CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 TERRIFYING Horror Stories from Reddit

Episode Date: August 26, 2020

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "My Son Has Always Been Afraid Of Nothing" Creepypasta►19:51 "20 years ago, I was held hostage by my upstairs neighbor" Creepypasta►54:43 "Every year on my birthday, I have to die" Creepypasta►1:12:43 "The Perfect Audience" Creepypasta►1:28:09 "The Wasting Room" Creepypasta►2:11:35 "The Wreck" Creepypasta►2:25:45 "At the Holy Grail Casino, you gamble with a lot more than money" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/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-

It had started long before I even noticed anything. A few side glances, a quick turn here and there, nothing that would outwardly scream danger. It wasn't until his last soccer game of the season that I started to suspect something was wrong. We were tied up with the other team and time was running out. One last goal would have brought us to yet another undefeated season. Henry was heading down the field fast,

opening himself for a pass that could have led to the game-winning kick. But, right after the ball got to him, he started staring off to the right of the field. A look of worry crossed his face, and I could tell whatever he was seeing was really bothering him. The pass came, but with Henry distracted, the other team was able to intercept it without issue. A few kicks later, and it was all over, with our team going home one point short. A lot of players were upset. Heck, some were even crying, which isn't that surprising for a group of 10-year-olds.

But Henry's expression never changed. Even when the ball was stolen from right in front of him, he never once moved, almost like he was nailed down to the spot where he stood. After it was over, I went and gave him a gentle nudge. Henry? His eyes immediately met mine, and, after he turned back towards where he was looking,

his worried luck fell away. I'm sorry, Dad. Everything okay? You missed a good pass. He shrugged and said, I guess I just choked. Are you sure? You seemed pretty upset.

I asked. Yeah, it's nothing. Don't worry about it. He grabbed his bag off the bleachers and started heading towards the car, glancing every now and then, back towards that space. I looked over myself

but nothing seemed to be out of place just a few trash cans next to the concession stand I soon put the incident out of my mind and before long I completely forgotten about it that was until last month when I asked him to help me get the table ready for dinner he came downstairs and started setting out the plates when something to the left caught his eye

I could see him turn his body towards it from the kitchen that same worried look on his face. I called his name a couple of times, but he was completely frozen, eyes locked forward. I once again went over and gave him a gentle nudge, but this time he yelled and dropped the plate he was holding, shattering it to pieces.

I jumped back in surprise, and Henry did the same, both of us staring at the plate on the ground. I'm sorry, Dad, I'll clean it up, he said, heading towards the broom closet. What was that? I asked. My voice increasingly concerned.

What? It was nothing. You scared me. He replied meekly. I watched him for a minute while he cleaned up the glass. The look on his face I had seen when he was frozen in place was gone and, in its stead, was close to his normal demeanour. Like nothing had ever happened. But I knew something had happened. and I knew there was no way I was going to forget that.

From then on, it became more and more apparent. I'd find him in the bathroom, staring at the shower for several minutes straight, forcing me to break him from his stupor. Once I saw him lying in bed, glaring at the ground below him, the worried look on his face transforming into slight fear. But no matter how many times I saw him staring at the wall or intently watching a single fence post, he'd always tell me the same thing.

It's nothing, Dad, don't worry. Over and over again, it's nothing. I kept insisting something was wrong, trying everything I could to force him to tell me what had him so freaked out, but nothing I did worked. I should also mention that around this time I'd started to notice strange things around the house.

It wasn't furniture moving or cabinets being thrown open or anything like that. It was more of a feeling of everything being moved a little to the left. Nothing looked out of place, but everything felt off. Hallways started to feel longer to walk through. Doorways were taller than I remember. And every night seemed to be darker than the last.

