CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 SCARY Reddit r/nosleep Horror Stories to keep the voices away

Episode Date: January 25, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "My Father Owned An Amusement Park" Creepypasta►29:51 “I’m on a baseball card, but I’ve never played baseball” Creepypasta►41:54 "Black Site 7" Creepypasta►1:04:23 "THE NOWHERE HOTEL" Creepypasta►1:18:40 "Every Night At 3:00am I Hear Breathing" Creepypasta►1:57:06 "She's always behind me" Creepypasta►2:18:44 "Have you seen the man with the plastic smile?" 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►moppaa: https://www.deviantart.com/moppaa/art...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

I've been having dreams about that summer. Persistent dreams. I can't fall asleep without seeing my dad's face. It's why I started seeing a therapist in the first place, because of those dreams. They always start when I first saw the theme park. We're in his office. I must have been sad because he claps me at the back and says, There's no reason to cry, no reason at all.

His voice scratches at my ears, that I remember. There's little I remember of my father. He says that has something to do with the trauma, but I don't think so. He was quiet when I was young and absent when I was older. That did more to cover him up than anything he did. But he did a lot of things. My dad owned the theme park. He built it.

He bought some old farms property and built a roller coaster on it. I don't know whether it was the divorce that caused it or it caused the divorce. It's not like I can ask. He wasn't even planning and even selling to it. tickets to the place at first. My dad was never particularly stable. My mom got full custody for the first few years after the divorce and he moved halfway across the country as soon as the papers were filed. That's where he built it. They negotiated terms when I was about 11. I would stay with him during the summers, but I stayed at my old school. That always made sense to me. Summer was peak season.

He built the roller coaster first. I remember that. He hired a bunch of contractors, painted it green, and then called it Nessie. That thing broke down three times a week, I swear to God. I can't believe they even let us keep it running. That thing was a death trap. Then came the carnival games. Those types of things with water guns and two small hoops. He hired a couple of townies to do that to man the stands too.

It's been a while, a long while. I'm sorry if I don't get everything right. It all blew up from there. We had more attractions when I was 17. There were bumper cars themed like a circus, with elephants and clowns and chipped paint. Those were always popular. His favourite was the Tunnel of Love.

I don't think we ever got more than six people to ride on that a day. I guess I should say why I said we. My dad, even though he was very well off, was a cheap geyser. Or maybe he was trying to get closer to me. I don't know. I don't know a lot about my dad looking back. Whatever it was, he made me work there through the summer. He never left that park, I swear.

He would just hand me the keys to his place and then say he'd get back when he could. He always came home at one in the morning and left at five. He always went back to the park, setting everything up, doing paperwork. I was 17 when it happened. I had already decided by then. By the time I left that place and turned 18,

I would never look back. I hated that damn theme park. I hated it so much. It was all he could talk about too. He always said this place had a history, even though he built it ten years before. That summer, I was mainly running the bumper cars and the coaster, as my dad squirled himself in an office at the edge of the property.

I know everyone who worked there that summer. There weren't ever more than 20 in the best of years, but that year we had 13. I was the only one from out of town. Everyone else was from the surrounding area. Townies, my dad called them. As if he hadn't been a history professor 11 years earlier. There were about five of us that always hung out and messed around.

There was Chuck, who went to the college nearby and needed extra cash. There was Landon, a year older than me, who was always the odd man out, with his black-died hair and metal t-shirts, and who he knew nothing about. We always joked with increasingly unconvincing tales about his family. life. There was Sarah who worked there since I did, but legally, so she was 22 at least. Then there was Lucy.

This was her first year at the park, and I was crushing on her hard. I could barely get a sentence finished around her. It was almost sad, really, how much I fell for this girl within the first week. Chuck and Sarah teased me mercilessly.

I can't remember her voice. It's crazy what you forget. It's like a silent movie when I think about her. but I know she had a pretty voice. God, I don't know what she's doing now. I hope she's all right. I know we never talked after that summer. How could we really?

How could anyone? I'm really getting ahead of myself again. Every time I tried to tell this story, I just jumped to the end. What else am I supposed to jump to? I shouldn't, I know. Lee says that doesn't help with the sessions, but it makes me, quote, relive the trauma without contextualizing it. That just sounds like a bunch of BS to me.

I remember that summer a lot when I actually tried to think about it. I can remember the way the paint peeled off the sign. I can remember the way that one bumper car, Red 3, kept breaking down because a couple of kids managed to slam it against the wall at full force. I can remember the day the first kid disappeared. It was bright and sunny. The place was overrun with locals. I was leaning against the control panel for the coaster.

as some guy bathed up his cotton candy a couple feet left of me. She came up to me, crying. God, she was crying. She wasn't worried or angry or scared. She was already distraught. Did she know somehow? Did she figure it out? She ran up to me and screamed about some lost kid.

I called it in on my walkie-talkie. Chuck made some joke about it, which she heard and started crying louder about. Not here, he says. I checked with Andrew, who's manning our customer relations desk, which is our BS name for a help kiosk. Not here, he says. I check with Sarah on the bumper cars, see if they have any kids running around there.

Not here, she says. I check around concessions. Not there. I check around walkie-talkies for another five minutes before we do a search. It takes an hour before we call the cops. My dad shut down the park early that day. to help the investigation, he said. I can remember how he said it,

and I can smell the whiskey on his breath. The police searched for three hours, in the park and the woods around, as this mother's wailing the whole time. I can remember how that sounds. It's stuck in my head. I don't think I'll ever forget it. They called off the search of midnight, I heard.

They say they'll fully search the woods in the morning. My dad came home on time that night, He slept soundly. The police do it again in the morning, with less effort, but they don't find him. Nobody ever saw that kid again. It's a sad thing, sure, but that's happened before. Sometimes people disappear. It's sad, but you keep on going.

The next three weeks passed in a flash. I remember the energy of the place afterward. All of us were shaken up by it, but Lucy was definitely the worst off of all of all of of us. She'd never really done that sort of stuff before, and all this missing kid stuff messed with her bad. I remember Chuck making a joke about it, and then she left in a half. Must have been 30 out. We were closing up for the night. It was the first time we really talked. We had made jokes or whatever, but that's when we actually started to trust each other. We started dating a week later. I don't remember how it started, but I knew I was happy.

brief moment. I had a normal summer. The second kid disappeared not long after that. It was a dad this time. A single father worried out of his mind. Thomas Earhart. I remember seeing the kid getting cock and candy and then running around. I saw a lot of kids around there, but I remember him. Red hair, glasses, teeth missing from his mouth. I don't know why I remember that kid. Memory is a strange thing and sometimes it picks up on only the least. important stuff. That time, it caught him. I was watching him.

I know that. Something about him struck me. I guess it's sort of an intuition. He vanished into that crowd. Thomas Earhart. I remember his name, even now. I remember the picture the cop showed me. That same kid smiling, happy, with a family.

There were two sisters, two parents. They were so happy. God. They were so damn happy. He was never seen again. He vanished into that crowd, screaming, laughing. And then we never saw him again. It was the same routine.

We searched for an hour, and then the police were called, and then nothing. They took our statements and then found nothing. They always say I had the problem of not seeing it sooner, but the cops had the same information I did. They knew what I knew. They did nothing. I'm getting out of order. I jumped to the end, but I know I don't want to go there.

Not yet. After Thomas disappeared, I was reassigned. I had been working on bumper cars for the past two weeks, but I got reassigned. My dad put Chuck on the bumper cars because he caught me smoking outside the back of the park. He always hated me smoking, called it morally abhorrent, that it would tear up my lungs. They were his cigarette. He reassigned me to the tunnel of love

because he knew I hated it. I was overjoyed. Lucy was working just next door. Every second I wasn't watching the tunnel, I would let the controls go an autopilot and then flirt with her. Of course, when it didn't break down. That thing broke down every damn day,

even when it couldn't have had more than a dozen people going on it a day. I guess I should explain the ride. just a little bit. It was a dark ride, a slow meandering trot through the world of love, whatever kitchy BS that is. There was this disgusting river water below the boats as the boats moved from room to room

so you could admire the scenery. It was never my thing. I don't think it was anyone's thing. It just was. My dad had to have put a lot of money into it. There were dioramas and little paintings on the walls and a second track to put the, the boat's home for maintenance.

That second track was really just the tunnel into a storage area, a couple of dilapidated props, and some crap he bought from a garage sale. And then, there were the animatronics. I hated those animatronics. Big cartoon animals, pink

and with hearts everywhere. There were teddy bears and chickens and all these animals with eyes that were too damn big. They gave kids nightmares whenever they went on it, and couples who were the only consistent group to go it never came back after they saw those things. I told my dad to take them out so many times,

just let it be a dark ride, but he couldn't let that happen. My dad was a mess at home and in his office, but he obsessed over the tunnel. He couldn't do anything but think about that thing. That's why it reeked of cleaning supplies. He was cleaning it every single day whenever it was closed, even as someone dipped from one room of the ride to another.

This was his small world, and he wasn't going to let me ruin that. He was something compulsive. We knew that. He'd been like that around certain rooms of the house before the divorce. I worked on that ride for the rest of the summer. It was supposed to be completely normal, even as those kids disappeared. We had something bad like that before, but never together.

The police kept looking, but an officer on the premises wasn't a common sight anymore. They told us that they believed it was just a random chance that these two got lost in the same time, told us to keep a lookout. That was supposed to be it. I began thinking of getting out of there again. I told myself I'd work another year, maybe move out here,

even though I hated the place, because Lucy and I were starting to seem somewhat serious, even though it had only been a month and a half. You were kids. Everything seemed like it would last forever. The third kid disappeared at the end of June. A girl. Her name was shy.

I remember all of their names. The police swore on the place, and then we had to shut down the park. My dad hated that. He was a cheap geyser, and losing a whole day, even to this, seeing like the loss of the century. That was the first time I saw Detective Green. I'll call him that, because his name was kind of like that. Big bald guy, probably around £300, 6'3. My dad was dwarfed by him.

Detective Green told us that there was an active investigation. Landon, the weirdo, had a cousin on the force. He was the one who told me that they thought it was somebody who did it. Three kids disappearing within two months wasn't a coincidence. That made my stomach sink. Even though I hated the place, I still felt a little bad for my dad. He put his whole life in this place and if they shut it down, a week with a low overhead could kill the place.

I know that probably wasn't what I should have first thought of. Those were kids. They vanished, disappeared. I still think of Tom's first, red hair, glasses, disappearing into the crowd. He seemed invincible, running around, and I couldn't imagine someone wanting to hurt that kid. I couldn't comprehend it, that any of these people, wondering through the park, could have done it. Hundreds of strangers, hundreds of suspects. The whole thing scared me, even though I wouldn't have admitted it.

it. We were all pretty messed up about it. Lucy especially. Everyone. Except Landon. Landon had always been weird. Loved true crime, horror movies, anything scary. He was a year or two older than me, went to the university nearby, I think. We barely talked to him, I'll be honest, because London always creeped me out. He was a friend, I guess, but I knew we talked smack about him a lot. We were kids. I feel awful about how we treated him. We knew better. At least we should have. Landon was never waited out by all these disappearances, even as much as we were. I'll never forget what he told me when talking about it one day. It was bound to happen sometime, he said. I never liked talking to Landon.

Police swarm the place after they shut it down. We still worked there some days. But they shut it down to any public presence. They didn't want to contaminate the evidence or whatever. But they had no proof that the kids were anywhere on the property. The woods outside the park were just short of being a state park. The rangers were looking for those kids day and night. And having an officer in the park wouldn't have done anything. I wonder if Detective Green did that for a reason.

I have no real clue what went on in that guy's head. Not even now. All I know is that he weirded me out. A lot of things weirded me out. Maybe it was just the circumstances, but Green would always look at me like I was a monster. We worked in the park, just checking and rides, making sure everything was functional.

That was the only concession my dad could ring out of the cops. If the park rides broke down while closed, and we didn't get to them until reopening, we'd be screwed. That I was all right with. I needed that check. Moving out of my mom's house was never going to be cheap. That's funny. I was always focused on the future those days.

And now. I can't stop thinking about the past. They promised they'd reopen the park after two weeks if they didn't find anything. They'd check that place from head to toe. The roller coaster, the bumper cars, the backshed, the offices. Even taking a glance to the tunnel of love. But they didn't find a thing, not a shred. The police department shifted towards coming through the forests,

but everyone in the town knew they had messed up. If they had focused on the forest in the first place, then those kids wouldn't have had more time to fall into caverns or vanish into the woods. Three kids disappearing, around the same time, in a theme park, is a horrific coincidence, we said. We were trying to rationalise it because we couldn't believe that someone could have taken those kids. I remember all five of us hanging out, smoking outside of a convenience store, way past midnight.

It was the hottest August night, can remember. My dad would have been either asleep or at work by then. Either way, he wouldn't have noticed I was gone. We were dumb kids. I remember that. We thought the world was going to be ours, and that seems so realistic. I thought I was going to make myself something. That summer killed a lot of things in me. Lucy always made me feel like everything was going to be all right. That's why I liked her at first. She kept me at ease. We were smoking in the parking lot, talking about how the police mess this up. Three kids.

Three kids missing. I don't remember who said it, but someone got the idea we should go into the theme park, do some detective work ourselves. Maybe it was just because we were stoned out of our minds, but it seemed like a good idea. At least to half of us. Landon thought

it was stupid, ran off, and Sarah had no interest in skulking around that place any more at night than she did at day. That left Chuck, me and Lucy. but she barely wanted to go. The place looked so much worse. In the day, it was charming and a bit rickety,

but at night, all the wrong things stood out. The shadows of the coaster were silhouetted black against the dark blue sky. The only thing lit was the do not enter sign, a little hint of brightness among the night. The whole thing gave me the creeps. I didn't let myself show it. Chuck turned back as soon as we had come,

leaving the two of us. Screw this, he said. We should have followed him away. I fished the flashlight from my glove compartment and flicked it on, bathing the fence in the flickering light. I remember that too. I remember the way the light glittered off the fence shining in the night. We tried to push the gate open,

but my dad had locked it with a chain. He didn't want anyone to get in. I navigated around the fence, searching for a hole in the place. Lucy told me to give him. it up, but I kept urging a forward. This bug of doing this is too scared to get anyone besides kids.

