanda the bot was always the customer service agent answering the calls. I made a lot of notes by the aggressively happy tone, constant repetition of names and phrases, and its tendency to interrupt. What I didn't make physical notes of was how each person seemed to not have any idea of the beta test beforehand, how the company name was always censored, and the high-pitched tones at the end of each call. By the end of the week though,

recordings for the all-in-one integrated assistant had dried up completely. I was sent new, far more typical recordings from other companies, and work got back to normal. At least until the next week, when I got a sudden dump of a few dozen recordings at once, which was immediately odd. That indicated that they were all recorded at roughly the same time. I opened the first file.

Thank you for your patience. You're a valued customer whose concerns are very important to us. Your customer service agent will be with you momentarily. Be aware, this call may be recorded for quality assurance. Hello, my name is Amanda. I will be your customer service agent for this call. How may assist you today? I tensed automatically at the now too familiar voice of Amanda the bot.

I'd started to think they'd discontinued the test or moved on to something that didn't need the same form of customer service. Hello, Amanda, a familiar voice said. This is Jared Keane. I'm a member of the beta group for the All In One Integrated Assistant. I felt the hairs stick upon my neck and arms. Usually, it's pretty easy to forget a name in this job. But Amanda the bot had said all the names so many times in each recording,

and he had been the first. It had sort of stuck with me. calling again, but this time with a sickening stunted tone and a mood I would call aggressively upbeat. How exciting Jared Keane, Amanda the bot said. I just finished going over your survey about the all-in-one integrated assistant and it would appear you are happy with the rest... More than a happy I'm under, Jared Keene interrupted.

I would say the all-in-one integrated assistant is the best thing to happen to me. That is exciting to hear, Jared Keene. Keep in mind over the next few months The only one integrated assistant Will be exiting beta testing Soon we will be sending all new software updates This is How exciting Amanda

Make sure to think everyone Working so hard over there at Company Name for me I know I am so excited to see what they do net Of course Chad Kean What followed was the high pitch tones from before I had heard it many times with the first patch of recordings But this time

Instead of confusion on Jared's side of the the call, he was answered by another set of lower tones. When they finished, it was silent for a moment before Amanda the bot spoke again. So excited to be connected to the company name, family, Amanda. The recording ended abruptly. I couldn't help but notice the shift in the still-stilded tone

with both of their sign-offs. Less aggressively upbeat, and more like two confederates sharing something unspoken. For a bit, I sat uncomfortable at my desk. I hadn't taken any notes this time, and as I thought about it, I supposed I didn't have to.

Both sides of the conversation seemed content with the interaction. It made my stomach turn. I clicked the next recording. Amanda, the bot, was talking to Harriet Rhodes. I recognized her voice and name from the last batch of recordings about the all-in-one integrated assistant. She had been upset about the shock, like Jared had. I turned it off after the first little back and forth between Amanda and Harriet.

I clutched the arms of my chair to steady the room around me. They were having the same conversation Amanda had with Jared, not as in they were having a happy conversation about how Harriet likes the digital assistant, or even though they shared similar pleasantries. Down to the emphasis of each individual word, Amanda and Harriet, were having the exact same conversation as Amanda and Jared. Brantically, I clicked through random recording, in each file. Each of them, a different voice and name I remembered from the recordings the previous

week. People who had called to complain about the device at their door they never ordered. Every one of them, now having the exact, identical conversation with Amanda the bot, down to the second. Leaving most of them unplayed, I passed them along with the indication that there were no issues with the customer service method. That was a while ago. Mostly, my job is what it has always been. Recordings are people complaining about their washing machines or cable provider. Every now and then, I get another batch with a familiar

aggressively upbeat voice. Without listening, I note the bot is too repetitive and interrupts customers. The next week, when I receive a large back of simultaneous recorded files with the same time stamp, I mark them, great customer service, without opening any. More and more, I also find

myself thrown out packages at my door. I don't remember ordering. From worldwide topmerken to entrepreneurs that just begin, millioner vertrow on Shopify, Vercoop online, in your winkel, on Instagram, TikTok, and more.

Allers from out one platform. Beheer your products, and bestallings and betaling and failing and easyvout. Shopify grew with you with, every step of the way. Start today not your gratis-proof-periodo

on Shopify.B.E. That is Shopify.b. A few years ago, my girlfriend at the time and I rented a secluded home in the country to celebrate our three-year anniversary. Things are going well in our lives. We both just got promotions and signed a lease for our first apartment. Our jobs kept us running rampant in the weeks that followed, so this long weekend was a welcome getaway.

Little did Lydia know, but I plan on making this weekend one that we would never forget. I would be proposing. The house was cozy and quaint, residing on a large plot of land that was at least a half mile from its nearest neighbour. We had a lot of privacy, which was precisely what we wanted. The house featured a decent size living room, kitchen, den, and balcony on the main floor, along with a large master bedroom upstairs. I noticed it first while unpacking our bags at the upstairs bedroom,

hanging on the wall we'd be facing when lying in bed, was the portrait of a stern-looking woman sitting in a small wooden chair. The portrait was about three feet tall with a dark oak frame containing intricate mouldings. The woman looked middle-aged with fair-tone skin and long jet-black hair cascading down her shoulders that contrasted sharply with a light grey dress she wore. Her head was noticeably disproportionate, having somewhat of an ovular shape containing a large forehead, non-existent chin, along with a small nose and mouth. Despite her relatively blank facial expression, the woman's large, piercing, black eyes contained an alluringly menacing stare that appeared to follow wherever you went.

An enveloping sense of being watched dampened the room, while I visibly fought temptation to look directly at the eerie portrait. I don't think I can sleep with that thing watching us the entire time, I finally blurted out, sighing in relief at finally acknowledging the looming elephant in the room. We both stared at the painting, as if in titherto. a reaction from the woman it betrayed. Just throw a blanket over it or something if it bothers you that much, Lydia suggested nonchalantly. I warily walked up to the portrait and grabbed its sides. It feels attached to the wall. That was actually a lie.

I was genuinely afraid of further touching the painting. As soon as my fingers rested on the frame, I hastily stepped back, which Lydia, who resumed unpacking, didn't notice. The woman's sharp, fearsome stare glared with burning apathy, bombarding me with an unshakable feeling that something terrible would happen if I tried moving the portrait. After spook my, it feels attached to the wall excuse. I quickly retrieved the towel from the bathroom and draped it over the painting. The rest of the evening continued without incident. After unpacking, we made dinner, polished off a bottle of wine and called it an early night.

I forgot about the painting by the time we were. turned in and didn't even acknowledge it or getting ready for bed. I wanted to let Lydia pass out first so I could take the ring I picked out for her, a 2.5-carat diamond, and hide it in the kitchen. I planned a three-course dinner

for us and wanted to drop the ring in a champagne glass, so she'd notice when we toasted our anniversary. I couldn't stop thinking about how Lydia would react in the days leading up to this weekend and commended myself for not arousing any suspicion. Unfortunately, I

wound up dozing off myself while waiting for Lydia to fall asleep. A few hours later, we were awoken by a loud thump, causing both of us to shoot upright and wildly scan our darkened and surroundings. When I turned on my lamp, we quickly noticed the portrait fell from the wall. Upon further inspection, the painting didn't appear damaged and fell because the nail holding it had gotten loose. The bath towel I threw over the portrait came off, revealing the woman's ominous, unnerving gaze that instantly filled the room with a ghastly tension. Lydia, that painting is just creepy, I said, while preparing to get out of bed. Just move it out of the room then.

Lydia quickly responded, or turning over in bed. We'll put it back up before we leave. Fine with me, I concurred, quickly stepping out to bed and grabbing the portrait. I walked about halfway down the hallway before stopping at the closet with enough room to fit the painting. Before sliding it into the closet, I froze upon yet again locking eyes with the painting sinister gaze, sensing something different about its appearance. The woman looked angrier,

her brow appearing more furrowed, eyes now possessing an unnerving expression of disgust and resentment. I stared at the painting for a few seconds longer, like I expected it to say something, before snapping out of my trance and hastily stuffing it in the closet. In addition to dark, I also considered how exhausted I was from being up since 6am on top of the long drive out here, which was enough for me to dismiss my overthinking of the painting.

