CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 Scary r/nosleep Horror Stories to relax/sleep to

Episode Date: July 27, 2020

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "Summer of '97" Creepypasta►14:38 "I’ve been completing some deeply disturbing crosswords" Creepypasta►37:46 "The Legend of Ol' Mother Cleaver" Creepypasta►1:10:05 "The monster my family lived with had rules" Creepypasta►1:31:07 "I’m camping with a group of friends.The girl who left is NOT the same who came back" Creepypasta►2:35:26 "I Miss my Brain Tumor" Creepypasta►2:55:55 "We buried the only key with my sister. Now her old room is locked from the inside" 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►Dong geon Son: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/eR8vGSUGGESTED 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-

In May of 1997, I arrived home from my last day of school to unwelcome news. I would be spending my summer break on Uncle Jacob's farm. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. I wanted to laze the breezy days away at the beach, breathing in the salty scent of the ocean while the golden sand warmed my back. I wanted to sleep until noon, free from the shrill ring of my alarm clock, before waking up to devour a bowl of sugary cereal in front of the TV. I wanted to ride my bike and leisurely sip lemonade and reread all my favourite books.

But for me, summertime now meant hard work and an insufferable rural boredom that made sitting in a school desk seem downright thrilling in comparison. Begging Mom to let me stay home was futile. She insisted that Uncle Jacob had fallen on difficult times and needed assistance tending to the farm. even if he was too proud to ever admit it. We had no other living family and dad had left us years ago before eventually choosing to drop out of her lives entirely.

Mom couldn't take the time off of a job, leaving the responsibility of helping Uncle Jacob to ultimately be heaped onto me. I should clarify that I didn't inherently dislike my uncle. I actually felt quite bad for him. Over the past year, Uncle Jacob's life had become a painful cycle of hardship and grief. Aunt Das had died suddenly the previous year, and while she never had a particularly genial man, her death had made him grow stony and distant. His health was declining, and the farmer who had once taken great pride in his crops now owned several acres worth of neglect. I didn't blame him for the robbing of my summer. I knew it wasn't his idea, and I suspected

he felt as cheerless about the arrangement as I did. And so, I begrudgingly could. And so, I begrudgingly conceded that mom was right. Uncle Jacob was in dire need of assistance, and to deprive him of that would be inconscionable. Still, it was impossible not to feel bitter when June arrived, and I found myself in my uncle's fields at the crack of dawn. My friends were soaking in poolside sun and enjoying family vacations. I was toiling my summer away under the blazing sky. Every day, my shirt would become so soaked with sweat.

that it clung to my aching back like a layer of wet skin. My bare arms and the back of my neck soon burned to a ferocious shade of red before later peeling away in strips that resembled fleshy parchment. Painful blisters erupted along my palms. At night I tossed and turned

from the sweltering heat cursing the farmhouse lack of air conditioning. My misery was as incessant as the soreness causing through my limbs. I wasn't merely unhappy. I loathed everything about the farm, from the chipped paint on the barn boards, down to the miltering wallpaper in Uncle Jacob's dingy house. I impatiently counted down the days until my mother would come to rescue me from my uncle's bleak existence and his endless list of chores. One rainy afternoon, Uncle Jacob granted me a reprieve from my work and retired to his bedroom, claiming that the weather strung his arthritis.

I knew he simply wanted to be alone. Tomorrow would be Aunt Darcy's birthday, and the box of yellow cake mix and pink candles sitting on the counter of his small kitchen indicated that he had not yet broken the routine decades of marriage had built. I was grateful for the respite, yet uncertain of what to do with my newly gifted free time. Uncle Jacob didn't own a television, and I hadn't brought any books to the farm thanks to mom's insistence that I had to have no time to read. I listened for the sound of my uncle's footsteps creaking along the floorboards and his heavy sigh as he climbed into bed. When I was certain he was asleep, I silently crossed the room to where his damp coat hanged from a rack. I stuck my hand into my pocket, carefully fished out a set of keys and made my way towards the locked room at the end of the hall.

Uncle Jacob had mentioned the room only once, back when I first arrived at the farm, and simply stated that it was an old study I need and concern myself with. I'd been taught that snooping was wrong, and I felt slightly ashamed even as I slipped the key into the lock. But, keeping the terrible beast of boredom at bay overruled any sense of guilt. And so, after a few steps of fleeting hesitation, I quietly eased the door open. and stepped inside. My initial reaction was to be underwhelmed. The room was coated with dust and boasted little.

A writing desk, moth-eaten curtains, paired with a shabby rug, a chair with cracked leather upholstery, and a nearly empty bookshelf that held a few hardbound volumes. After the initial wave of disappointment had passed, I decided to peruse through the meagre selection of books. I plucked one from the shelf, sank into the ruined chair, and gasped when I opened the book and saw dozens of wedding rings spill from its hollowed core to scatter loudly across the floor. I froze, my heart pounding thunderously in my chest, and waited for Uncle Jacob to burst

through the doorway to see what I had done. I was so frightened by the prospect of getting into trouble that it wasn't until several tense minutes had passed without an appearance of my uncle that confused. confusion finally struck me. Why did Uncle Jacob have all these wedding rings? I began gathering the rings up by the handful to cram them back into the gouged book. Bands of gold and silver, smooth or adorned with diamonds aged from years of matrimony or sparkling as if stripped from the finger of newlyweds. Each one felt like a piece of a bizarre puzzle. When I returned the hollow novel to its shelf, another inquisitive thought entered my mind.

What about the other books? I paused, uncertain of whether or not I truly wanted to know what they might contain. The collection of rings had disturbed me, not least of all, because of the sheer amount. I even considered that perhaps Aunt Darcy had collected them before she died, but that theory failed to make complete sense. Many of the rings appeared to have belonged to men, no more than. far too large for her own frail fingers, and the only ring I ever saw Uncle Jacob wear was the same one he'd worn for their entire marriage.

And why hide them away in a book when I glimpsed the jewelry box sitting in a dresser in Uncle Jacob's room? After a moment of internal debate, curiosity prevailed. I selected another volume. Immediately, I regretted my decision. Inside the books, gouged out core, rested far too many human teeth to have come from a single mouth. Some were cracked open to reveal an exposed pulp, and some were little more than jagged shards, and most were caked with blood. My stomach lurched at the sight of decaying flesh clinging to a tooth's root.

I imagine the agony that traumatized mouths had suffered, exposed nerves as teeth were broken and viciously extracted, the coppery taste of their own blood, sharp remnants of their shattered molars piercing through their tongues like nails. My head swam, and I fought the urge to be sick on the frayed rug. I know I should have called the police right then. I know I should have fled from the house and ran until I reached the next farm over. I know I should have been calmer and wiser, and done just about anything besides what I did next. But I couldn't think clearly in that horrible room, with its hellish secrets and the smothering dust drifting through its stale air. And so I grabbed another book from the shelf.

This time it slid from my trembling hands and fell to the floor. I watched as the book landed open and yawned a stream of photographs onto the floor. When I knelt down to examine them, I nearly fell over in shock. Staring up at me were faces twisted into gulfed. grimaces of unspeakable pain. Each snapshot captured an act of brutality. Open mouths screamed in anguish while others were sealed shut with strips of tape. Limbs were bound with rope and contorted into unnatural positions.

Eyes wept tears or blood, sometimes both. Hair and clothing was soaked with so much blood that it was unlikely any of the photographed survived for long after the camera finally ran out of film. One photo depicted a mirror, placed before a chair, with deep scratch marks along the arms, presumably arranged so that the captive could witness their own torture as it unfolded. In its reflection, I caught the sight of a familiar face. A hand clamped down on my shoulder. I didn't know what she was doing, Uncle Jacob mumbled sadly, his voice like gravel.

Until after, she was already gone. Uncle Jacob called the police himself. They found more trophies in the study. Lucks of hair tied with ribbon, watches and women's jewelry, blooded scraps of fabric, and a small tin full of fingernails that rattled when an officer picked it up.

The entire farm was excavated, but they never found so much as a single bone. Even after all these years, no one knows what Aunt Darcy did with the bodies or why she committed the murders. Law enforcement had a gruesome trinket sent to a forensic laboratory, but for the most part, identifying victims boiled down to the hideous task of pouring over the photo collection. A job made all the more nightmarish when families of the missing persons were shown

the least grisly of their pictures for tearful confirmations. Aunt Darser continued to inflict pain even as she laid in a grave. Several other photographed remain unidentified. If there exists anyone out there who misses them, they'll likely spend the rest of the days knowing that their disappeared loved one met a cruel, brutal end at the hand of a monster for reasons will never understand. Sometimes, I wonder if perhaps it's better that way. If the haunting questions and lack of closure are still less painful than knowing

the undeniable, heart-shattering, blood-stained truth, that those photos so gruesomely displayed. Uncle Jacob was interrogated. His story never changed. After Darcy died, he was preparing to sell the farm and move away to somewhere with less memories, only for those plans to come to a horrifying halt when he found what she'd been keeping in a study.

The discovery left him tethered to the farm, for he had no way of knowing if more gouldish trophies remained hidden elsewhere among his acres and couldn't risk anyone uncovering them before he did. To this day, I still don't understand why he allowed me to visit, given his fear of my aunt's atrocity is becoming unveiled, except that perhaps he had simply grown tired of carrying the crushing burden of her crimes. He claimed to have no knowledge of the murders prior to his wife's death, and for what it's worth, I believed him. The voice that spoke to me that

rainy afternoon belonged to a weary, broken soul who had finally been relieved of a secret that was eating away at him like a parasite. I know it was wrong of Uncle Jacob to keep evidence concealed rather than alert the police to what he had found, and I know it was wrong of him to prioritise Aunt Das' memory as an amicable, pleasant woman over seeking justice for many victims. But I understood his reasoning, even if I don't agree with it. He lost Aunt Darcy twice, once when she died, and again when he realised that he never truly knew her at all. Within weeks of his arrest, Uncle Jacob suffered a heart attack in his jail cell.

No funeral was held, and less than a year later, we had to have the tombstone he and Aunt Darcy shared removed after he was repeatedly defaced by vandals and admirers alike. Pieces were chipped away by those who sought to take a little bit of Aunt Darcy. by then a celebrated figure in certain macabre circles home with them. Mom put me in intensive therapy and I spent the rest of my summer in my room reading book after book in an attempt to keep my mind from lingering on the farm. It didn't work of course.

At night I would lie awake in bed and think of the photographs until my ears rang with a sound of tortured screams. But things got better in time. I continue therapy and today I'm a happy adult with a family of my own but while the vivid sleepless nights have been fewer and fewer

in number over the years I still think of Uncle Jacob's farm often Every thought circles back to the picture with the mirror The last one I saw before Uncle Jacob gently plucked it from my grasp And guided me out of the room

I can recall every detail as if I'd viewed it only seconds ago. Aunt Darcy, looking into a reflection, wearing a cruel grin and a fine mist of blood, her gloves glistening with a wet crimson. In the chair beside her, his limbs bound by knotted rope and his face almost entirely obscured by blood.

Sat my father. I latch onto specific problems, and when I do, everything else around me diminishes into nothingness. until I complete the task at hand. I line these problems up and solve them, one by one, and I find updating the task list awfully difficult. If I'm on my way to do a job,

breaking off to attend to something else is almost impossible. I once finished buttering my toast before putting out a fire by the stove. I once lost a girlfriend after she trapped her fingers in a food processor, and I quietly went over to the fridge and put the milk away before turning to help her. She couldn't believe that I hadn't rushed over straight away. But of course, it wasn't really like that.

I was unable to review or address my priorities until my mind had freed itself from the current task. I have to manage these tendencies, and I learned at an early age that it helps to focus on discrete tasks that, if things get really bad, I can remind myself, don't matter. That, at least, limits the anxiety of abandoning

them. I have my work and that gets me through the day, but outside of those hours I need other things to pull me through. I can paint and read and they're involving for sure, but they don't tend to have the sense of completion that I get from a simple puzzle. Jigsaw, Sudoku, word searches, video games, these all make up part of it, but oddly enough, it's crosswords that have taken over my mind. started because they weren't too taxing, and if I was pushed to cheat, then it didn't really

matter. They let me say things like, right, I'll do nine across while on the toilet and that's it. Like most things I put my mind to, I quickly turn the hobby into an obsessive pursuit of completion. The harder they were, the better. If I had to watch a film, read a book, or even visit a real-life location to get an answer, I would. And I credited it all with pushing. me out of my comfort zone in order to experience new things. I would never have watched breakfast at Tiffany's, read little women, or visited the London Museum of Natural History without needing to get answers from them. And there were all new experiences for me, some better than others, but I enjoyed the feeling

of expanding my little bubble with each new puzzle. Crosswords, like everything, have communities surrounding them, and I even found a few online friends. For some, the compulsion to get obscure answers was a vital lifeline to the outside world, and you'd be surprised that some of the cultures lurking at the fringe. A good crossword is more than just a puzzle. It's a curated string of experiences picked to evoke a deliberate journey. A common example might be the kind of thing some tourists could use to guide them around a city. Below the phoenix of a blinded saint, eight down. Ressogam. The answer can be found carved on a stone beneath a statue of a phoenix at St. Paul's Cathedral.

But what about something like the following? The final song of a thunderous singer, five across. The answer was toxic. The final song lip synced by a drag queen, Daytona Thunder, and a popular club in Manchester. I went a long way for that one and had a surprisingly good night, albeit one, a little outstretched, my wheelhouse. But still, I got the answer and it wasn't like I'd find it just by reading the forums. Posting answers is a no-no if you want to get into the best clubs. The creator was a well-known queer academic working out of London who was a popular following in the community.

I appreciated their work, but perhaps not as much as those by one anonymous Berliner. A companion's lips tasted through the looking glass, six across. Her name was Alice, and she was in escort for an agency called Intimate Companions. She was wearing cherry lip gloss, something I found through a process of elimination. Over the last few years, I've discovered more about myself than I ever would have at home. I have learned that I can lie very well, that when I know who I'm meant to be, who others want me to be, I can be confident and even charming. I have learned that I am not a jealous person, that I am not a vain person, and that there are times when I can be as reckless and adventurous as anyone else.

I just need a reason to, a job to complete with roots to success I understand. The name of a one-eyed watchman's gun, 12 across. There was a policeman, with two eyes, I add, but the unfortunate Christian name of Dick. And the answer was the serial number of his. gun converted to letters. That was an odd one, but absolutely invigorating. The crossword had been made with clearly defined geographical boundaries which helped. Many of us attended it as a communal event, although I largely acted alone, and for a moment

I almost thought the policeman was in on the game, right up, until he tried to shoot me. Like I said, the experiences can be invigorating. But the good ones, the really good ones, they can be a struggle to find. You have to be accepted into the right groups. Often you'll be vetted, even tested, but the reward can be worth it. I'll never forget the day I had a hand-delivered envelope deposited at my doorstep and the anticipation I felt opening it, unnotting the brown twine so delicately tied around the heft.

God, some of them even had wax seals. I like those the most. I found the violet and crimson seals delicious to look at. But they were so, so much more than simple puzzles. A principled affair. Five down.

The headmaster of a local school was having an affair with her sister-in-law, Sarah. It was hard to find that out. It wasn't exactly public knowledge. Frankly, I had to resort to stalking and it wasn't a good luck. But it was a no exception.

nonetheless, and the few times I nearly got caught were quite exhilarating. But what was truly amazing was that this was at the school just a few blocks from my house. You have to understand, it wasn't just a template handed out to everyone. I still don't know how big any of these communities really are, but I imagine they're quite small and evolved people from all over the world. It was truly remarkable to think someone had laboured over a tail-like made puzzle just for me. There are quite a few groups I belong to now.

Some aren't even organized online, instead requiring you to ferret them out, sometimes as clues in other puzzles, sometimes as their own elaborate games. But there are always more to be found and in the best circumstances they find you, choosing you out of all the people in the world to rise to the challenge at hand. The right ones will push you to do things you never thought possible. A Baker's Jewels, Seven Down. Harriet Baker, who died in 2012 at the age of 86, and was buried with an emerald necklace in the local graveyard. I still have it, kept away somewhere in a special drawer, along with news clippings of the crime.

It even has some of the soil from the grave still muddying its shimmering gems. And admittedly, they do still smell a bit. But I bet that I know something most people don't. Most people don't. And that's what happens to little old grandma's five years after being sealed up in a box beneath the earth. Not just the abstract either. I know the specifics.