It got to the point where I would wake up during the night to find my room almost pitch black, even with the shades pulled up and the windows open. I'd look and be unable to see my wife laying next to me, or barely see my hand in front of my face. The longer I looked, the more the shadows expanded and encapsulated everything around me. I knew this had to be a trick of the mind or some kind of illusion, but it creates me out nonetheless. By this point, my wife had started to notice strange things too, and we decided the best thing to do was to get Henry some form of counselling. I talked to a man from a church who was a physiologist

and he agreed to meet Henry for a few sessions After they were over I went to his house to ask how things were going Without getting into specifics It's very clear something is bothering him Mitch said pouring me a drink How specific can you get? I asked shaking my leg nervously Well it's just that

There's hardly anything for me to go on Every time it seems like I'm about to get to the root of the problem, he always says, It's nothing, I interrupted. Exactly. Almost like nothing is exactly what's bothering him. What do you mean? I asked. I'm not sure exactly.

All I know is there's only one other major aspect to all of this. You. This caught me off guard, causing me to choke a little on my whiskey. Me? Yes, you. Your son is very concerned about your well-being in all of this. He's frightened over the idea of you being hurt. I sat for a minute and tried to process this.

My well-being? Why would he be worried about me? He's the one being affected. What do you suggest? I stammered, trying to keep my drink down. Well, you seem to communicate well with your son. Perhaps addressing the issue head on will help. Don't allow him to blow it off as nothing.

But don't be aggressive in your questioning. Let him know that you care about him and that you just want to help. I thanked Mitch and started to head for the door. As I grabbed my coat, he put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. I almost forgot. There was another incident that had me worried. At the beginning of our session, another episode seemed to be triggered. He stopped talking.

and instead stared at a spot behind my desk. I have to say, it concerned me a lot. Why is that? Because he never once moved. The drive home was full of worry and regret. How could I let it get this bad? What could I have done better? When I finally crawled in bed, my wife was already fast asleep,

but I just lay there, a still slab of a man in the night. My hope was beginning to fade, and I feared things would never get better. It was around 3 a.m. that I started to hear the noise. A faint drumming sound coming from downstairs. I grabbed a bat and began heading towards the kitchen, trying to contain the sounds each sound my steps took. After a quick search of the house, I came up empty,

but the drumming never stopped. I made my way towards Henry's room, following the increasing intensity of the sound. The door was slightly open, and I could see him fast asleep through the crack. But when I pushed it open, my eyes were immediately drawn to the spot by his bed. Although I couldn't see anything, I knew that something was there. A feeling of someone's presence filled the room, and the more I looked, the more it took shape. A dark outline was beginning to form, and inside that,

was more darkness. An almost complete lack of light would be a better explanation. At that moment, I knew that whatever it was, it was wrong, unnatural and inescapable. I stared in confusion for a moment before a gentle shove broke me from my state. Dad, what's wrong? Henry said, sitting up in bed. I quickly looked back to see the shape, but it had vanished. the feeling of something being wrong in the air quickly left the room. It's nothing, I said, the words forming a deep pit in the bottom of my stomach. I kneeled beside him, wrapping his body in a tight embrace.

Looking back, I'm not sure if it was for him or for myself. You saw it, didn't you? He asked, starting to sob. I took his face in my hands. bringing his eyes to mine. Buddy, I need to know what's going on. I need to know everything. It took a moment for him to compose himself,

but once he had, he didn't hold anything back. This thing had been a part of his life for as long as he had one. When he was younger, it only existed as a dark energy that seemed to follow him around. But as his senses began to develop, his understanding of it started to change, change and take form. It was no longer just the feeling of bad things to come. It was a beacon for bad things already here. He said it seemed to amplify negative emotions, bringing the worst outcomes with it.

He began to describe his seventh birthday to me in intense detail, bringing to light his point of view of the day. I remember it being a fine birthday. My wife and I had a little spat, but nothing worth remembering. if you had asked Henry, he said it was more like a war zone between us. Each of us threw horrible words and promises at the other, until I eventually left to go get more ice. Before it got there, you guys weren't being awful to one another,

but after it came, I could hear the hatred in your voices, he said, in trembling words. I've never heard you talk back to mum like that, and when you left, I didn't think you were coming back. I thought harder to that day remembering how upset I was about the trouble we were having trying to find a new house

it seemed like we couldn't agree on anything and that day was the worst of it I can remember getting so angry that I really thought about leaving everything behind it wasn't until I left that the feeling went away and I was able to calm down after you left

mum went into a room and cried that's when I saw it for the first time. Saw it? Saw what? I asked. He shrugged and sighed. I don't know. It was like nothing was there, but more than nothing. I understood what he meant. What I had seen hadn't been nothing, but it was a lack of anything, an empty abyss of anything meaningful or warm. After that day, it started coming more and more, he continued. I could ignore it at first Just pretend nothing was wrong