Lydia was already asleep by the time I returned to bed, and I was able to quickly follow suit. Later that night, I had to use the bathroom, which was down the hallway. While finishing up, I heard faint scratching sounds that seemed to come from the walls. I listened closely to the light scraping that didn't appear to have any sort of rhythm. them and were occurring sporadically. The scratching continued as I exited the bathroom. Upon stepping out into the hallway, I pinpointed where these noises came from. The closet.

The scratches subsided when I stopped in front of the closet. Upon opening the door, an umbrella and some coat hanger spilled out, causing me to release a short yelp as I backed against the wall. The painting hadn't moved, and I assumed that the scratching must have been the shift items that fell. I tried not to look at the woman's scornful stare, although I very much felt it, watching my every move

while putting back the umbrella and cotangas. I saw in my peripherals, however, the portraits still contained that expression of seething ire, prompting me to quickly close the closet door, making sure it was securely shut. Hoping to finally get a restful sleep, I was on the cusp of fading into unconsciousness

when Lydia's side of the bed lightened. I heard her footsteps exit the bedroom and moved down the hall before seating and figured she must be getting herself something to drink. While dozing in and out, my ears picked up Lydia re-entering the bedroom after a few minutes, but a step ceased. I opened my eyes after a lengthy pause, only to find Lydia fast asleep next to me, certain she was standing in front of the bed. Sitting up, I turn on my light and scan the bedroom.

I lightly nudged Lydia. who turned away from me while grumbling grunting, after which I reminded myself I was half asleep for most of that ordeal and was the mist when she got back in bed. While processing what had just happened, I remembered the diamond ring in my nightstand and decided to bring it downstairs while it was still on my mind.

I discreetly retrieved the black ring box from my nightstand drawer and slipped it into my pocket before tip-tone out of the bedroom. Bringing the ring downstairs also gave me an excuse to check on the rest of the house. Although I knew it was most likely Lidious footsteps, I'd still sleep better with a peace of mind, knowing we were definitely alone in this house. I didn't even acknowledge the closet door containing the portrait when walking down the hallway, and concealed the ringbox behind some cleaning supplies in the cabinet below the kitchen sink. After checking the main floor, I was about to go back upstairs, when the ceiling above me started creaking.

Each groan was a few seconds apart and came from a different spot of the ceiling. It sounded like someone was walking across whatever room was directly above me, which I realised was the bedroom. I hurried upstairs, but saw nothing, nor did I find any traces of Lydia or someone else moving about, and reluctantly dismissed the creaks as house noises. A quick glance at the radio's clock's glowing numbers where the time was half past two in the morning,

caused me to scowl crankly. I made one last obligatory sweep at the bedroom before shutting my eyes and getting comfortable, unable to shake off the sense that something was amiss. Although I was exhausted and faded into a deep sleep, I realized what was wrong as I drifted off, being the last thought I had, whose revelation seemed to drag me into dreamland

before I could give an adequate reaction. Was the painting back on the wall? I woke up the next morning with a knotty feeling in my stomach. I turned to face the nightstand and glanced at the clock, which read 9.14 a.m. It was uncharacteristic of us to still be asleep this time of morning, even on vacation, since both our bodies were programmed to wake up at the crack of dawn. Feeling extremely groggy, I froze upon noting the painting,

was indeed back up on the wall, spotting it in my peripherals while I stared blankly at the ceiling. This was the day I'd be popping the question to Lydia, I thought, which helped rejuvenate me with a sense of excitement and giddiness. briefly distracted from the portrait a smile was brought to my face as I stretched my limbs and reached over to rest my hand on Lydia only to feel my palm land

on a wet, sticky surface Lydia I asked in bewilderment quickly withdrawing my hand to see it was coated in red while turning to face my fiancé to be Lydia stayed at the ceiling her bulging widened eyes containing

a permanent expression of sheer terror while her mouth hung frozen mid-scream. Two fist-sized chunks of flesh were missing from Lydia's neck, whose head barely remained detached to a body, blood covering the entire section of a bed and seeped over into mine, coating most of my right side. Screaming in horror and anguish while spring into my feet, I noticed three or four more large chunks of flesh missing from her arms and torso.

Parts of Lydia's entrails protruded from her abdominal openings, which upon closer inspection resembled massive bite marks. I pinned myself against the wall, my heart feeling like it was pounding on my chest as a spine-tickling light-headedness and gut-wrenching nausea formed. Trembling uncontrollably, I felt like my legs were going to give out as I contemplated what to do next, struggling to comprehend the grisly scene. My eyes were drawn to the painting that I just remembered was back on the wall. The woman's face looked completely different, and now widened eyes appeared to bulge out of her head and contained a derange. twisted look. Her blank facial expression was replaced by a maniac ear-to-ear smile,

flashing a set of large, jagged, brownish-yellow teeth, that, along with the area around her mouth, was smeared with blood. Before finally bolting out of the house, one of the last things I noticed was the blood covering the woman's mouth appeared to be smeared on the portrait surface, which streaked down the rest of the canvas and dripped on the floor. In my hysterical state, I struggled to get the... car unlocked and took one last look at the house. The portrait now stood in one of the bedroom

windows, looking down at me. The woman in the painting still wore that wide, toothy, blood-soaked smile, appearing to lavish over my gas state. I got in my car and drove, unsure where to go, still in my pajamas with most of my right-side soaked in Lydia's blood. I kept driving until I spotted another car that I flagged down and had them called the police. I was still severely shaken. when the authorities arrived, who initially seemed skeptical about my story, but believed I was genuinely shaken by whatever I saw. Naturally, I was the top suspect in Lydia's death, but ultimately got cleared of any wrongdoing after a thorough investigation.

Although the detectives exonerated me, they never provided an official explanation of who or what killed Lydia. They went back and forth between theorising who some sort of animal or intruder. What was most unsettling about their findings, were when they confirmed Lydia's wounds were in fact bite marks, but never identified where they originated. I never mentioned anything about the portrait, figuring that telling such an outlandish story would rekindle any suspicion. A few weeks after Lydia's death, the houseowner reached out, saying he found my engagement ring while cleaning out the kitchen cabinet. After giving him my mailing information, and the man's response hit me with the impact of a fast-moving locomotive.

What portrait? The man claimed he never hung a painting in that bedroom, nor did he have any idea what I was talking about when I described the portrait. I've spent countless hours trying to piece together what happened that night, unsure if Lydia and I fell victim to some ultra-stealthy assailant or something more unexplainable. There was no way we were alone that night. How else could you explain the footsteps or the portrait being put back up on the wall?

But what about the painting? changing expressions, this twisted gruesome smile or blood physically smeared over the woman's face dripping onto the floor. I don't know how long I obsessed over these questions before finally accepting I would never get the answers I sought. I decided to write about what happened to me as a form of closure, among other reasons. Lydia's case is still open, but I haven't heard from the police or any new developments in years. I finally started to move on and even met another girl that I've had a strong relationship with

over the last 16 months I never told her about Didier although I regret not saying anything now which segues into the second reason I'm recounting that fateful weekend I'm staying in a motel right now after seeing what my current girlfriend bought from a local flea market

what she called a surprise that would quote compliment our bedrooms decor which was a project she would put herself in charge of, she's an interior decorator, turned out to be my worst nightmare. My current girlfriend unwitterly purchased that same of the woman with menacing eyes and blank expression, which she hung on the wall directly, across from our bed. Your aunt is so weird, why are we doing this again? Christine asked, half kidding. I couldn't help but be a bit annoyed. Margie was my aunt. I was allowed to make fun of her.

everybody else wasn't supposed to. But everyone else did mock her, constantly. The whole sprawling community seemed to think she was a joke. She was a disgraced scientist who'd been kicked out of a professorship at MIT and made to return home to a mountainous region of Western Canada due to a lack of other job opportunities in her field. She had been black-balled by the entire scientific community. At least one would think if you search the name online.