I know exactly what she looks like, smells like, and even what a cold lump in flesh feels like. I spent years as a child wondering what happened to the many relatives of mine who passed away. But it was as an adult I finally found the answer. have lived their whole lives looking down on me. Teachers assumed I was slow at learning. My parents mourned that I cared more about organising my war game miniatures than I ever did about girls or friends. Everyone around me treated me like I was a timid mouse in a world of thundering giants. But I've lived a more exciting life than they could ever imagine, and it hasn't been in spite of who I am.

Only someone like me could pursue these clues to such dogged ends, and I gladly take the bat with a good. The colour of the tea plate served by the Bialia Historical Society, 9 up. Don't let the name fall you. The society is a private organisation for some rather unusual gentlemen who serve tea after their annual conference is finished. Crazy guys, I can see why they need a drink once they're finished and I'm not surprised half of them didn't take a seat during refreshments. I'm just not sure I'll ever be able to look at a farm animal in the eye again. Oh, and turquoise, by the way, that was the answer. I know things very few people know.

That's a rare privilege and, like I said, it comes with a price. It would be ridiculous to think one might look upon the fraying edges of our world without having to face some uncomfortable sights. You might think the worst of it is a leather-bound orgy in a dungeon or perversions you can safely find on Wikipedia. there are other lingering truths buried in the earth and I am one of the few who have seen them. There is always more to learn, always another word to find, another puzzle to complete. And I have come a long way in my education since I first received that letter on my doorstep

years ago. The inheritor of Mason's old home, six down. Albert. Albert was a named inheritor of the first house built and designed. designed by obscure architect Harold Mason. It was not, as almost everyone first expected, the current owner's firstborn son named Alexander, but instead the old man's male interest, Albert, who was a rather unwilling 17-year-old. Perhaps the old man thought it made it for his actions towards the boy

he had kept around as a family friend for years, disguising his abuse as mentorship. Either way, it caused a tremendous uproar, and poor Albert wasn't exactly thrilled to have his son. face all over the papers. No one could have possibly known he would be the inheritor. The will was written up in

total secrecy, something I spent considerable resources finding out. Credit where it's due, the old man put up a fight, but his death was the only way I could get my answer. I can't speak for others, but I found the experience quite a revelation.

I felt as if I learned profound, hidden knowledge, a truth about reality found. in the glassy bloodshot eyes of a man violently dying. There's something in there, you know, something that lies just beneath their own reality. I saw a glimmer of it that night, just like I had so many others before it.

It's quite beautiful. A confusing, glittering mess of contradictions and unknowable madness. It is, by definition, beyond our ability to ever truly know, but you can still see facets of it, One bit at a time. It's beautiful.

But, well, it's not always so painless. The missing piglet counted right to left, five up. Eight. That was the answer. I spent all night researching fairy tales and children's rhymes, only to fall asleep at my desk sometime around two in the morning. When I awoke, I had been moved to the sofa, and my left foot was raised on the armrest and bandaged heavily.

The whole thing tingled from anesthesia, and it wouldn't be until noon before I could walk in it again. Anxiously, I ended the white swaddle of blood-tinged gauze and winced at the sight of my mutilated foot. The middle toe on my left foot had been amputated cleanly, the wound sewn up neatly like a cross-stitch grin. Counting right to left, I noticed it was the eight-year. the teeth tone missing, and I have to admit, I pumped my fist in the air and rejoiced at

having the answer. But the experience caught me off guard, and it might not surprise you to know that I have since looked into slowing down and maybe even taking a short break from this hobby. I've had to manage these tendencies in the past, and I suppose this one should be no different, but there have been some difficulties. For one thing, they won't stop sending new puzzles to me, and it's all but impossible for me to ignore them. And for another, the clues are becoming increasingly pointed.

A sea of white and flakes of gold to flood a castle of ivory. Six down. Serial, right? That's what I thought. At least, until I had the unpleasant surprise of discovering a needle hidden in my cornflakes. That, it turned out, was the correct answer, and I was lucky to catch it before it wound up anywhere near my mouth. The thoughts of having that thing sliding down my throat or catching in the roof of my mouth,

spearing the gum and cartilage, left me riddled with an ever-growing anxiety. Clubs have pushed things in the past, boundaries take a back seat when it comes to pursuing the absolute limit of knowledge. But it felt like such an odd inclusion for the latest puzzle, one that didn't necessarily teach me anything. If I had the ability to trace it to a single group, I might have a better sense of what it was meant to mean. But then again, anonymity was always kind of the point. The currency of strategic withdrawal, three up. I initially thought of the military, but in fact the answer was yen, and it turned out that about £50,000 worth of them

had been withdrawn from my account, by myself somehow, at the bank. God knows how that was possible, but it happened, and there's not a lot I could really do about it. I've written to some of the groups, but as far as I could tell, they're playing coy. I'm sorry, one replied, but our puzzles are sent out as part of a weekly newsletter via email. We're not sure we've ever offered bespoke crosswords, but we'd be fascinated to hear more if there's anyone out there who does. It had interest quite a few of our members, myself and, I received similar variations to this message from just about every organisation I had listed in my ledger, and frankly I found the suggestion ridiculous. I'd always assumed those newsletters were part of a front, making it appear as though the focus was on the banal little puzzles about obscure military defeat while secretly directing us to brothels and illegal casinos.

It made sense, perhaps, that they would maintain the ruse, but an acquaintance I called, wasn't exactly reassuring. Well, of course they're a front, he said. Don't you get the packages? I've had a few seedy adventures with those. Oh, that's good, I laughed, or breathing a deep sigh of relief. I was beginning to think, well, I'm not sure what I was thinking. Oh yeah, the packages are very real, he replied.

The spring edition was quite a naughty affair, don't you think? Invigorating, I smiled. I didn't even know where to buy a burlap, Strawberry! Can you imagine? The Mrs and I had a delight trying out the different flavors. What? Oh, come now, man. No need to be shy. It's quite normal to use. He whispered it like a dirty secret. Agnes suggested we tried on toast. I hung up with his laughter still bellowing down the other line. My spring edition of our shared club was not anything like his.

I told myself that it made sense it wouldn't. They were meant to be custom made for each participant, but it allowed me to hear that his activities were so dreadfully banal. Most of the clues in that edition had directed me to the consumption of a range of meat, including something I scraped off the side of a suspended bridge. Nothing my friend had said to me rang true. Rightly, I should have stopped there. But the thing is, it was never really an option.

Not then and not now. I'm sure you think it's a silly compulsion or anxiety, but it's not. I can't do it. It's simply not in my nature, especially not now. I know God knows what could be lurking around the corner. I've explained this to myself and others before. I am task-focused. I needed to finish the job at hand.

P.O. Box 19777. Open it from within. Nine down. I found the box with ease, but there was no key nor any means to open it from within. Whatever the rationale was behind the puzzle, I thought at the time that the whole affair was beginning to frustrate me. I didn't see any significant challenge to tracing the address

aside from finding the key, which, it turned out, was very much part of the clue. In fact, I'm still not entirely sure how they did it. I awoke to a sort of gagging sensation one night, dreaming that I had swallowed a tangle of wet hair. Only the terrible retching sensation wasn't entirely dreamed up. Tied to my canine was a line of floss that I painfully had to pull from my stomach. It was unnecessary long, spawning out of my throat in a bloody tangle for a good few meters while I vomited and cried from the struggle. It took nearly half an hour to inch it out of my throat.

while I choked and wretched, but eventually I regurgitated the key, collapsing afterwards to the floor to heave and sob as I recovered. There was a teddy bear in the locker, and I didn't find it particularly amusing. And yes, okay, there was a mild satisfaction to get in the answer, but the rest of me was filled with a deep begrudging. I felt like the punchline to a joke that wasn't funny. A starry orchid's window of choice, seven down. The answer was eyeball. And it turns out the consumption of the flower in question causes bloody secretions from the tear ducts,

not to mention renal failure. It wasn't easy to explain that one away, and I didn't much appreciate the stay at the hospital. The price for that answer may one day be dialysis, but for now I hope that I still see myself clear of such things. The doctors couldn't say for sure what the chances were. At the very least I hoped that I might find some respite while interred in the hospital.

But, if anything, it made things worse. I was not prepared to be incapacitated for so long with the knowledge that the puzzle was but one clue from completion. I was itching furiously for the last few days and my doctors were confounded by the state of my heart and were blind to the other tell-tell signs of anxiety. There would be no rest for me until I had finished the puzzle, and I swore to myself, swore blind at my mother's grave, that it would be the last.

If things got much worse, I reminded myself, it might not be me who decides what would be my last puzzle. When I arrived home, it was with a kind of relief I never thought possible. I am forever learning more about myself, and those first few steps through the front door made it clear to me I was in the thrall of some kind of addiction. No matter what the price was, I told myself over and over again that I would pay it and move on. I would change addresses if I had to,

or pay someone to physically slap the pencil out of my hand if I went to complete another crossword. God knows I have the money. I will climb this final hurdle, I told myself, and see it through. And yet, I don't know. I half expect there to be some ghoulish double entendre hiding in the words, but for the life of me I cannot see one. It seems more like a hideous joke, one I don't really understand.

I have a possible word choice and it certainly fits, but it's been weeks and I can't bring myself to write it in. This is the final clue, the final step at the end of this increasingly desperate adventure, I can't figure it out. I'm half tempted to say that I won't see another answer because I don't want to finish it. That might be it, surely. I'm an addict. I'll admit that all too readily and this wouldn't be the first time I took things too far.

It's just... The handwriting these clues have been written in. Four down. I keep expecting some terrible interpretation to come true. to find a severed hand at my door, or to awake missing most of my fingers. It's a strange thing, but I have come to find myself ruminating often on the look of the old man's eyes. For, while I'm sure that I saw something terrible and beautiful, deep within the popping veins of the suffocating retinas, it had not occurred to me until now that something was looking back,

and was waiting for me to write in the final answer, though God knows it must be wrong, for it simply cannot be possible that the answer is... Mine. This is a true story. I know that's cliche to say. In this day and age, claiming something incredible happened without video proof is a surefire way to make certain people not believe you. Everyone does it though, especially in the realm of the crazy and the supernatural. Movies like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and the strangers are supposedly based on true.

stories. But when you take a look at the events inspiring them, you will find an excessive amount of artistic license has gone into the end product. The result, many times, is that the tale told becomes hardly recognizable from its source material. I guess the writers and directors figure reality isn't scary enough. The story I'm about to relate happened though. Just the way I'm telling it. No embellishment needed. I wouldn't lie about that because, well, you'll see. I grew up in a different world than today. The internet wasn't commercialized yet, phones were still attached to the wall and kids played outside on afternoons and weekends. The information age is marvellous, an incredible amount of

knowledge available instantaneously at our fingertips, questions that in my youth would have taken days of research to the library to answer are satisfied in moments with a quick Google search. The issue I found is having access to such a font of knowledge has made us lazy. We assume incorrectly that we can find anything online. If there's nothing there, if the results come up empty, it must either be unimportant or simply not exist. That's not true. Some things, some very real, very important things, have avoided making the digital leap. things like old mother Cleaver.

My mom and I moved to a new town a couple weeks after my 13th birthday. My dad was in the army and eventually mom got tired of pulling up a life and starting over every couple of years. My parents decided to try a trial separation and jointly concluded I'd go with mom since dad's lifestyle wouldn't be ideal for raising a kid by himself. I didn't get to have much of an opinion in the matter. So, that was that. My mom wanted to live somewhere we could, quote, put down roots. She said she was looking for a place that embodied pure Americana,

small town living, but close enough to a big city that you could catch a flight if the itch of the travel caught you. And that's where we ended up. A little town in Pennsylvania, not far from Pittsburgh. I'm not going to say exactly where, because, well, then I consider myself responsible for anything that might happen to anyone looking to corroborate my story. Just think of, it's a wonderful life, and that will give you a pretty good idea.

It was summer when we arrived, a particularly hot one, and I remember flies, the size of gumballs, flitting through the air that seemed hazy because of the heat. Mom got a job as a secretary for a judge at the town courthouse. She worked long hours, and, since I wouldn't be starting school until the end of August, I always left to my own devices from pretty much sun up to sundown. The little two-bedroom duplex she could afford on a salary, even supplemented with monthly checks from my dad, was cosy but didn't have air conditioning, minus a few ceiling fans that didn't do much to cool you off. Accordingly, I spent most of my days wandering around town to take my

mind off the heat. That was how I came to meet Tom and Terry, siblings who for that summer became my best friends in the whole world. They were Irish twins, Terry being my age and Tom slightly older. Tom was gregarious and energetic, Terry more reserved and buckish. But despite their differences, they shared curly brown hair, emerald green eyes, and a tight-knit bond. Even though we were on a pretty meagre budget, my mom gave me a couple dollars a week in allowance that I would generally blow at the old-fashioned sewage soda shop downtown.

I first ran into the brothers at the store's comic rack, and we bonded over the latest issue of Uncanny X-Men and Chocolate Milkshakes. Eventually, we realised we only lived a couple blocks apart from each other. From that first meeting on, we were nigh inseparable. Tom and Terry were in a similar situation to me. Their mama died a couple years earlier, and their dad worked the night shift at the paper mill just outside town. Most mornings, I'd take my old 10-speed

over to their house, and we'd meet up and head out for the day. The two of them had lived there since they'd been born, so they were able to show me all the interesting things there were for kids to do in town and throughout the surrounding area. If nothing out of the ordinary

had happened that summer, I'd still remember it as clearly as I do now from all the memories I built with Terry and Tom. Every day was an adventure. bike races down breakneck hill, cannonballs in the swimming hall out in the east woods, catching fireflies in the twilight gloom and many others. Looking back now, I recognised the first part of that summer composed the framework to a kind of youthful Eden.

Occasionally, we would have sleepovers. The brother's house stood on the edge of their neighbourhood, and they had a large backyard bordered by thick, leafy woods. The oppressive heat thankfully gave a reprieve most days after the sun went down so some nights we'd build a bonfire and parled sleeping bags into the tent

Tom still had from six months in the Boy Scouts it was on one of those evenings about two months after I'd moved to town toasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories that I was introduced to the legend of all Mother Cleaver You don't know about Mum Cleaver Tom asked with a grin

firelight reflecting off his teeth. I shook my head. What, is she some kind of urban legend? Like the hook or Bloody Mary or something? Or something, Terry murmured. Tom laughed. Nah, nothing like those old kitty stories. The Cleaves is real.

That's what most urban legends want you to believe. If she's so real, how come I've never heard of her? Tom shrugged. Probably because she's local, but she's still. definitely real. Our dad told us the story about her one time when he got super drunk. A long time ago, there was this lady that lived in a little house in the woods with her son. Everyone in town knew she was supposed to be a witch, but because they would go to her for love potions and to help deliver babies, they pretty much ignored it. Really? A witch? Shut up, that's what my dad said. Anyway,

the mayor's wife was having a baby, but she died giving birth. The mayor said it must have been something the witch did and got everyone in town all worked up. A bunch of people went out to a house and burned it down. I rolled my eyes and speared another marshmallow. And now the witch's ghost haunts the town, right? No, Mr. Smartypants. The witch wasn't home. My dad figures she must have been pretty upset about the mayor's wife

and was wondering the woods when the crowd got there. The only one in a house was a son. And he... Tom nodded. somberly. My dad said the witch promised she'd have justice for her son's murder, but since the one mostly responsible was the mayor, she didn't trust the courts to find him guilty, so she took the cleaver she used to cut up the ingredients for a potions and went into town. She used the spell to find who had burned a house, and, night by night, snuck into their rooms and hid under their beds.

While they were sleeping, she crept out and used the magic to make a voice sound like their mothers. She confronted them with what they did, then listened to what they said while they were only half awake. If they were honest and admitted to the killing, she gave them a kiss on the forehead and left. But if they lied, she took a cleaver and chopped off their heads. I rolled my eyes. That's pretty unbelievable. They didn't realize it was the witch killing people. Why didn't they get another crowd together and burn her at the stake? Why did the witch give them a chance to confess, instead of just killing all of them. Tom shrugged again.

Look, that's just what my dad told us. Anyway, the rest of the story is, once she visited all her son's killers, she disappeared. But every once in a while, there will be a strange death around town, and people will say, Old Mother Cleaver must have caught them in a lie.

Terry spoke up. Parents around his say, If you're bad and don't listen, then Old Mom Cleaver will get you. Everyone around it knows. knows about her, mostly because of the rhyme. Rime? Like Freddy Kruger?