But it got harder and harder To pretend Pretty soon I'd started watching it Without realising it He got up and walked over to the computer Sitting on his desk He pulled up the Explorer tab And started looking through his pictures

He pulled one up and turned the screen towards me See The picture was of his closet door The side of which was cracked open Inside, I could see a faint echo of what was standing beside him earlier, a dark spot behind the door that lacked any space. I took this a while ago, and ever since then, things have gotten worse. What do you mean worse? I said, a slight hint of panic in my voice.

It started forming faster, following me around more. You and mum have been acting differently because of it. It was true. We had started to have some problems. We never seemed to see eye to eye on anything anymore. Had it really been that noticeable? The worst of it was at the game. It had never followed me that far before.

His cries began again and he ran into my arms, bearing his face in my chest. It saw me looking at it, Dad. It saw me that time. Now it knows I can see it. sentence was broken up by long, deep cry. I tried to slow his breathing, to help him calm down, but nothing worked. He eventually fell asleep on me, too tired to keep crying. I laid him down in bed and began to think about what I could do. Could we leave? How far away could I go without it following us? Had it seen me when I came into the room? Does it know I can

see it too? A million questions flip. in my brain and before I knew it I had fallen asleep right alongside him. When the morning came, what I'd seen seemed more like a distant memory. I decided to let him stay home from school that day and tried to get some work done at the house while my wife was out running errands. It didn't take long before I felt like something was off. It was like I'd woken up on the wrong side of the bed for twenty years straight. I was angry and hurt, depressed and anxious all at once.

Everything around me seemed either pointless or actively my way. I couldn't focus on anything for more than 20 minutes before the rush of emotions weighed me down to a point of collapse. Had this been what Henry meant? Was this nothing making me feel like this? I started wondering the house in the hopes of shaking the feeling loose, but nothing seemed to do the trick. God, what was this?

Why is it coming after my family? Why us? The questions in my mind blinded my vision, and I wasn't aware of where I was going. It wasn't until I felt hot asphalt burning my bare feet that I could see where I was. I was on 5th Street, two streets over from my house.

I was still wearing my pyjama bottoms and a plain white shirt. The moment I realized I left Henry alone was the moment my wife's car came into view. Carolyn, I screamed, running towards her, each step sending searing pain through my body. Rick, what the hell are you doing out here? Where's Henry? He's at the house, go, go.

We could be sped and weaved down the roads, pulling into the grass in front of our house. Through the windows, it seemed that every light in the house was off, but I knew better. I burst through the door and ran to, straight to Henry's room with Carolyn right behind me. The feeling that surrounded me was almost overwhelming, slowly bringing me to my knees.

The drumming sound had never been louder, and the more I heard, the worse I felt. The inside of his room was ripped a shred. It looked as though a bomb went off, and, at the epicenter, was Henry, being held by the arm, pleading and screaming to be let go. It was clear the outline I saw in his room that night wasn't nothing. Nothing would imply there had been something before.

What I was looking at now was the absence of anything. A void that consumed all and released nothing. I was staring at eternity. I was staring at the end of time. I was staring at the shape of death. And death had my son by the arm. Henry stopped screaming and instead sobbed silently, admitting to himself that there was no use, nothing that could help. In a desperate attempt, I crawled forward and pulled myself around him, try my best to shield all that I could. I felt a deep burning sensation against my skin, but I held on as tight as I could, covering his face so he couldn't see. I opened my eyes to find the being staring straight at me, its gaze ripping through me, not letting me turn away.