She essentially lived as a hermit now, secluded in a rickety old home in the woods halfway up Mount Dynasty. It was rigged up with a myriad assortment of art inventions that function like Rube Goldberg machines to keep a life running in its slipshod way. Picture Rick Moranis in Honey I Shrunk the Kids and you'll be on the right track, or maybe Wallace and Grommet, since she had a dog who served as a well-trained assistant and loyal companion to her. We were driving up there to see her, and I was doing my best and navigate the wandering forest road, getting out every so often to move fallen tree branches, further indication that no one had been up there to visit her but us. There had been a big storm a couple of days prior, and I was concerned that it had knocked out of power, and that she could be in trouble, since she hadn't been returned my phone call since then.

I'm just worried about her, the way she sounded on the phone the other day, and now she's not even picking up when I call. I just want to check on her quickly. Then we can go, okay? Christine sighed and went back to looking at her phone, scrolling through stories from other people's lives and reading about more toxic relationships on the website that seemed to specialize in that.

I can't believe this guy. His wife works and does everything around the house, cleaning, laundry the works, and all he has to do is cook, and he just makes mac and cheese for dinner every night. Then he gets mad when she asks him to cook something, else for a change. What an asshole. Are you reading more of those stories

again? I can't help it. People are terrible. You know that. Yeah, I know. The bouncing up and down of the vehicle, as it went over roots and rocks and pottles, eventually became too much for her to bear, and she put the phone into her coat. What did she

say again? Huh? The other day, when she called, what did she say that freaked you out so much? She said there was some asteroid or meteor or something that had come down from the sky, that there was a loud boom and everything little bright green for a few seconds. She's probably high on mushrooms again. Remember last year when we drove all the way out here because she said her water turned purple?

Yeah, I mean, she didn't sound too disjoint her this time, but she did say she was going to look for the meteor up on the mountain. I mean, if it was a meteor, that would be cool. But why would the sky turn green? I saw that dash cam video from Russia with a meteor lit up the sky, but it turned white, not green. I don't know. Here it is, finally. We rounded a corner and saw the house coming up in the distance. Margie's dog, Scout, came running up to the car to greet us.

Scout looked different. He was glowing green, first of all, like plutonium at the power plant in the Simpsons cartoon. This made me nervous to get out of the car. But then I saw Margie walking out towards us too, and my concern overtook my sense of caution. She was also glowing, just slightly, that same eerie green glow. Hey Jason, nice of you to come all the way up here to see your dear old Aunt Margie. I missed you too.

She was rambling under her breath still and muttering so quietly I couldn't make out the words. Before I could stop her, she'd embraced me in a hug and squeezed me tightly for a few seconds before moving on to give Christine a big kiss on the cheek and a bear hug as well. Come on inside, I've got coffee brewing and I made up a few sandwiches for lunch. Christine looked over at me nervously and I mouthed something wordlessly to her about how we'd only stay for a few minutes. The three of us walked inside with a scout luminescing at our heels. My aunt's faithful dog was making strange noises that weren't quite barks or wafts, but sounded almost human like he was trying to say something.

Run was probably what he was trying to say in retrospect. It came out sounding like, Rumpf. We got inside the house, and I immediately noticed an odd humming sound that seemed to be emanating from somewhere in the basement where Margie's lab and office were located. What's that sound, Aunt Margie? I asked. Oh, just the downstairs fridge, acting up again, probably.

Nothing to be worried about. Now come on over to the table and have a seat for a few minutes. Plate had already been made up for us with egg salad sandwiches on them, chips piled high and coarse law. It was like she had been expecting us. She went over to the counter in the kitchen where a full pot of coffee was brewing. I noticed she already had three mugs set out, and I recalled again how I hadn't been able to reach her to tell her we were coming.

The coffee pot was lifted from his spot by a robotic arm, which proceeded to pour it into the cups without spilling a drop. Her technology seemed to be running much more smoothly than on my last, visit, where I had suffered first-degree burns after one of a robot served hot tea all over my lap. She brought over steaming cups of coffee and set them in front of us, looking pleased with how we were already digging into our sandwiches. I couldn't help it. They smelled delicious, and were indeed just as good as they looked. With my mouthful, I decided to address the green glowing elephant in the room, reluctantly. So, um, what's with the

the whole green glow you've got going on there. Great sandwiches, by the way, top notch. You really outdid yourself. Christine nodded and said, Mm-hmm, with a mouthful. Oh, thanks. Glad you liked them. I guess the whole glowing green business started when I brought that meteor back from my hike up in the mountain.

It's down in the lab where I've been running various experiments with it. I guess I hadn't really given it much thoughts until now. I've been too busy. since that night I've been having a million different ideas. Her eyes looked slightly manic as she paced, talking about the night she brought the meteor back. Soon she was rambling quietly and under her breath again, and I asked her what she was saying,

since I couldn't understand. Nothing, nothing. Do you want to see it? It's going to change everything. Despite the part of me growing increasingly panicked and terrified, more and more by the second, I felt an overwhelming urge to do. relax, to calm down.

I couldn't understand where it was coming from, but it was suddenly impossible to ignore. I can't explain why, but suddenly, I really did want to see it. An uncontrollable desire was inserted deep within my mind by something powerful beyond my understanding. Sure, yes, I would like to see the meteor. The words came out of my mouth effortlessly and without deliberation. No, this isn't right. None of this is right.

My terrified thoughts shouted in protest. Yes, I would also like to see, Christine said in a monotone voice. She took Christine's hand, then led us down to the basement and into a lab. Despite the darkness, the whole space was glowing green, as if a bright fluorescent light was shining from somewhere in the depths of the basement. Things like veins or tree roots grew along the walls, and ceiling everywhere, extending outwards from the lab space. They were growing insidiously.

This spread barely perceptible to the naked eye as they took over the basement, a subtle green glow barely noticeable within them. As we got into the lab proper, I saw a much brighter glow emanating from something in the corner where the roots was spreading out from. It looked like an eyeball, enveloped in root and webbing, pulsating with energy and emitting a low hum that rattled the fillings in my teeth and made my eyes water.

This is my baby. It's giving me all sorts of ideas and how to make things better. Do you feel it, filling up the dark spaces in your mind? It'll make a nest there and live with you always. You will glow with a warmth of its power.

The word hit my mind, and I felt spikes of terror running like knives down my spine. My breaths were coming in ragged burst, and I was suddenly sick like I wanted to vomit. but all of these urges were being supplanted by something else. We walked over toward the meteor and I saw it was pulsing as we drew near.

I heard foreign thoughts entering my head, spoken in an alien language, which I did not understand at first, but then it became clear. Everything became clear. The pulsating, glowing thing on the table that was a giant green eye looked towards me. It reached into my mind and I felt it probing and pulling. at my thoughts, putting things back how it preferred, and moving on to other sections of my memories. My hidden desires, and every shameful secret, uncovered and exposed to a great, powerful green spotlight that shone into my consciousness and filled it with new thoughts,

new theories, new insights, and plans. It began to insert itself there, and I felt a warm presence fill my being. There were veins extending out from the meteor and attaching themselves to my feet, crawling at my legs, and then, after some length of time had passed, feeling like an eternity and a second all at once, they were going into my eyes and mouth, my nose and ears. I felt their tingling tips searching and prodding, and heard the soft rustling of them growing into my skull through my ear canals. Part of my mind felt terrified still, but that frightened, screaming voice in the back of my mind was becoming a bit easier to ignore now. See, I told you, do you hear it whispering to you Jason, it has so many plans for us. It's going to make us better. Just give in to it.