Sort of. I haven't said it in forever. Terry shut his eyes in concentration, trying to remember the words. Then he began to chant in a slow, sing-song voice. Oh, Mother Cleaver, you will and see her hiding beneath your bed. While you are sleeping, she will be sneaking out to cut off your head. Grinning Tom joined in. bad little boys and girls who are wicked to the world

best say their prayers at night because those who steal and lie will have a big surprise when they turn off the light The voices picked up in tempo If mother asks you You would best be true answering from your bed Else you would take a big shiny cleaver One chop and you'll be dead

Abruptly the rhyme ended The brothers fell quiet And for several moments the only sound was the snapping of the logs on the fire. I cleared my throat, breaking the silence. Well, that's definitely creepy, but I still don't believe it. You don't have to, Tom laughed, because if you lie, the cleaves will chop off your head either way. No way, I shouted, because if she tried, I'd give her one of these.

I jumped up and tackled him. We rolled around in the grass, laughing up roarously. Uh-oh, Sammy boy, fighting's against the rules. Oh, mum's going to get a cleaver. He got the better of me and pinned me down. Well, Terry said thoughtfully from where he sat, undisturbed by the ruckus. We could take him to the house. In an instant, all levity drained from Tom,

and he stood, facing his brother. You serious? Last time we agreed, there was no way we would ever go back there. Terry shrugged. I know, but we wouldn't have to go inside, just show him where it is. Wait, I sat up. I thought the witch's house burned down. It did, Terry nodded, but there's still a few walls standing where it was.

You'd at least know we were telling the truth about that. No way, Terry. Tom shook his head furiously. No way. It was the fact that the older, take charge Tom, was so obviously. terrified that made up my mind. All right, I'm in. When are we going?

Now? You're crazy, Tom whispered. Terry shook his head. We'd never find it in the dark. And even if we could, you wouldn't be able to see anything. We'll go tomorrow. Crazy. Tom whispered again.

All right, I said. Can't wait. With that, it was obvious that the night's fun had come to an end. I doused the fire and we all got into our sleeping bags. Before long I could hear Terry gently snoring from across the tent. But I'm pretty sure Tom was still awake when I finally nodded off. The next morning we packed up the camping equipment. Tom was quiet and sullen.

But Terry and I agreed that after I went home for breakfast and to change I would meet the brothers back at their house. When I unlocked the front door of the duplex and pushed inside, I was surprised to find my mom sitting in the kitchen table on the phone Mom Is everything okay Why aren't you at work

She smiled at me It seemed a little shaky Everything's fine honey I called your dad about some things And we got to talking so I'm going in a little late today Did you have fun with the boys? I frowned

Yeah I'm meeting them again in a little bit Just home to change Okay, hon, sounds good. I'll tell Dad you said hi. Okay. I walked down the hall to my room, but kept the door cracked so I could try to listen to my mom's conversation. I couldn't hear much,

but I could tell from her tone that she was agitated. After a couple seconds, I decided it was none of my business and shut the door. I got dressed and headed back through the kitchen. Bye, Mom. Love you. Tell Dad. I loved them too.

Okay, hon, she nodded absently. Have a good day. You too. I picked up my bike from the lawn and headed to meet the brothers. My mom's conversation rolling around in my head. Terry met me outside. Ready to go? You'll want to leave your bike here.

You'd have to walk it most of the way through the woods. He frowned, looking at my face. Everything okay? Huh? Oh yeah. It was just weird. My mom was late to work and seemed upset. She was talking to my dad on my phone though, so probably not anything I can do about.

I crayed my neck to look behind him into the house. Where's Tom? He still steamed we're going to the witch's house. Really? How come? Terry shrugged. We had a bad experience last time we went there. I looked at him, waiting for more.

And... And you're both crazy for what? wanting to go to that house. Tom pushed his way through the screen door onto the stoop, but there's no way I'm letting you go alone. Terry smiled tightly. Come on Sam, we walked around to the backyard and into the adjoining woods. We stepped onto an overgrown trail and followed it for a hundred yards or so before it faded completely, and we were left walking through what was, as near as I could tell, completely unmarked forest. I followed Terry closely, Tom wagging behind us. The question, still burning in my mind,

after ten minutes of walking through the trees, I asked again. Seriously, why is he so worked up? Well, Terry turned to make sure Tom wasn't close enough to hear, then knowed his voice. The truth is, we think the cleaves killed our mom. What? That's crazy. Terry pushed the low, hanging branch out of his path. Yeah, I know we told you she died a couple years ago. It happened suddenly, the day after the last time we went to the witch's house. The next morning when my dad came home from work, he found a dead in their room. He paused to take a long step across a shallow creek.

Not long after, we found out she'd been cheating on him. One of our neighbours was found dead in his room too. Both of their heads were chopped off. I stumbled in surprise, my foot getting soaked in the creek right up to the ankle. You have to be messing with me. You're kidding, right? No, it's true. You can ask other people about it. But the cops must have thought your dad did it. Terry nodded.

Of course, but his manager and all the guys at the mill swore that he'd been there all night and the doctor put the time of both deaths right in the middle of dad's shift. I glanced back at Tom. No way, you're pulling my leg. Tom was joking about the whole mom Cleaver thing last night before you suggested going to the house. Terry shrugged.

That's just how he handles things. Laughs it off, so he doesn't have to think too hard about it. What about you? If you really believe all mother Cleaver killed your mom, how come you're so ready to go traipsing around a house? Terry's normal, kind eyes grew hard.

My mom, wasn't perfect, but that doesn't mean she deserved to have her head chopped off. I need to see if the cleaves is really real. If she is, she owes me. Tom and my dad too. I shook my head in wonder. Why do you wait two years to go back then? Because I'm scared as hell?

Terry grinned, and I figured Tom wouldn't let me go without him, especially if you were going. I stopped talking for a few minutes, just processing everything. everything Terry had laid on me. One final question nagged at me. Okay, assuming your dad didn't do it. That still doesn't explain why you think

Oh Mother Cleaver killed your mom. Maybe it was just an escaped maniac or something. That would be a stretch, but a lot more believable than some ancient witch hiding under the bed. Terry nodded. The last time Tom and I went to the house, I... ...took something.

That night, the night she died, The night she died, my mom woke me up and asked me about it. At least I thought it was her. I told the truth, said I was sorry. She kissed me on the forehead and left. I shivered. Just like... Yeah, thing is, we didn't know it was her house.

We really didn't know anything about Old Mother Cleaver then. Just the rhyme. Most people don't. It wasn't until later, my dad told us the whole thing. story. That's when we realized what must have happened. And he knows the story because... His great-great-grandmother was the mayor's wife who died. No way. Just what my dad told us. We're almost there. We walked maybe another 50 yards before Terry pushed to a thick screen of brush. Before us, the burned out remains of an old wooden house stood in a clearing.

Only two of the exterior walls were still erect and the roof was collapsed. The bare interior of the house totally exposed to the element. The two of us stopped, just looking. Well, here it is, Tom said, coming up behind us. Do you believe us now, Sam? Can we get the heck out of here, please? Seeing the remains of the house, it's blackened timbers twisting this way and that like broken fingers,

I felt an involuntary shiver creep up my spine. Works for me, I said. I sure hope you guys know how to find your way back. In a minute, Terry said, before abruptly jogging forward and ducking behind one of the still standing walls of the house. Terry! Tom shouted. He took a step to follow, then stopped.

Hands clenched at his sides, frustration visible on his face. What are you doing? I called after Terry. I followed him, but rounding the wall, my mouth dropped open, dumbfounded. What? Where did he go? With visible effort, Tom came to stand beside me. There's a hole over there. You can't really see, but it leads down to the cellar. Come on. You sure? I asked. Terry told me about your mom.

He sighed. I figured, and no, I'm not, but somebody's got to make sure that idiot doesn't hurt himself. There's no light down there. Sure enough, not 20 feet from where I stood, lay an open hole with a shaky-looking ladder leading down it, blocked from sight by some of the fallen roof. Terry went down there?

Yeah, what is he doing? Being an idiot. Tom shook his head. We found this place a few years ago. Didn't have any idea what it was. We came a bunch of times, but it was only our last trip we found the cellar. We poked around and found,

of all things, an old, rotted skeleton. Terry took one of the finger bones as a souvenir. And that's where you think All Mother Cleaver visited you that night to get the finger back? But why did you kill your mom? Tom shrugged.

Don't know. Maybe since, we disturbed her, she decided to go back to her old tricks, but the finger was gone the next morning. Come on, I'll go first. He took a deep breath to settle his nerves, then descended the ladder. You're good, he called back up. Careful, some of the rungs are a little slippery. I cautiously made my way down to the cellar beside Tom and found the light coming from the hall above did little to illuminate the space. Here, Tom said, put your hand to on my shoulder so we don't lose each other.

I think I can remember how to get to where we found the skeleton. I grabbed his shirt and we stepped into the blackness, which, within only a few steps, became absolute. It didn't take long, maybe only 30 seconds or so, but the time seemed to stretch on for an eternity as Tom carefully felt his way along the earthen wall and I clutched his shoulder. We took one turn, then another,

before the light of a small flashlight showed where Terry was stooped over, kneeling on the ground. You butthole, Tom called, striding up to his brother and roughly jerking him to his feet. The flashlight falling out of Terry's hands. What the heck are you doing? I stepped closer, but stayed out of the brother's way. The flashlight beam rested on a pile of ancient yellow bones. Get off me! Terry shoved Tom's hand away.

You know what I'm doing. Yeah, steal another bone and the cleaves will come take it, right? Then what? Terry was practically crying. Then I'll make it tell me why she killed Mom. How's that going to work, idiot? You're going to be asleep when she comes. What if you mess up and lie to her?

Huh? What then? She'll chop off your head too. Tears were welling up from Tom's eyes now as well. Then you do it. I'm not crazy. No, you're just a coward. I'll do it, I said softly.

What? The brother stopped, turning to me in unison. In their defence, both tried to talk me out of it, but I was resolved. Part of it was that I still wasn't completely sure this wasn't just some enormously elaborate prank that the brothers had decided to pull on me. Partly, I wanted to see if the legend was true. But the main reason I ill-advisedly took a small fingerbone from the one, which is burned out cellar, was that I wanted to help my new friends.

Walking back to the house, we came up with our plan. We discussed if it made more sense for me to stay with them that night, but decided I'd have to stay in my room to make sure all Mother Cleaver would come. Tom and Terry had never heard of anyone being killed in a bed other than their own, and if there was going to be a confrontation, we wanted it to be when we were ready for it. We decided that after their dad left for work that night The boys would come over and hide in my yard We spent a lot of time discussing if we should rig some kind of booby traps

But ultimately ruled against anything that might make the cleaves decide to wait and come another night Tom had a heavy practice bat he could bring and Terry was a dead eye with his wrist-length shot I go to bed around 11 same as always the bone resting on my nightstand After that, we would simply see what happened. I'd always been honest growing up. My dad had been sure to instill that in me, but I was still a little nervous how I'd respond half asleep. The rest of the day was a blur.

Finally, it was time to go home. I ate dinner with my mom after she finally got home from work, and if she noticed I was unusually quiet, she didn't say anything. It seemed like she had a lot on her mind too. I sat next to her on the couch and watched TV for a while, though I wasn't really paying attention, until at last the war clock said it was about time for bed. I stooped over to give her a hug,

and abruptly, felt tears spring to my eyes as I realized this could be the last time I saw her. What the hell had I been thinking earlier? Why had I agreed to this? The bone, suddenly extremely heavy in my pocket, reminded me it was too late to back out now. Oh, Mother Cleaver, if she was real, would be coming either way. I love you, Mom, I said softly. I love you too, baby, she smiled, sleep tight.

I went to my room to change, brushed my teeth and put the bone on the nightstand. I eyed the dark space beneath the bed. forcibly willing myself not to look. Was the cleave's already there, waiting for me to go to sleep? I moved to the open window and saw a flashlight twice. The signal, Tom and Terry were in position.

Now, all we needed was for me to fall asleep. I don't know how long I lay there in my bed that night. I had been worried that with a fear and excitement, I wouldn't be able to nod off. But next thing I knew, I was startled awake when a heavyweight settled next to me on my mattress. Sh, it's okay, honey, it's okay.

My mom shushed. I just wanted to check on you. Sorry I was distracted tonight. You okay? You seemed a little off at dinner. My heart leapt into my throat before I confirmed that it was, in fact, my mother. It was dark in my room,

but there was enough light streaming through the window from the moon that I could tell it was her. certainly not an enraged witch ready to chop my head off I'm okay mom you seemed weird too is there something with dad she shook ahead no no that's we're fine we still don't know what we're going to do permanently

but it's work that's distracting me nothing you can help with honey go back to sleep sorry to disturb you she gently stroked my hair So, okay, Mom, love you. She sat there for several long minutes, softly caressing my head. My breathing slowed, and it wasn't until I was again on the verge of sleep that she finally stood up to leave. Sam, her voice sounded far away.

What's this on your nightstand? Sorry, Mom, I breathed. It's to help Tom and Terry. That's my good boy. She bent over and kissed my forehead. It was a long beat before my brain processed what had just happened. My eyes snapped open and I shot up in bed. A pulse of fear coursing through me.

I was alone in the room. I rushed to the window, but other than two flashes of light confirming the brothers were still outside waiting, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The rest of the house was dark and cold. quiet and I carefully confirmed that my mother was asleep in her bed. Maybe it had been a dream brought down by an overactive imagination. Maybe.

I didn't sleep the rest of the night. The next morning I checked with Tom and Terry. They'd taken shifts to ensure one would always be awake, but neither had spied anything strange. I relayed what had happened, and they were as dumbfounded as me. Little did I know that that would be one of the very last times I'd see the brothers. While I was outside talking to them, my mom got another phone call. I learned later that the judge she worked for at the courthouse had been taken bribes. My mom had found out and had been trying to figure out what to do about it.

Ultimately, she didn't have to decide because the judge was found murdered. Rumor was His head had been chopped off We moved from town shortly after that My parents ended up divorced But I got to see my dad regularly And they both seemed happier for it So that was okay

I stayed in touch with Tom and Terry through mail for a while But eventually we fell out of contact With the internet and social media today I've thought many times about trying to track them down but I haven't. I don't know if they ever managed to confront all mum.

Frankly, I'm scared to find out if they did. The world I grew up in was different, more isolated. If a judge mysteriously had his head cut off today, it had been making headlines the world over. But that was then. This is a true story. I don't much care if you believe me, because I know it in my gut.

I know because, ever since that night, I've made it a point to be utterly truthful in everything I've said and done, lying to no one, including myself, because I've still got the fingerbone. Why she took Tom and Terry's all those years ago and left mine, I can't fathom. But if the time comes, an old mother cleaver sneaks out from under my bed and asks me about my sins, ready to deliver a unique brand of justice. I want to be sure, I answer honestly. The Zolk was there before me, as much a fixture of my life as gravity or air

or the sense of my own body. It exists in even my earliest memories as a constant warning against carelessness. It was there when I brushed my teeth, giggling in the bathtub. It was there stealing food that fell under the table at every meal. It was there,

sitting above my bed, struck in my hair with hands the size of dinner plate. Every morning there were new rules, all learned from close calls that happened the day before. Every week we reviewed its effects on us, how to improve, how to be smarter, how to be safer. For a long time, I couldn't even distinguish the rules made for it and the rules made for us. Don't touch the oven when it's on. Be careful of the kettle. Don't Don't play with plug sockets. Don't put cables in your mouth. Watch where you step. Never use an appliance without first checking the wiring. Always look daddy, look out for the Zog as he backs out of the driveway. Rules upon rules upon rules. Growing in number

and complexity until we felt stifled. All of us slowly going mad from the suffocating need for constant vigilance. Other teenagers had fun. Other teenagers stepped away from the rules and embraced freedom. That's what adulthood was meant to be about, or so I thought at the time, but not for me. The rules just kept growing. Eventually I realised that other families

don't have Zolgs, just us. There's only one of him, and whatever inexplicable force brought him into existence saw fit to put him with us. For years, it had never occurred to me

to evaluate its presence as anything other than a simple, fact of life, but when I saw the madness for what it was, something inside me changed. A hatred crystallized into an icy core. I was filled with memories of his little egg-shaped body and lanky arms with those huge yellow-green hands. Whole night spent listening to him waddling down the hallway as he scratched his dangling yellow fingers over the walls, gagging at the things he'd sneak into mom's cooking, crying at every dead animal left and our doorstep.