I was an asshole back then. It took me about 15 minutes before we found a hole in the mesh. I could barely fit through, even though I wasn't the tallest. Lucy followed in after me, clutching at my arm. She was shivering in the heat.

We took to the bumper cars first. Their shadows were massive with a flashlight, drenched on the walls in dark. all the magic the bare hint of it my father had managed to accumulate vanished in the harsh shadows and light of the night my teeth began to chatter when i remembered the girl charlotte she had vanished around the bumper cars we continued walking but i stopped talking lucy was right about this i realized then i never should have gone there we went to the darts next then the concessions lucy saw a rat by the cotter's and candy and screamed to high heaven. We went to the roller coaster,

but that had been shut down for repairs a week earlier. Everything was always breaking down. Everything. They were patchwork reconstruction, barely able to continue going. I don't think my dad spent more than a penny on that place, looking back.

It's like he wanted it all to end with an accident. We wondered throughout the whole park, ducking under cobwebs and searching into the corners my dad wouldn't want us to go. We looked through his own. office, this short, fat building that we could see the rest of the park, hidden next of the log flume. The door was locked, but if you'd jiggle the window just right,

you could get it open. I'd done that a dozen times there's still run from his cabinet. It was covered with papers, head to toe. It looked like the place had been ripped apart. If the police really had investigated thoroughly, maybe that was their work. Detective Green had probably read every single document in here. The place looked like a tornado had gone through. We got out of there, quick. I didn't want to linger and leave a trace. My dad was methodical. My stomach twisted up as soon as we got back outside, as soon as I noticed it. Do you smell that? she had said, and I can still see her there, standing in the night. The wind was blowing from the north end of the park. Bleach. I started walking towards a ton of the tunnel. I started walking towards a ton of

of love, not even thinking about what I was doing. Everything goes in slow motion as I look back on it. It feels like it took an eternity to walk from my dad's office to the tunnel. I told myself there was nothing to fear. Nothing had gone wrong. It didn't stop my stomach from twisting up further. I was never that good of a liar, not even to myself. In the day, it had been kitchy, maybe a bit rickety.

But it looked haunted in the middle of the night. The smell of bleach overtook me. It couldn't have been that long since it was sprayed, minutes even. It could have been minutes since my father put another spray of disaffectant in there, and I still think of that all these years later. What if he had seen me? What would he say? What would he do?

We stalked inside, moving as slowly as we could. We were afraid because it hit us then. It made us realize what truly could have been happening. The place was horrifically dark. and he felt like my flashlight was barely peeking through it. I fumbled for the power switch right under the main console. It was a great big lever and I yanked it down, making the whole place a light. We were supposed to be stealthy, of course, but I didn't even think of it as I turned the switch on.

We rarely pull the full lights on in the tunnel. Usually we do a lesser rig, a couple lights to instill a romantic atmosphere. The place would be lit in purples and pinks. bright Valentine's colours. It hid all the dirty parts, the holes in the wall, the dirty water. The place was drenched in that hideous light as soon as we pull the lever.

I'd never seen it like this for long. The wallpaper was old and faded, ripped apart at the edges, all of it covered in hearts and mould. Cupid looked rotten. The carts began moving through the unclean sludge of the water, filled with sick and stale water, missing its weekly cleaning,

turning brownish in the fluorescence. The river smelled like sewage. Everything else smelled like bleach. The walls, the floor, the air, everything. We had to cough to get through the stench. She asked me to head back then, to turn the lights off. She didn't want to venture any further. But I didn't let her.

We have to find out, I'd said. But I don't think I really knew then what I could have found. I don't think I ever had a chance. I got in one of the boats, careful not to get any of the water on me. Lucy followed, more out of duty than any want. The boats began to move, sluggishly through the muck. I could hear it creak. No cute music to hide it.

I could hear Lucy start to breathe heavier as the boat moved further and further along the track. The scent growing ever stronger. I don't think my hair was even on end. I wasn't brave. I just didn't understand what was happening. I hadn't figured out what the smell under the bleach, under the mess, was. It was some mystery scent, something I couldn't quite place, deep and slightly fruity. I know it now. I know it like I know the back of my hand.

Everything seemed a lot clearer, with fluorescence on full blast. The hearts and the cupids were scattered around the ceiling. I could see now with the cupids with little baby dolls he'd attached cardboard wings to. He moved further. The music started up then, which I know made both of us jump. The smell of bleach got stronger as we moved further and further. I clutch the flashlight. She was talking to me then, telling me we should turn back or something.

I wasn't paying attention. All I did was stare forward as the boat slowly moved ever onwards. I wasn't thinking. I couldn't figure out what was going on. Even now, it's hard to put it all together. The image is flash and swore. and all I know is that we're getting closer. As I write this, I can see us there,

trapped in that damn boat, waiting for it all to end. Because I know where it ends. I know what happens next. I've been having this nightmare for months, years maybe. I always dreamt about this moment, sitting in the boat,

knowing what happens next. Sometimes loose is there, sometimes not. Sometimes is my dad sitting in the seat next to me. and no matter how loud I yell you can never hear me I always wake up before we get there it feels like a century before we finally made it

to the animatronics I say that but they didn't move they were big dolls standing still as pre-set music began to play they seemed so different in the normal light than they did in the pink one the cartooning faces seemed closer to plastic the heads are plastic and the bodies are some sort of plush suit

I had never really looked at them closely. My dad had always said that it was too dangerous to step near them to let the professionals handle it. What if I had looked early enough? What if I had seen what he had done? They were plastic and fluff, but they rigged off bleach and the scent beneath. I wanted to run really.

I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible because every bit of me told me this was wrong. But instead, I stepped off the boat and onto the side of the ride. where the animatronics, the mannequins, stood so still. I wanted to vomit as I edged closer. Lucy was yelling now, telling me to get back in the boat, but I didn't listen.

I moved to the mannequin, a pink bear whose eyes were glittered blue and whose paint had been chipped off, and I pulled off the plastic head. The real one beneath almost came off with it. The face had rotted like a pumpkin, melting and greying as the innets came port. pouring out. I could barely tell that it was a human face, but I could make out the barest

pieces, the red hair, the glasses. I could make out Thomas, the boy I'd seen in the posters and in the park who had vanished into the crowd. The next few hours were a blur. I have no memory of leaving the tunnel, going through the park or calling the police. It took them a day to arrest my dad and a month for them to try him. I went home to live with my mom after the that and I never came back to that town. I never came back to that amusement park. I don't think I ever could have. All I think about when I look up that place or read about it or think of it is what those families could have had or those families could have had if my father hadn't taken it away from them. Every time I think of it in the end, I get out of sync. I get back to the

beginning of the dream, back when I was 11 years old, when my dad first told me to the park. But I wasn't sad. No, I wasn't. How could I be, with my father owning a theme park? I was so happy. Everything's staying with it now. I can't think of my dad without thinking of what he did. But I was so happy then.

He took me across the park and there's this one sentence that really stuck with me then. There's no reason to cry. No reason at all. He clapped him in the back, looked over the park, still halfway in construction and smiled. I realised now, he wasn't talking to me. He was looking dead on, right out the window of his office,

straight at the tunnel of love. The mint condition properly sleeved Isaac Bradley baseball car that I needed for my collection turned out to be listed from a cellar in an absolute eyesore of a town. Sure, I'm legally obligated to wear my prescription glasses when driving, but in Gary, Indiana, I've never ripped them off my head faster than when I was driving around that hellhole. It was an utterly haunting hellscape, filled with abandoned ruins of houses and lost hope left right and centre.

If I was breaking the law or not, I simply didn't care anymore. My eyeballs couldn't goddamn breathe. My GPS ended its journey with a ping. Gravel crunched and popped under my tyres as I rolled into the driveway around half-past five. The place was downright decrepit, cut, but. ground fencing had fallen away from around the property, leaving sharp posts that could have been fit for Vlad the Impaler. Mossy fingers and growth climb the dilapidated buildings, covering its wooden boarded walls

and splashes of sage. My years of searching for the end to my collection, with no avail, had brought me here, staring into the abyss of an abandoned house's open-screen door. God help me. Hey man, here to pick up the Isaac Bradley card. I closed the car door behind me as I planted two shoes. onto gravel. This heller was a sickly pale and plumped man

with two sunken eyes, bloated slimy flesh held up his baggy shirt and slicked hair greased around his face. Bodies pulled from the river never looked far off from how this creep did. I should have turned around and left when he didn't reply and only stared at me unblinkingly in the

shadow of the doorframe. Yet my collection beckoned me to step forward. Isaac Bradley beckoned me. From eBay? I prodded him with more details, hoping for both the response to my question and an ease to my nervousness. This guy is exactly the guy you would have expected to be listing auctions from an abandoned house.

Intuition is a powerful thing. With every strike closer to the mute man, my subconscious zapped me with a jolt as if to say, hey, you're risking it all for a piece of cardboard man. Not just any cardboard brain, it was the cardboard. If you're ever at an unfortunate and unlikely turning point in your life where you feel the need to burn your money with an addiction by either collecting cards or starting to smoke crack, make sure to choose crack. It's cheaper that way.

Looking ahead as I approached, I saw his eyes that were vacant, glossy globes. They had sunk ghoulishly into his cheekbones, making my heart race as I closed in for a handshake. I was a couple of metres away from him when he abruptly reanimated and extended one arm, inviting me with a wide, artificial grin. Name's Ernie. Card is right inside. Did you bring cash?

My hand almost slid out of his grip. It was as greasy as his face. The smile said Ernest Ernie. The eyes had Jack Torrance from the shining. Yep, all here, I patted my pocket, leaving some sort of white gooey paint from his hand upon my jeans. inside we went The place reeked of dust That littered unkempt furniture

Broken floorboards creaked With the raspy gasps of a building Never meant to be stepped through again Take a seat while I grab it for you He gestured to one dull, grimy couch I hadn't really put much thought into it before But his face was rather deformed The bridge of his nose was almost non-existent

Skin from his face met the immediate snub Holding two nostrils He, quite frankly, looked like a gruesome bore, and when he spoke, his voice was high-pitched like the strange artificial wine of a farmer trying to draw in a group of livestock. I sat down and pillows collapsed inwards, flicking years of dust into the air. If I wasn't entirely convinced it was a crack den, I was by the time I itched my arm as a cockroach scurred under a broken television cabinet. Lawboard soon creaked above me too.

He was searching around for Isaac Bradley with his two meaty legs. At least, I hoped he was. For a while, I waited and stared out through one of the shattered windows and ripped curtains as I contemplated my life choices that had brought me to this moment. Light streamed through, dust sparkled and looked like small mosquitoes in the setting sun. That's when I saw something quite peculiar and rectangular shine. I lifted myself out of the seat and adjusted the cushion. Underneath was a handful of sleeved cards sprawled out across the springy bones in the sofa in between balls of lint.

I swooped my hand across the bumpy springs and collected them in a pile before drumming the dust away from my fingers. When I stared at the cards, my lunch lurched to my throat from my stomach. On the card was a Polaroid portrait painting of a pore, decomposing soul that rested one protruding cheekbone upon a stiff contorted fist. He had two open eyes that still screamed. Above, he read, lazy bones. My heart rang in my ears and pounded in my head. I couldn't hear him upstairs anymore. I swallowed a lump of sour that tickled my throat.

I almost couldn't bring myself to look at more. My fingers shuffled in the next card to the front. The Polaroid in the middle of the card was a shoddy, blurry camera shot that depicted a woman sprinting towards a door outside of a house one hand clutching the gaping knife holes in a neck, the other stretching out, begging to be let inside before he was too late. I was shaking the card as I read it.

Home run. Launching to my feet, I nearly tipped over bits of perked-up rotten floorboard. One of the nails that came out of the wood shot through my rubber shoe and into my flesh like a hot iron, sending a stabbing pain out through into my ankle. I made it to the front door. I twisted the knob and pushed,

but it didn't budge. Back to the living room I went, leaving a long line of blood that gushed out of my shoe like the oil from a leaky truck on a long highway. My elbow snaked around the metal borders of the smash window,

one hand feeling around for what I couldn't see. My hand touched metal. Bard in. From the creaking staircase, a bright camera flash lit up the dim room and again.

He was coming and I had nowhere to run. My foot ached, yet I clutched my tight chest as I limped towards the kitchen. Click, snap. More flashes of his camera followed behind me as I held one limping leg in the kitchen door frame. On the kitchen counter,

both as me, my wife, eyes closed in our bed. Beside his rusty hammer, I caught sight of a card and was untidly scrawled at the top. Sleeping Beauty. Click, snap. Thought stuck with me about grabbing the hammer, but it was already too late. I was limping forward.

I circled back to the hallway next of the stairs that he had came down from. It was strange, sure, but in that moment, I couldn't help but still think about the collector's item I had come to pick up. I would grab Isaac Bradley, and we would both make it out of here alive. Without warning, one arm reached around and pulled mine. Turning, I saw the hammer in his other hand. I warmed and twisted to free myself as white flesh came away from his bloated hands from where he grabbed me. just like when I had shaken his hand earlier. He glared up at me with vacant eyes

over a revolting bloated body that must have been filled with vile, decomposing goo. I kicked and kicked before he tumbled down the stairs. I climbed the staircase swiftly, spotting polaroids and bits of cardboard he had been stitching together moments before.