Suddenly, everything had a green glow to it. And I realized as I walked back to the car with Christine by my side that it was not the world, but us that were now humming and glowing green with an alien energy that now invaded our bodies. No, not invaded. That's not the right word. Yes, it is. They're attacking you. They're taking over, don't you see? My mind was screaming now, screaming, trying to convince me now that we were away from its power source that this wasn't right. Scout was tugging at something on my leg,

and I saw it was a root from the meteorite. He was pulling at it with his teeth, and, as it came free from my skin, I felt it loosened its grip from my mind slightly as well. The dog ripped another piece free, and I had a sudden sense of terrified panic again, overwhelming this time. I reached up and felt the foreign roots of,

my head and began to pull them off like a scab, one that hadn't quite healed yet, and pulled off the skin with it, causing blood to well up beneath. I pulled more of the roots from my face, and felt them tugging in my brain as I ripped them out through my nose and out of my ears. They scraped like fish hooks and screamed in high screeching whales that pierced my mind as I tore them from my body and stunted them with my boot, silencing them. Scout was pulling at the ones that had ensnared my wife's leg, and Christine followed my lead, and as we tore the green-glowing roots from our bodies, I felt my mind shouting in triumph.

Then heard my aunt screaming as if in pain. She came running out of the house, her nose bleeding. What did you do to my babies? She screamed. Her hair was askew, and she looked terrified and angered, hurt and offended. She was carrying a large hunting rifle in her hands. Oh no. Oh God!

Christine tore the last piece of alien growth from her hair And I saw it had left a scarred and blooded We ducked into the car And I heard a shot or ricochet of a tree nearby And saw my aunt reloading a gun I turned the key in the ignition And backed up out of the driveway as fast as I could Just barely avoiding another shot from a rifle

That hit my rearview mirror But at least missed us Nearly going off the road I managed to turn around the bend And saw her chasing after us through the trees still trying to shoot at us. Spinning the car around quickly at the first intersection, I managed to get us driving him forward instead of reverse.

We drove away at a high rate of speed, and eventually my heart began to slow down ever so slightly, and I took a few seconds to catch my breath. That was when I heard the panting noise from the back seat and looked behind me to see a glowing green canine sitting there. I couldn't just leave him there, said Christine, after seeing the expression on my face. Since that woman back on Mount Dynasty Really isn't my aunt anymore

But something else entirely now I don't feel safe for Scouts Bringing him back there At the same time I'm not too sure about keeping him at our place I mean I love dogs But the telepathic alien radiation Might be a bit of a problem

He seems like he feels right at home In our place though He's putting down roots already I won't go back to work tomorrow I don't care what Jack says I how much he threatens to tell my probation officer. I will not hear the way my co-workers laugh at me. They tell me it's nothing, but they didn't see it.

They haven't seen the spot, like I did today. Yeah, I did time. I'm not proud of it, but I'm not going to BS anybody and tell them a lie. I got a little too drunk one night and assaulted someone in a bar. It was my first offence, and I did my two years without much hassle. Hell, they even let me do my last year at work release, so I could keep paying my parents' mortgage for them. I worked construction, so it was a good fit. They set me up in an outfit, they had been doing drywall and laying flooring, and I worked with the crew I got along with.

It was a sweet gig, and it was a gig that I was told I could keep after I got released. When the day of my release came, I told them I would see them in a few days and rejoined the real world. That had been the night My dad had suffered a stroke It was a bad one Mom woke me up screaming And we took him to the hospital In the back of an ambulance

Suddenly there were doctors to talk to Changes to make in the house I'd grown up in And a man who'd once taken care of me To take care of He'd lost function in nearly half of his body And with Mom feeling very overwhelmed It became my job to take care of Dad It wasn't until my probation

officer informed me that I was in danger of violating, that I realized it had been almost a month since I was released. I understand you've got some things going on, but you have to maintain employment as part of your probation. Your job with the construction firm says they'll let you come back if you're still interested, but you have to have some income coming in by the end of the week or risk violating your probation. I went to the form in the next day to see if I could get my old job back, but it appeared I was in for a surprise. Yeah, sorry. we filled your spot on that crew. We didn't know when you'd be back,

and we needed a full crew on that job. I resisted the urge to rage at him. I had been told I could have my old job back. Then why did you tell my probation officer I could come back? Because I have other crews I can stick you on if you're still interested. I told him I was, and he gave me a number to call. That's Jack. He's been begging me for another able body.

Give him a call and see if you can meet up with him today. I thanked him, inwardly fuming that he'd fill my position on my crew and called the number. Jack answered on the third ring and told me that his crew left at 5 a.m. If I wanted a spot on it, I'd better be at the yard at 5, ready to work. I told him I would, and he hung up on me mid-sentence. I already didn't have a good feeling about this guy. He was terse and didn't sound like the kind of guy you wanted to have a beer with after work. Regardless, I needed the work, so I set my alarm the night before and dragged up before dawn to meet this asshole on the yard at 5am.

Oh boy, had I been right in my hunch by this guy. Jack was one of those average-sized dudes who thinks he's a giant, the kind of guy who gets their ass beat in prison. He wore jeans and a sleeved his t-shirt with a gold chain that hung down to his thick chest hair. His hair was held into place with enough grease to change the oil in my car, and I saw him single, me out the second he showed up. He had a small crew, maybe five guys. But the way he zeroed in on me, let me know that he'd been looking for me. Well, well, you actually showed up.

Rick may speak highly of you, but I'm not just going to drop somebody down so some ex-con could have his job. You'll be cleaning the job site until I'm convinced you're not going to show up high or dip out in the middle of the day. If that's not okay with you, then go tell your probation officer to send you back where you came from. He turned and walked away. the crew piling into his truck

as I just stood there in stunned silence I had to remind myself how much I needed this job before I piled in the back and we left for the sight I had to remind myself that mom and dad needed me home and not in prison a lot over the next few hours

we pulled about side this dumpy-looking house in the suburbs just that the sun started to come up over the horizon it was an old two-story with a peeling exterior and a yard that looked like it had last seen a lawnmower when Bush was in office They had made a pathway of the walk so they could bring their tools in

and a big metal dumpster created an island and the grass where they had set it. Jack collected us on the porch so he could give us our assignments. The old house was being renovated so the company could flip it and he set several of us to ripping at the carpet. After assignments were given, Jack and three others went upstairs to assess the damage. I was set to pulling the carpet in the downstairs living room. There was a dingy little room with a pair of small windows that reminded me of eyes. The carpet was disgusting, covered in herring crumbs and tacky with something like old soda.

It was sliding on my gloves when someone threw a crowbar onto the floor and walked off. Hey, aren't you going to help me? I asked, but the guy who tossed the crowbar just shook his head. We each get a room. This one's yours, so get to it. Then they left me to pull carpet in this big dirty room by myself. The living room wasn't huge, but it was still a lot to ask of one person. I pressed the Corabarin and pulled the carpet away from the wall, not bothering to be gentle.

The dry wall was going to be ripped out next, and I suddenly wondered why they were pulling the carpet out first. I shrugged. I wasn't the boss here, so I guess I'd just have to do as I was told. That was the first time. I noticed the spot. It was in the corner of the living room, A big water stain that seemed to take up two walls and went through the crack in it. It was about the size of a basketball, the water spot looking like it would be wet if I touched it. But it kind of freaked me out for some reason. As I worked, I could almost swear it was moving, just a little, and I got that feeling like eyes on the back of my neck.

You know the feeling, the one that makes your hair prickle up, the one that makes you think you're being watched. I tried not to let it bug me, but it was like I could feel. that spot as I worked. The carpet work didn't date long, and an hour later, I had it rolled up and ready to haul out. I looked around for help, but the others were still hard at it, or at least pretending to be. I could see three more sitting around smoking or chatting for every one guy working. When I asked them to help me get my carpet out to the dumpster, they just scoffed and waved me away. I couldn't move it by myself, and so I just left it in the living room I went to look for more carpet to pull.