I hated that stupid thing. I hated it so much that one day I snapped and lashed out. Wack! I hit it so hard, it flew off the table where it had been dancing on my plate, and it hit the wall with a satisfying thud. I expected my mother to fly into a rage at this blatant transgression of family law, but instead she just ran up and held me, stroking my cheek. It felt like a nightmare, my mother clutching me and everyone crying and shouting all the

thing laughed from where it lay. Why didn't it hurt? Hadn't I hit it? And then, as slow as a sunburn, a red outline of my own hand formed on my face, and I came to learn exactly what it was the Zog was after. It wanted us to hit it, to kick it, abuse it, kill it. wanted our malice, our frustration, our carelessness. It wanted nothing but our suffering and anything we did to it came back unto us.

A hundred times worse, a hundred times as slow. You should see what a broken bone looks like when it takes four hours to render into existence. Bone looks like putty being pulled apart by a child, skin reddens and depressors into long streaky welts, layers of tissue and membranous flesh pulled apart laterally until finally, it all tears with glacial slowness. It looks like quivering despair, like grief, not screaming agony, because when pain is that horrific and that unstoppable, you don't yell or cry or shout. You give up, you retreat, you turn catatonic and switch off, or you just die.

And the Zolg, despite its rocks like teeth and leering grin and hill, Billy Giggle is smart and patient in surprising ways. Every time I touch an oven or a car or even just a light switch, I need to think a thousand things over. Did I remember to check the walls, to look at each and every plug socket? Have I seen the Zog anywhere? Has it got its grotesque mouth clamped around a cable just out of sight, waiting for me to plug it in or switch it on?

Has it wrapped its mouth around the exhaust of my car, ready to suffocate? Every action and consequence has to be thought out in the most explicit detail. Every bump on the road has to be investigated, lest it turn out that the Zog has cleverly watched you for days, traced where you work, so it can slip out one night and waddle breathlessly to an ideal overpass bridge. My brother once broke two ribs when it managed to leap in front of a ball he went to kick. My sister spent three weeks in hospital after she poured bleach down the kitchen sink, fairly, to notice that the Zog had unscrewed all the pipes and was waiting gleefully to gulp down poison. I'm... the only one left now. My father was the first to go.

Not because he was careless, but because he always took it upon himself to do as much as he could. You couldn't even turn on the TV without him insisting on pressing the button for you. It always felt so controlling, so stifling. But once he was gone, it would be a bit more. became pretty clear why he did it. It was never the same without him. Mom tried so hard, but it was never the same. She had her own fears, her own struggles to contend with.

I can't really blame her for not being able to do the work of both of them. I remember coming home from school and they were waiting for us in the living room. My older brother had gotten back before us and was sitting silently at the kitchen table. tears welled up in his eyes. God, that was the hardest. Dad looked... Well, he almost looked relieved. But seeing my 19-year-old brother cry

was like a breezeblock to the face and, in that instant, I knew something horrific had happened. They hid him away. I still don't know exactly what happened, but I made a pretty good guess from the state of the lawnmower that mum dragged out to the curb.

and the fact we wouldn't see the Zolga game for at least eight days. I had later learned that in moments like that, it will stow away and knit itself back together slowly, which, at the very least, explain the giggling I heard coming from the linen closet during those horrible, silent night. Dad never did scream. I'd hazard a guess that he killed himself, and I know I should feel some relief,

but I glimpsed his body on the way out and the thought of those injuries happening to a lifeless corpse just sent shivers down my back. We never mowed the grass again. It was a loss too great and over the next few weeks mum deteriorated. She started drinking, crying late into the night

while my brother would cook us food and tell us that everything would be okay but it never would, never again. She only got worse. She might have had a chance if it was just us, but we couldn't just abandon our vigilance, our paranoia and fear, and we had to carry on as normal.

Jesus, we even had to check Dad's coffin before burying it. For a while there, she almost came back. Looking back, it couldn't have been more than a day or two, at most, but she did manage to set the table for us, just once. We were all there, dad, dead and buried, and none of us having seen the Zorg since his death,

when from upstairs a door slammed shut and mum were so startled she dropped the food she was holding. Its flat, hairy feet slapped down the stairs one by one, while its heavy wet gurgles punctuated a horrified silence. With a sort of mounting disbelief,

I watched it walk up to the table that obscured its stumpy little body from my view and drag itself up under one of the chairs. Dad's chair. Dad's place. Mom had even set a plate for him, if only by instinct. And you know what?

It didn't look at me, or James or Laurie. It looked at Mom. It knew what that single gesture would do to her, and it laughed the whole time we had to pin her down and stop her from driving a knife right into its face. It gibbered and howled

with such joy at a threat, but we stopped her from doing it. And after that, I don't think she was ever the same. That was when the drinking started. It was also when James became the new favourite. It had always shown a special interest in Dad, and without him around,

it fell on James to become the focus of its attention. We'd always thought we'd been doing such a good job, but without Dad things felt a thousand times harder. James was injured six times in his many months and things were never much better after that. I remember he took me fishing. He asked Mom to keep an eye on the Zolk and stop it following us and we went together and for a few blissful days it was just us and no one else and he told me all about the lessons he had learned in the last few months. He told me about the Zolk's favorite rest and

place, some of the intricacies he had deduced, and more importantly, that I would have to steal myself and be ready for what happened if he ever failed. And, like all of them, he eventually did. But not before we found Laurie crushed the death. We think she dropped the microwave on it, but we can't be sure. It was the first week at university, and she didn't even call to tell us, but we knew she was aware she'd done it, because she called in sick to all her classes a day early, and then she just locked the door and let it happen. We didn't even realize the Zolg had found her, but it

had somehow, and the sight of her lying on her bed, pulped to the thickness of a few planks of wood as it giggled and jumped on a broken remains will forever be lodged in my mind. I like to think she found a way of ending it, but I don't know that at all. She could have sought help, something to ease the pain, I'm sure of it. But we don't know for sure, and I have to wonder if she felt it all, every second of it. She was in there all alone for at least a day and a half. James disappeared for a few months after that, and it was just me and mom. When James finally returned, he stank a booze and had this haggard look about him, and I couldn't help but wonder,

what he'd done in that time. It'll get me, he said. Sooner or later, I just wanted a taste of what life had to offer, all the good, all the bad. But later, he would confess that he had just tried to run away and lost control. Hedy, with the belief that he'd escaped the Zolg and downtroddened by the guilt of what he had done to us. Except, the Zolg had followed him, slowly and carefully and related. relentlessly, it had followed him.

You can leave it behind for a while, but it won't be cheated, and somehow it just, it finds its way to you. Even if you're on the other side of the world, it'll get to you and it'll never take more than a week. James must have known that, but he tried anyway, moving from place to place and doing God knows what. He lived with that guilt until his death. even though I never gave his laps the second thought.

We were all just trying our best. I tried so hard to make him see that, to make him forgive himself. But there was nothing left for him except the dark spiral downwards. He'd brought habits back with him, and with little else to do, he let those habits grow

into their own ugly monsters that rivaled even the Zolg. I still don't blame him. His suicide note was so well. rational, so thoughtful. He really had convinced himself he was doing us a favour, but the fact he died by pumping the Zolk full of heroin tells me he had other ideas. It was a good attempt as far as ways to beat the Zolg go, and it was with great despair that I first saw his face and realised he hadn't won anything at all. No one will ever know exactly how it happened.

Zolg at least spent four days crying in a cupboard, but James died nonetheless, and it didn't look like he died in ecstasy. His eyes were hollow, his skin gaunt and leathery, and his jaw had dislocated in a scream so terrible you could fit an open hand in his mouth. However, the Zog had twisted and reinterpreted the poison in its veins. What felon James looked like a ritualistic murder gone wrong, like a possessed corpse had gotten trapped in a box and left a rot while the demon within raged and bent its host in terrible spasms. I didn't even tell mum the details, but I have to guess she knew, even if she was barely present by that point. In a sunken eyes and loose skin, I saw a pale reflection of James and came to accept that even when the Zol

doesn't get its way, it still doesn't. lose. The months that followed were hard. Mom was barely in the 60s, but she was being eaten alive by grief and fear. Towards the end, she wouldn't even leave the bed, too afraid to risk injuring the Zolg. I became a full-time carer and paid my own price in the process, trapped in that house or constantly working to keep Zolk away from her. Every meal took hours to prepare, every moment of relaxation brought crashing down by either mum or that thing. It became brazen after mum went catatonic. It started throwing things at me, playing with the idea of open attack as it smashed plates or slant my phone out of my hand.

I ignored it for the most part, relegating it to the back of my mind, while the stress ate away at me like a cancer. There simply was no other choice, or at least so I thought. I used to sit and watch it stare at Mom. Sometimes it'd venture to try and push my buttons, using her as a prop. But I simply ignored it until it finally gave in and just... Sabred her slow and agonizing death. It marvelled at a bed sores, laughed when I cleaned her, and chuckled with joy as her hair fell out. And somewhere along the line, I decided, I decided that it wasn't right for it to get so much

pleasure. All of us were suffering while it was having the time of its life. If it was within my power to stop it having that little bit of joy, to deny it that happiness, then it only seemed right that I'd do so. But what did that mean? I think I knew the very first day. I realized how happier pain made it. I just didn't want to face up to that fact. So I pretty intended otherwise. But some things can't be buried. They linger in the back of your head like a guilty pleasure. And no matter how much you tell yourself you won't do it, that it's a line too far to be crossed. Deep down, you always appreciate that you can cross it. If you need to, if you want to, when did I first want to? I'd say, with complete honesty, that it was when I had to

carry her to a bath, and I stub my toe on a bedpost. They say you should fear the man who delays reaching out to take something they want, but I didn't wait very long at all after that moment. I was quiet, calm, effortless, no conflict or worry was worn on my face. I merely took a deep breath, took her to the bathroom, and drowned her. My mother didn't feel anything, but the Zolk sure did. For the first time in its life, it directly attacked me, scuttling down the hall to come skidding around the bathroom door, and then leap at me with its fists flailing. But that fat, hairy little leg didn't have it in it to stop me, and it yelled and cried and wept and clawed at my exposed legs as I bent down and drowned my mother in the tub.

It practically tore my calves to shreds, but I didn't care, not one bit. and oh, how the irony rolled in, because right before my eyes, its own legs began to bleed and wilt, and the panic in its eyes betrayed the subtle inversion of rules we'd never figured out. Until then, when it was over, I didn't know what scratches were from her trying to escape, and which were from it, and I slum to the side and laughed at the absurdity of it all. The little bugger was hunched over and vomiting a grieve. a mixture of hair and bile, and its wretched, jaundiced eyes, wet tears of pus, and I just kept laughing at it, just like it had always laughed at me.

I even imitated it, holding my hands over my stomach, and fake sobbing just like it did to us at Dad's funeral, and then I weased with joyous giggles when it ran out of the room, cursing me in its weird language. Whatever forces binds it, that kind of murder messes with it in unpleasant way. and with that leverage, nothing was ever quite the same for it. It spent weeks weeping in the attic, but I found it and dragged it out into the light and watched it wither and struggle. I am quite sure it would have died if I'd followed it up with another kill and then another, but there's only me and I can do nothing except savor the quiet victory of causing it such long in despair.

It's still stuck around, of course. If anything, it's more determined than ever, but I don't think it'll get me. It's also growing older. God knows what their lifespan is. I've found maybe two written references to them in my entire life, so it's not like I can just check Wikipedia for an update. But it is getting older, thinner, closer to the grave. It's just a thing after all

Maybe it won't happen in my lifetime But I sure as hell won't be having kids And I look forward to the thought of that stupid thing Left old and alone in this world It'd probably spend its remaining days dancing on our graves But jokes on it Because we'd be free And it'd be left down on earth

Playing its stupid game against players Who have all but left the table Unless, of course, it just goes and finds another family, in which case, well, now you know how to kill it. I'm sure of it. That's my first thought at least. I do tend to jump to Atlantis conclusions. No one else seems to have picked up on any change. They're all too preoccupied, messing about with the fire, chatting nonsense.

But I see. I always noticed the little things, and Emily has changed. Is everything okay, Em? I called over. As I said, my mind, in these sorts of situations, always jumps instantly to the craziest, most ludicrous, most far-fetched explanation possible as a general rule. But I'm not insane. The sun is setting, and the fire has begun to cast strange and flickering shadows across the face. of the people around it. There are six of us here,

high school kids. Robbie's just passed his driver's test and he's driven us all into the wild. Our first big outing as a group. Camping in the forest. Emily does not respond. She does not even knock up. She just stands awkwardly

at the edge of the clearing, staring into the flames. I glance around at the others. They're all chattering away. Robbie is flirting with Ariana, I see, with a stab of sharp jealousy. I don't know if he's getting my hints or if he's just not interested. And the other two, Kyle and Kai, are both trying and failing to roast their sticks of beef jerky above the fire. Kai swears and grimaces as his piece tumbles pitifully from the stick and is lost to the flames.

I sigh and I rise, walking cautiously over to where Emily is standing. Emily? I say softly, reaching out her hand to a shoulder. Emily turns to look at me, expressionless. I'm not sure why, but my skin crawls. It feels like she's looking right through me. Emily is one of my favourite people. She's so funny, so bubbly. She's the one who came up with the whole idea to go camping in the first place.

We're in a part of the state I've never been to before but Emily has She's been camping here with her parents She thought it would be really fun for us to come here altogether And so far it has been Emily I say again softly

What's wrong But as before Emily does not respond Her face remains completely still She gives me no body language at all and I can't help but nervously laugh a little, giving her a playful shake. Talk to me, girl. Hello, are you okay? The sky has begun to fade from a red to a deep purple as the sun disappears below the horizon.

Curious, unseeing birds chirp in the distance beyond the surrounding, encircling tree line. Okay. Emily replies after a pause, startling me. Another anxious laugh escapes me, and I took a strand of hair behind my ear. So, everything's okay? I ask. Everything is okay, she replies. Sweet, I breathe. Okay, well, that's good.

But I don't really know what else to say. The girl's acting weird as hell. Where's the firewood, Em? I ask, gesturing down to her empty hands. Emily does not move. Emily, I say, a little louder now. Some of the others turn to look over. You're freaking me out. Stop messing around. Where's the firewood?

The firewood, she repeats quietly. Yo, you didn't bring back any wood, Emily? Kyle calls over to us. What are you even doing out there? Kai mutters something under his breath and makes a crude gesture, and the boy suppress snorts of laughter and childish giggles. Ariana throws an empty can at him, which he bads away playfully. Emily makes a noise in response, a noise which sets the others off chuckling.

It puts them at ease and they return to their conversations. But I am not at ease. All the fine little hairs across my forearms and up the back of my neck, they suddenly stand on end in terrible, chilling unison. The sound that Emily makes was clearly supposed to be a laugh. The others were only half paying attention, shouting over their shoulders, but I was looking right at her, right at her. And she didn't smile. Her eyes remained wide open. The laugh was completely, utterly hollow, and it was a carbon copy of my own, forced, uncompricingly through Emily's vocal chords. I just stare back at her, and for a moment it is only us.

No fire, no sunset sky, no birds beyond, and no budding stars. Just me and her. The tension is broken when Ariana calls us over to sit down. Emily turns at the sound of her name and goes to sit by the edge of the fire upon being summoned. My heart is hammering dangerously in my chest and I reach for my pocket, taking a breath from my inhaler. I tried to do it subtly.

I hate Robbie seeing me do it, but honestly, I've got bigger things to worry about right now. What the hell was that? Is this some kind of sick prank? I guess it could be. I glance around for subtly placed cameras for carefully angled phones. Maybe the group are in on a joke of some kind. The thought makes me instantly self-conscious. I've always been insecure about being left out of stuff,

but I can't see a thing. And besides, it's getting too dark now anyway. I consider going to sit down with Robbie and Ariana, and now Emily. Maybe get in their way. But I decide against it and sit down with the boys instead. I only half take part in their conversation. I can't help but to constantly glance over to Emily. She's just sat there, expressionless most of the time, barely speaking.

I just can't for the life of me, shake this feeling in my gut, that something is terribly, terribly wrong. Hey, Earth to Sister, kind knocks me on the shoulder and I turn to him. You okay, Cassie, you've gotten so quiet all of a sudden. I've gotten quiet? I reply, perhaps with a bit more force than I meant to, and the guys raised her eyebrows in surprise.