Photos of my thin trail of blood upon the mouldy wooden floor, photos at the back of my head turning and limping away. I kept hobbling forward in the hallway, and the camera behind me kept snapping, snapping. Webb's got caught around my arm as I sluggishly shuffled into the bedroom. My heart that had been pounding in my chest soothed quickly as I caught sight of him,

and a warmth of relief spread through me. There he was, upon one disintegrated bedside table, Isaac Bradley. He was so beautifully unique, nothing I had ever seen before. I took the card with two shaky hands. but deep down I knew I would be needing more. More cards for my next perfect collection. Steps sounded beyond the bedroom door I'd shut behind myself. A thin black line bloomed in the space beneath it.

He was outside. Through the window I tumbled, sliding off the roof and hitting the lawn with a thud. Still wincing and struggling from my fallen slip, I almost dropped Isaac on my way to the car when I fumbled my keys. I flung myself into my vehicle and roared off into the setting sun, the man watching me unblinking me from the screen door through gravel and dust that kicked up behind my trail. Taking a long route home was my best bet

in case he gave chase, though reflecting the cards of me and my wife sleeping, meant he already knew where my apartment was, and my stomach turned. The drive was long, and when I got home, my wife was already sound asleep. I clean my wound thoroughly with alcohol and sat on the couch, try my best to recompose. I pulled the six cards out of my pockets, slipping the top one into my leatherback folder in the last space between all the dated faces of baseball royalty. Bradley was the perfect fit after all these years. My excitement had passed, however. There was something else plaguing me now. I found something more important than Bradley and baseball. The other cards I'd found in Indiana. I slipped them into my hands.

The picture was one of them. The face of the person in the Polaroid wasn't recognisable, however the car's beauty certainly was. Her features had been distorted to a sickening mush by the impact of a rusty hammer. Beside her head was a large punch bowl filled with maroon dip that had flowed from a scalp like a tap. Filled halfway and to the right of the Polaroid was a tall glass pitcher. My baseball car collection was incredible,

but my new collection was turning out to be purported. Many weeks had passed living in my apartment north of Indiana. I served eBay for cards occasionally, yet there were none as rare and as beautiful as the pieces Ernie had blessed me with. I loved my wife, but he turned her screaming mug into the rarest card in my collection. I didn't entirely mean for her to die, but her death wasn't in vain. The seller was slowly but surely helping me build my bigger, better collection. Baseball cards were just a memory Common junk out of the garbage to sell

At a pawn shop or a thrift store If you ever order anything from Gary and Deanna Always opt for postage But most importantly Don't open your eyes when you wake up And hear the high-pitched whistling coming from the snub Where you think a no should be I usually pretend to be fast asleep on the night

That I wake up finding him standing over my bed Painting or taking photos of me Those make the rarest cards he tells me So I leave the door unlocked So we can come in and work He needs to work my new collection My rarest collection Though, just as my wife had done

There are times when I open my eyes When he stood at the foot of my bed The times he brings the hammer Those are the times I scream I'm in the wind I'm sure I'll be dead by tomorrow But I need to let people know this thing is loose.

I'm an agent with the United States government, and my station is Black Sight 7. I won't tell you my name. It would probably be useless to you, but this was not how I saw my life going. I spent six years in Iraq, signed up right after high school, and it was nothing like the recruiter told me it would be.

I spent eight years in the blistering heat, hauled my fair share of comrades out of firefight, and saw a lot of hell over there that would make normal people go crazier than I might be. I've had camel spiders calling me while I sleep, watched friends I've known since basic, get decapitated through binoculars, burnt houses full of insurgents and civilians to rebel.

And when I was done, they gave me my papers, thanked me for my service, and sent me home. I know I have no right to complain. Many guys didn't make it back, but home was worse. I'd spent the last eight years in an active combat zone,

and now I was just supposed to come home and go back to civilian life. I spent three months home. Two of those months spent in a crappy apartment because my parents couldn't handle the night terrors and the jumpy marine that had come back before I knew it wasn't going to work. Every car horn,

every barking dog, every firework rattling in the street had me reaching for my gun and breaking into a sweat when I couldn't find it. Before T.J. found me. I was considering suicide. Then one day, he's just at my door with a big cheesy grin he'd always worn. You look like hell, house.

Let's get some pancakes. I've got something I want to discuss with you. T.J. was my platoon leader in the sandbox. They called him the comedian, because he was always smiling, always cracking jokes. He was a functional sociopath. I guess most of us were,

but I always admired his ability to laugh in the face of such messed up stuff. T.J. was not his real name, but since he's still in the mess that I've left behind, I figure the best I can do is not remind them that he's why I'm here. He took me out to breakfast, and, in the back of a crowded denies, he laid it all out for me. You've got it bad house, he said through a mouthful of pancakes, but that's okay, because good old Uncle T.J. has the cure for you. I've got a new job, familiar work that might interest you. Ever hear of two trees?

I had? Two trees was a government institution that, on the surface, did a lot of medical research. searching clinical trials. Underneath, though, they did wet work, and anyone who was involved in covert ops knew about two trees. We'd worked with them a few times in Iraq, and their guys were spooky, to say the least. You're looking at the new head of Black Sight Seven. I throwed my brow at him. Congratulations.

Should I know what that is? Of course not. It's a closely guided government secret, and two trees is paying me a small fortune to keep it that way too. Problem is, I need someone to curate the site for me. Someone with military training, experienced with firearms, and a need for some normalcy. Know anyone like that? I knew what he was asking, but I didn't think I was who he was looking for. I hadn't found work in the three months I've been back, and most of that was because I couldn't settle into anything. I was constantly jumpy, constantly on edge, and that makes it hard to find work. No one wants you doing

security or mining a gas station when every backfiring car was an enemy combatant. What would happen if I had an episode in a government facility? I shook my head. Thanks, but no thanks. I don't think I'm fit for duty the way I am. Yeah, I thought you might say that. He said, putting a metal tin in front of me. Your medical files read like a benchmark for PTSD.

Night terrors, irritability, being on edge. Those irrational bouts of anger that get you thrown out of your parents' house. He added with a little smirk. I felt defensive. How'd you know about that? You'll be surprised what my level of clearance will get you. Your therapist records were about as hard to get as a beer at a gas station. Well, I've got a little present for your house.

Welcome to the rest of your life. He said, indicating the silver case. The case was as big as an altruid's tin. There were no markings, filigree or needless ornament, and a distinctly surgical look. I slid my hand toward it. but it didn't seem to want to touch it. Every sense I had told me to walk away now,

not to touch it and just walk away from this unassuming little case. I forced my hand to pop it open instead. Inside was a pair of pale, grey gel caps. What are these? These are the answers to your prayer. Two of these a day will make you feel as calm and clear as you did when you were a mere lad of 18. No more jumping at every noise,

no more reaching fulgun when a dog barks or a car backfires. just peace of mind. I imagine now that this is what metastophily sounded like when he spoke to Faust. What's the catch? These pills are only available through the Two Trees Corporation. Employees who agree to be part of their clinical trial get them free of charge, but they're only available to employees. He said with a little grin,

take them, take a day to feel the effects, and let me know what you think. Call me tomorrow and give me your answer. Enjoy a night of freedom. Then make a decision. I took the pills home with me, and, after a few hours of staring at them, I took them with some vodka. The effects were instantaneous. If you've never had PTSD, then it's hard to explain, but it's like having a loose wire that someone fixes, and then you go back to the way you were.

My anxiety melted away, my fear dissipated, my unease and dread were gone, and my anger seemed like a distant memory. I was sitting in my crappy apartment surrounded by the trappings of my depression and my anxiety and suddenly I felt like I had before I boarded the bus in 2003 and headed out to basic training I was finally comfortable in my own head and it was like coming back to a comfortable place

after years of running from danger after the first good night's sleep I'd had since shipping out I called T.J. and told him I was in. One question I asked what's in the pills that make them work so well? He was silent for a long minute before saying, You really don't want a know house. Backy stuff, there'll be a truck to move you to West Virginia in the morning.

And that's how I came to work at Black Sight 7. I must have looked like a junkie by the time I pulled up in front of my new home. I didn't have much. The truck had taken all four boxes into the deep woods as I followed in my old compact. The journey was about six. 16 hours, and by the time I got there, I started to feel the anxiety creep back in. I became angry at how slow the truck was going, afraid that this whole thing was a trick so they could kill me, and found myself wanting to die when I saw TJ standing at the gates of what looked like an old military checkpoint.

He flashed that knowing smile and handed me another silver case. I dry swallow the pills without a word and felt the inner peace worming back across my brain. Then he showed me to my quarters. It was a little bunk room with a bunk bed, a kitchenette and lockers for clothes. There was a foot locker for my personal stuff and I was told to keep the space clean. I would be responsible for the site and his security. He showed me a little terminal off the bedroom with monitors and camera feeds. The compound had cameras all over the place, but I appeared to be the only person actually there.

The site is mostly for storage these days, but is what we get up to here at night that may interest you. That's why you're here. I need someone I can trust to watch this site 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Four times a year, you'll be relieved for a week of R&R somewhere, but other than that, this is your new world. That didn't bother me. I had no problem being alone, but I was curious to what I was doing out here. What am I looking for exactly? T.J. pointed at three buildings on the camera.

Keep nosy people out of there, lethal forces authorized. and don't ever go in there I'll have to show you at black citators he said it with a smile but the smile didn't cross his eyes don't worry about being vigilant though if anything bigger than a mouse moves out there the alarms will let you know about it

he told me that my food will be delivered once a week mostly MREs and I could order anything I wanted from the terminal in the living quarter there was a workout yard near the second building and I could move through the woods if I chose as long as I took my phone with me so I could get alerts from the console.

By the way, hand me your phone. He said, and when I did, he put it in his pocket and handed me another one. That's your new phone. I'll take the keys to your car too and put the money from it in your account. This is your life now, house. Don't take this job lightly.

If you leave the grounds, we'll know. If you try to update social media or try to tell anything on the outside about what you've seen here, we'll know. If you want to marry or feel like you need out, arrangements can be made after your first five-year tour. As far as anyone is concerned,

you no longer exist. Don't be stupid. Put in your five years and will reassess your position. He grinned again and punched me in the arm. Enlighten up, this will be the easiest five years of your life. From that point on,

I was an employee of two trees. T.J. had been right, though. The first five years flew by. I lived in the site, spending my days working out or watching TV, playing the latest video games and watching the newest movies, and guarding this black sight in the middle of the woods. I never tried to get into the warehouses. I had been a soldier long enough to know to check my curiosity, and the scares were minimal.

The food kept coming, the pills that kept me in my right mind kept coming, and it was pretty peaceful, all told. The alarms, to my knowledge, I only went off three times in that first year, and two of those times it was a deer who had wandered too close. The first time it happened, I had slunked out in a panic, service pistol in hand, and boxer shorts flapping. As I rounded the first warehouse and drew down on a very surprised doe who darted away before I could draw a bead on her. It was kind of a special moment for me. I had never seen a deer up close, and as it ran away, I was glad I hadn't shot it. The third time, it had been a person. The first person.

I had seen in three months. I had been sitting at the console one night, watching a Marvel movie when the alarm went off. I paused the movie, expecting to see a deer or a bear in the monitor, but my eyes went wide when I realized it was a person. He had a crowbar,

and he was attempting to pry open the door. He must have come out to the woods, because if he had driven up, I'd have known about him much sooner. It had been three months since I'd seen a person, Not since Agent Docherty had come to relieve me for a week of R&R in September, and the idea of seeing a person not connected with two trees made me feel weird. Even when you're on R&R, you went to a company resort,

or a company place full of company people, so you didn't get a little too drunk and talk about all the stuff you did for your country. I took my pistol outside and crept up on him in near silence. When my foot came down on an extra crunchy stick, he turned his head and noticed me, raising the crowbar as if to attack, The gun went off without me having even spoken to him, reflex taken over and dropping the threat before he could become a real danger. His left eye popped like an overripe fruit,

and he fell down on the hard December ground. I called T.J., and he had some other men in suit come and assess the damage. You did just right, House. He was a threat to the facility and needed to be put down. Don't think for a minute that this reflects poorly on you. What will you do with him? I asked. I said,

Immediate disposal house. Think you've got the stomach to help us. I found that I did, and once he was doused in gasoline, we set him ablaze on the edge of the property. They gave me an extra week of R&R, and when I came back, TJ decided that I was worthy of being brought in on certain things.

The alarms went off a week after I came back, and I saw TJ stepping out of a black car and waving at me. I slid my shoulder holster on and went out to meet him, As I approached the vehicle, two other men in suits were bringing a man with a bag on his head out to the car. He was wearing scrubs, his hands bound behind his back, and I could hear him crying beneath a black hoodie war. I looked between them, waiting for an explanation, and T.J. threw an arm around me and walked me towards a spark where we burn the trespasser. House, I think it's time we bring you in on the second reason for this black sight. You see, sometimes two trees are assets that need to be eliminated.

The black sites are often used for these purposes, but it's always the responsibility of the site's caretaker to carry out these eliminations. Why wasn't I told about this before? I asked, feeling indignant. I'm no murderer. Oh, well, those combatants in Iraq will be glad to hear that, weren't they? He said, almost snidly. That was war, T.J., this is murder.

Think of this as War II House. These people are the enemy, and they need to be eliminated for the good of public safety. It's part of the job house, a part I know first-hand that you're capable of. They put the man on his knees in the middle of the burnt spot, and he knelt, praying under the hood as we stood around him. Put him down, house, that's an order, T. J. said. I looked at him, icily. And, if I won't.