I felt like I could fall into it at any moment and sink into the void. But before I could, it was gone. I looked again to see the room was back to normal, as though nothing had happened. I felt the dead weight of Henry's body in my arms and looked down to see he was unconscious. I screamed for Carolyn to call an ambulance as I tried to get Henry to wake up. The EMTs came and took him to the nearest children's hospital while Carolyn and I, answer the police questions. We agreed that the best thing to do

was say we found him like that while we were out of the house. Explaining why we left a 10-year-old alone was a lot easier than explaining the incomprehensible being we had seen in his room. They didn't seem satisfied with our answers, but let us go so we could see Henry in the hospital. He woke up 19 hours after he was brought here

and the doctor said they had to run some tests before he could be released It's been two days and we still don't know when we're allowed to leave I'm starting to think the police are asking them to stall his release so they can prove when negligent parents

All I know is that as soon as we can We're getting the hell out of here Jumping in the car and not stopping Until I'm satisfied That thing won't find us again I'm hoping that comes sooner Rather than later The hospital is starting to feel strange

It might just be that my nerves are on edge But I've noticed that each night It's starting to feel darker than the last And in the quiet I can hear the faint drumming In the distance I was 14 when I met the man in the room It was the summer my mom and I moved from my farm upstate

To New York City After the divorce My dad fought to keep his house so we had to move into the spare bedroom of my grandma's apartment. It was a musky building tucked into a neighbourhood at the northern tip of Manhattan, somewhere between Harlem and Washington Heights. There was a hundred floor of bodies, piled on bodies, of dark spaces and strange sounds. On the night after we moved in, there was one particular sound that really bothered me.

It sounded like a party, people laughing and yelling, having a great time, My mom was asleep in the twin bed we shared, so I was laying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. After two months of a horrible divorce and two days of moving boxes, all I wanted was to sleep, but I couldn't. The sound seemed to get louder throughout the night. When it hit midnight, I'd had enough. As I walked up the stairs, it quickly became clear that the sounds were coming from the apartment at the end of the hallway. I could see a faint light spill out from under the crack,

all the other apartments were dark, asleep. I don't know how the other neighbours didn't complain. As I walked closer, the sound grew louder and louder, like everyone's voice was running through a megaphone directly into my head. When I knocked, I could hear the sounds cut out one by one, as if they had been pulled from the atmosphere. As the laughter dwindled down to silence, I heard footsteps walking up to the door.

As the doorknob turned, a feeling of regret sank deep into my stomach. What was I going to say? What right did the new guy in the building have to stop a party? But when the door opened, my feeling of regret turned into something warmer. A kind of nausea. The man who opened the door was older.

My grandmother's age. He had big puffs of hair that came, out of his temples like bales of hay. He looked directly at me, his eyes like a vortex. He didn't speak. He just stared, his lips moving but not making a sound, like a question was swimming around his tongue. He had big, vainy hands that clung onto the door frame.

He tapped his fingers against the wood, creating a sound like spiders crawling down the walls. I peered behind him, but all I saw was a dark room. I don't know where the people had gone, but they weren't in the living room. I knew there weren't too many places to hide. I'm sorry, I finally said, stepping back into the hallway. I thought there was a party up here.

I couldn't sleep. A party? He asked. His voice was quiet, a scratchy whisper. It was like his vocal cords were made out of strips of paper. Yeah, but it's fine, I said, turning back down the hallway. Sorry to bother you. As I started walking, I could hear him step into the hallway behind me.

No, please, he said, come in and meet my friends. We're doing a little performance. I stopped walking and turned around. Outside of his apartment, I could get a clearer picture of the man. He was wearing a white tank top, which really was. wrinkled down around his protruding belly and into his blue jeans. His posture was caved like a crashing wave. His shoulders fat and hairy.

In a way, he reminded me of my dad. That performance? I asked. Yes, he said, rubbing his hands together. There's a lot of people from the building here. They would love to meet you. Maybe if my mom was a stranger danger type of parent, I wouldn't have walked inside. But, in fact, she wasn't much of any kind of parent.

My dad was a narcissist, a word only uncovered for me after years of therapy. The world was his stage, so my mom never had much of a voice. She never warned me about bad people, because she never warned me about anything. It wasn't until I walked inside the man's apartment and heard something clicked behind me that I realized people weren't always good. The apartment was dark. the only light coming from the street lights and passing cars below. He didn't have furniture or pictures on the walls,

only a dozen or so folding chairs and an equal amount of mirrors. The walls were stained with watermarks and, sitting on the floor beneath him, there was a series of small machines. They looked like old answering machines my grandmother still kept, from the time before cell phones. I started to get a bad feeling, the same feeling I got when my parents were fighting. I knew I needed to leave. But when I turned around, the man was standing in front of the door, a metal rod in his hands.