I blush a little. Sorry, I say. I'm just... Have you guys noticed anything weird with Emily lately? Ever since she came back from the woods, she's been acting all different. Kai brushes his long, messy fringe from his eyes and shoot a glance to Kyle.

An unspoken message seems to pass between the two, and Kyle rolls his eyes. eyes. Kai looks back to me, to speak. Are you sure you're not just jealous that she's over there talking to Robbie? I flush suddenly and swear at him. He laughs and I shove him away. Shut up, Kai. What are you talking about? Come on, Casey. Everyone knows. Kyle whispers behind his hand. I breathe out a sigh of distress. Does Robbie know? I ask. Carl responds in the negative, but I'm not sure I believe him. From there, the conversation grows and develops in natural little shoots, and I get lost in it.

I forget for a while about my uncertainty regarding Emily. I lose track of time. We start to pack up and prepare for bed. Tonight's the settling in night. We all start on the real underage drinking bonanza tomorrow. As we're all shuffling around, gathering our things, and throwing the last of the sticks onto the fire, hoping that there'll be sufficient embers in the morning to get it started again easily enough. I decide to speak with Robbie real quick, just a brief chat, to put me in his mind before he goes to sleep.

Hey Robbie, I say to him, pushing out my chest a little as he turns to me. He looks so good in the glow of the fire. The angles of his face illuminated in rippling orange. Hey Cass, you all sorted for tonight? Yeah, I think so, I say. Do you think that? But he cuts me off. He leans in close. Hey, Cass, did you notice anything kind of weird about Emily earlier?

Emily. And I realise what an idiot I've been. Oh yeah, yeah, I did. Where is she now, Robbie? Where's Emily? I'm not sure, he replies. then straightens and calls out to the bustling shadows be on the fire. Hey, Emily?

Have any of you guys seen Em? Oh yeah, Carl replies. She went to get more firewood with Kai. Ariana snorts from her position by the logs. Good to see her actually doing some work. But I don't laugh. In fact, I start to feel terribly cold, chilled despite the night's latent warmth.

How long ago did they leave? I asked desperately. I can't seem to organise my thoughts. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. But I just can't vocalise what that thing is. Kyle steps closer to the fire and shrugs. I don't know, like ten minutes maybe.

I run past him to the edge of the clearing. I squint my eyes, looking out into the darkness, listening for voices for a stray beam of a flashlight. But there is nothing. Guys? I call out. Guys! And I am answered by nothing but the ripple of the breeze through the branches.

Emily and Kai are gone. I start to panic a little. I reach from my inhaler, pushing my hair away from my face and taking a deep breath in. Cassie? Casey, what's the matter? Carl calls out as he jogs over to me. They just walked off into the darkness, I ask, forcing out my words. They didn't even take a flashlight?

I don't know. Kai did, I think. Then why can't we see it through the trees? I don't know. Chill, Casey, it's fine. And why would they go out looking for firewood now that it's gone dark? Robbie's behind me now too. He puts a hand to my shoulder.

His touch feels good. But I surprised myself by shaking him off, realizing I'm even more stressed than I'd appreciated. Guys, this is serious, I say. Something is not right with Emily. She's... I'm unsure how to phrase it. She's...

Not a self. I think we need to take her home. I appreciate how painfully uncool this makes me sound. but someone's got to take charge. The group, as expected, all voiced their protests. Whoa, hey, we're not taking her home, Casey, says Robbie. It's the middle of the night. And besides, I get that she was acting off.

But, but what are we really suggesting here? That's just having some kind of breakdown or something? I... I don't know, I reply weakly. A scream from the forest cuts through upper lava like a sharpened blade. We turn as one to stare out towards its source, hearts thumping,

and all senses suddenly primed and brutally alert. I call it a scream, but it was more of a howl, really. Not like a wolf, though, which would have been frightening enough. The sound that echoed through the trees was more like, like a howl a monkey, I guess.

You ever heard one of those? A quick series of high-pitched, frenzied grunts and shrieks strung together and played from note to note as discordantly as could be imagined through the darkness. It's not a noise one hears in the forests of the Midwest. What the hell was that? Ariana whispers, on a feet now and closer to the rest of the group. I've been looking out into the woods for a while, away from the fire,

and I feel my eyes are starting to adjust. But I can only make out vague shapes and gently waving branches. the smell of pine and smoke heavy in the air. Robbie, I say, peering into the darkness. Ask me a flashlight. He goes to grab one and hands it to me. I respect the power of night vision, but sometimes you can't beat a solid beam of welcome light.

I click it on and Robbie does the same. And the beams land squarely and a pale face in the trees. Eyes white. and wide and staring back into my own. Jesus! I scream out an alarm and stagger back, dripping over a log and landing with a painful crash. Robbie's light is still directed at the face

and my brain registers it after a quick second. It's Kai, stood silently by the edge of the trees, unmoving. We all start swearing at him at once. Kyle bursts into a laugh now and his face is illuminated briefly by rubbish flashlight as he swings it over, his face breaking into a grin. What the hell is wrong with you, man?

Carl chuckles. You're one scary guy sometimes. The rest of us, however, are not so thrilled. What the hell, Kai? What are you doing there, man? I shout up at him. Very funny, Kai, very funny. So, where's Emily?

The others start looking around for her, expecting her to pop out from behind a tree or a tent at any moment. But she does not. I keep my beam fixed on the boy as I clamber to my feet. He does not laugh and he does not move. I take a step closer. Kai, I say to him softly. He remained silent.

Kai, I say again. And I find that I am unable to raise my voice much higher than a whisper. Talk to me, man. There's a pause. Then... Firewood, he replies quietly. The warning lights return, flashing bright in my head. Emily will bring back the firewood.

The breeze blows through the dark forest. I take another step towards him as the others look. look around for Emily, laughing together now, flashlight beams tracing over the trees beyond. He watches me, approach. Kai, I say, very carefully and very clearly. I'm not going to lie to you, okay? I know, you know, I was freaking out a bit about Emily earlier, and if she's got you in some kind of prank, it's just not funny, all right?

It's freaking me out, and if you want to make fun of me for being a chicken, well, that's just fine. But please stop, okay. I'm really genuinely asking you to stop. I tense. And we stand there in silence regarding each other. And then he grins. It's a pretty spooky looking face in the light of the flashlight. But it's a grin I recognize, and I breathe a little easier.

You asshole, I mutter shaking my head. Come put some sticks under the fire and go to bed, okay? It's late. He walks towards me. He bursts into a sudden, loud laugh as he passes me by, which makes me jump again. I laugh too in response and push him away. Chicken, he mutters. Yeah, I know, I know, I reply, rolling my eyes.

So where's Emily then, Kai? Bed. He replies, as he bends down to grab a handful of sticks. stepping over and throwing them carelessly into the fire. Right, okay, well, that's good, I say, still kind of an edge, if I'm being honest. I'll look back on this moment and realize, I should have checked Emily's tent right away. I should have just checked, but I don't, because why would he lie? It's around 3 a.m. when I wake up.

Damn bladder. If you've ever had to rustle yourself out of a sleeping bag and step out into the wilderness to pee You'll know my pain I tried to quietly pull down the zip So as to not wake up the others And I tiptoe out into the rough forest ground I'm still pretty freaked out about earlier

So I don't go far Disappointed to realize that despite her efforts The fire has gone out anyway I basically just go to squat behind the tent Yeah, I know that's gross sue me. I finish up. Here is when I realise I never checked on Emily.

And now that the thoughts has occurred to me, I realise I simply have to make sure she's okay. I won't be able to get back to sleep otherwise. So I head back into my tent and grab my flashlight, only turning it on when I'm right next to Emily's tent. I whisper her name. No response. I whisper a little louder.

Emily, maybe she's fast asleep. I pulled a zip on a tent slowly and carefully up, and then the one on the inner lining, and I peek my head inside. I shine the flashlight in two. But... She's not there. I scan the beam all over the place, but it's not like there's anywhere to hide.

It's a tent. I start to sweat. Damn. It's okay, it's okay. Maybe she's taken a pee, like me, just at the edge of the campsite. She's probably just a few feet away. So still, on my hands and knees, I crawl back, turning my flashlight hand and pointing the beam out past the fire to scan my surroundings. And the beam lands on Kai.

Stood there in the darkness, in the exact same spot I'd last seen him in. Silent, still, staring. The virus breeze ruffles his hair and he looks down at me, unblinking, not even squinting in the beam of the light. A scream catches in my throat. He's not grinning now. I stare up at him, unable to speak. The silent figure alone in the darkness. Kai.

I stammer, my blood cold. I say his name, but received no rest. response. Guys, I choke out, then, guys, wake up, guys please wake up! I keep yelling, refusing to take my eyes away from Kai even for a second as one by one they groggly awaken, peering out from their tense and confusion. I stagger awkwardly to my feet, shaking like a skinny branch in the wind. Casey?

Kyle calls over as he rubs his eyes and clicks on his flashlight. Is everything okay? Kai? He was just stood here, guys. Stead here by himself in the middle of the night. I say, fear and anger fighting for control over my voice. Kai! I shout to him as the others watch.

Kai, what is going on? He says nothing. And the others are starting to pick up on the vibe. I can feel it. They're starting to feel it too. The atmosphere is nicely missed that is slowly but surely enshrouding and suffocating our little campsite. The others start calling him out too, Robbie, then Ariana and Kyle.

They tell him to speak up, the frustrations mount, and then. Then Kyle laughs. It's the exact same laugh he gave earlier. And I'm looking at his face now. We all are. He does not smile. His body does not move. as he produces the sound.

Where is Emily? I shouted him. Emily is in bed. He replies. No, no, she isn't in bed. I've just looked in a tent and she's missing. I keep my flashlight pointed at the boy in a trembling hand. But I look to the others.

Guys, you need to get your boots on. Emily's not here and I don't know how long she's been gone. She could be in real trouble. and we have to go find her. Okay, Kai whispers in response, and the word sends my pulse raising. He looks like he's about to say something else,

but I cut him off. No, Kai, no, you're staying here. I don't know what the hell is up with you. I don't know if you and Emily saw something in the woods, but this has gone on long enough. Right, says Robbie. He starts pulling his shoes on. I get it, I get it.

There's something weird going on here. Maybe you're right, Casey. Maybe we should have just headed home. I'm trying really, really hard not to have a full blown panic attack. I get the sense that all our collective hearts are currently beating as one. And that we stand, as a group, on the edge of a cliff of emotional collapse. Robbie straightens and speaks on. Casey, if you come with me, we'll see if you can find Emily.

I'm not sure if you stay here with Kyle, keep an eye on Kai. I'm not sure if he's sick or if there's something worse going on here. But we find Emily and we get the hell out of here. Agreed? Despite her fear, I can tell that Ariana is irritated at being asked to stay at the campsite, but she does not protest. I look at Robbie and he nods at me and we head out into the forest. I shoot a glance behind me and watch as Kyle and Ariana try to encourage Kai to see him.

encourage Kai to sit down, and he does so. They're anxious, and I can see it in the way they move. The way they're suddenly hesitant to go too near to him, to touch him. Kai's body gives away nothing. Kai, come on man, you're okay, take a seat, Carl suggests calmly. It's a prank, chicken, Kai says, as they disappear from earshot. His words have no cadence to them. I shiver and push onward past the branches alongside Robbie, and together we head into the forest.

Okay, I admit I was wrong. This is weird. This is really weird. What the hell is up with Kai? Why is he acting so strange? I don't know, I reply. But he's been acting this way since he went off with Emily to get firewood. Robbie calls out her name, and I do the same.

We're following a rough trail through the brush. The one we used look like fallen sticks another firewood from. I continued. It's like... It's almost like... What? I don't know. It sounds stupid.

But I had this thought about Emily too. It's like they're... ...different people. Robbie says nothing. They barely even seem like people at all. I say quietly. We walk on a little father, calling out for Emily, looking for signs she might have passed, but we see no sign. Robbie eventually throws out his hand and puts a finger to his lips.

He points his flashlight at the ground and I do the same. Do you hear that? he asks. Hear what? I whisper back. Listen. So I do. tensed and a branch cracks in the trees off to our right. We lift our lights towards it. Emily, I call out.

And a bush beside a tree, tangled amongst the ferns and strawberry, starts to suddenly shake, shaking beyond what a breeze would warrant, and it rises. And I realised that the light is not showing me the leaves or twigs of a bush at all. It's showing me fur. thick, green-brown fur in the dark,

attached to an alien shape that quivers in the forest, and I scream. The noise like the howler monkey, the twisted, broken, disjointed call of the unknown ape, and it starts bounding towards us. Run, Robbie roars,

and he grabs my sleeve, and together we sprint off in near-blind desperation for our lives, oblivious to the scratching of the branches against our skin, as we push madly through the thickets of the woods, darting around trees and through the high grass. Our flashlights clicked off.

We run and we run and we run. Oh no, please no, this can't be happening, this can't be happening. But we sprint and we tumble and stagger through the forest. And just when I think the muscles in my legs are going to completely give way, Robbie grabs me and drags me down below a fallen tree, where I can just about see him return the finger to his lips through the glist. gloom. We try as hard as we can to control our heavy breathing, ears primed for any hint as to the terrible and mysterious creatures whereabouts, but we hear nothing. Remaining as silent as possible,

we keep on listening, listening intently for any kind of sound from behind that fallen trunk, for any kind of warning. Nothing. Nothing from where we're expecting at least. Because of a The sound does reach our ears after a while, once the hammering of our hearts had suddenly begun to steady. A sound that comes from in front, not behind, and I think we both hear it at roughly the same time. It's neither approaching nor growing fainter, but once you hear it, it's obvious. A subtle cracking, a light tearing, a soft crunching, the occasional snap of something sturdy.

It's too dark. I can't see a thing besides the weak light from the moon up above, beyond the cluster trees, and my very immediate surroundings. The fallen trunk. The rough outline and shape of Robbie, opined to my left. Robbie reaches for his flashlight, but I put a hand on his to stop him. Don't, I whisper, as quiet as I can. I have to see, he replies.

and I can almost feel the fear in his voice. He cups his hand over the top half of the flashlight, shielding it as best as he can, and turns it on to the lowest setting, keeping it almost pointed at the ground, carefully scanning it over the pine debris in front of us. And it eventually finds the source of the noise. Robbie freezes.

He cannot move. He cannot look away. And neither can I. The light really can't. reveals a grotesque imitation of a human, faced away from us and hunched over. Their legs and back stretched in ways that don't make sense. Animalistic heels push sickeningly out from the back of their calves, the face buried in the carcass of a deer, eating.

The vicar's jaw is distended, and, while it's difficult to see in the shadows, what looks like a set of furry jaws pushes out from the human's gaped open mouth, biting quietly, tearing off pieces of the deer's flesh, and it seems to become aware of the light. The jaws retract, suddenly and horrifically, forced back through its human mouth, the bone cracking back into place and it swivels around to stare at us, face plain. It's Emily. I watched an unparalleled horror as she regards us with blank white eyes. The colour of her irises roll back down from behind her upper eyelids and settle into place. The thing with Emily's face wobbles to us through the darkness.

You're freaking me out, it says. Her voice is low. It has no rhythm, like she's speaking a language she's only ever seen written down. My wrist starts to hurt. I realised passively that Robbie has held it in a tight and painful grip. I hear whimpering. I realise it's my own. Where's the firewood, Casey?

Emily asks, as she begins to crawl slowly towards us over the rough ground of the forest. Emily's head cracks to the side, her face expressionless, the lower half drenched in the thick, dark blood of the deer. "'Where is the firewood, Casey?' she says again in that broken voice. "'It does not sound like a question.' "'I stand. I'm not aware of giving the command to my legs, but I rise up nonetheless. "'I grip Robbie's shoulder. I grab his jacket. I tried to pull him up. "'Robby,' I say.

"'Robby, get up, get up, get up!' "'I pull him up to his feet and we started back away. Stumbling a little as we retreat, flashlights fixed on Emily as she approaches. Do you remember the way back to the trail? I choke out. Robbie does not respond. Robbie, the trail, do you know the way back?