The two men with him drew their guns, and T.J. grinned. then I'm afraid that these men will have to execute both of you. Come on, house, don't throw this away over some nobody. He's no different than the man outside the warehouse. I wish now that I'd just let them shoot me. But, I guess if I had, you'd never know about any of this. Instead, I drew up my gun and put a bullet in his skull, glaring at TJ as his buddy's put their guns away.

You made the right choice, House. Who knows, you might not have to do this more than a dozen times in the next four years. I executed an asset a month after that. There were mostly people in scrubs, people in lab coats, doctors, researchers, people who would likely try to steal from whatever facility they worked at. There were men and women, old men and scared 20-somethings. I never bothered learn their names. They were just assets to be eliminated. And I became kind of numb to the process.

We burned them afterward. Gasoline and fire made it like they were never there. and the spot near the edge had a charred look to it after a while. At the end of five years, T.J. came to me and asked if I wanted to re-up. What happens if I walk away? I asked. I was eating dinner when he'd come by, and he sat down to over plate of fettuccini with me. Given my free time, I had learned to do a good number of things I couldn't before. I became a pretty good cook, learned to play guitar, read every book on the shelf,

and there was a chain-serout back along with some sculptures I'd made with it. I couldn't say I hadn't enjoyed my time here, the killings aside, but I was curious and know if they'd actually let me leave. You'll be allowed to return to the real world, your bank account fuller and your retirement substantial. Just watch what you say out there. I'd hate to bring you back for your replacement to put a bullet in. I ended up signing up for another five years.

I shouldn't have done that. I was eight years deep when they brought the girl in the black bag to me. It was 2 a.m., and I started to think about bed when the alarm went off. I liked with T.J., but he was not the one who climbed out of the black town car. This guy had his hair slicked back and his suit was an immaculate blue pinstripe. He did not wave at me, and I felt a sense of dread as I grabbed my gun. Somehow I expected T.J. to be under the bag this time. The man's name was Stein, and he didn't have T.J. under the bag.

What he did have was a kid with a thick black hood over their head. I couldn't tell at first if it was a girl or boy. They were dressed in baggy clothes, Salvation Army rags that a homeless guy would be embarrassed to wear, and they were crying loudly under their hood. Two familiar men had the kid, and they looked stoic about the whole matter. Stein didn't say anything. Just led the procession over to the chart spot and put the kid on their knees.

when he made no move to remove the hood. I did it myself. He wince, but didn't stop me. This was my place, my job, and I had garnered a reputation for being a professional. A reputation I was about to ruin. The bag came off, and the little girl's tear-street face came into view

in the harsh fluorescence. Her hair was cut short, dirty blonde and hacked pieces, and her face was covered in bruises. The nose looked broken, and her lip was split. the blood trickling like red tears. I sighed, looking at Stein, as the gun stayed at the ready.

What the hell is this? Stein looked surprised. It's an asset. DJ said you handled these for us. Handle the asset. This is a kid, barely old enough to wipe our own ass. What could you have possibly done? Stein's face was stony.

Yours is not to question, soldier. Liquidate this asset or be liquidated. I looked at the kid, her whole face shaking as the tears and blood fell, and thought about watching a head pop like a grape. This wasn't some scared adults, some stoic old man, some praying woman, or some cursing thing with shallow skin. This was a kid. I'd killed many people, more in my time here than I ever had during the war, but I was still a professional, and professionals had standards. No, I said. Stein blinked.

What? No, I won't kill a kid. Do it yourself. The two men drew their guns and I was transported back to the first time. I was standing there, two days after Christmas, watching T.J. grin and tell me the rules. Now, I was standing in the woods, the autumn leaves carpting the ground, feeling sure they would soon drink both my blood and the girls. I will give you till the count of three to kill the girl. After that point, you will both be executed. One The guns were unwavering But so was my resolve

Two I closed my eyes Preparing to die Three I heard the sound like wet concrete Splitting open It was followed by a high-pitched scream And a pair of bodies hitting the ground

I opened my eyes And saw Stein running towards the town car The two men who'd be holding me at gunpoint Bleeding out on the ground From large grisly neck wounds As I watched Stein run A rust red something snapped out and caught him the back of the neck, dropping him inches from the town car. I looked back in the direction the thing had snapped out from and saw that the girl was now a mass of red spikes, segmented like spiders.

Her face had split long ways, forcing her face into a grizzly sideways more. The area between the teeth glowed deep red, and I could see the eyes of the girl's face blinking erratically. The two hars with a smile grinning at me. I figured for the second time that day that I was going to die but she scuttled off into the woods instead walking on a strange spider appendages as she crashed to the trees

I stood there for a few minutes not quite sure I believed I wasn't dead and then I started running too I crashed through the woods for hours running in no particular direction sure that at any minute the creature or a helicopter from two trees would follow me and either rip me apart or blow me away

I had blended off with no wallet, no cell, just my gun and the clothes I've been wearing. Was the phone how they tracked me? T.J. hasn't said much, but... Maybe. And the ground went from under me. I felt the air drop out of my lungs. I felt five feet off a mud ledge and skinned my hand.

My knees hurt where I landed on them, and I realised pretty quickly that I'd fallen onto a road. If I thought it might be an illusion, the headlights that pin me to the ground a moment later left me with little doubt. Thankfully, the truck stopped, and, after a short conversation with the driver, he offered to take me into town.

That's how I came to be here, in this dingy hotel that just happens to have a computer in the lobby. Sold the gun for about $500, and I figure I'll disappear soon as soon as I'm done writing this. They know I'm gone by now, but I don't know if they think I'm dead, or if they think I fled.

Either way, they'll find me, I'm sure. I'm more worried about that little girl that's loose in the woods and whatever it is that's living beneath the surface of her skin. If you see a young girl with short, dirty blonde hair, do not approach her. I don't know if she killed those men to get away or if she killed them because she wanted to,

but she should be considered dangerous if you encounter her in the wild. And if a man from two trees offers you a job, do not become the curator for Black Sight 7. The job is definitely not. all it appears to be. I came to the nowhere hotel to heal. I tell you this now, so that you better understand my reason for being in my current predicament. A sight and circumstance so maddening that I simply must confess it to someone else while there's still time.

I'm writing, alone, shut away in my room, my lounge chair thrust precariously under the door handle, in this dead place, with these tangled ghost halls laid all around me like webs, meandering and winding through the dread heart of the structure. I am alone, I'm afraid, and worse, I fear I'm beginning to lose my mind. If nothing else, this letter, signed as quickly as I can transcribe it, will serve as a warning, a final heed, a last wish. If you find this, please trust my sincerity. Stay away from the Nowhere Hotel.

If I recreate this story at the origin, it began. as far as I can collect, from a gentle conversation with one of my oldest friends and colleagues and Mr. Henry Du Bois, a world-wise literature professor, nearly 20 years my senior. We sat together on a gloomy Friday afternoon by the fading brick ledge outside my office at the University of Washington. I told him everything. I told him about my Helen. I told him about the miscarriage.

Nineteen weeks into the pregnancy. I told him how we had already picked a name, Violet. How I could see her, really see her, even though she had never been born. How I had known her somehow and loved her just the same. Loved her as my own. I told him how it had deeply changed the woman I loved, how it turned her heart against me, how she wandered restlessly through the house each night, bleary-eyed and distant each morning. I told him how she barely spoke to me anymore, and worse, that I could tell that she blamed me, in some small measure at least.

After some considerable thought, and perhaps the greatest pause in conversation I have endured, he mentioned the hotel to me. The nowhere, nestled so neatly between rock and sea that it looked like it had always been there, grown beam by beam, stone by stone, straight out of the sand itself, towering into those slowly churning winter-sea mists

that whipped madly across the beach. He told me that years prior, in his youth, he had stayed at the place himself for a long weekend following a bitter engagement with a woman he met at university. He said it was a peaceful property, distinct and set aside from other lodgings on the coast, distant and aloof, alluring in its quiet draw and singular calm.

He returned better rested than he had ever felt, well-reasoned and prepared to endure the coming disharmonous weeks. I took him at his word, I took his voice, measured and compassionate, of that of a reasoned colleague. a caring companion. I didn't think for an instant that this place, this ancient power and creeping attraction,

had influenced his mind just then, worked its black magic, and caused him to say that precise collection of words designed for me, specifically it seemed. Whatever it took to draw me in, carry my ailing and battered mind here to this dead place, as the sea salt rages against the old windows,

even now, bearing down all around, barring me in. I think now that Henry Du Bois has never been to this place. Better yet, I know it. If he had, he would never have left, just like I will never leave.

I packed my belongings left for the coast the following week. I couldn't stand to be at home anymore. I couldn't stand to be with her. Those haunting shadow looks, the pain and hidden loathing there, I couldn't take it. I felt so alone, vilified.

I hadn't hurt the child. I hadn't done anything to deserve this wrath. The gutted, piercing, hollow eyes that seemed to drift in and out and follow me only when they wished. She barely noticed I was leaving. She didn't look up when I closed the door. I was so happy to leave,

I didn't think much about my destination. Somewhere, anywhere, was better than this. It had to be. I followed Interstate 5 for nearly 200 miles south and then west, leaning closer with each minute to the sea. The daylight quickly shrank as I neared, the sunlight devoured by an impenetrable and complete darkness. I arrived in somewhat of a trance, I imagine. I had been drifting along the route, numb, passing shadow vehicles, wondering between lanes, barely aware of anything around me,

pulled there, more than anything, if I allowed the terrifying honesty of it. It was as if I had been tugged along by a string, moved, steered like some great puppet, my very course and destination foreign to me, forced, ordained by some malevolent power, that wanted me and my broken thoughts all to itself, alone. Then I saw it. The building that rose before me was a monolith, and deranged, angular, monstrous form, twisted and narrow, looming, and dangerously unbalanced. And the sign that illuminated, roaring, screaming crimson sign

that pierced and careened oddly through the night, bathing the front lot in deep red The nowhere hotel I didn't leave my car I couldn't I sat for what fell like hours listening as the bleak winter tent began to fall against the windshield

knowing somehow that I couldn't leave that it wouldn't let me and I would be swept from the roads in an instant and dashed against those horrible jagged black rocks by the ocean I gathered my courage and pressed on up and out of my car through those incredible red doors and into the bright lobby,

where I was greeted by one of the warmest faces I had ever seen, the warm manager, Harlan. Somehow, he immediately set me at ease. His smile climbed high on his face, and his laugh was light and natural. Curious, I felt more than one occasion during our conversation that this man was the very place itself, or as close to it as I could estimate,

a part of its walls, its being, whatever wickedness was here, that it was an instrument of some kind, one final deceit urging me forward and up to my room. Still, I shook the thoughts from my head. It was ridiculous. I had come all this way, separated myself from my home and the woman I loved and risked my health and safety to make the perilous journey. I couldn't go home, not yet. I couldn't face her, not without some rest, some peace, I chance to gather my thoughts and remind myself that it wasn't my fault, that sometimes bad things happen to good people, that it wasn't meant to be, that somehow we would be okay,

we would repair our broken marriage and find a way past this impossible tragedy. I collected my room key, smiled too hard, and felt my feet carrying me up the stairs and down the corridor. Warmth and lights were everywhere, too bright, cheery, glowing orbs, welcoming me, forcing me on. I replaced my damp layers and seated myself at the desk by the window. I found myself there for some time, staring into that stirring, ceaseless abyss of water

that seemed to seep straight into the inky sky and its nightmare squall, somehow all one. I thought of Helen, of my lovely violet, sketching her beautiful, tiny face with my mind, where it could never be taken from me, where I could love her and keep her forever, safe, sound. I must have slept then, because I can still not properly configure what happened next.

I... heard her. My violet. Distant and low at first, but increasing in volume and bigger, calling to me, cooing and crying just outside my room. I was stunned, but forced myself up and toward the noise. I do not know how I understood that it was my daughter. I do not know if this foul place invaded my mind and created the sound itself from third. thought that I had imagined just for her. I guess I will never know.

But in that moment, as the sea drowned out the sky, I heard her. My unborn child, who came to me only in dreams, who fit perfectly into the crook of my arms, and beamed up at me with such exorbitant love and hope that it ripped my heart into. I heave the door open and stared into the corridor. Nothing.

The lights are dimmed and flicked with a howls of wind against the old walls. I called out once, hoping for a response, something from the night manager downstairs, a neighbouring infant with an adjacent room to set my mind at ease. Nothing. Worse, it felt like my call was silent, squelched into nothing by those meandering, silent walls

and strange fixtures that seemed to shift just out of sight. I shut the door quickly and barred it with a nearby lounge chair. My mind was playing tricks on me, of course. Daft delusions brought on by the weary trip and the spirited winded downpour. Still, I couldn't shake that sound, that cry, violet, as certain as I could be, just beyond the threshold, calling to me, her father, begging me for help, needing me.

Shaking, I made tea at the small bar and seated myself on the bed. I was exhausted. Weeks of guilt and pain from Helen, the pervasive loneliness of the hotel room apart from her, from everything. Yes, that was it. Nothing more. Nothing supernatural. I heard her again coming closer.

Only this time, her cry was more urgent. Blood curdling, terror screams. I thrust my cup aside and ran to the door, kicking the chair away and pressing myself through the entry and into the hallway. The door slammed behind me. I swear to you, it closed by itself. And that cry, that shrugly, that shrew. shrill, lurking, horrible squeal changed too.

It became something else, something worse. A low, rumbling, growling laugh that bounded happily between the hallway that seemed to stretch into infinity. I turned to run, but my door was gone, replaced with a plain, smooth wall. The jeering, snarling laughter came again, cutting through the rotten air and knifing into my mind.

I was too scared to run at first, to look back down the hallway and see what I knew was coming. What I could feel was speaking to me from down the corridor, inching closer to where I stood with no escape. It groaned, gurgling greedly, breathing with false lungs. And I turned to it, finally, in horror, knowing that it was almost upon me. It was her, violet, purple and black, morose, and folded all wrong. I miscarriage, unformed child, dragging herself toward me along the floor with mangled, spindly arms, crying for me with a lopsided mouth, crying for her father.