It seemed that my fellow workers weren't as diligent as I was because there were still carpet in three rooms that needed pulling. I sighed. This was clearly going to be my life for a while, and I set to work pulling the carpet and getting it ready to haul out. As I worked in a bedroom, the walls still off blue with stormy-looking clouds painting on it.

I got that feeling like someone was watching me. I turned to the door, thinking maybe one of my co-workers, had come to see who was making so much noise back here, but there was no one. I looked at the window, but it was so caked with dust that no one could have seen anything through it.

I glanced over to the closet, thinking maybe someone was lurking, and that was when I saw the source of my discomfort. A basketball size spot on the wall over the closet door. I tried to convince myself that it was nothing. It was just the water spot after all. The house was probably full of them, and I just happened to have found two that looked alike.

I kept working, pulling up tax trips in places, but I still felt that funny feeling that something was watching me. As the carpet rolled up, I began to push it towards the door, sending up puffs of smoke as it thumped over. As I pushed, I couldn't help but glance at the spot. He was still there, hanging over the closet door, seeming to watch me as I worked. I turned to look at it squarely and gasped.

as I noticed a large white hole in the middle of the spot, like an eye floating in a puddle. I ran out of the room then, bumping into another worker as I beat a hasty retreat. There you are, he said Tursley. We've been looking for you. Come help us move with this carpet. I was more than happy to oblige

and had almost forgotten about the spot until after lunch. We spent the rest of the morning hefting the carpet, pulling the rest of the carpet, and assessing the work for tomorrow. I didn't think about the spot much. People being around me made me feel a little crazy about being afraid of it. But as we worked, I could swear I saw it again and again.

The walls were covered with stains. The pipes were likely bad. But this one was definitely the same spot. The white circle was gone, but I still found myself looking for it when I went into a room. The guys on the crew must have noticed, because they started making jokes about how prison had made me chumpy. He's got to check all the corners when he comes in to make sure no booty bandits are lurking.

A big slovenly one in overalls would say, and they'd all laugh like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. If I didn't need this job so bad, I'd have made something of it. We moved upstairs eventually, finding two bedrooms and a bathroom up there, and by five o'clock, we had all the carpet out of the house and in the dumpster out front. Jack came in the truck, handing out paychecks and thanking the guys for their hard work. When he came to me, he handed me the check grudgingly,

scowling the whole time and holding it when I tried to take it from him. Tomorrow, I expect to see some real work out of you, not just half-assing it like you did today. I took the check and walked off. I'd find my own way back. The next day was a little better. Jack said the dry wall would be next, and then he and his cromely. he's disappeared out to the truck while the rest of us worked. We all started tearing out drywall, dust and nails flying,

and I meant to swing my hammer into that spot extra hard when I saw it. To my disappointment though, the spot never showed up. I had seen it everywhere yesterday, seen it in every room at least once, but today he was absent. We spent the next day tearing out drywall and cleaning up after ourselves, and when five o'clock came we packed up and went out to be laid. Today had been better. Nothing builds camaraderie like hard work,

and I found myself joining in on the jokes and conversations that happened in the group. We were covered in drywall dust as we walked out that day, laughing about how Tony had been scared by that rat when he busted into the drywall in the laundry room. Jack looked at them coldly, affronted that they had accepted me so easily. He handed my check in silence And I piled into the back of the truck with the others The next day was the last day I'd work with him

We spent that next day hanging drywall in the downstairs Between the ten of us we worked diligently and quickly The dry wall went up a sheet at a time Something I was pretty good at And I was glad to see it cover the hollow studs And the newly blown in insulation We marked a few spots where the beams were rotten but the pipes actually looked pretty good, as did the electrical.

I began to wonder what had made the spots I kept seeing. They looked so wet, but I pushed it out of my mind as I worked beside my newfound companions. By five o'clock, we had done most of the downstairs, and we'd have the rest finished tomorrow so we could move upstairs. When I walked out under the porch, though, I realised I'd forgotten something. I'd laid my dad's watch on the counter, not wanting it damaged while we were working, and I'd forgotten about it. I grabbed my check and turned to go back into the house. Jack scowled at me as I walked off.

We're leaving, it called out to my back, but I waved him off. If you're gone when I get back, I'll just find my own way. I wasn't about to leave my watch here overnight. I went to the kitchen and choked the counter, but found nothing. It was powdery with dust from today's one. work, and I thought I could see an indent where the watch had been, but I could find no watch. I began to look around, hoping it hadn't found its way into someone's pocket, when I looked into the living room and saw it sitting dead centre of the debris riddled floor.

I took a step, but something brought me up short. A little tickle in the back of my head told me that this was a little too convenient. It was like a trap baited and waiting for an unlucky animal to blundering. under into it. I shook it off. I wanted my watch, damn it, and I wasn't going to abandon it because I had a hinky feeling.

I bent down to get it, wrapping my fingers around the cold metal. When I saw something out of the corner of my eye, it was a pulsating, sludgy something, and it looked to be marring the new drywall.

I looked up, exasperated, figuring that someone had put a nail through a pipe at some point today, but what I saw drew me up short, I was left half bent, filled with fear, as I saw the oozy black spot seething on the new drywall. It was bigger than a basketball now, its inky depths seeming to beat like a heart, and as I watched it, I could see two white circles materialising out of the soup.

They rolled around like lost eggs and finally came to rest in the middle of the sludge. I wanted to run, I didn't want to be seen by whatever this thing was, but I was trapped like a deer in headlights. I felt my breath hitching in my chest and I could only wait for my legs to regain their strength. The white orbs rolled around in the soup and became eyes. They blinked at me, their centres trained on me as I bent there.

And, all at once, a Cheshire cat smile floated under them as it beamed at me. I was stuck, looking into this Ingey hole, the edges dribbling down the fresh dry wall as it oozed and ran. Suddenly, I was sure that a part of the darkness was ahead. Ahead with eyes that were looking out at me from whatever inky void it inhabited,

and maybe with hands that wanted to pull me into that dark hole. As if it had read my mind, I saw dark hands grip the edge of the spot, trying to pull itself out and enter my world. It never lost eye contact as it pulled itself into our world, and I could see the vague outline of its own. head as it came free from the spot with a placental pop. That was all I needed to see.

Suddenly, my legs were moving in overtime. My heart was racing like a steam engine, and I was out the door and slamming it behind me before I could quite remember how I had gotten to the porch. Even though the blood pounding in my ears and the rubber of my sneaker pounding on the wooden floor had dominated my hearing, there was one sound that I will never forget. I may not be able to remember how I came to be on the porch. heaving and gasping for air but I do remember the sound

I heard just before I threw the door open and was free it was a plop and a splatter similar to a bucket of paint being emptied on the ground I ran home calling Jack as I took off up the sidewalk

he picked up on the second ring I'm not coming to get you I told you that I was Jack you've got to get someone back to the site there's someone there who Jack asked, and I could hear his skepticism. If this is some kind of goof, I don't get it.

I told him how I'd gone back for my watch, and I'd seen someone skulking around the sight. I didn't tell him about the oozing hole in the wall. He'd see that. However, I did tell him that I thought the guy might be on drugs, so he should be careful. He was banging his fists on the dry wall, so I booked it. I finished, trying to keep it believable.

The crew was just starting to warm. to me, and I didn't want them to think I was a nut job. Jesus Christ, I thought you ex-cons were tough. I'll go have a look. Just stay home, and I'll let you know what I find. That was an hour ago. Since I got home, I've been in my room, waiting on him to call, and I decided to write this while I waited.

When I opened my laptop, though, my desire to write the story became all the more prevalent. Because, as I slid it open, I caught a glimpse behind me. and realize that I'll be fortunate if I have time to finish this tale. I saw a basketball-sized hole reflected on the screen as the title screen came up. I got up, locked the door and moved my writing to the living room. I don't know if the locked door will stop whatever may come out of that dribbling hole, but I do know that it may give me enough time to finish this before it breaks the service. Keep your eyes peeled for water spots.

you never know what might come slipping out. I think I was nine when I first found my granddad's teeth. Me and my brother couldn't stop laughing. They came with that little key that you could wind up and walked around on little feet. Chattering together in silent laughter, the rows of teeth clacked against each other as they paraded around in a little circle.