Yes, he whispers. I take a deep breath and I hurl my flashlight into Emily's face. It smacks her and she twitches with a disgusting crack. I hear Robbie release a moan of dismay And Emily starts the shriek She sounds the call And on hands and knees She bounced suddenly towards us

Her jaw distended And the branch that I picked up in the darkness The one I hold ready in my right hand I grab with both And with all my strength With every single spark of effort I can summon Swing it mercilessly around And smash it hard at the side of Emily's head

The head of the creature wearing Emily's face The impact vibrates On my hands and arms And I drop the branch Fingers throbbing As the creature stumbles and staggers Into the dirt

Twitching and disoriented Croaking but not entirely stopped Now Robbie I scream Run take us back to the trail And again we run I don't know how I can keep doing this I feel like I'm going to collapse

That my lungs are going to burst And expire on me as we push through the forest Please, I think up to anyone that might be listening, please. Please, please help us find our way out to the trail, for the love of God, please. And, as luck would have it, we do. Skidding to a sudden halt as we breach the edge of the trail, we stumble and adjust our course, running hard and back the way we came along the rough path, leaving leaves and skinny branches smack my face and scrape my arm.

but they mean nothing to me now. We just have to go. The thoughts of Emily, and God knows what's happening to her, flashes through my mind, and I release a sob, following as best as I can and wildly panning beam of Robbie's flashlight.

An amber glow appears through the dark branches ahead, and I could almost cry in relief. The fire, hits the fire! We're nearly back at the campsite. We stumble into the clearing, shouting as loud as we can, from my empty chest. Robbie dives instantly into his tent

in search of, I presume, the keys for his car. But there's no one else here. The flicker of the flames and the gentle rustle of the trees beyond are the only movements. Oh no, no, no, no, no, no. Hello? I shout out.

Hello? Guys, where the hell are you? Casey! I hear from directly behind me and I shriek, swearing and stumbling backwards. It's Ariana. Her face, a picture of terror. Ariana? I manage, as I double over, try not to throw up as I take in deep, shuddering breaths.

Casey, she says again, squeezing me by the shoulders and leaning close. What's wrong? Did you find Emily? I feel like I'm going to pass out. I take several deep breaths from my eyes. inhaler, struggling to take an air. It takes a great deal of will to stop myself from just breaking down into tears. Ariana, we have to go, I splutter. We have to leave, now.

Grab what you can and leave the rest. We just have to go. She starts to protest. She had a hundred questions, of course, but I cut her off. You have to trust me on this girl. We just... We have to go, now. Where are the others?

Where are the boys? They just went for a pee? Ariana stammers. They should be back any time. But where's Emily? Does she need her help? Ariana, I say quietly. My heart's sinking.

Did you let them go off by themselves? Just the two of them? She says nothing. But the expression of her face in the glow of the fire is clear. This must be hell, I think to myself. Terrible realization after terrible realization with no power to do anything about them It's too late

Robbie burst out of his tent Holding his bag before him I can't find the keys He splutters but they're in here somewhere I know it I'm sure of it Guys come on let's get the hell out of here The path back to the car is only a 15 minute walk But I'm no longer convinced we're going to make it

I turn, jaw clenched towards the way back, and sure enough, two shrouded figures are standing there, just waiting, waiting at the edge of the clearing and blocking the path. Robbie and Ariana and I move closer together, and a flashlight is raised to confirm what we already know. It's Kyle and Kai, standing stuck still, expressionless as they return our gaze. No, Robbie whispers Arianna is whimpering She doesn't quite get it She doesn't know what's going on And to be perfectly honest

Neither do we But I'm pretty certain But the two people I see stood before me at the tree line Are not Kai and Kyle Not anymore I see the dark matted green-brown Further creatures in my mind's eye "'Kyle?'

"'Robby mutters bitterly, "'and I take a bold step towards them, "'then another.' "'The others follow, "'and the boys remain still. "'Hey, guys,' "'I call out carefully. "'Everything okay?

"'We need to return to the car. "'You understand, right?' "'Emily's in real trouble,' "'says Kyle, dead-faced. We have to go find her Says Kai Yes, yes she is I reply through my teeth

Still steadily edging closer But the best way we can do that Is return to the car To drive home and get help And come back in the morning We need the light guys Kai suddenly shouts His body remains still

Gives no indication that he's shouting at all Which only makes the expulsion all the more terrifying. Wake the hell up! He screams at me. Casey, wake the hell up. We're close to them now. I'm sweating.

My throat is bone dry. Kai silences and Carl's eyes flick from Robbies to mine. I don't know what the hell is up with you. He says, I don't know if you saw something in the woods, but this has gone on long enough. The words just don't sound right. Their cadence doesn't fit the context.

I clenched my chore and gently. With shaking hands, ever so softly push past the two, easing myself between them, lowering my gaze and try not to make eye contact. Robbie and Ariana do the same. I start to walk a little faster. Robbie and Ariana follow. And so do Kyle and Kai. Walking just behind us, keeping pace.

Ariana has started to weep Emily went for a pee Kyle says loudly above the breeze It picks up and whistles past our ears As we stride along the path through the darkness Pass me the flashlight

We find Emily And we get the hell out of here What are you doing Kyle says angrily Then his tone changes at once Where is a lot Emily. Kyle speaks again. We have to go find her. Where is Emily? We have to go find her, says Kyle. Ariana has begun crying openly, doing her best to stifle her sobs, but with little success.

Kyle and Kai keep pace, and I don't know what to do. Should we run? I'm not sure I have it in me to run much further without collapse. I take a breath from my inhaler. And would that set them off? Running? Would that anger them? I don't know. I just don't know. So we keep on walking, hastily through the woods, down the forest path and back to the car. Kai and Kyle continue calling after us. I keep my head down and keep moving, terrified that at any moment, the creature wearing Emily's skin is going to burst out from the trees and onto the trail ahead. Robbie, says Kai Ariana, says Kyle

She sobs But we keep walking We keep walking until Ariana Ariana lets out a loud shriek And comes to a sudden stop Robbie and I jump And I suck some thick forest airing through my teeth Wheeling round to face her

She is standing stock still Staring wide-eyed into the woods her beam heading off into the trees Guys She says loudly Guys It's Emily Terror strikes me

Robbie swears And grabs Arianna roughly by the shoulder And we start to run Dragging her along with us Kyle and Kai keep easy pace Just behind Always just behind Hey

Ariana shouts struggling Did you hear me It's Emily. She's okay. I just saw her you guys. I saw her in the trees. Guys, let me go. It's not her, Ariana. I reply, shouting back. You have to trust us, okay? We have to get to the car. But Ariana does not understand. And how could she? She cries with frustration, violently scratching and pushing Robbie away. He curses and pulls back his hand. And Carl speaks, addressing his words to Ariane. Ariana, please stop, okay. I'm really genuinely asking you to stop. And she does so. She stops. She turns to him, panting, tears streaming down a face.

Keep moving, I hiss to her. But she does not. She stands aground. She speaks to Kyle and Kai as we turn and light up their faces with the beams of our lights. Guys, please. She says, what is this? What's happening? Is this a prank or a game?

I can tell from her voice that she does not believe it is. But she's desperate for some kind of answer, for a way out. They're not pretending, Ariana. Robbie says, just don't speak to them. He tries to grab her by the shoulder again, but she forcefully shrugs them off for a second time. She refuses to move. She stands, shaking.

Her fists clenched. Ariana, Kyle says, taking a step forward. Emily could be in real trouble. There is what sounds like genuine urgency in his voice. Kai speaks next. You have to trust us, okay? Ariana swivels, looking from us to the boys. To whatever she thinks she's seen in the forest,

the beam of a light swinging round with her. She's beckoning me over, guys, she says to us. She wants me to follow her. We can't leave her behind. I run to her, gripping her shoulder. No, Ariana, that's not her. That's not Emily. It's something pretending.

It's lies. She bursts into sudden tears. Her face contorting with anguish. Whose side are you on? She screams. And before I can react, she pushes me to the greener. ground. Robbie moves to help me up and Arianna runs off. No, Robbie shouts, but he is too late.

Ariana has sprinted into the forest, calling after Emily, the glow of her flashlight quickly becoming lost amongst the trees in the underbrush. The sound of her footsteps fading. Kyle and Kai watch a go, motionless. Robbie hoists me up and we dart to the edge of the forest. He balls aside a branch and shines the flashlight into the woods. But, Ariana is gone. There is no sign. And her cries for Emily disappear into the sound of the rising wind.

Oh God, I shout, running my hands through my hair. What do we do? Robbie asks desperately. What the hell do we do? I shoot a glance to Carl and Kai. There, standing silently, watching. Robbie, I think we have to go after her. We have to try.

Casey, he says. I don't know if I can. I don't think I can handle seeing that monster again. I just can't. This is Ariana, Robbie. We have to just try. We have to. We won't go far, okay?

She can't have gone too deep. It's been seconds. We'll just go in 20 feet. 20 feet, Robbie. Come on, we can do this. Casey lies, Kai whispers from the shadows. I promise Robbie, 20 feet, then we turn back. I say softly, holding his face in my hands, and he nods.

So we leave the path and we push into the woods, following the rough route that we presume Ariana must have taken, but she's completely disappeared. I cannot hear her. I cannot see her. She was second ahead of us. Seconds. Half a minute, Max. How could she have vanished so soon?

Kai and Kyle do not follow. The atmosphere presses down on us, heavy, threateningly silent. But I forced myself to call out. Ariana! I shout. Ariana! But there's no reply. On we walk further into the

forest. Robbie is getting antsy and so am I. I hate this. I want to run to the car, I want to get the hell out, but we can't just leave her, not without trying, and I know Robbie feels the same way. Nevertheless, we go deeper than we set out to. He's about to say something, I can feel it. When I grab his arm, I point over to our right. Robbie look, the light. And sure enough, a faint beam of light can be seen from behind a bush a little ways on from our position. But we're in too far. We run the real risk now of becoming disoriented, of becoming lost amongst the trees. Alone with the creatures in the dark.

Ariana! I call. I call again, but nothing. What if she's fallen over, I mutter. What if she's hurt? Robbie wiped sweat from his forehead, glancing back through the branches towards the path. What if this is a trap, Casey? He asks, and you know what?

He could well be right, like flies in a web. But I will not leave Ariana behind. Robbie, I say, stay here, right here in this spot. We can't risk losing our way back to the path. shine your flashlight over towards the glow and I'll follow it. I'll stay within sight and I'll be quick, right? I swear. If she's not there, then I'll come straight back and we'll hightel it to the car, okay?

All right, he replies. Go, Casey, be quick. So I leave him. He marks her place, a way back to the path and I follow the beam through the ferns and into the branches, grimacing as they scratch my side. skin. I press forward. Coming up to the glowing light, I start to call out softly again for Ariana, hissing her name as I approach, but she does not respond. But she should, because I'm

close now. I'm right by it. I push aside a bush, and I see it. I see her flashlight, sat by itself on the ground, amongst the debris of the forest floor. And Ariana is nowhere to be seen. I reach down and grab it, casting the beam out into the dark, spinning in a circle, looking out for her, for any sign of her, any sign at all. But there is nothing, nothing, until I lock up. The beam of the flashlight extends high into the trees above, and there is Ariana, suspended upside.

down. She is misshapen. Her facial features are not in the correct place. Her body twitches and jerks, and all I can do is stare. Stare in horror. Stare as the body of my friend shifts and crunches above me. Dark fluids leak from her and onto the ground beneath. Thick, green-brown fur sprouts from the socket of her eyes. Fur that shakes and shifts, as if something behind it is dragging itself around. The fur is pulled back into her head and is replaced by a terrible, shining white. The colors of her irises rolled down from behind her eyelids. No, I whisper.

Her jaw cracks. No, she whispers back. I begin to retreat, stumbling backwards through the forest, overroots and through bushes. Ariana's eyes do not leave mine. My stomach lurches, and I feel like I'm going to be sick. Every twitch of the abomination before me sends ripples of disgust over my body. Adrenaline pumps vigorously through my veins. How could this have happened?

I can't stop shaking in shock, in terrible disbelief. She'd been gone for minutes, minutes, and we were still too late to save her. Is that all it took? Alone in the forest For a few minutes Robbie His name flashes through my head Oh no

Is this it Have I lured him out here to his death To mine What if he thinks I'm one of them What if he thinks I've done as Emily's done That I've tricked him into coming out here And then leaving him alone Oh no

Robbie I screamed back behind me as I continue my retreat crying out above the wind of the branches, too terrified to tear my eyes away from Ariana's. Suspended upside down, her arms rigid by her side. They begin to tremble now. Her fingers clench and unclench, her bones crack. For a terrible moment I think Robbie has gone, taken perhaps, or that he has abandoned me, left me behind, alone and lost in the woods.

but I hear his voice Casey he calls back Casey what's going on Are you okay I sob in bitter relief and my resolve breaks I turned from Ariana

and I see the beam of Robby's light pointed towards me a little ways ahead and I stumble sprinting towards him I hear Ariana call after me Casey she warbles I voiced a twisted amalgamation

of Robby's, of her own, and of something else. Casey, what's going on? I race back to Robbie. He squints and holds a hand in front of his eyes as I shine the beam of Ariana's flashlight into his face. We're too late. I'm sorry I left you.

The way back, Robbie, take us back. Is it this way? He doesn't say another word. But he nods, and we run together back to the forest towards the path. I gripped tight to his arm, to his sleeve, refusing to let go. I've learnt my lesson, okay? I've learned it. I won't let him out of my sight.

Staggering back past the branches and onto the path, I am disturbed, but not surprised, to see Kyle and Kai standing in the exact same positions we left them in, silently watching. We don't stick around. Still, holding tight to him, I race with Robbie down the path towards the car. Flashlight shaking and breath ragged.

I shoot a look back. Kyle and Kai have begun pursuit. Just behind. Always just behind. Keeping pace. Keeping us in their sights. Robbie, Kyle calls after us.

Ariana could be in real trouble. We have to go find her. Casey lies, Kyle shouts. Don't listen to them. Please, Robbie. Don't believe. them. I pant.

It's okay. We're nearly there. He says through gritted teeth. We're nearly back at the car. I remember. I feel like I'm running across a tight rope, wavering dangerously from side to side with every step. Kai keeps talking. His words loud.

A backdrop to the constant crunching of twigs and pine needles beneath our feet. Why? Go. Now that it's dark. Robbie. Let's go find her. Okay, Kyle says.

We broached the car, parked under and next to a large tree that stands alone in a little clearing, one that connects to the mountain road. We stagger to a stop and Robbie crouches down by the vehicle, shaking and desperately fumbling through his bag for the keys. He carelessly unzips all of the pockets. He rifles hastily through the things. I run a tongue over my death-dry lips and turn. standing with my back to him and facing a head to Carl and Kai as they come to a sudden stop. They don't seem tired at all.

What happened to you guys? I whisper, shaking my inhaler in a trembling hand and taking a breath, fear and sorrow flowing through me as one. They stand in silence for a while. The only sound are Robbie's bitter mutterings, the noise of his hands scrambling through his bag, and the breeze in the leaves of the surrounding woods. Kyle takes a sudden step forward and cocks his head, and I jump. Robbie, I mutter with urgency as he scratches through his bag. Sweat leaks down my back and my neck.

The dark and merged shapes of the forest around us rustling the wind. The enormous lone tree by the car sighs and its branches creaks softly. Casey? Kyle says, and behind him, that same grin from earlier, the one that I had first found only curious, but now disturbs me to my core, stretches across Kai's face. I'm not going to lie to you, okay, Casey? Kai says softly, and my heart hammers. I grip the flashlight tighter in both of my hands.

Emily is gone, he says. Ariana is gone, Kyle lifts his arm out to me. I can feel tears begin to stream down my face. Robbie searches through the bag, swearing to himself under his breath in a rising panic. But we need to help her, Kyle says quietly, holding out his hand. His eyes shine in the reflected light of the beam. You have to trust me. on this girl.

I want to, Kyle, and reply with a shaking voice. I want to, so badly. But I can't. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I hear from behind a grunt of bitter relief and the sudden welcome sound of the car unlocking. For a moment, the clearing is bathed in flickers of orange light.

Kai's chest starts the shake, his mouth rounds into an and his jaw cracks. He hollers loudly in a noise that shatters the tension, the call of the unknown ape sounding from his throat, the screams of what I'd like into a howlorn monkey from the dark beyond the trees. Get in Casey, Robbie bellows, grabbing me and pulling me from my days. Into the car! And we scramble inside, throwing ourselves through the door and slamming them behind us. With sudden and sickening speed The boys outside have held themselves against the vehicle

Kai up onto the hood and Carl against the window Slamming on it with his fists Drive! I scream Drive! Robbie starts the engine Casey Carl shouts through the glass As he desperately batters his fist against it

I'm pretending I'm in real trouble Casey, don't leave me here with them. And I look into his eyes as Robbie slams his foot down on the pedal and the car begins to speed away. I see raw fear, I see terror. But the tumultuous swirlings of my thoughts make no matter. He is left behind. The car roars into life and he stumbles.