It looked more like a microphone than a weapon. He placed the tip of it against his lips and smiled two rows of crooked yellow teeth. Thank you for coming out tonight, he said, looking out across the room of machines. I hope there wasn't too much traffic. The man's voice sounded like the old. comedians my grandmother watched the ones with a swoopy hair. His voice had a certain swinging quality to it, like each word was dancing with the one before it. I should probably go, I said, stepping toward the door. My mom is expecting, I know a lot about traffic, he continued,

moving towards me. His eyes grew wider, revealing thick red lines that ran into his pupils. I once waited in an hour of traffic. The officer said I should get there quick, but they blocked off the highway. What's that about? I stepped to the side to get a look at the door. There were a dozen locks along the doorframe, all with different shapes and sizes and patterns. I could see a ring of keys hanging off the man's belt. But I waited and waited and waited.

Then when I finally got there, all I could see was the car flipped on its roof. When I got out and ran over All that was left of my wife were her fingers I saw them reaching out from under the metal It looked like she wanted a high-five As he said it He pulled out a small remote from his pocket

And pressed into it All of a sudden the party roared back to life I grabbed my ears The laughter piercing my eardrums It was a different kind of laughter though It wasn't sitcom laughter it was high-pitched, almost pain-sounding. I spun around to look for the people emerging from their unknown source, but no one was there.

All that remained were the chairs and mirrors and machines. And my boy, he continued, looking at me. Well, it was about your age. He was flat as a flapjack in the back seat. His guts like a strawberry compost. His saliva phoned up like whipped cream. With each line, the sounds grew louder, as if new people were entering the dark room. Please stop, I said, but my voice was too dry to make sound.

Besides, as much as I tried, I could never be louder than those voices. They were deafening. I said the same thing, the man said, pacing in a small circle. Please stop, please stop. I was on my knees in the middle of the highway. my arms raised to the sky like God was going to drop a new family on me and the pain

can you imagine all I wanted was for God to stop the pain for him to reach down a big goofy hand and swipe me from the earth it felt like every nerve was getting pricked from my body as the sounds grew louder his voice grew more angry

it kept the sing-songy rhythm the game show host swing the happy go lucky vibrato as he moved toward me. I walked backwards, my hands in front of me, in a weak defense. I should have looked at where I was walking, but I was too focused on what he would do if I turned around. In my clumsy back pedal, I stumbled onto one of the folding chairs, my butt landing hard on the metal. That's when he pounced. The man leapt forward, tossing his makeshift microphone onto the hardwood and reaching

from my hands. I tried to pull away, to collapse onto the floor and enter a fetal point. position, but the man was surprisingly fast. He wrapped his big hairy hands around my wrists and pulled them behind me. Within a second I felt a zip tie go around my wrists. The man, as if he had tripped on stage, grabbed the microphone off the ground and straightened his posture. Sorry about that, folks, he said. Anyway, I didn't even go to the funeral.

Instead I spend my night scaring the streets, looking for little bodies, bodies that look like them, but weaker, more attainable. Bodies I could hold forever, voices that would never leave. He began to sing in an unknown melody. Make you mine, make you mine, little loves, I'll make you mine. Laugh with me, sing with me. Won't you please come back to me? I looked around, searching for some sort of lifeline, but all I could see was the mirrors.

One was perfectly positioned to hold my reflection, turning the empty room into a full house of my terror-stricken face. I tried to scream, but my voice was no use against the others. As I sat and struggled with the hand-ties, I noticed where the laughter was coming from. It was pulsing out of the small answering machines, as if it had been pre-recorded, and as I listened closely, I noticed something else. Altogether, the sounds formed a symphony of joy, of jeer and comedy, but individually, they weren't laughing at all.

Each and every voice. Was screaming. I looked around at the man's machines spread out over the apartment. Although my head was aching from the noise, I was able to focus on one of the sounds. The voice was caught in a sort of loop. The words repeating every ten seconds or so. I won't tell anyone. Please, just let me go.