I suppose we'd seen them before, in comics or TV or something. But somehow, having them right in front of us was much funnier. Johnny set them on the dresser, and they pushed aside some little thimbles that had belonged to our grandmother before she passed away. One thimble fell off, clattering to the floor, and we both erupted with whoops of laughter. But it didn't last long. What the hell are you? Our granddad began as he stormed into the room.

I knew he would be mad. I'd been on the wrong side of my granddad's temper before, and whenever grandma was involved, God rest of soul, his anger became tenfold. He gave me a clip around the ear and pulled Johnny onto his feet. These aren't yours, he snarled, snatching up the teeth and reaching for the thimble. As he bent over, though, he must have hurt his back. He shot out a hand in Winston pain. Johnny's eyes met mine. You know when something is funny because it shouldn't be?

Well, to me and Johnny, right then and there, it was hilarious. We both giggled into our hands and our heads bumped together by our granddad. He could be a mean old bugger when he wanted to be. The teeth got locked away and I picked up the thimble for him, which was promptly placed back in its precise position. For a comedian, Grandad sure is miserable, I said to my dad when we were safely in the car out of earshot. My head still hurt from where he'd slapped me.

Johnny was pouting too. None of it seemed as funny now. Well, he's not a comedian anymore. Hasn't been for a long time. my dad said as we pulled away from Grandad's drive. He adjusted his wing mirror. People change. He wasn't always so grumpy, you know.

I don't think I've ever seen him smile since your grandma passed away. That's why he got mad, Johnny said, rubbing the front of his head where he'd unintentionally headbutted. We knocked off Grandma's thimble, but it was an accident. I've never even seen Granddad smile, I said, folding my arms. He's just a grumpy old fart. That made my dad chuckle. I suppose he is, but he used to be different, you know. I've never met anyone who could make me laugh like your granddad could.

He's never made you laugh, I protested. He used to, my dad said. He used to make me laugh till my belly hurt. Like I say, people change. But for me and Johnny, we never saw Granddad change. As we grew up, he just stayed the same. Grouchy, quick to watch. anger, boring. How he was ever a fun-loving comedian completely alluded us. He was family, sure,

and I suppose we loved him in our own way. But whatever love we had for him never felt returned, even in the smallest way. Neither of us looked forward to going around to see him, not like our other grandparents on mum's side. As he became more and more decrepid, it only became more of a sure. As children, we'd entertained ourselves, but as adults, trying to have a conversation with a man, was like trying to draw blood from a stone. It wasn't just me either. Our whole family slowly became less patient with how much of a liability granddad had become. Even at Johnny's wedding, he was miserable, sat on the table on his own. All those kind souls who wanted to keep an elderly gentleman company quickly found some excuse to leave, shaking their heads as they

did. Eventually, as his body began to fail him, discussion turned to what to do about granddad. He could no longer look after himself, or his house, and increasingly frequent visits were really starting to take their toll on my father. Mom refused to go around anymore, after one insult or another hurled away, became the final straw. Nobody else would see him. Me and Johnny tried to help out where he could, but only for dad's sake. And every single time, grander. and it will make you feel like the biggest asshole in the world for trying to help. He'd moan about everything, insults her entire extended family, accuses of stealing or, quote, trying to squeeze into his will.

Even sitting down, trying to watch TV with him was an effort. We'd channel up, and he'd tell me why every single option was terrible, and he'd rather turn it off. Then, when it was off, he'd complain about being bored, right in the middle of a conversation. Whenever I left, I had to fight the urge not to slam it, the goddamn door. So I hope you won't feel bad of me

when I say it was almost a relief when the day finally came to put Grandad in a home. It was a nice one if that makes it any better. One of those that comes with the brochure. Dad had to sell Grandad's house to scrape together the money to pay for it, but the sale would make

sure Grandad was comfortable and living in a moderate luxury for his remaining days. Not that he appreciated any of it, mind you. It's never nice when someone loses their independence and has to be confined to a retirement home. But this place had his own bistro restaurant, a swimming pool, even a bloody spa. Granddad would moan about being forced into this hellhole. That was nice of the most holiday resorts I'd been to.

It was hard to feel sympathy for the man. He also turned out to be something of a celebrity amongst the other residents. Eric Didley, a toothless old man exclaimed to me the first time I went to see Granddad. He nudged me with a bony elbow. "'You remember him, don't you?' "'Yeah,' I said with a little laugh, "'as I pulled out a chair on my granddad's table. "'He was sat alone, I noticed.

"'He's my granddad.' "'Sore him in 75. "'Never laughed so hard in my life. "'Diddly, Dee!' "'He curled an old finger as he said it. "'I didn't know what he was referring to. "'But whatever it was, "'it snapped my granddad out of his salky silence.

"'Get lost, you old prune. He barked. The toothless old man's smile drooped a little. Not so funny now, though, is he? I said, get lost! My granddad snapped, hunting his chair to angle himself slightly away from the toothless man. It was comical in its own way.

These two old men bickering like toddlers. But it didn't bode well for my visit. Small talk always soured quickly with Granddad, and it looked like he was already in a foul mood. Arms folded and wrinkled features twisted. "'Hey, Grand, that was all I managed before he cut me off. "'I don't know why you bother coming here. "'I wish you'd all just let me die.'

"'I'd not even sat down. "'I cleared my throat and tried to reassure him that nobody wanted that. "'I didn't know if I was trying to convince him or myself. "'He didn't buy it either way, and resumed his frosty silence. "'Looks like you've got some fans here,' I tried. "'Rotters, the lot of them.' A chorus of Diddley D came from the table next to us with a ripple of childish giggles from the elderly residents. Well, you're still making them laugh.

That earned a dismissive huff, which typically meant that particular thread of conversation was over. But I was curious and didn't want to spend my visit sat in silence. Setting his jaw, Grandad's only response was a slight adjusting of his shoulders. Look, it's obviously bothering you, I said, trying a dead. different tact. Tell me about it. Granddad's lips pursed, and he sighed a deep breath before meeting my eyes. I used to make props and things, part of my act. One of them was this little finger. It waggled and said, Diddley Dee and a stupid little voice. Echoes of Didley Dee struck up on some of the tables around us. Whatever it was, they'd obviously found it amusing to remember it

after all these years. I tried telling my Granddad this, but he wasn't having it. It was always the stupid ones people drank up the most, and the ones that were actually genius got overlooked. Do-diddly D, they said, a 10-year-old joke, and they'd have me doing it every night. A joke isn't funny when you hear it ten times, or a hundred. Imagine a thousand. Do-diddly Dee, do-Diddley D.

My granddad said in a bitter impersonation of his fans. For the first time, I got a glimpse into his perspective. A one-trick comedian who got outshined by his act, an old memory leapt out at me. I remember one of your props, I said with sudden enthusiasm. Those wind-up dentures. Me and Johnny found them when we were kids. Some flicker of recognition passed my granddad's eyes

before they went dull again. He nodded. Ah, my false teeth. Last prop I ever made. Those dentures actually belonged to my father, your great-granddad. I'd finally earned enough money in my act to afford a proper pair for him.

The real deal, said they said. Well, he had one meal and choked a death on his food. Grandad shook his head, and his wrinkled eyes welled up. For the first time that I could remember, I felt genuine pity for the man. Always blame myself, he said, into his lap. His arms unfolded and tropped to his sides. He tried to do something good in this world,

and it just bites you in the ass. I reached out to touch his arms That wasn't your fault, granddad, just a horrible accident He nodded but I could tell it didn't change the way he felt Before his funeral, he got the dentures back Couldn't get a refund they were custom made But the mortician said some people kept him as souvenirs Well, that did make me laugh

Souvenirs, the murder weapon that killed my dad propped up on a shelf somewhere I figured maybe I could put them to some use, make people laugh, figured that would be something. So, I started on my false teeth, poured my soul into it. After a while, I even started seeing the funny side, the irony of it all.