And as Kai is thrown off the hood to the ground. We speed on and out of the clearing and into the road, the mountain road that lies dead ahead. I turn and look back through the rear window, chest rising and falling, staring back at the scene we've left behind us. I watch Kai rise to his feet. He stands motionless beside Kyle, and they shrink into the distance, both still now, two diminishing figures illuminated only by the pale, dim light of the moon above, and the moonlight catches on something else as well. Only for a moment before Robbie spins the wheel and takes us around the first of many corners,

the first on our way out of the forest, but is a long enough moment to see. To see the creature, to see the creature sitting in the lone tree. perched on a thick branch just above the spot where we parked the car. It's Emily. Her body stretched cruelly and grotesquely to fit the skeleton of another. She looks back at me and into my eyes as we round the corner. I watch a form begin to shift and crack back into a human shape.

And she disappears from sight and never saw them again. Emily, Kai, Kyle, Ariana I'll play that night over and over my head a hundred times and then a hundred times more I still see them when I close my eyes to try and sleep I see them in my dreams I hear them calling out for me the mountain rescue teams and the police and the helicopters found no trace of them

they found our campsite the ash remains of our fire and some empty cans but all of the equipment and clothes we'd left behind had vanished. Their families are distraught and furious. I don't blame them. They don't understand the story we tell them. They think the overactive imaginations of a bunch of high schoolers are covering for, or perhaps even hiding from them some secret, traumatic accident,

a guilty defence mechanism for why we let them wander off alone into the woods. And in a way, we did. I wonder about Kyle the most, about what he said to me through the window as the car sped away and left him behind. Was it a trick or was he telling the truth? You may be interested to know that I ended up in a relationship with Robbie, by the way. There is little passion, if I'm being honest, but we keep each other sane. I've relayed my concerns to him, told him about what Kyle said of what I saw in the tree.

about whether we did the right things and acted the way we were supposed to about what might have happened to us if we'd followed Kyle and Kai into the forest. Had they already been taken like Emily, like Ariana? Or could we have saved them? And each time we are forced to concede

that we'll never really know for certain because we're sure as hell. Hell, not going back. I'm currently staring at a glass jar. Inside, floating in yellow, viscous liquid, is a lump of cancer cells. The lump is staring back at me. I have wondered for the past few hours if it is a mind of its own.

A brain tumour with a brain. How crazy would that be? I made my doctor promise he wouldn't throw the lump away. Not yet, anyway. Not until I've had time to say my goodbyes. Brain tumours are tricky. Like other forms of cancer, they can present a myriad of symptoms. Dizziness, headaches, seizure, even hallucinations.

An individual person's symptoms depend on numerous factors. These factors include, but are not limited to, the size of the brain, the size of the tumour, the location of the tumour, previous injuries to the head, medical history and dumb luck. My tumour was located on the temporal lobe of my brain. It measured approximately 1.8 inches in diameter, or at least that's the measurement my doctor gave me. My girlfriend, Brian, has recharacterised that measurement as too damn big.

There is no history of cancer in my family. Cancer was one of the last things in my mind. Never saw it coming. Honestly, I thought the symptoms were just temporary. In some ways, I was right. In some ways, I think they'll affect me forever. The first symptom was auditory hallucinations. That lettuce is feeling hungry.

My eyes drifted from the head of lettuce in my hands to the grocery store cloak next to me. Her face was turned away from me and towards the mop she pushed across the tile. What did you say? The teenage clerk turned to look at me. I could see myself in the shiny surface of a nose piercing. My reflection's eyes looked like they were bulging out of its head. What? What did you say about the lettuce?

I didn't say anything. Are you sure? Yeah. Sir, are you okay? You're really pale. I'm fine. I just miss her. Before I could finish my sentence,

everything went black. I dreamt for what seemed like hours. In my dreams I was running through a never-ending expanse of black. Something was chasing me, but I couldn't tell what. Occasionally I would get a brief glimpse of the creature. It seemed to be humanoid in form, but its head was shaped wrong. Eventually, my legs grew too tired to keep running. They gave out beneath me and I crashed into the floor.

When I turned to face my pursuer, I saw it was the grocery store clerk, but her head had been replaced by a mouth overflowing with teeth. A gigantic jaw snapped open. I felt hundreds of small needles pierced through the skin of my neck. Darkness overtook me. My vision was flooded with sterile white light. The steady beep of a heart monitor had replaced the sound of my pursuer's footsteps. My sides were flanked by a woman in a lab coat and a woman in a blue sun dress. The former was a doctor and the latter was Brianne, whose face was stained with tears.

Their concern for my well-being was nauseating. I assured everyone that I was fine. Must have just had low blood sugar or something. Happens more often than he might think, the doctor said. None of his normal tests had indicated. that anything was wrong with me. No one had thought to do an MRI or a CAT scan. They sent me home.

My symptoms worsened from that day on. Every morning I awoke to debilitating migraines. Most nights I was roused from my sleep by a gushing nosebleed that took hours to stop. I kept these symptoms from Breanne and my family. I convinced myself that they were just temporary. Nobody wants to worry their loved ones. Somehow, I thought the nosebleeds and migraines would subside on their own. Reality began to break down around me.

The physical symptoms became the least of my concerns. The following is a journal I kept on my symptoms. Keeping it was the only way I had to convince myself that I was still sane. December 31st At a New Year's Party Eve, one of my friends turned to me and said, follow me, I want to show you something. I followed him into another room. He turned around and said, yo, you want to give me a little privacy in the bathroom? My friend denied having ever asked me to follow him. No one at the party remembers him asking

me to follow him. January 9th. Brianne was making the bed. I was sitting in a chair watching her. Just as she was putting the sheet on, something fell off her head onto the bed. I only saw it for a second, but it was green and wet. She stretched the sheets across the bed, obscuring the object. When I expressed concern and made it remove the sheet, we couldn't find anything. It had never been there. January 19th. I was visiting an economics professor at my college in his office.

We were going over some questions I got wrong on my last test. When I glanced over at his face, I noticed the centipede crawling out of his shirt collar and up his neck. I recalled backwards, nearly falling out of my chair in the process. The centipede slithered up his chin, over his mouth and into his nostrils where it disappeared out of sight. The professor furrowed his brow and frowned at what he called my erratic behavior. January 30th The bus ride home was

taking forever We were stuck in traffic on the interstate While leaning my head against the window I noticed a homeless man standing on the shoulder of the road He had a sign in his hands that read Don't blink or I'll end it The strange sign piqued my interest

And I stared for a moment His clothes were practically shredded I could make out most of his legs and his chest through the gaping holes in the fabric. The exposed pieces of his body were covered in filth. Despite his appearance, he kept a grin plastered across his face. His eyes appeared to be locked on me. I blinked.

When my eyes reopened, the sign was gone. It had been replaced with a sharp barbecue fork. Those bulging eyes remained fixed on me. Without breaking eye contact, the man brought the fork up to his neck level and plunged it deep within his skin. Blood poured onto the concrete. I looked around the bus to see if anyone else was looking at the man. Everyone else appeared to be absorbed in their phones or newspapers. When I turned my gaze back to look at the man, there was no blood anywhere.

No body, no man, nothing. He was gone. February 4th Briand called me while I was walking to the bus stop. She told me that I'd forgotten my macroeconomics textbook on the kitchen counter. My professor would chew me out if I forgot the book again, so I sprinted home to get it. When I arrived,

Brianne was nowhere to be found. When I checked my call history, I found no calls from Brian. The book had been in my backpack the entire time. February 16th. I found a man standing in my shower this morning. He was fully clothed, but his clothes were torn to shreds and soaked in blood. His grin was a mile long, but it did nothing to hide the gaping wound in his throat. It was the man who I had seen stab himself on the interstate.

He wouldn't disappear no matter how many times I looked away or blinked. I couldn't bring myself to shower. For the first time, I'm beginning to think I'm crazy. February 17th to 22nd. The man from the interstate has been appearing everywhere. In my bedroom, in my kitchen, even in my classes at school. He won't stop staring at me, but he isn't the only one. Another corpse starts following me every day.

Today, it was a little girl whose arm bone has been snapped in such a way that they had become stuck behind her head. Yesterday it was a man whose nose and eyes had been chewed off. Before that, it was an elderly woman whose spine was bent out of shape, skewing a torso towards a left side. The corpses talk to me. No one else can hear them. I can.

They come in short whispers that I can't stop hearing, even when I cover my ears. Since I began writing this, entry. They've told me the following things. Kill yourself, slit your throat, drown Brienne, stab Brianne. It'll be better that way. Everyone hates you. They laugh at you when you aren't looking. You're worthless, worthless, nothing. Die, die, die, die, die, die, die. I think I'm going insane. My mind was no longer on my side by the time I wrote the last entry. People were constantly asking me if I felt okay or telling me that I looked like I was sick. Paranoia and anxiety

racked my mind. Every time someone spoke to me, I couldn't be sure if they were real or if my brain was just lying to me. Breanne found me curled up in the corner of my bedroom with a knife in my hand. I hadn't responded to a text in hours. I couldn't respond to them. One of the corpses had taken my phone away. When she found me, I was getting to her. ready to kill myself. I just wanted the voices to stop. She forced me to go to the hospital. A specialist conducted an onslaught of tests, one of which was an MRI. That MRI showed that I had a tumour in my temporal lobe. The doctor explained that a tumour of this size and location could cause visual and auditory hallucinations consistent with what I had been seeing. He said that

But in my current condition, it could be difficult to tell what was and wasn't real. I needed immediate surgery. It was a high risk procedure. There was a chance of permanent brain damage. Even more terrifying, there was a possibility the tumour had already spread to the inner folds of my brain. If so, it would be next to impossible to remove all of it. Even if most of the tumour could be removed, I wouldn't know if the tumour could be removed.

they had gotten it all. The only way to tell for sure would be to wait and see if my symptoms came back. I was unsure of how to proceed. When Brienne heard how bad my symptoms were, she insisted I get the surgery. The hospital got me on the surgery list for the next day. I couldn't sleep at all that night. All I could think was that I was going to face permanent brain damage. I felt like I would never be known. normal again. Briand stayed up all night with me. No matter how scared I got or how much I cried, she just kept telling me that it was going

to be okay. She was so good to me. No matter how bad it got, she was always patient and rational. I wouldn't have made it through without her. Briand drove me to the hospital the next morning. My heart was beating so fast I thought it might break my rib cage. By the time I lay down on the gurney, I was hyperventilating. Brian was right there next to me when they prepped me for surgery.

She held my hand and told me that everything was going to be okay. When the surgeons came to take me away, she gave my hand a squeeze and kissed me on the forehead. She must have been scared too because I could see tears start to well in her eyes. The last thing she said to me before the surgeons took me out of the room was I love you good luck she was the last thing I thought of

when they put the mask over my face as I drifted into sleep I thanked God that I had her in my life during the surgery I had bizarre dreams in them I was walking down a hallway at some cheap motel no matter how long I walked

the hallway never ended. No one answered when I knocked on the doors to their rooms. I was alone. I woke up with a splitting headache. A nurse was at my side. I tried to speak to her, but my mouth was too dry to form words. She thrusted a glass of water towards me, which I gulp down greedily. When the dryness in my mouth subsided, I found myself able to speak again.

Did the surgery go okay? Yes, sir, it went fine. Your tumour was removed with no complications. I felt immediate relief, like a boulder had been lifted from my chest. It was over. I felt like I had been holding my breath for months, and that I could finally breathe again. After a few hours, the nurse told me I had a visitor.

It was my mother. Honestly, I was surprised. Although my mother had been notified about the surgery, I didn't expect her to drive all the way out to my college to meet me. She lives several hours away, and she loathes driving. I was excited to see her all the same. Soon after she arrived, my father and several of my friends showed up to visit. Their faces all looked so relieved. I couldn't stop smiling.

It felt like it had been months since I had laid my eyes on any of them. My mother spoke with my friends, telling them about the severity of my symptoms and joking about how I had been going crazy. Then, she said something strange. On the car ride here, I thought he was going to have a heart attack. Something about that caught me off guard. How did you know that? She looked at me. with a curious look on her own face.

I don't know. You just looked like you were going to have a heart attack. No, how did you know I look like that? You weren't there? Of course I was. Who do you think drove you? She rolled her eyes. A million butterflies filled my stomach.

That was wrong. My mother hadn't driven me to the hospital. Brianne did. My eyes scanned the room. Brian wasn't there. Mom? Where's Brian? She shrugged.

She told me that she didn't know. I asked if she knew where my phone was. She produced it from inside a purse. That was strange. I thought I left it with Brian. The next few moments are a blur to me. I look through my text messages, trying to see if Brian had said anything to me.

Our most recent text conversations were gone. I looked through my contacts. Brian's name wasn't there. All of my visitors' faces were filled with concern. I began screaming at the nurse who had brought the visitors into the room. Did you see me when I came in this morning? Yes, sir. Are you all right? Did you see the girl I came in with?

Your mother? No, a girl, my age. Her name is Brienne. The only person with you this morning was your mother. Throughout my time with a tumour, I questioned everything I saw and heard. Anything I saw could have been a hallucination. Anything.

I've been told that my mother was the one who found me curled up with a knife that day. She had driven over 300 miles, when I stopped responding to her messages. No one remembers ever meeting someone named Brianne. My friends told me that they had barely seen me for the previous few months. They said I'd hold myself in my apartment and refused to speak to them. All that time, I thought I was with Brianne. Countless hours with her, countless conversations with her,

conversations that never happened. She was never there That girl that I loved was just a hallucination She was never there She was my everything but she was never even there I'm still staring at the tumour in the jar I've instructed the nurse not to let any visitors in My tumour and I need privacy

Because somewhere in there is Brianne waiting for me, missing me as badly as I miss her. When I asked the doctor if he could put it back in, he just laughed. He thought I was joking. I feel sick to my stomach. My heart feels like it's been ripped into little pieces. The worst part is that now that the brain tumour is gone, I'm having a difficult time remembering her face.

A difficult time remembering our time. together. She's fading. My only hope now is that the cancer had already spread into my brain. If it did, then the tumour might grow back. Then I might see Brianne again. When the hallucinations began, I had hoped they were temporary. Now, I wish they hadn't been. I'd take all the horrible, haunting visions again, just to see her face one more time. Pray for me. Pray that my cancer comes back. I hadn't meant to kill my sister. It had been a joke. In life she never used to listen to me anyway.

Though as her older brother, I felt I had the authority. But after she died and in my childish misery and guilt, I'd invited her to come back home. Well, she did. There were only two of us. Our parents thought that we were everything they'd wanted in a family, a boy and a girl. She came out a bit shyer than they wanted, quiet and a bit odd, at least to me at that age. But we were perfect side by side in family portraits. Now there is only one of us.

We don't take family portraits anymore. It started when I'd found the key to it. a room. Our bedrooms were across the hall from each other on the second floor of the house. The doors had old-fashioned doornobs that locked with the key, which we didn't have and which I hadn't seen before. Then one day, I found a ring of unmarked keys in a junk drawer in the foyer's side table. I went around trying them in everything until I matched every key to a door in the house, including our bedrooms. Nearly every key in the ring had a spare. But not all did.

The key to my sister's room was one of them that had only one master key. That was when I'd gotten the idea. I pocketed the key to a room and left the rest in the drawer where I'd found them. I waited for the perfect opportunity that evening when she was in the living room with my parents staring at the TV, as she always did after dinner. I went upstairs on pretence to use the bathroom and quietly locked a bedroom door from the outside.

Back downstairs, I acted innocent as we watched TV together. I loitered until my sister yawned, kissed our parents goodnight and went upstairs. I waited on the couch, grinning with suspense. It was a good long moment before we heard a shriek. Then the sound of woodbanging. She streaked downstairs in tears, asking for help with the door. father went up with her to see what was the matter they both came downstairs again

her still in tears and he in confusion it's locked he said mother got up and retrieved the keys from the side table in the hall all three of them went upstairs I waited until they were gone to fall over myself laughing pretending to find something funny on TV by the time I got sleepy and went

upstairs. They were still there in a huddle, trying and retrying every key. Of course, none of them fit. Mother suggested my sister's sleep in my room until they can call the locksmith in the morning. I was annoyed at this and reduced the key from my pocket, too tired to care about the trouble I'd get into. It was just a joke, I said in my defence. After we got a door unlocked, mother made me return the key to the drawer, saying, The first chance she'd got, she'd get it duplicated to avoid this situation again. Naturally, she'd forgotten.