I swear I weren't. I felt the sick feeling throughout my body. I imagined the old farmhouse, my grandma knitting in a favorite chair, the Mets playing on her old TV. I didn't know if I'd see any of them again. I looked up at the man. He was pacing around the apartment.

The microphone still to his lips. He wasn't speaking though. just mouthing words he didn't look scared or angry or upset he looked focused as if working through the next step of his plan that plan

wasn't important to me though I knew my plan I was going to leave this room alive and even at 14 leaving places was a talent of mine I remember a lot about the last night I spent with my father

but what sticks out the most was the way the whiskey felt my eyes. I tried to rub it out. I tried to open my eyes and let the cold Catskills air soothe the sensation. But it only got worse, much like everything else between me and my dad. We were sitting on the porch of our farmhouse.

I was drinking Dr. Pepper and my dad was on his fifth glass of whiskey. His drinking followed a familiar pattern. Class 1 was friendly, two was curious, three was sleepy, four was aggravated, and five was mean.

Although, according to him, each glass made him funnier. On this particular night, though, he got mean at four and a half glasses. The rest of the fifth glass went right up into my eyes. Wake up, he said, tossing the whiskey at my face. Want to hear a joke?

I tried to turn away before it hit, but I wasn't fast enough. My body still ached from moving boxes all afternoon. You could still see the U-Haul from the front porch. Mom insisted I spent the nights leading up to the move out here with him. She said having a father was an important thing and that I should cherish these moments, even though she was the one divorcing him. How do you know if a woman's a slut?

He asked me, the words blowing together. I didn't respond. I knew the punchline. Ever since my mom mentioned the divorce, my dad had made the same job. broke each and every night. Huh? He said, shoving me hard up with his palm.

How? I said. If more people came inside of her than came out of her. He said, with a laugh, there was more spite than humour. And, since you're an only child, he continued on, I guess you know the answer for your mother. I didn't respond. I kept my focus on the mountains, the way they whispered in the dark,

their trees all rubbing together. together. Our house was big and falling apart, sitting right in the mountains valley, hidden from the other people. I think my dad liked it that way. Laugh, he yelled, throwing me out of my trance. No, I said, standing up from the rocking chair. He stood up too, his big shoulders blocking the front door. Laugh, he said again, walking toward me. His eyes showed no signs of life, just reactions. He was a big room of eggshells.

I just had to make it to the other side. I just want to go to bed, I said. Before I could react, he lunged at me, his hands landing hard into my shoulders. I stumbled back a few steps before the porch left from under my feet. As I tumbled through the night and toward the grass, I caught a glimpse of my dad standing there.

His chapped lips turned into a smile, his wild eyes. his chest pumping laughter like an overworked smokestack. I saw his face still when I closed my eyes, the automated laughter closing in on me. The man in the room was off in the corner now, searching his drawers for something. I pulled at the zip ties,

but they only seemed to get tighter. My hands were starting to lose feeling. I clawed at the plastic, but I knew I was only making myself more tired. When the man found what he was looking for, he walked back toward me. He had one of those answering machines in his hands. He placed it on my lap, then stood behind me.

We've got a full house tonight, he said, looking at the mirrors that surrounded me. To think, all these people just want to hear what I have to say? Quite amazing. In the reflection, I could see him bringing the metal rod to his lips. Good thing I have some new material tonight, he said. I'd just love to hear your laughter. He tapped the metal rod on the back of my head. He sent a trimmer down my back.

Here's a good one, he said. What did the lonely man steal from the funeral home? He leaned over my shoulder, matching my eyes with his through the mirrors. I shook my head. I could see my tears forming before I felt them. My whole face was numb like it had been dipped in hot wax. Huh? The comedian asked,

tapping the metal rod harder against my head. What? I mustered. He stole what was rightfully his. He said, his voice booming into a yell.

Because everyone wants to steal. Did you know that? The government steals, the police steals, the funeral home steal. Our country wants to take what isn't theirs. Did you know that? Huh?