After years of soft food, my old man could finally chew his food, but died trying, based down and a half-finished steak dinner. He always said, if he was ever on death row, that would be his last meal. I spent days making him, welding bits together, fixing all the little mechanics.

Sometimes I'd just start laughing and not be able to stop. Jokes would bubble to the surface of my mind and I couldn't shake them loose. Kill them with kindness, the last supper. Truth being hard to swallow. I don't even remember finishing the teeth, to be honest. I just woke up and they were there, finished. But as I wound them up and watched my dad's teeth rattle around on the table, suddenly it wasn't funny anymore.

Nothing was. I've never found anything funny since. Granddad trailed off, and I realized I'd been holding my breath, leaning forwards. Noise seemed to flow back into the room as the magic of the story melted away. I tried to think of something to say, but nothing came. Eventually, Granddad said, You can go if you want. I know I'm a burden.

No, I'm staying, Granddad. This is the most we've ever talked about something. why haven't you ever told me this before? He shrugged and I could tell he was barely listening. Eyes downcast, lost in thought. I'm going to get her something to drink and you can tell me about your other props. Not that one and not the finger either. The good ones.

Granddad looked up at me then. After a moment with a hoarse voice, he said, I'd like that. I rose from my seat and asked him what he wanted. Looking towards a nearby cafe, he said, I said, coffee, before grabbing my sleeve and hissing, we'll make it an Irish. At first, I thought he was joking, but I stopped chuckling when he pressed the key into my hand and shot glances at the nearby carers.

When he was sure they weren't looking, he whispered, I got a hip flask in my room, it's inside the globe, bring it out before you get the drinks. I don't want my coffee going cold. If any of the nurses ask, tell him you're getting me a magazine. I decided not to ask how the hell my granddad was managing the smuggling liquor. He resented the carers more than the residence, and he hated the residence. He hated everyone, as far as I could tell. Still, this was the first time I'd ever had anything close to a connection with the man, and I wasn't about to ruin it now. Besides,

he was a grown man, if he wanted a drink, who was I to object? He was in a care home, not a prison. I gave him a cut-nod and walked out of the dining hall. It didn't take long for me to find his room. Everything was signposted so clearly that even the partially blind and deranged could find their way. This place could have passed for a luxury hotel. I passed by a library, a fitness class and a couple of old chaps and wheelchairs playing chess. Not a bad way to see out your final days, I thought. Granddad's room was just as pleasant and grandiose, well furnished with lacquered oak cabinets and a huge window looking out over the pristine landscape gardens. I quickly spotted the globe my grandfather had told me about.

A golden sphere of the world hinged at the equator, and inside a glass-fronted display cabinet, besides some familiar-looking thimbles lined up in a neat little row. Flicking the brass clasp on the globe, I lifted the northern hemisphere, revealing a hidden compartment. Grandad's hip flask was inside, along with two half-finished bottles of scotch. As I lifted out the hip flask, I noticed a small key. and didn't think anything of it until I saw a tin box behind the thimbles.

No way, I muttered to myself, reaching for the box. It was the same one we found the false teeth in all those years ago, locked but with a hole just about the right size for the little key I'd found in the globe. I tried it out of curiosity, and the key worked, unlocking the box with a mechanical click, telling myself I'd just have a little peek, I lifted the lid, and sure enough my granddad's wind-up dentures

were tucked snugly inside his false teeth I couldn't help but grin like a Cheshire cat and soon enough I was chuckling at the old memory of me and Johnny winding them up and watching them parade around dentures click-clacking together that's when the idea struck me

it would be hilarious to bring them out show them to Granddad and the others he said nobody ever appreciated his other props and this was surely one of his greatest. It was certainly making me laugh, even if it was mostly from nostalgia. I scooped them out and stuffed them in my pocket with the hip flask in the other,

shut the box and globe, and headed back down the hall towards the cafe. All the way down the corridor, little giggles were burst out of me as I imagined my granddad's reaction. I couldn't wipe the stupid smile off my face, and, as people drifted over towards me, that just made it so much feel.

funnier. I must have looked like an idiot, and seeing people's confused expressions just made it harder to keep my own face straight. I'd managed it by the time I got to the cafe though. I knew I had to play at Deadpan to get the best reaction out of Grandad, so I suppressed my amusement as best I could. Coffee first. I made a show of considering my options in the queue, but really I was just trying to hide my smile, smothering it with my hand. When I was first in line, I took my time with the order. weighing up each option slowly. Just a little joke to amuse myself really, and I felt my lips twitch at the edges

when the old man behind me dramatically checked his watch and sighed. Got somewhere to be? I asked him and bit my tongue to stop myself bursting with laughter right then and there. The thought of these old people in a rush to live out their final days struck me as cartoonishly comical,

but I wrestled with myself to keep it all bottle inside. I didn't want to ruin the joke. The big reveal I said, frowning to myself. That was actually quite rude, what I'd just done, and the old man's narrow eyes and the touch that drifted from the others in the queue actually managed to stray to my expression. I collected our coffee and walked over to Granddad's table.

Top of the morning, I said in a squeaky voice, wiggling the cup as it passed to my Granddad. When he looked at me with a blank expression, I pointed at his drink and said, "'It's an Irish?' "'Irish coffee, yeah,' he said, and a grating voice cutting me off. "'Give me the flask, will you?' "'He was too intent on the flask to see my widening smile. Once he'd taken it, he immediately glanced over his shoulder and began unscrewing the cap. Whilst he was distracted, I gripped the dentures and wound them around a few times.

"'That's not the only thing I found,' I said, unable to keep from smirking openly. With all the flourish of a magician, I dropped the dentures onto the table and boomed loud enough for the whole room to hear. Your false teeth! As soon as the dentures hit the table, they began to waddle in a tight circle on their little feet. Hinged at the jaw, they gnashed together, as though trying to eat an invisible celery stick and quick little bites. Dad's eyes went so wide I thought they might pop. All the laughter had been holding down erupted from me in a great belly laugh. and by now everyone in the room had turned to look at the commotion.

No! Grandad screamed and lunched forward with wrinkle hands outstretched, but the table was too big, and he couldn't reach from his seated position. As he landed on the table, the impact made the teeth jump into the air ever so slightly, pushing them even further out of reach. It was all so slapstick, I had to clutch my sides to stop from doubling over. Murmours of concern rose up around us, and the thought of how this must look to all these old codgers only made me laugh even harder. No, Kyle, please, my granddad pleaded, slumped over the table like a beached whale.

You need to put him back, you have to put him back. He clawed himself up, winting in pain, forcing him to stand despite old injuries. It was hilarious. Little peals of amusement began to drift from the tables closest to us. Chuckles and giggles. The teeth walked until they top. toppled over the edge of the table, bouncing on the carpeted floor, landing upside down, little feet wriggling in the air.

That got a throaty laugh from the nearby chap, who pointed his walking stick of the teeth and nudged his neighbour in the ribs. You don't understand what you've done, my granddad bellowed, stomping towards the teeth with desperate intent, gripping the table for support. Where's the tin? We have to put them back in the tin. Struck by sudden inspiration, I saw an opportunity and took it. With both hands, I pressed down on my end of the table with all my strength, forcing it down on my side and springing my granddad's side into the air. The quick shift caught him off balance and he toppled like a sack of bricks landing on his hip.