That weekend, when our parents were out on an errand, leaving us alone at home, I'd gotten bored and done it again. My sister knew immediately who had done it. It was a Saturday afternoon, and it was the last time I would see her alive. She flew into the kitchen, chasing me, demanding, I open her door. I pretended to have swallowed the key. By this time, she was in hysterics and fled the house and tears, as if she could run all the way to mommy and daddy in town.

This wasn't the first time she'd done that. She always came right back home before she got to the end of the street. I waited for her to give it up and return. but as the hour turned to two and then three, I began to worry. I waited by the chair closest to the front door and then the window. At some point I gone out and walked around our yard and then the neighbourhood, but saw no sign of her. I came home with my heart in my throat. I decided to keep waiting instead of calling my parents from the kitchen phone.

Ten minutes more, I told myself, then I would. At some point, I must have fallen asleep. The next thing I knew, it was later than late. My parents were home, shaking me by the shoulders as if they wanted to kill me. The first thing I noticed was that they too were in tears. My sister had run out into the road and gotten hit by a car. Our parents had just turned the corner on their way. way home when they saw the ring of people and the flashing light.

She had been found on the road two blocks away from home. Father, then I dared go on my own. When the ambulance took her away, the sirens were silent. There was no rush. She was dead. My parents had come home to find out whether I was dead too, and I think at that point they wished I was. The first chance I got, I left them quick.

crying and hugging each other in the living room. I went upstairs to a room and unlocked the door, and then, just stood there, at her empty bed. Her ballerina music box threw a weird shadow on the pillowcase from the moonlight outside a window. I carried the key in my pocket during her funeral. My parents barely looked at me, and I wouldn't blame them. They had hardly spoken to me in the days since her death, except in harsh little commands to

hurry up, get dressed, fix your tie, get in the car. I behaved like the perfect sun they'd always wanted, but that did nothing to warm them up to me. Because of their avoidance of me, I managed to find myself alone at some point in the ceremony, looking into the open casket of my dead sister, cold and pale and dressed up in a ballerina costume. I felt the key burning in my pocket

where I kept my hands pocketed and clenched. I brought out the key and went to pat her cold, marble hands, as if to say goodbye. I'm sorry. As I did, I took the key under her fingers, folded together over a chest. Please come home, I whispered. I didn't cry then, or after. Mother kept making her promises. She was too grieved to go through my sister's room and put things in order after the funeral.

She promised to do it someday. Just not now. Not now. She only went as far as the stand in the open doorway and glanced in. The way I'd done the night my sister had died. But invariably, mother would break down into tears and leave, closing the door behind her. Sometimes she stood there until father took her away. I didn't dare go near her.

She repeated this pitiful ritual. almost every day, and then every week. She stopped after a couple of months of this. Things edged into a semblance of normalcy. My parents softened up towards me, just enough to allow me to have friends over. I needed someone to talk to. My friend, Keith, came over after school one day.

I told him about how, the previous night, I'd awoken in bed hearing the faint sound of my sister's ballerina music box playing in a room across the hall. It stopped as soon as I'd fully opened my eyes and sat up. I decided it was a dream, but the melody will not leave my mind all day at school. I hummed the tune for Keith, who had the inane idea that he knew the composer of the song.

We fell into a debate about that, and to refresh his memory of the song and prove my point, we went up to a room to retrieve the music box. The door was locked. We peered into the keyhole and found that it was too dark for that time of day. Then I realised why. There was a key blocking the hole.

It had been locked from the inside. Keith saw no significance to this since I've been too strugged dumb to say anything else to him. I stayed downstairs in the living room, staring wide-eyed at the TV without watching it, waiting for my parents to come home. I could hardly restrain from calling my mother to hurry home from the grocery store or my father from work.

But when they did finally get home, I found I could hardly mention anything to them. I stayed quiet all through dinner until it was time for me to go upstairs to bed. I didn't want to go, but I didn't want to upset my parents further I stopped outside my door and glanced at hers across the hall

silent I didn't dare try the knob again it was a Saturday the next day and I was off school but I was awoken early by my mother battering the door to my room I got my own key from the drawer and locked my door the previous night

something I rarely did before then When she'd gotten in She demanded that I unlocked my sister's door that instant That I had no right to I interrupted and told her I had nothing to do with the door this time Lies she shrieked You and your friend were falling around in the house yesterday when I was not here I told her that was true

But we never did a thing to my sister's room And that was the truth She wouldn't believe me when I said I didn't have the key I was forced to tell her that I'd left it in my sister's coffin. She'd gone silent at that. Not because of the implications of what this meant, but because she was transported back to the funeral in her mind. Her eyes filled up, but the tears would not fall.

I couldn't tell myself to bring her that I thought the key was in the house now, on the other side of the door. All she was thinking about now that she shook her, herself into reality, was that we couldn't duplicate a key we didn't have. What's more, she decided the door wasn't locked, but merely jammed by humility or something else. Apt punishment for her for not having opened the door in a while.

She decided we would have to call a locksmith that very day. Once she flew this idea by my father, however, he would have none of it. He left his breakfast half eaten at the kitchen table and roared out of the room. to the garage to retrieve his toolkit and roared back in and straight up the stairs, followed by my mother rolling a rise behind his back as he spewed forth his wounded pride. Gingerly, I hung back in the hall as my father began to play locksmith at my sister's door. With me and mother watching over his shoulder, he tried the door this way and that, pulled and pushed, banged it with precision here and there, and finally knelt at the doorknob and probed

a penlight into the hole. I saw his eyebrows shoot up. There's something blocking the keyhole, he said, confirming what I had seen the other day. It was mid-morning by then. My sister's room had a window facing east. The light should have shown through the doorknop as it did from the gap under the door. But it was dark as night. Through this gap, my father slid a sheet of old newspaper along the floor, a good deal of a centre vault to cover as much ground as possible. Then, with a thin, metal instruments from the screwdriver kit, he prodded into the hole until we all heard a thin, distinct thud of metal on the paper on the other side. A dot of light was cleared in the doorknob.

My father pulled at the paper carefully from under the door, and we could see the slight weight of the key, keeping the paper from flapping. But then, before it was halfway out, the weight was gone, and the paper came clean away on our side of the door. Very suddenly, unburdened from its weight, the key was gone. Father had that puzzled look on his face, and he turned a glance to the doorknob. Then he got on all fours that peer under the door to see if the key had gotten caught on something or had simply fallen off the paper. But, of course, he saw nothing. No movement of shadow across the light,

no telltale form of a key on the floor for any distance. I knew what had happened, of course. It had been plucked out from under our very noses. Mother asked father if he was quite finished playing locksmith so we could call a professional. He wasn't ready to give in. And, as they continued to bicker, I left them and went downstairs,

out the back door. I circled around the yard to look up at my sister's window from the outside. They had picked a room very carefully. Not only had she gotten the best view, but the window was most secure from any break-ins from the outside. You couldn't get to its ledge

from within the roof or any outside piping. There were no tree branches close enough for a foothold. This side of the house was smooth and unscalable. And as I stared up at a rope and shutters and drawn curtains the way they had been the last day of a life, I saw that the window panes were intact. Nobody had gotten in from there. Looking carefully and for as long as I could stand, I detected no movement or light from the dimness behind the curtains. When I went back in, my parents were in the kitchen now, taking a break it seemed, from trying to break

the door open, but not a break from their bickering. They shut up at once almost as soon as I entered, and when I heard it, I shut up too. A great silence descended upon us three, as, from the top of the stairs, we could hear my sister's baller in a music box playing the way it did when the lid was opened. I was frozen, but barely a second later my father dashed up the seat. stairs, eyes wild. My mother called after him in a fright, but then followed him after barely a moment of hesitation. I was drawn upward as well, as though by magnetism, though I wanted to be nowhere near that room. I found my father at the door, one hand on the still, tightly locked door-knob, and the one wrapping sharply on the wood, calling who's there? No response. My mother

had a mouth covered in both hands, suspended between shock and grief. No matter how much they demanded answers from an assumed stranger, as my father did, or changed tack and called my dead sister's name, as my mother did. Nothing stirred from the other side of the door. The music had stopped by the time I'd gotten to the top of the stairs. It seemed we stood there, holding our breaths for a good half minute or so, before my father stepped back from the door and took my mother's elbow,

leading her downstairs. He gestured with his head at me to do the same. Downstairs, they spoke in hushed funeral voices, wondering at what was going on. I couldn't bring myself to say much, and for once my mother showed real concern toward me. She had sit me down at the kitchen table

while she got me a glass of apple juice to revive my energy, afraid I'd faint. I noticed my reflection in the chrome body of the toaster oven, pale as a... I didn't dare say the word, even in my mind. We stayed downstairs for the most part. At some point, my father went out to look at the window the same way I'd done and had come back to report to my mother the same things I'd observed. My mother asked again whether we should call a lot.

but I could see a resolve had dissolved and so had my father's. He didn't seem all that keen to be the locksmith either. At dinner my mother asked me, as if she had just remembered whether I'd really left the only key to my sister's room in a coffin. I nodded my head just once. I was sure I had, but I didn't want to be sure any more. Mother asked nothing else. Father wondered if calling a priest would be more appropriate,

and my mother gave him a dirty look. Everyone knew that priests always failed in the movies, and besides, neither of my parents were believers. Not in God, not in ghosts, not in anything. I wasn't sure they even believed in me when I said the key was buried with my sister, but that lack of belief kept us all suspended. in a swirling and torturous meaninglessness, where the only meaning that now presented itself was a dangerous one.

They let me sleep in their room that night. This helped my nerve somewhat, though their bedroom was technically right next door to my sisters, with a wall between it, while mine was directly across the hall from hers. I didn't mind as long as I wasn't alone. I don't know how they managed to get to sleep. or if they were pretending as I was. But at some point during the night I was lured out of my drifting

at the sound of the music box playing softly as if to itself down the hall and just on the other side of the wall. The next day we all gave the room a wide berth and tried not to speak of it. We tried to get on as normally as possible

but there was something very odd about the house now like we had an evil secret we had to keep from even each other every now and then the music box would start playing from the top of the stairs usually when we were downstairs and never more than a few bars at a time before it stopped again whenever it did that we would all go quiet instantaneously mother would go white and rigid her eyes filling up and father would reach for a hand and hold it tight

I would go over to sit beside them and father would put an arm around my shoulder I almost thought this was a good thing to have that room occupied once more but I couldn't bring myself to be grateful it was I who had asked the back after all but I dared not confess that part as soon as the silence returned

we would take a few seconds and then carry on as if nothing had happened but we could not fool each other. We were shaken. My parents refused to talk outright about how they felt, but I thought I understood, since I felt the same way. Instead of feeling any warmth from my sister's memory, there was only a cold dread,

and around a door there was a sense of bitterness that chilled anyone who wandered too close, even in the humid warmth of death. We kept this up for the next few days, and no matter how late I tried to dally after school instead of coming straight home, I would always be the first one in. My parents were trying to stay away as long as they could too, but by the middle of the second week of this, my mother decided what it was they had to call, a real estate agent. We were going to sell the house and move out.

But things had to get worse first. I'd found myself in my pent-up distress mentioning something about the door to my friends at school and Keith invited himself home with me to check it out. I knew my parents would be away from home and I didn't want to go back alone, so I agreed. I hung back a good few steps

when Keith climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. He walked right up to my sister's door as if he hadn't felt the miasma that, at least my parents and I, had grown stronger every day. Keith tried the door, as I knew he would, and found it locked,

as I knew he would. Then he bent at the waist and peered through the keyhole. His other eye squeezed shut for focus and his whole body shuffling him side to side a few inches at a time to get a better look.

I stood across the hall, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. Then I heard a reassuring sound of the front door opening and my mother coming in, calling my name. Before I could answer her though, Keith jolted back from the door, gagging and clutching his throat. His face was pale and strangled,

his eyes wide and unseeing. He couldn't scream, but I screamed for him, and my mother was upstairs in an instant, just in time to see Keefe collapsed on the floor, writhing and twitching. As my mother rushed to tend to him, I threw a glance at the doorknob.

Nothing but a point of light, an utter silence. We had taken Keefe to the ER, left him there with his family and gotten back home in time to tell my father what had happened. Keith had swallowed his tongue and would have choked himself to death

if my mother hadn't aggrated. so quickly. The overseeing physician had assumed it had been some sort of accident caused by surprise or an unfortunate posture, something I hadn't really been listening. My mind was torturing itself, trying to imagine what he must have seen that made his body recoil so violently as the strangle itself. I wanted to ask for myself, desperately, but his parents wouldn't let me near him anymore. Meanwhile, my parents were thought of his parents were throwing themselves into the search for a new place to live. We knew now that we were in a dangerous situation.

Over the next few weeks, we had terrible luck selling the house. The agents we got kept asking about the room and why we wouldn't unlock it, and the few people who showed up to the open house had a bad feeling about that room. They assumed we had something to hide, and they were right. No matter how beautifully we had presented the rest of the house, that room poisoned the atmosphere, even though from a photograph of the second floor, you couldn't quite tell there was anything off about it at all.

The house was listed as a three-bedroom space, and people expected three bedrooms. My father thought, we should just promise to get the door fixed before they moved in, and then just let them do what they would with whatever they found behind it. but my mother argued with him over the ethics of it all. By this point, my parents were willing to just abandon the house and leave it to some in-laws they were not fond of.

They had planned to move into what was supposedly a summer home, but with the idea that we would settle there. It was smaller, less comfortable, and further from school and my father's workplace, but it didn't matter by then. We only had one goal between us. Get out. The music had started to drive us half mad at night.

Sometime during the last week, the music box had broken, and the tiny mechanism began to play just one note over and over again. One key over and over. And then it went quiet again, so suddenly that the silence was just as loud as anything before or after. To call it music was the call whatever it was and the other. side my sister. It might have been music at some point, but now it was a mere sliver of what it had been in life. Now it was a hideously shrunken fragment of the hole, distorted and sharpened, so it was no longer recognisable as a part of the original. And it was getting louder and louder,

and it appeared to be moving along the walls. My parents' bed, which I slept in with them, was positioned so that our feet were pointing to the wall that divided the master bedroom from my sisters. That used to comfort me somewhat, knowing that this was the farthest we could get away from it, and from, well, her. But it had gotten so that it seemed the music was seeping into the walls like a pipe had burst and bled into the paper. The paint on the wall seemed to shift in my mind's eye in the half-light. We were unable to fall asleep until dawn and our daylight lives were thrown out of rhythm. We stumbled home, exhausted and stayed on guard all day, hearing that one key play on and off

throughout the afternoon and evening, and then we stayed, keyed up all night to repeat again the next day. We were fairly at the end of our rope. My mother insisted we moved within a week and drove us like slay. waves that finished packing up while she saw to the logistics of getting boxes of furniture shipped off. We were even more strung out and exhausted by then. I must have drifted off that last night before we were to move, right there on the bare mattress in the master bedroom, with nearly all of its contents and cardboard boxes.

I woke up to hear the music over my head, right beside my ear. I snatched myself away immediately and saw that my parents had done the same. The music, that one demonic key, was throbbing louder than usual through the opposite wall of my sister's bedroom, where our headboard was. The broken note played again and again, travelling and surrounding us. My parents were up in an instant, scrambling to get dressed and yelling at me to get moving as I sat there frozen. They had to yell

because the music was so loud now it was impossible the neighbours would remain undisturbed by it. The moving company we hired was scheduled to come by and help us the next morning but we had to get out right then

at half three in the morning. My father said we would return later to help the movers if they showed up but for now we were going to a nearby motel with nothing but an overnight bag hastily thrown together.

We rushed out and piled into the car, noting as we left that the music had been thrumming throughout the house, even downstairs, but it could not follow us out the front door. As soon as I cleared the doorway, the air came easier to my lungs. I hadn't known we had been literally suffocating in that house all this time. From the yard and then the garage,

pulling out from our driveway, Our house was silent as anything should be at 3 in the morning. While my father backed down the driveway, my mother nervously scolded him all the way to watch the mailbox, and I twisted around my seat to look back at the house one more time. We were pulling down east, and I had a clear view of my sister's window from the back of the car. The shutters were still left open,

and there was no light from the depths of the room. Which I could clearly see now that the curtains were thrown open. And standing there, in the gap of the curtains, I saw a pale ballerina at the window, watching us go.