Man is entitled to very little in this world, not even his own family. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. It reeked of old meat, like ground beef was stuffed between all of his teeth. If you want something, he screamed, You need to steal it. I didn't know what he meant about stealing. I had only ever been the thing stolen,

the boy taken from his father, watching him watch me from the porch as I drove away. I needed to understand what the man meant. The man walked away from me and paced in small circles in the middle of the room as if in prayer. As he did, I looked around, searching for clues.

What did he mean by stealing? There wasn't anything he could have stolen. All he had was the chairs and mirror and machines. No furniture, no pictures on the walls, nothing of value. Then I noticed something strange. Painted on the walls were rectangles, their outlines almost faded into the white paint. They were tall, almost human height, and spaced apart like graves. As the man continued, I counted the shapes.

12. Then I counted the items, the machines, the mirrors, the chairs. 13 of each. I could feel. my stomach flip. The sweat fell faster down my neck. Although it was barely winter, the room was terribly cold, like a giant refrigerator.

Still, somehow, I managed the sweat. The drops feeling cold and achy as they drip down my back. Please, I said to the man, his eyes fixed on the floor buds. I won't tell anyone. Just let me go.

The man stopped circling and looked at me. As he walked closer, his voice seemed to grow deeper. All I need is laugh. The man said, looking down at the machine on my lap, then you can go. I looked down at the machine. There was red dot blinking.

I could feel my words sink into the rolling tape like it was extracting my soul. I wanted to believe a laugh would set me free, but I knew it wouldn't. What about the voices in those other machines? Were they just allowed to leave? As I sorted through my options, the man walked behind me. His scent now caught to my throat.

He lowered his chin onto my shoulder. It's easy, he said. Ha, ha, ha. I could feel my heart like a ticking bomb. I just needed to laugh. Then I could go. Easy, just laugh. Ha ha.

I mustered, my voice like sand. Listening to the others, the man whispered in my ear. Listen to how much fun they're having. Laugh. Ha ha ha. Ha ha. I said. I wanted to vomit.

His smell was inside of me, rotting my organs and filling my stomach with acid. No, no, no, he said, shaking his head. He grabbed under my shoulders, shaking me with a ear. Each ha, his fingers dug into me like talent. Ha ha ha, ha, ha. His voice stabbed my eardrum. I tried to breathe, but each breath felt further away. I reading myself to laugh.

How hard could it be? Laugh, I thought. Just laugh. It's easy. It'll bring you back to your grandmother's apartment with a vanilla candles and big trays of lasagna. Ha! I chirped.

But when I saw the man's eyes, I knew it wasn't good enough. In a swift motion, he grabbed the machine from my lap and slammed it into my mouth. It's hard to describe the feeling of your teeth breaking. On the very rare occasion I tell this story to people. I describe it like drowning in an ocean of rocks. The initial punch lit my face with bright numbness, but no amount of shock could have saved me from the sensation of my teeth entering my esophagus. They fell through my chest like fingernails

Every breath was met with a sharp, burning sensation That's when I started to scream It was as if the last 20 minutes of trauma erupted from me Pulsing and punching every feeling of panic into the freezing air I tried to make words But all I could generate was the animal sound of near death Of the world's eyelids closing in on my small, meager existence That's when I saw the gistice

comedian smile. Good crowd tonight, he said, regaining his posture on the imaginary stage. He moved away from me and the mirrors and walked towards the lines of the walls. I continued to scream, to yell, to exert every ounce of life into the air, but all my sounds fed right into the machine. I tried to spit it out, but it stretched my jaw to the point of contraction, locking me in an embrace with a taste of plastic and dirt.

Sometimes late at night, I can still hear the sound of my voice made on that night. It's a firework exploding in the belly of hell. It plays in a loop in the dark of my terrible apartment, circling with a passing car lights and distant gunshots. If I don't bore myself out, I can spend entire days back with the comedian. But then I remember the silver lining. As I huffed and spit into the machine, even as my soul got pulled to the place with the others, my brain was ahead of itself.

As I saw myself in the mirror, I got an idea. I never understood the concept of freedom. People will brag about their freedom, about their independence, how they can do whatever they like, when they like. But that's a lie. No one is truly free. Yeah, we are free to explore. to curse, free to make our own decisions.