Pain etched across his face and I slapped my thighs and able to stop the eruption of laughter. It was perfect comedy. He got a mixed reaction from those around us though. The closest ones all turned to each other and began chuckling. but I heard some of those across the room take a sharp intake of breath or crying out. Some of the carers even crossed the room

to help my granddad. Tough crowd. The chap with a walking stick though. He got it. In all the commotion, he'd picked up the false teeth and was now setting them on his table. They resumed their lap,

silently chattering away, waddling comically, and now the whole table was laughing appreciatively. As my granddad was pulled to his feet by the carers, He made despair and grabbing motions for the teeth, wintzing in pain as he put all his weight on his leg. Please, anybody, we have to stop it. We need to stop it quickly. The hopeless urgency in his voice even had the orderlies laughing now. Great whoops of laughter burst from the table around the dentures and spread out in great ripples to the surrounding audience.

I slacked the table, pounded it and wiped tears from my eyes as I watched my granddad limp around the table, trying to catch the little walking teeth. He was so slow, they actually managed to outrun him. Kyle, he bleated. Kyle, please, somebody, help me, please. He was crying now, begging. What a performance. The whole room was in on the joke. A woman on the table cackled, head rolling back,

and all the old folks around her pointed at her, laughing even harder. Someone snorted and fell off his chair laughing. Oh God, it was the funniest thing I'd ever seen. Just as my granddad was about to reach the teeth, one of the carers snatched them up and held them out of reach, dropping them onto another table. She poked her tongue out on my granddad and held both hands up to her ears, wagling her fingers.

Those around my granddad blew raspberries at him or put their thumb to their nose and gave taunting gestures. My granddad sagged on the table, hopelessly lost, looking at all the smiling faces around him as if searching for an answer that wasn't there. Well, he was too much for me. me to take. I buckled to my knees, pounding on the floor with a fist as great barks of laughter leapt out of me. I wasn't the only one. A man with no leg slid from his wheelchair, toppling to the

floor. Oh, that was just hysterical. And the whole room pointed to this latest joke, side-splitting and ribs tickling. The legless man was laughing hardest, I think. That's what made it so funny. He can't beat a good, clean gag. The funnier I found it, The more everyone around me laughed. It was contagious. My throat roused with it, chest heaving, eyes watering, barely able to draw breath between each bout of involuntary laughter. I couldn't stop. Somehow, they made it even funnier.

Somebody put their hand on me and pulled me onto my feet. I was laughing so hard I could barely stand. It was my granddad, face intent, still crying. I gestured her into the room around me and pulled as soon. smirking face as if to say, get a load of this guy. Great audience. It spread from me like electricity. I didn't even need words to communicate anymore. They just got it. Just as well, I couldn't have told a joke if I wanted to. I couldn't have stopped laughing. And that would have just made me laugh even more. My granddad was saying something to me, shouting in my ear,

but I couldn't hear him over the deafening roar of chuggles, hoots, cackles and giggles, shrieks of laughter, howls of it. Great trembling peals that would not stop. He shoved me, pain step after pain step, and I was laughing too hard to stop him. All eyes were on us, the main attraction, the fun little side shows at the tables around us. When old batter collapsed onto the table, all the breath squeezed out of her, dead as a dodo. As my elderly grandfather pulled me out of the hall The doors flap shut behind him Muffling the noise enough to hear him

Go, Kyle, please You have to get out of here I could really appreciate what a hoot it was Back in the dining hall The laughter bounced off the walls A true comedy club That was where I wanted to be And I took staggered footsteps back

Towards the double doors But with surprising strength My Granddad forced me back Well, that wasn't funny. Me, in the prime of my life, and my granddad acting like a bouncer to his own show. I clutch my size, unable to stop him from pressing me further down the hall. Go! he roared, teeth bared with effort. Despite being tickled by it all, sure enough, I soon found myself kicked out of the show.

My granddad shut the retirement home doors behind me and slid a walking stick between the two handles, holding them shot with him on the inside. Some of the crowd had spilled out of the cafe now, rolling about in the corridor, leaning on each other, the faint laughter barely making it through the entrance doors. Go, go home! My granddad's cracked voice was dampened by the glass,

but I just made him out over the noise behind him. Now there was an idea. Mom and Dad would love this. I could bring the whole family. It was a family show after all. My throat rasped, but I was still laughing to myself, almost hoarse now. I waggled my finger at my granddad. Now there's an idea, that finger said.

Someone behind him got it and shot one back at me before collapsing onto the floor. Staggering to my car, ribs hurting, I clambered inside, still chuckling to myself. Just at my windscreen, I could see my granddad, sagged into the doors, clamping them shut. The old folks home had a doorman. I barked out a laugh and shook my head, turning the keys in the ignition. The only laughter I could hear now was mine, and I turned the radio off to really appreciate it. It was still funny. All of it. And it only got funnier as I made my grander ties. Grimmed determination plastered on his face. Such a stark contrast to the faces around him, twisted in glee. Some of their arms draped around his shoulders, all heathing and writhing in laughter I couldn't hear.

here. My grandfather, the great comedian, the only one not laughing at his greatest joke. Well, that did make me chuckle. All the way home, giggles of laughter would slip out from me, sloshing over my sides. My cheeks were in agony and seemed to hurt more and more as I drove. My whole body hurt, actually. All my abdominal muscles were cramped, torn where I'd been tensing, doubled over in laughter. It wasn't... that funny. Was it? In fact, as the last trickle of amusement left me, just a little hoof out my nose,

none of it seemed funny at all. Granddad had been crying and I'd... I'd hurt him. I caused all of it. A woman had collapsed because of me. I stopped the car in the middle of the road. What the hell had I done? Why would I even bring those teeth out to my granddad?

I knew he hated them. Oh God, although he'd... people stood in there, laughing themselves to death. I turned the car around, I had to go back. Somehow, I knew I had to help to save my granddad, to save all those people. But as I turned back through pristine hedgerows, flanking the retirement home drive, I was accompanied by flashing lights and wailing sirens. The entrance doors where I'd last seen my granddad were engulfed in flames,

licking around the edges and making it impossible to see inside. dump in my car out of the way of approaching fire engines, I ran out, leaving my keys in the ignition. With growing dread, I sprinted towards the doors, not knowing what I was going to do, just knowing I had to do something. But the heat kept me back, and I still couldn't see a thing inside. Granddad! I screamed. I held it over and over, tears filling my eyes as I ran to the next entrance. Smoke billowed inside, filling the corridor. I tried the handle, but the metal burnt my hand. Someone pulled me back.

A fireman, I think. But I wriggled free from him and ran around the building. There had to be another way in. There had to... When I saw the flames at that one too, I collapsed to the ground, my head in my hands. All the fire escapes were ablaze.

The irony almost made me chuckle, but it came out as a sob. I got pulled to my feet by the fireman and dragged back to the car park. They sat me away from the growing inferno, and I watched them doused the entrance with hoses. They pulled out body after body, and I shook uncontrollably with violent tremors.

My fault, or my fault. Arson, they would tell me later. Someone had purposefully set fire toward the exits. Apparently some medical equipment had been used that started so quickly, but it was a puzzle how the corporate I managed to start it at all the exit, without anybody getting out. They'd only been alerted when nearby residents

saw the rising plumes of smoke. Not everyone inside had died. Most had just passed out from the smoke, they said. Luckily, the fire hadn't reached them before the firefighters had made their way inside and the heat wasn't intent enough to do major internal damage, at least to most people.

Some seem to have died from stress, though. It was to be expected with people of a certain age, they said, sympathetically. My granddad was one of the unfortunate souls that passed away, collapsed near one of the exits. When I tried explaining things, people didn't listen. They all just put it down to shock, guilt and helplessness, mixing with the trauma of losing a loved one.

Nobody believed me, no matter how much I tried to convince them. It didn't help that they couldn't find the teeth I mentioned, or the tin box. Delusions, they told me. me. The mind is a powerful thing and plays tricks on us in ways we can't truly comprehend. My therapist went into great detail to convince me. After long enough, I started to think maybe they were right. After all, I had no proof. That is, until one day I wore an old pair of jeans I'd not worn since that fire. I'd washed them to get rid of the burning smell, but never checked one of the pockets.

tucked away inside was a little wind-up key and as I stared down at it I couldn't help but laugh