I screamed and forced myself against the wall, collapsing, beating against it, fighting with everything I had to get as far away from that thing as I could, knowing that this place was using my thoughts against me, twisting and distorting my consciousness to bring that evil to life, to ruin and bury me in these very walls. It was inches away. howling madly with a fat, rotting tongue that drug along the ground when I felt the knob. It was still there, my room, hidden by the hotel behind that fake wall that it had built in my mind.

I grabbed it and wrenched it free, throwing myself onto the floor and kicking away from the door as it closed behind me. I... I've been unable to gather myself since. Unable to reconcile my misshapen child and that horrible, echoing laugh that seemed to fill and become everything around. me. My heart is racing. My mind is spinning out to control with impossibilities, things too difficult to understand. The unyielding knowledge that this place, in some capacity, might have killed my daughter just to bring me here, shattered and alone, ripe to be swallowed whole. I cannot shake the muddled realization that in some way it chose me, chose my life, my Helen, my Violet, for this very moment to create the phoecia that would ultimately bring me within its walls.

and destroy me there. I cannot stand the guilt, yet I cannot leave. She is there, just outside the door. I can see a shadow if I look long enough, if I refuse the blink

and force my eyes open through tears. I cannot face her again, my failure, my pain, in this long, treacherous hallways that bend and shift out of sight. There is only one way out. One. The wind

The night, the sand, the storm, my own end. I cannot go on anymore. Not with this, not alone. Not knowing that if I was stronger, maybe she would still be alive. Maybe we could still be happy. I cannot let it kill me. I fear I will live on, as my daughter does. Some distorted thing used to haunt and destroy others within these walls.

I fear that she is here because I am here. If I can leave, maybe I can save her. Violet. She will not leave my mind. She's always there. She's out of my room. She's waiting for me. I can hear her still.

The night calls to me. To the sea. Danny was always afraid of the dark. The kind of kid who slept at the nightlight until it was way too old. One who'd never dared to step out of his room if the hallway light was off. I remember our first sleepover. When tucked away beneath his covers, he asked me to close the closet door for him. I laughed, but still did it.

Something about the way the shadows fell in that little dark space was all he'd say, a perfect hiding place for something waiting in the darkness. His fear became something unspoken between us from that day on, really seen as nothing more than a quirk as we grew up. Still, I'd check the closet for monsters when he'd ask. After college, we'd simply drifted apart, our lives taking us where they would, and now, all these years later, the last thing I expected was a call from him. Not in the middle of the night, trying to hide the nervousness shaking through his voice. A day later, I found myself knocking at his door, watching the sun set on the horizon, thinking about the last words he said to me.

Please get here before dark. Sorry, Danny. I called in sick at work, picked up a rental car, and spent the day driving through the boonies, navigating mile after mile of country road, only to find myself arriving so late. I knocked again, starting to wonder if I'd had the right address. It was a small house, not exactly off the grid, but at the end of a scarcely populated road surrounded by dense tickets of woodland. Not quite the place I'd expected Danny to land.

Somewhere so... isolated. But he was always a bit of a recluse. The porch light honed, seemingly growing brighter as the sunlight waned. Several moths began buzzing around it, flitting at the glass and casing that protected the light. The deadbolt finally clicked, followed by the door, gently opening a few inches, stopping at the chain lock. A thin face peered between the gap, observing me for a second. You're late.

A white grin plastered. across his features as the door closed. Morlocks unfastened before it swung wide open again as Danny ran out and hugged me. I couldn't help but smile too. Same old Danny. Small and skittish. Paranoid as all hell.

Maybe a bit more unkempt than I remembered. What's with the security? Running drugs now? I said, trying to lighten the air, dancing around the question I knew we were both thinking. Just why the hell was I here? He was vague over the phone. I could barely even understand the few words he spoke in hushed, fleeting whispers,

like he didn't want someone else to hear them. All that somehow fell away, seeing my old friend. Sorry, had to make sure it was you, he said, gesturing toward the open door. But where are my manners? Come in, come in, come in, it's getting dark. The way he said that word, dark. I brushed it off and stepped in. He took a second at the third.

threshold, looking out of the road. The tree line around the house had fallen into a murky silhouette against the dim sky, as the streetlight in front of the house flickered to life. As he closed the door, I saw the side was lined with several extra locks, apparently self-installed. One by one, he checked and double-checked them, feeling each to make absolutely sure. The room was stifling, like the late summer heat had been trapped and refused to be let out. There was a staleness in the air I could almost taste. Heavy curtains hung over the windows, completely covering each one. Danny turned, seeming to remember I was there. He was always strange, full of idiosyncrasies, but he'd wear them on his sleeve and I'd never chosen to judge him. But now, he seemed ashamed. How about a beer,

he offered, quickly breaking eye contact. At this point, I welcomed anything to break the awkwardness. He walked to the kitchen, glancing back at the locks one last time. I stepped to the window, pulling the curtain aside to peek out. I already felt a slight desperation for fresh air, and besides, his whole house needed a breath. Grabbing the frame, I tried to lift it, only for my hands to slamming uselessly against it. The damn thing wouldn't budge. Looking down at the windowsill, I noticed a series of small nails, haphazily driven into the wood, pinning it shut. I turned back to see Danny, beer in hand, watching me.

Just checking the view, I said, taking the beer offered, awkwardly scooting away. He pulled the curtain back shut, sealing away the night. I just preferred to keep them closed. We spent the better part of an hour catching up, recounting the last few years we'd spent apart. At least, I thought it had been an hour. Time seemed to move at a different pace, shut in that little room. I began to relax, partly from the beer, partly from the comfort of realising Danny hadn't changed, not on the inside at least. Although I couldn't help but notice he'd grown more gaunt with black bags beneath his eyes,

like he hadn't slept a night in weeks. A nervous tick permeated from him, revealing itself through small, furtive glances at the window and door. Still, I began to feel comfortable, almost forgetting the day before, the call in the night, why I had come here. I stood going to grab another beer. You want one? I asked, heading into the kitchen. He started to say something, nearly standing up,

but seemed to reconsider as I stepped out of the room, taking his silence as a no. The kitchen bore the same atmosphere, stuffy air and curtains blocking out the windows. Even the sliding glass door at the back was covered, like the whole house was sealed away from the outside. I opened the fridge. digging past the few containers left,

reaching for the last beer in the back, as a smell quickly wafted out toward me. Rotten milk. Holding my nose, I grabbed the carton, feeling dense curdles swishing through the liquid. Almost all the food in the fridge was covered in mould. I stood back, holding in a wretch, as the smell combined with a stifling air of the house.

I pulled myself to the sliding door, throwing the curtains aside, trying to open it. A metal bar had been screwed between the door and the wall, jamming it shut. I turned to find Danny standing in the doorway behind me. Danny? I asked. What the hell's going on? He only looked at the ground, sheepishly. When's the last time you've been out of this house? It started maybe a month ago, one night.

We sat in the living room as Danny told the story. His legs curled up beneath him on the couch, face blanketed in the light of the lamp. I chose a reclining chair across from him. I still don't know why I woke up that night. Just that I did. It was quiet and I sat on my bed. Something was wrong. Maybe I'd heard a sound or had a nightmare that rattled me awake.

I don't know. There was just a feeling like there was something profoundly wrong. I sat there. I don't know how long, too afraid to move. The front yard. That was all I could think about. I could have stayed in bed, pull the covers up and just come back to sleep.

I wanted to, and I wished that's what I did. But it nagged at me. The front yard. I should have stayed, but I'm not the same scared little kid you knew. That's what I told myself anyway. So I got up and went to look. I shoveled in my seat,

beginning to regret where I had sat. Danny's glasses caught a glimmer of light on the frame as he glanced in my direction, followed by the look of genuine fear that infiltrated his features as his eyes passed over the window, the one right behind me. I came out here

and pulled the curtains aside, just enough to peek through. That's where I saw it, across the road under the street light. A silhouette, like a woman, standing there, staring straight up. She was holding something dangling from her hand. It was round and swinging by a tangle

of thin, ropey strands locked in her fingers. Something was dripping from it. I watched it sway as she stood, looking upward, like she was transfixed, staring up toward the light. I had the window cracked open, letting the cool air in. I thought about calling out to see if she was okay, but something wasn't right. The air outside was dead silent.

I live in the country. The night never quite like that. The crickets, the cicadas, they only stop like that when something intrudes. something that's not supposed to be there. I listened. Even through the glass and heavy curtains, I could hear the cacophony of insects.

The sound that had been there ever since I arrived, as my mind filed it under background noise and let it filter into the background home of existence. So I shut my mouth, I leaned over and turned on the porch light, hoping the light would maybe tell her someone was home, or maybe scare her off. I don't know.

honestly I was a little ashamed cowering from someone who might need my help but just something felt wrong the way she it stood there like it wasn't something human only wearing a human's form maybe it was the way

it was still just the shadow even standing directly under the light I know that sounds ridiculous it sounds ridiculous as I'm saying it but I haven't told you about what happened next I peeked back out the window his head was turned right at me. I couldn't see eyes, but I could feel them watching me.

That's when it took a step, toward the house. I dug beneath the window, held my head down and listened. Footsteps, walking toward the door, padded feet crunching through the gravel. Oh God, it's coming. I peeked back up, grabbed the curtains to pull them shut. But I stopped. There was no one in the yard. He should have been there, right in the view of the window.

Nothing but the night looked back, only darkness. Maybe the light had scared it off, I thought. Maybe I'd imagined the whole thing, a night terror I'd woken into. I don't know. So, I shut the window, seal the curtains and waited. No more steps, nothing. I was just going back to my room. Then I remembered the porch light.

I thought maybe I'd keep it on for the night at least, just in case. but looking at the door, I could feel my heart sinking. I walked to it and pressed my ear against it. The night was still silent. Good enough. I'm not proud, but I ran back to my room then and covered my head until morning. I wasn't sure what to think. Looking over at my carrying friend, gone was the full-grown man,

replaced with a scared child I'd grown up with. The beer had begun to sour in my stomach, mixed with a noxious odor of rotting food that had lodged in my sinuses. I desperately wanted to open a window. Danny, I don't know, I said. I mean, what am I supposed to think of this? You think you saw a person who scared you? Maybe you did have a nightmare.

One you convinced yourself was true, you know, like you used to. I could see the look of hurt in his eyes. But I had to rip the band-aid off. He needed help. That much was clear. Maybe it's, you know, a mental thing, like maybe you should see someone. That's not why I called you, he said, lowering his gaze. That was only the first night.

I leaned back, letting him speak. I'd figure something out, some way of getting him out of this house. The thing is, I have a light out in the backyard, for security. It's motion activated. When I'm in my bed and it comes on, I can catch the light, just peeking through the top of my house. curtains, a sliver against the ceiling. Well, it came on the next night, around 3 a.m. Then, the night after. Every night. I'll hear it outside. Silence first. The unnatural stillness

that settles over the woods. Then the light. Click. Just once, but the same time every night. I hear it walking out there. Footsteps walking past my bedroom window. I wait 20 seconds or so, until the light clicks off. Then, nothing. Just silence. I checked every morning for some sign, a footprint, broken branches, anything.

Not a trace. Then the next night, it's back. What does it do? I found myself asking. I don't know. He just walks by, circling the house, like it's searching for a way in.

And you've seen it again? Or are you just thinking you're hearing it? I am hearing it, and I did see it again. Only a few days after the first night. I woke up again, 3 a.m. A streak of light on the ceiling. Click.

It goes off. I sat there again, waiting. I don't know why, but that night I decided to follow it. I had to see what it was doing. I walked through the house, room by room, window by window, listening. Nothing. Dead silence. I even dare myself to peek out the front window

toward the street light. Nothing. I started to think what you're thinking right now. This was all in my head. Nectophobia, the doctor's always called it. Fear of the dark. Maybe I screwed finally popped loose. Maybe, I thought, just maybe.

I was going back to bed. I walked over to make sure the porch light was on. And stopped dead in my tracks. That sinking feeling again. Jane, the feeling of something standing at my door. I held my ear to it and listening. Maybe a minute passed. Slowly, I began to hear it.

Someone was breathing on the other side. I didn't want to. I knew it was a bad idea, but my curiosity was burning. I looked through the peephole. We were standing on the porch, inches away, just watching me. I jumped, pushing against the door instinctually. I closed my eyes and ran, and I looked. lock myself in the bathroom without looking back.

The whole night, the light on, cowering behind the shower curtain. When I came out, it was already light. That's when I locked this place up. And I haven't left since. He led his word hang, waiting for me to say something.

Maybe looking for assurance for me to say I believed him. I didn't know what to say. He continued, breaking the silence. And the thing it was carrying what it had in its hands. I've thought about that a lot.

I didn't want to admit this, but I knew what it was as soon as I saw it. I've thought about it over and over, and I know there's nothing else it could be. It was a human head. God damn it, Danny. You've finally gone off the deep end. I'm sorry,

I'm just having a hard time believing this, I said, treading tactfully. A human head. Why not call the cops or just leave? walk out during the day, get to a hotel. I've thought about that. You've seen how long the drive is here. It'd be a better part of now before the cops could arrive.

And what am I to tell them? There's a monster outside. No evidence, not even a footprint. No head dripping blood hanging in the woods. Help me. There's a silhouette of a woman at my window. You know how ridiculous that sounds. And I haven't left because...

Well... His face blushed the bright red. Because... I'm sorry. scared, all right. I can't leave. I've stood at my door, my hands on the handle, telling myself to walk through. But I can't, because my mind is telling me it's out there, waiting for me. That's why it was walking to the door. It was a trap. I just... I'm sorry. That's why I called you. I didn't know what else to do. I chuckled and immediately felt ashamed of myself. It wasn't from humor,

reflex, an attempt to ease my discomfort at the situation. I was at a loss of words. For the first time in our relationship of 20-odd years, I felt something close to pity for my friend. We sat in silence, letting the humming crickets outside fill the gap. Their noise felt comforting in a way. He finally looked back up right at me. It got in the house last night. I put myself swallow.

in the hallway I don't know how every door and window is locked shut you've seen that but it got in it was walking through the house right up to my bedroom door my mouth felt dry

and I was a little sick to my stomach the side effect of the beer I told myself I didn't believe his story not at all how could I Danny had always been the one to believe in boogeymen still I leaned forward

all too aware of the night just on the other side of the window behind me. All right, I said, fighting against my rising heart rate. I'm here now. So what does that mean? Just stay here. For one night, that's all.

Tomorrow morning, we'll walk through that door. Please. He wanted me to check the closet for monsters once more. We ended up pushing the recliner through the hall and into Danny's room. He insisted I stay up there with him. The clock had already slipped past midnight when I had. slumped into the chair, letting the fatigue and exhaustion of the day sink into the cushions with me. I listened to Danny, stepping from room to room through the house, checking each window, making

sure each curtain was drawn tight. This had the feeling of a nightly ritual. The hallway creaked under his feet as he stepped to the bathroom, stopping for a moment in front of it. I slipped my shoes off and pulled the covers over myself. The air in the bedroom wasn't as bad as the front of the house, although it felt impossible to entirely escape the humid stuffiness that filled the atmosphere. It was going to be a long night. Danny closed the bedroom door, locking it. Just the small lock on the handle. There weren't any homemade barricades on it.

I guessed he wouldn't have the time to make a latch, or maybe he'd run out of materials. He retreated to his bed after saying goodnight, leaving the room in the dim glow of a bedside lamp. I realised he had no intention of turning it off. We sat in our respective beds, neither of us sleeping, or waiting for morning to come. Although the silence wasn't awkward, we'd run out of small talk since his story of monsters. Maybe neither of us knew how to follow that up.

I had the feeling both of us were too exhausted either way to even try. I turned over, covering my head in the blanket in an attempt to suffocate the light. Finally, as I was drifting into sleep, he spoke. Hey, Aaron, yeah, thanks. I laughed, letting the humour slip in this time. We're having a sleep over. Danny laughed from his bed. I guess so.

The light still seeped through my closed eyes as sleep finally came to me. Through a yawn, the words came out half-formed. See you in the morning. I woke up not much later. Covering my eyes from the light, it took a moment for my surroundings that sink in. I peaked over the blanket at Danny, fast asleep next to the blaring lamp. Shielding my eyes, I reached over and turned it off, darkness filling the room. It immediately soothed the groan throbbing in my head.

I closed my eyes again, trying to fall back asleep. It wasn't going to happen. Instead, I sat in the dark room as the minutes ticked by, waiting. Sweat had soaked the blanket around my neck, and a damp humidity clung to my skin. There was a tightness in my chest, like I expected something to happen. I didn't want to sit in that chair, waiting intense silence, enclosed in that stifling room. I didn't want to be in that house a second longer, resisting the urge to tear through the door and run. Instead, I stood up and stretched.

Like an animal exploring the bars of its cage, as if the air wouldn't feel so deep, if I got up and moved through it. It still did. My stomach churned and grumbled with the movement, reminding me I hadn't had a bite to eat since the drive up, and only a couple of beers all night. I headed to the door, quietly turning the lock. Sorry, Danny, be right back.

I half whispered, half thought, as I slipped into the hall. The fluorescent light hummed in the bathroom, spilling out over the stretch of hallway leading into the living room. I laughed to myself Some things never change I walked to the living room Passing by a door Trying to pretend it wasn't the centre of my attention

I didn't believe what Danny had told me And I wasn't afraid of the dark Still my hair raised an end Looking at that thin piece of wood Sealed shut against the night And the row of homemade locks Anything could be on the other side But nothing was going to get in at least

I took a single step into the cool kitchen tile and stopped. With a sigh, I headed back, curiosity getting the better of me. Or maybe, I just needed to prove that there was nothing out there. I placed my ear against the wood, listening. Not a sound, dead silence. My body tensed, each sinew pulling towards as I leaned toward the peephole, a bundle of nerves ready to jump back at the mere sight of anything. I placed my eye up to the glass as the porch came into view, distorted into an exaggerated

fish-eyed perspective. It was empty. A breath of relief shuddered out of me, a little harder than I intended. The spike in blood pressure wasn't doing anything for my head, though, and I scolded myself for getting worked up. I didn't want to admit that any story had gotten onto my skin, and despite the reassurance of the empty porch, I still felt a pit in my gut. like there was something wrong with what I had looked at.

I found a cup and downed a glass of water from the sink adrift in my thoughts. Like something was out of place. The water helped, but still felt empty in my stomach. I thought maybe I could even brave the fridge. I'd seen a jar of pickles in there. They had to be reserved. It wasn't a meal, but it'd last me the next few hours.

Something that wasn't supposed to be there. I held my nose and opened the fridge door as a blast of light flooded into the room, forcing my eyes the squint. The cooling unit hummed, letting my eyes adjust. I reached through old food containers, digging toward the back. My hand stopped. That was it. What was wrong?

The entire house had been silent since I'd woken up. There was a loud click in the backyard, as light poured through the seams between the curtains, spilling onto the ceiling. A swarm of thoughts flitted through my mind, stoked into a manic rush. The door is locked. This entire house is locked. Nothing's going to get in. 3 a.m.

How did I know that? My eyes darted to the room, looking for a clock. I must have seen the time somewhere on the nightstand or the little clock in the living room. I tried to remember, to think back of the hands. Picture them at any other position, but the number was seared in my head. 3 a.m. Seconds ticked by as I stared through the kitchen, acutely aware of my heartbeat to my ears. Arithmetic, steady pulsing, like footsteps.

How long did they say? 20, 30 seconds. I sat watching that damn light for an eternity. Turn off, turn off. I told myself to do something, anything, open the curtains, look out. There's no such thing as monsters, right? I even thought about yelling for Danny like a scared child I forced myself to hold composure against the growing urge to run

There's nothing out there Just the wind outside blowing through the yard Just on the other side of the curtains I found myself backing up Leaving the fridge open as putrid air seeped from it There was a second click as the light finally shut off Leaving only the fridge light illuminating the room In the space of a breath

The curtains began to lift Slowly at first Like a breeze were passing through The heavy fabric over the door began to push into the room As if someone were pressing against it from the other side The silhouette of a head and shoulders Began to take shape in the material Pulling the curtain further into the room

As it dragged along behind the figure That door wouldn't open I knew that I'd felt the damn thing with my own hands. There was no way someone or something could walk into that room, not through a barricaded door. I stepped back more, feeling carpet beneath my feet as the curtain finally reached its end, pulled toward against the rod, it slid over the person beneath. The kitchen stood empty as it fell back against the glass. No person, no monster, just the hung refrigerator

and the unnatural silence of the night. Then, a footstep. Not an auditory illusion this time, not the house settling, not the rush of sound of my heart pumping through my ears. It was the clear sound of a barefoot against tile, coming right from the empty room, followed by another, closer, then another. Like it was walking toward me. All at once, as if crossing a threshold, it appeared directly in front of me, in a single step, transforming from pure blackness into a complete human.

silhouette in the light of the fridge. I stumbled back, falling to the dark ground in the living room. I thought I'd have screamed, or run, or done, well, anything. Instead, like a deer in the headlights, I only managed to look up and gape silently like an idiot. Suddenly, I understood why Danny couldn't leave the house. It's easy to imagine what you do when confronted with a boogeyman that quickly changes once you do. In front of me, where there should have been a person, instead stood a human form cast completely in shadow, the shape of a woman, just under my height, with long, tangled hair falling from her shoulders and rickety legs that twitched as she stood. The silhouette took another step toward me, reaching out a thin, emaciated arm.

I looked to the door, and the rows of locks I'd never be able to open in time. Even if I was wrong about anything getting into this house, I sure as hell wasn't going to get. it out. My legs had turned to mush. I couldn't even run if I tried, much less stand up under my own power. I turned back, ready to face it right in front of me. Instead, it stood at the same spot, turned toward the fridge and staring into it, a single hand reaching toward the light. There was something unnatural in the way the light spilled over it, as if struggling to wrap around the thing's skin. Mostly silhouette, I could notice just enough detail to make out its cracked, protruding

fingernails, stained with a splattering of deep burgundy. All I heard was my own sharp breathing as it rattled to the empty house. The silhouette focused on the fridge and maniacally grasping the air in front of it, like it didn't even know I was there. Maybe it was looking for food, like the smell had somehow lured it in. where this attention focused away from me, I found a sudden welling of course, enough to hesitantly crawl toward the hallway,

moving as silently as I could. Transfixed on the fridge, its body gently swayed as if in a trance, the vague outline of gnar-breast on its chest, rising and falling as it breathed. I pulled myself around the corner and into the safety of the hallway. Danny's room at the end and the open bathroom door in between.

Holding the wall, I lifted myself, desperately step into other room and a sudden rattle of jars clinked from the kitchen. I whipped my head back, heart plummeting as I watched the light cut into a quickly disappearing sliver across the living room. I must have bumped into the fridge,

swinging the door shut. Darkness enveloped the living room as the fridge sealed shut, followed by another footstep against the tile. The only light in the house now spilled out from the bathroom next to me. I thought about hiding in there, barring the door and waiting

for morning, but I hesitated at the threshold. This thing had gotten into the kitchen, and I wasn't so sure the bathroom door would stop it either. Deep down, something else told me that was a bad idea, something that I knew but couldn't logically tell myself. I couldn't walk into that room. Another step came from the kitchen, grown louder, quicker. Instead, I reached my hand around the doorframe and found the light switch against the wall. At the end of the hallway, I deprecrow.

The compression the size of a foot sank into the soft carpet. I pressed the switch, sending the house plummeting into night. Silence. I stood in pitch black, listening as the floorboard creaked at the end of the hall. Then, nothing. Gently, I began feeling my way toward Danny's room, as my ears strained against the space between the walls, listening for even the slightest movement. The soft compression of carpet beneath bare feet.

My own breathing. the skin of my fingertips tracing along the wall. Another arduous step. The cold metal of the doorknob. I turned it. Sliding into the room, I closed the door, holding the knob turned in, my shaking hand as I tried to avoid the loud click as it shut.

The drawn-out, moaning screech of a hinge, reverberated through the room and into the hallway. I stepped back, acutely aware of every creak, rustle and murmur through the house. I waited, for footsteps in the hallway to hear it at the door, the hinge squealing as it grown back open. Outside, the wind rustled to the woods, slipping through the creaking, moaning trees, my own stifled short breaths, and the deep resonant inhalations from the sleeping Danny.

Feeling my way through the room, I brushed the curtain with my hand, letting a thin stream of moonlight fall over the bed, just enough to see by. I scanned over Danny, still fast asleep. then the black corners of the room. It was empty. I found the sofa chair and sank back into it, my legs finally giving out beneath me. I wasn't sure what to do now,

other than wait for dawn. Maybe I could get Danny, and we could slip past it into the night. He'd know how to open the locks, or we could unseal a window and slip out, or maybe there was some way of fighting it, something we could do to hurt it. I looked at Danny,

letting that fantasy slip by. Poor, poor Danny. I thought about the monsters he'd spent his life in fear of, hiding away from. Even if my mind was committed, there was no way my heart, still burning with fresh terror, would let me even stand out of this chair. I might as well cover my head with a blanket and hide until dawn. I'm sorry, I didn't believe you. That's when I heard it.

Just feet in front of me. A third set of breathing. shallow, struggled breaths. It was in the room with us. I held still, every nerve frozen as I strained my eyes, struggling to make out a silhouette in the draped shadows that hung across the walls. At the door, just feet away from Danny's bed, I began to make out the vague shape.

The rustle of sheets came from my side. I turned to see Danny, half awake and leaning up in bed, grabbing his glasses mechanically from the nightstand, sliding them over his ears. I wasn't sure if he could see me in the dark looking back at him. All I could do was silently plead as I watched his expression turn from confusion to a look of abject horror

as he became aware of the darkness. I wasn't sure if I said it or screamed the words of my head, but a loud resounding no shook through me. Maybe it was too late or maybe I just couldn't bring myself to move or even tried to stop him. He turned on the light.

Frantic, the space of a blink, everything happened. A single flash of light, half falling from the chair, I grabbed the cord, yanking it from the wall. In that split second, as the room filled with light, I saw it. The shape of the thing in the room with us, and Danny staring at it. A scream, the sound of mortal terror, high-pitched and piercing. It was the sound of a scared child confronted by the thing he'd feared his whole life.

The monster in the closet standing at the first. of his bed, not afraid of the light, but drawn to it. Blackness covered everything again as the light died. I stumbled from the chair, reading blindly in the dark, frantic and feral, grabbing, pulling, anywhere away from that bed. I grabbed something, a door, and pulled myself through. Pulling it closed behind me, I turned, immediately, finding myself against the wall, then another to my side.

I was in a small room, windowless and cluttered. no more than a few feet wide. Finding nowhere else to crawl, I curled myself up into a tight corner. Then I did the only thing I could. I hid. I don't know how much time passed, how many hours or days that slipped by in the darkness,

nothing less in silence. My eyes were clasped, firmly shut, blocking out everything. I waited as the footsteps moved through the room one last time. As they stopped, just outside the door I hid behind. I waited, even after the thing's breathing was drowned out by the returning in ticks

and birds that fill the morning air with their songs. When I finally opened them, a thin light, cold and white, slipped through the slatted door next to me, leaving a pattern against the wall. I managed to peek through one of the slats in the door, spaced just far enough apart, I could press my eye against it and peeked through.

Danny's room and the back of the sofa sat in front of me. Everything finally clicked. I was in the closet. I strained, looking out, leaning against the wood as silently as possible. The first rays of morning, barely peeking over the horizon, it slipped through the open curtains, cutting a line through the room, all the way to me. Most everything else was hidden behind the sofa,

although I could see about half the bed and the door. I couldn't see a sign of Danny, or the silhouette, just the empty room in front of me. I finally crawled out when I had no other choice When I was sure night was going to descend again With me hiding in the shadows of the back of that closet I wasn't going to spend another night in that house It was already late into the afternoon

When I unbarred the door and stepped out into the sun-drenched terrace No idea what happened to Danny Other than he was gone Although I wasn't surprised when the months had passed And I'd never received a call from him A relative or even the police He was a recluse after all, more so than I thought, a person who could disappear without a trace. Still, on some nights I wake in the darkness, listening to my wife breathing next to me,

and I'd look at the phone, wondering, waiting for it to ring. That was until just last night, when I woke up in my apartment, stillness hanging in the air, when I followed a feeling out into the living room, look through the window, down into the alley below, when a passing car for the previous second illuminated the thin space between the buildings, when, for that brief second, through my sleep-filled eyes, I saw a shape, the vague silhouette of a person, standing in the dark, holding something small and round in its hands, and the sudden metal glint of glasses that came from it. All I know is I'm sleeping with the lights off. From now on,

I knew something was wrong as soon as I pulled up of the truck. It's not like a pickup can't get a flat tire like any other car, but I'd been in the wreck and tire repair business since I was a teenager, and just like anything else, you get to where you can see patterns of things.

Some people tend to have dead batteries, others get into fender-benders, and there are always those that come out to a tire that went flat over a day or two. But a blowout, a real tire blowout, where the driver didn't hit anything. those were rarer, and usually when it happened,

it was some dumb kid that didn't pay attention to his tyres or somebody without the money to fix a bald one. The man who had called a 24-hour line for a new tire and it seemed like neither. For one thing, he had been ready with a tie model he needed right from the jump. The oddest part of that was it was a tire we actually had in stock, which was rare for truck tires. He didn't even act surprised or happy about it,

just told me what he needed like he needed, like he needed, like he knew I'd have to bring it. At the time, I just chalked it up to him being a dumbass. People always act shocked when we don't carry every part they could ever want or need in some impossibly large warehouse out back. Just a minute, ma'am, let me go 3D print to you a new carburetor for your 10-year-old Honda. You're in luck, sir, I put that exact ignition switch a few years back just waiting for your call. But when my headlights passed across the side of the red truck

that landed on the man propped against the door, I felt uneasy. This was a work truck, older but clearly heavily used and well maintained, and the man himself looked to be in his 50s, wearing worn jeans and a crisp blue button-up shirt. My first thought was he was probably a foreman or a contractor somewhere, and maybe a pretty successful one too. Getting out of my truck, I raised a hand to him and glanced at the truck's tires. I saw the flat immediately, but in the dim halo from my headlights, I was struck by the condition of the tire.

It didn't look bald or threadbare at all. Glancing back at the man, I gave him a smile. I had a pop on you, yeah? The man grimaced and nodded. I did. Hell of a time for it, too. I returned his nod. Yeah, well, Mr. Trimble, I'm Pete. Good to meet you. Looking way awkwardly, I turned on my flashlight and squatted down by the tire.

Looks like it's pretty new. Lots of thread left. I know you said you didn't on the phone, but you sure you didn't hit something? The man shrugged. Don't know. I didn't notice anything until it started riding rough. You brought the replacement tire? Yeah, I'll have it on in a minute.

I glanced back toward the rear of the truck. You don't have a spare you'd rather me put on, do you? He frowned. Spears rotten. That's why I called you. He glanced into the dark. an interior of his truck's cap. Hurry up if you can.

I've got a bit of an emergency going on. Offering a smile, I nodded. Sure, sorry. I'll get right on it. I had the car jacked and was removing the last of the lugs when I heard a squeak of static above me from inside the man's cap. As a glanced up, Trimble yanked open the door

and fumble with something inside. Hello? Hello? Are you there? I was curious, but I didn't want to see nosy either, so I pulled off the wheel and carried it back to my truck. I could hear something over the radio, but at a distance it was hard to make out anything more than a loud, crackling wine that faded in and out. Looking back toward Trimble, I saw the man was half in and half out of his truck, his face dimly lit by the front panel of what looked like a CB radio mounted on his dash.

As I watched, he brought the headset up to his face, his voice tight with tension and frustration as he broke. I'm trying, God damn it. I'm getting my tire fixed, and then I'll be back on the road. Taking a deep breath, he went on, his voice calmer. I, I know you're scared. Just, have you thought of anything else you saw or heard, any landmarks or something else to let me know exactly where? Another squeal of static and Trimble fell silent as he listened. I wished I was closer, so I could make out what the other person was saying, but all I can. here was the rhythm of noise as the man nodded to himself. Okay, okay.

Damn, I'm close to that now. I... He glanced out the front windshield and then turned back to look at me. Wait a minute. I have an idea. Just, I'll be there soon. He dropped the handset as he stood up. His eyes wide and his jaw clenched as he stepped toward me with his hands out.

Look, I need to tell you something. Ask you something. I stepped back from the wheel, but kept the pry bar I was using in my left hand. Okay, what's up? He glanced toward his truck, and then back to me, and I could see a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead now. That... I've been talking to this lady tonight, on the CB.

I nodded, wondering where this was going. Was that his deal then? He's running around on the sly or something? Okay. He took another step forward. This lady, she's trapped somewhere. Someone took her and put her somewhere, but she found a CB radio and got it to work.

I've been driving toward the area she described for the last hour, but I wasn't sure where she was. She can't get out of where she's at, but she's been looking out the window of the place, trying to see what she could in the dark. Trimble pointed up toward the night sky. But the moon's out now, and she just told me about a big silo she can see.

a big silo next to a little shed down the hill from the cinderblock building she's in. I'm pretty sure I know the place. I frowned slightly. So you're saying this lady has been kidnapped or something? When he nodded, I went on. Did you call the cops?

Trimble shook his head. No, I didn't. Maybe I should have. But at first, I halfway thought it was a joke. I was on my way home when I first heard her on the radio. The more she talked, the more I thought I knew where she was talking about, and the more I believed her. Hell, I should have called then. But what could I tell them?

And how long would it take for them to find her? She's alone for now, but she's terrified about the fellow that took her coming back. I thought if I could figure out where she was and then call, it would save time. But then, my damn tire blew out. Shifting, uncomfortably, I nodded toward the wheel. Well, give me another five or ten minutes, and you'll be on your way. And Trimble shook his head as he broke in. No, you don't understand.

This place is close, walking close. But I... I don't know what I'll be walking into, or if I'll need help getting her out. I think she's hurt and... And she may need to be carried. What I was going to ask is, will you go with me to look?

He raised his hand as I started to respond. I know you don't know me, but I swear I'm not a bad fella. I'm not trying to trick you or rob you or something. Hell, you look like you could whip me if it came to it anyway. I eyed the man uneasily. Let's just call the cops and there's no time. The closest cops are probably 30 minutes away.

This place I'm thinking of is 10, maybe 15 minutes away on foot. If we go now, we can get her out before she gets in worse trouble. I'm going with or without you, but I'm taking the time to ask because it'll be easier with two. And, well, I'm more than a little scared if I'm honest. His bottom lip trembled slightly as he met my eyes. Please, Mr. Pete, please help me help this lady if we can. Ignoring the pit in my stomach. I nodded.

I made Trimble walk in front of me as we travelled through the dark. We each had flashlights, but it did little to cut through the shadowy shapes growing in the fields and thickets we crossed. The moon had gone back behind another cloud, and the weight of the night was oppressive as I followed a strange man deeper into the countryside. He was a strange man, and not just because of the story he had told. Part of it was how he moved. Standing against the truck, he had seemed fairly strong and able. But as we walked, I noticed he had an odd, stooped gait,

as though he carried the way to the world on his shoulders and was growing tired of the load. But there was something else, too. He seemed oddly familiar to me. Not like I knew him exactly, but like I'd seen him before. for, like maybe. He should be getting close now, just over this next hill, if I remember right. He pointed his flashlight back as he glanced at me for a moment. The reflected light shone the naked fear in his eyes.

It's an old hunt house or something, I think. Never been inside, but I've seen it years ago. I nodded. Okay. He started back to walking, but that new glimpse of his face had just made my stomach tighten further. Hey, have I met you before? He seemed to slow for a second, and then, leaning forward more, he went on at a quicker pace. No, I don't think so. I think I'd remember.

I swallowed. My throat suddenly dry and tight. I just... Maybe you've been in the store before. It's just, you knew we had the tyrant stock, and you look pretty familiar. A long silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the crunching of dead scrub grass at our feet, and the distant rustling of some trees as we crested the hill. Trimble suddenly stopped, and I thought he was going to turn and respond. But instead, he just pointed to a lump of shadow down the hill as he let out a rough whisper.

There, that's it, let's go. My heart was beating faster now, eyes looking into every shadow for the boogeyman that had supposedly taken this poor lady. But what if that was a lie? Or what if it was true? but Trimble was the one that had taken her, some maniac that was abducting people dumb enough to simply follow him out into the woods. I'd tighten my grip on the pry bar.

He'd been right, though. I was 20 years younger and 40 pounds heavier than him, so as long as I kept him in front of me, he'd have a hell of a time trying to pull anything. And I didn't know that he was lying anyway. The story sounded strange, but these kinds of stories always did, didn't they? Could I risk not helping,

just because I was too chicking to go out into the dark with a stranger. Keeping my eyes a head untrimble, I took my phone out to my pocket. I was going to see this through, but I was calling the cops before we went in there. No telling what we might find, and if Trimble was up to something, I'd rather find out now rather than once I was inside an unfamiliar building with him. Holding up my phone, I swiped across the screen and dialed 911 before lifting the phone to my ear. Nothing, no dull tone, and after a few seconds a double beep. I knew that damn beep.

Looking back my screen confirmed it. No signal found. Idiot. I'd waited too long, and now I was... What are you doing? I glanced up as he Trimble staring at me. I... I was just going to try calling the cops, since we're here now. He stared at the phone and then at me.

"'Any luck?' I shook my head. No service this far out.' Trimble nodded before continuing to whisper. Figures. He pointed toward the dark outline of the building, less than 50 feet away now. Let's look around before we go inside.

I think maybe there's only one door, but better to see before we try to get in. Turning off his light, he leaned closer, his voice trembling. I'd kill the lights too for now. We don't have any way of knowing where this guy. might be. Damn, this guy was terrified. It simultaneously made me feel better about him and more scared about everything around us. If this was real, we needed to hurry. Sticking together, we circled the cinder block

rectangle, studying it in the patchy moonlight that came and went as we crept through the shadows of the nearby trees. The wind kicked up again, rattling bare branches as a shudder went up my spine. We were back near where we had started, and he'd been right. One door and two dark windows. I went to ask him how we would go in, but Trimble was already moving toward the door. And by the time I caught up, he twisted the knob and entered, turning on his flashlight again. I hit the button of mine as I stepped to the threshold. I'd expected to see furniture, maybe a stove or some hunting supplies.

But there was none of that. just a bare, dirty, concrete floor, broken down the middle, a black hole leading down into some kind of dugout basement or tunnel. My eyes followed my flashlight's beam as I did a second pass of the room. Where's the rad? Trimble grabbed my arm tightly. Do you hear her? I froze as I realized. I did hear something.

At first the sound was faint and warbling, all like water or fingers running over glass. but as I listened it changed or I could hear it better. It was a woman weakly calling for help from down in the dark below the concrete floor. Squeezing my arm, Trimble began walking down the slope of broken floor and I followed. My pace matching and then passing his as the woman's voice grew clearer. She was clearly in pain and terrified and we needed to help her. And if the guy that had her was down here, then God help him. Teeth gritted, I raised the pry bar as I'd turn a corner, a foot below the cinderblock building above.

I could still hit Trimble behind me, but I didn't care anymore if he helped or not. My flashlight was already tracing the first outlines of a body, chained down with stakes that was... Pain exploded in the back of my head, as everything felt the darkness. When I woke up, I was laying in my side, hands and feet bound behind me. Trimble sat a few feet away, watching me quietly until he noticed I was awake. My first panicked thought was that I'd been right. He'd trapped this lady, and now he had me too. Where was she?

My eyes lit on the figure laying between us, wrapped in dirty linens and bound by fine silvery chains tied to steakheads all along the body. Only the head was bare. And it was a lady, but her skin was pallid and grey. with lips that had shriveled or had been removed sometime long before. As though, appreciating my need to see, Trimble took one of the flashlights and shined it over her face more fully.

The rest of her face was strangely beautiful, but in a terrible way. There was no question. She was long dead, and the ruin of her mouth with its black, gleaming teeth only made the delicate grace of her other features more horrible. Trimble let out a low chuckle above me. I know that look. I know it well.

He gave me a nasty grin as he squatted down, stumbling with a grunt before catching himself. Grimmising, he pulled a pair of pliers out of his back pocket. Look, I don't know what this is, but please, just let me go. Don't kill me. Trimble frowned. I'm not... I'm not going to kill you, idiot. Going to give you something. Pass along a gift, if you want to look at it like that. Turning away, he reached forward to gently ease open the dead woman's mouth.

He paused a moment, shaking his head as he puffed out a breath. Hell, even now it's hard to do. He glanced at me again. Hard to give up. You'll see what I mean. Shaking his head again, he gripped one of the body's black teeth with the pliers and gave it a tug, grunting with effort, as it finally came loose. As he stood up and turned to me, I started to beg again, but he ignored me.

When he straddled me, I tried to thrash and throw him off, but it was no use. He put his knees on my shoulders and then ease the pliers down toward my face. The jagged, black tooth they held, suspended above my head for a moment, before he drove it down into my skull. The world went black again, and when it came back, it was only in flashes. I remember seeing trimble against the far dirt wall, vomiting up something dark before slumping back with a wet grin. I remember him untying me and saying that for what is worth, he was sorry.

I remember waking up a few feet outside of the building, the chill of morning dew making my whole body shudder as I sat up and felt my head. There was no mark, or anywhere, as though it had all been a dream. Standing up shakily, I went to the building and tried the door, It opened easily, and in the red morning light, I could see that the split in the floor had been filled in with white sand while I was unconscious. Bending down, I picked up a handful and looked at it blearily. No, not sand. Salt.

It took me nearly an hour, but I found my way back to my truck eventually. It was just as I'd left it, aside from Trimble's wheel, which was gone along with any other sign of the man. I thought about calling the police or going to a hospital, but I didn't know what I'd say, or what good it would do. At most, I could carry them to a long dead body buried in a hole under hundreds of pounds of salt, but after I told them everything, would the cops suspect anyone else but me of whatever had been done to her? No, I needed to go home and rest, get my head straight,

and then decide what to tell, if anything. And that's what I did. When I made it home, I fell into bed and slept with 12 hours, waking up in the evening with a headache and a dim, numb hopefulness that it had all been a dream. I guzzled water and ate some luncheon meat out of the fridge before going back to bed, and by the next morning, I was feeling almost normal again. Real or not, it was behind me, and I needed to let it stay there. It was as I was walking to work the next day, that I first noticed.

the footsteps behind me. Soft and delicate, the whisper of skin, padding lightly on concrete, just behind my own feet. I spun around, expecting to see a customer coming into the store,

but no one was there. Throughout the day, I kept hearing it, footsteps following me wherever I went, but when I would turn, there was nothing there. By that afternoon,

it was all I could think about, and I left work early to get some fresh air and clear my head, I walked down the sidewalk toward the center of town, listening closely for the ghost steps behind me. They were always there, changing with mine, depending on whether I was on pavement or asphalt, dirt or grass. By the time I made it back to the library, I was leaning against the building, trying to catch my breath. Either I was going insane, or something was following me, stalking me. Just then, I felt a small, firm hand on my shoulder.

The cold of it, cutting through the cloth of my t-shirt, as his twin gripped me on the other side. I joked away from the wall, almost falling backward at the unexpected weight bearing down on me. Pinwheeling my arms, I stumbled back a step as a belt something wrap around my waist. A pair of freezing legs holding me tight. I led out a scream and looked down, reaching for the legs first, and then the hands digging into my shoulders. But nothing was there. Yet she was on me. Oh God, she was on me now.

I couldn't see her or touch her, but I could still feel her, that impossible weight peering down on me no matter where I went or what I tried. I could still hear her, whispering that raspy voice that terrifies and excites me when it blossoms in my ear,

weeping gently as she warns me about how terrible it is to be alone in the dark, softly rumbling as she purrs how much she needs me, loves me, telling me so many terrible and wonderful, impossible things,

all while promising one thing, one truth above all else. She'll never let me go. Everywhere I look, I see him. The man with a plastic smile. You must have seen him.

He's everywhere. I don't know his name, but it feels like every advert I see lately. He's in it. I don't mean on TV, but on billboards, posters and merchandise. He's in different poses and wearing different clothes, but it's definitely him.

White guy, late 30s. I suppose it's good looking, except for his hair being so greasy. It's like he's drenched it in oil or something. Then, there's his smile. That too wide grin, flashing pristine, pure white teeth. It must be photoshopped, but his teeth somehow look too perfect. And his eyes too. The smile is bad enough, but the eyes

It's like he knows something I don't I suppose he does After all, I have no idea who he is The sheer volume of exposure he's getting Must mean he's a big deal to someone I tried to keep up with all the latest fads and passion trends But other than the myriad of posters and advertising I don't recognise him from anywhere I can think of

He's not an actor or musician or model as far as I'm aware All my attempts at Googling him have failed. What would I even search for? Advert guy, white mail and every billboard. I keep meaning to take photos of him, but it's like every time I see him, I get distracted by something else. I remember something I need to do,

or somewhere I need to be. It probably doesn't help that I've got a lot in my mind at the moment. Money is tight, and I keep making foolish impulse purchases. I've always been a bit of a shopaholic. But I used the spend within my means. Now, I've maxed out multiple credit cards and still keep buying new things.

I'm going to return the shoes and scarf I bought yesterday, but I can't exactly do that with the half-eaten chocolates, and I stupidly opened and synced my new Fitbit. Before I remembered, I'd already got an Apple Watch that does practically the same thing. Fingers crossed, I can take that back too. The letters through my door are getting increasingly aggressive. Red font, underlined, the word. final warning in all caps.

So, that probably explains why I'm more scatterbrained at the minute. After all, I've got more serious things to worry about than some guy in a poster. But, he's on every poster. And it's like he's looking at me, specifically, every time I see him. Whenever I notice him, he's looking precisely in my direction, or at least wherever I was stood at the time. It must be coincidence, of course, my brain's searching for patterns or something. I'm almost glad I never seen him on TV

Seeing him move might be too much Anyway, I just wanted to ask if anyone else has seen him More out of curiosity than anything I'll try and grab a photo later when I return my stuff Please don't give me crap for the Fitbit I know I'm an idiot Somehow, despite spotting him multiple times today I never managed to take a photo of the man with a plastic smile

A few people yesterday asked me for some more descriptions It's hard to believe you wouldn't know exactly who he's talking about if you'd seen him. You know that primal response you get when you lock eyes with someone? Well, I get that feeling every time I see his picture, mainly because it feels like we're making eye contact when I first glimpse him before my brain realizes it's just the picture. His smile is pretty distinctive too. You know there's dental adverts where the actor is smiling a little too forced for a little too long?

Well, he makes those people look miserable. It's like he has too many teeth, all crammed into one mouth, but they're all perfectly neat and straight. It makes me want to sew his mouth shut. This would have been a lot easier if I just remember to take the damn photo. I'm starting to get seriously worried about my memory, to be honest. I saw him in four shop windows on a huge billboard outside my favourite nightclub on some randomist t-shirt on the side of a phone box. And despite all that, despite him being the absolute forefront of my mind, I somehow still forgot to photograph him.

I only ever remember later, when it's too late to double back. Luckily, I did manage to return the Fitbit. They only gave me a credit note, though, which doesn't help my bleak financial situation much. There's a newer model that comes to the Lexa that lets you pay for things, so that's pretty cool. Maybe I should buy that and sell my Apple Watch. I'll have to think about that.

At least that way, I'd have some actual money in my pocket and not a stupid credit note. There's a lot of things I could tell, really, come to think of it. There's no way I'm making rent this month. So, I'm going to have to make a big clean-out, especially after I registered for Disney Plus yesterday. I know, I know, another streaming service. But they've got so many great shows,

and they're really competitively priced. I'll just get rid of Netflix or something. Anyway, back to the man. He was looking exceptionally happy with himself in the latest posters. I'm almost baffled how they can roll them out so fast Yesterday the billboard I saw him on was advertising Coca-Cola But today the same billboard had him in front of a load of movie posters Mulan and Frozen 2 and that new Black Widow film

Actually this is getting me quite excited to start streaming some movies tonight But the man is starting to creep me out a little Well, a lot to tell the truth When I saw him on somebody's t-shirt today I managed to blurt out Who is that? And amazingly, I even remembered what they told me. But when I googled it, this shake of Arafella

looked nothing like the man with a plastic smile. I must have heard the name wrong. I spelt it wrong for a start. It was a similar pose though, so maybe it was just copying that style or something. I'm starting to think I'll never know who this man is. But, and this is going to sound a bit crazy. It feels like it's following me.

The man with a plastic smile. is in my house. Not physically, of course. I'm sure he'd never do that. The first time I saw him was under jar of lasagna sauce, before I'd dropped it at least. I guess he's the face of Domio now? Personally, I prefer the puppets.

The puppets didn't make me shiver. Why does he look so happy? Why can't I look that happy? I don't think I've ever seen anyone look that happy. I've booked a doctor's appointment about my memory. You'd think I'd remember buying things this base on, wouldn't you, since I've basically become obsessed with this man. I'm hoping they can prescribe me some medication, preferably a brand I've heard of, because I don't

trust those cheap knockoffs. My main bank account hit the overdraft limit today. Apparently, I had a bit of a shopping frenzy, but some of those online deals are irresistible. I must admit, I'm regretting it all now, though. I've purposely turned off the boiler to save spending money on the heating, but then I stupily went to bought a Parker coat. I don't know what's wrong with me. Too impulsive, I suppose. Too easily distracted. Too forgetful.

Hopefully, things will be better when the doctor rings. All these letters and empty bank accounts are making me feel horrible. I only have one card left that doesn't get declined. But I dare to check the balance to see how much left I have to spend on it. It feels like the walls are closing in sometimes. I know none of you have seen the man with a plastic smile, but I've noticed he makes me feel... better

like everything is going to be okay you know I've taken to carrying the jar of sauce around with me I know it sounds silly but whenever things get too tense I just take one look at the man with a plastic smile and things don't seem so bad smile and the world smiles with you

that's what they say maybe that's why you're so popular I'm probably just an idiot for not seeing it sooner he still gives me goosebumps but I'll take goosebumps over crushing financial anxiety any day. I've decided he definitely is good looking, even if I don't like his hairstyle. His skin is so smooth,

and his clothes are always neatly pressed, never a crease on them. His features are almost sculpted, and he always looks so attentive and engaged, so full of life. Believe it or not, I still haven't taken a photo. My phone is charging. I'll take one tonight, I swear.

But I did manage to snag a poster of him And snuck it on my fridge I must have bought this jar Just after that I suppose Oh and the backup laundry detergent And the self-help book and the shampoo You'd think I remember buying one of them, wouldn't you? Shows how bad my memory has gotten I suppose

Fingers crossed, this stock can solve it I feel like I'd buy anything to fix it at this point Pay any price For now though I'm going to check and see if there's anything I can do to sort my dire cash flow situation. Thankfully, I've got the man at the side of the computer

keeping me company. Funny, how he's here right next to me, watching me from the label of the jar as I type. At the beginning of all this, I didn't know how I'd ever find out who he was.

I suppose I still don't know, do I? Somehow, it seems less important now. Still, a promise is a promise. I'll send you a picture tomorrow. memory must be even worse than I thought. Today I went shopping and apparently replaced every product in my house. Food, cleaning, entertainment, hygiene. The man with a plastic smile is on the

packaging for all of them. What's weird is when I open the cupboard. Each label is slightly different, even unidentical cans. No matter where they're positioned on the shelf, they're always staring right at me, making eye contact with me. It almost feels like I'm on a stage, like every version of the man is waiting for me to do something. I suppose I bought all these things with this face on to show a picture to you guys, but that does make me wonder

why I'd need so many. I must have just gotten carried away like always. The doctor called earlier, but wouldn't prescribe me any of the medication I asked for, not regeneron, not mydil, not Benadryl. I'd not even heard of the ones he'd mentioned, so I asked for another doctor, and they should be ringing me back next week.

that guy was probably a quack If the medicine was worth taking I'd have no doubt seen a poster of it If it was any good The man with a plastic smile would surely be endorsing it Like he does everything else Some good news though I managed to get a great deal on a personal finance loan

Something about consolidating existing debts And low monthly payments in APRs It all went a bit over my head if I'm honest But my monthly payments are low low, low, low, was what they told me. I thought it was catchy. Oh, and I got the newest Fitbit charge for advanced. Water resistant, with a longer battery life.

Good news is, now I've got my account sorted. I can buy all those things. I've been forcing myself to wait until next month to buy. I can live my life how I want to with Payday Loans UK. I must have bought a jumper with a man on. I must have. Changed all my clothes, I suppose. He's on all of them.

riding the horse on my Ralph Lauren. He's even on an old Starbucks employee t-shirt I kept from my university days. His face is covering the logo with his deep blue eyes and perfect smile. I don't remember replacing any of my clothes like this, but then I don't remember doing much of anything these days. His even are my Nike trainers. Just do it. The man's smile isn't so creepy now that I've gotten used to it.

He looks happy. It makes me think that maybe I could be that happy to. too. Now when I see him, I tried to copy a smile. It hurts my cheeks though. I can't seem to get it as wide as his, and my teeth aren't as straight or as white or as many. But I've heard that your teeth can be whiter than white with denticlean. In fact, it's almost soothing and reassuring to see him on adverts now. I know if he's endorsing a product, it's going to be high quality and great value. He's never stayed me wrong before. Reliable, affordable, test driver high and I today. The man with a plastic smile can make me happy.

I have a plastic smile too. For a price. I finally managed to take a photo of him, but he keeps getting corrupted when I try to upload it. I tried on my Samsung. Maybe I need an iPhone. The new one. I've managed to print the picture off just fine though.

I printed 100 copies just to be sure. My HP Inject 2.720 wireless all in one printer has pixel perfect quality, so it's like I'm right there with him. He is so handsome. The more I see him, the more I'm reminded how much is done for me. How good he makes me feel. How much better life can be. I wish everyone could have a plastic smile.

And since you all say you've never seen him, I've figured out a way to fix that. I'm going to hang his posters up all over town. Once you've seen him, you'll realize how easy it all is. We can have anything we want right now. Soon we'll all be smiling. Soon we'll all be happy. Forever.

Times and conditions apply.