But the thing about freedom is that all of us, in one way or another, are trapped somewhere. We all have relationships we can't leave, jobs we're stuck in, houses we're forced to pay off. We all have memories on loop. We all have a door with fingernail scratches inside of it, whether real or imagined. Even today, 20 years later, I still find myself in that man's apartment. Even though I found a way out, I still feel like a piece of me is there. As I got my brilliant escape plan, I was fumbling with his hip ties. The man was walking toward the markings on the wall.

Sweat was running down his neck, leaving big yellow stains on his tank top. He was muttering something out of ear shot. I tried to convince myself that there weren't bodies behind those outlines on the wall. I tried not to imagine them like graves. but my imagination was impossible to control. The man mentioned stealing. He said he stole something from the funeral home. Were his wife and son behind that wall?

Who else was with them? The man stood in front of a blank section of drywall for a moment. He was swaying side to side as if caught in some trance. Then, in a quick motion, he wound back his arms and thrust his metal rod into the wall. It made a quick pop sound. butt was muffled against the looping machine laughter. As he repeated the motion, I could see the shape start to form. It was the same rectangle that repeated 12 other times.

I knew he was going to stuff me in that hole, shoulder the shoulder with the other bodies, the ones that held the voices trapped in the machines. My heart felt like a drum roll. I felt sick. I imagined the feeling of insulation all around me, climbing into my mouth and stuffing my. me with warmth. For a moment, lost in my fear, I forgot about the pain in my mouth from

the machine. It felt like I was eating a campfire. Every tooth had its own unique pain. My throat was still clogged with teeth. When I tried to breathe, I would get a single, wispy breath before choking on blood. I knew I needed to act fast. As the man tore away drywall, I used my feet to shimmer closer to the mirrors. They were propped up a few feet away from me, but with a loud sound of the machine laughter, you couldn't hear the chair scratch across the

floor. I dug my shoes into the hardwood. I kicked to the ground. I used every muscle in my legs. I felt like a sprinter in the last moment of a race, pumping away from that moment of escape, a volation. When I got within a leg's length of the mirror,

I saw my foot and connected with it. As it fell to the ground, I leapt of my chair toward it. I caught my reflection in the glass before it shattered. My mouth was stuffed with the machine, my jaw wide and broken looking. My eyes were that of an animal, wide and consumed by something, a feeling beyond reason or thought. I was a train barreling toward the end, whatever that end might be.

This time, the sound of my escape was louder than the laughter. The shattering filled the room. The man whipped around, his hair wild and nice beady. He looked at me with a look of betrayal, like I had broken our promise. As he walked toward me, I scrambled on my back in the broken glass. I fumbled through the shards, searching for one of the right size. I could feel the edges stabbed me. They poked holes in my hands and back, slicing me to bit.

Still, it did nothing compared to the pain in my mouth. Don't you want to join the party? He asked a few steps away. I could see something behind his stretched smile. It was a kind of sadness, an undercurrent. It only showed through his eyes. My boys are here. My wife, the girl from down the hall, the delivery boy.

You'll be a perfect addition. As I moved from piece to piece of the mirror, I found one that felt just right. It was a triangle, perfect fit for my grip. you'll never be lonely he continued leaning down to pick me up as his hands grabbed my shoulders

I felt the same sick feeling run through me we could keep each other company while he pulled my body off the floor I twisted my wrist and felt the tension of my zip tie giveaway the blood rushed back to my hands making me aware of every little cut

on my arm I could feel the sharp edges of the glass in my palm holding the shard hurt but it also filled me with another feeling power for the first time in forever

I had a secret weapon I could take control of the situation I looked into the man's darting eyes I didn't want to see what I saw but I couldn't help it here was my dad's eyes watching me from the bedroom

he used to share with my mom They were big and angry, but overflowing with sadness. Like his head was a water balloon. The man, the comedian, the kidnapper. He had the same eyes. They were the eyes of a man watching his life leave, falling through his hands like sand, impossible to hold.

The man reached toward my face and ripped out the machine. As the cold air hit my exposed gums, I felt the rustle. of a faint. I almost passed out right there. The pain made me feel like I was pinned to the ocean floor. It's a party in here, son, he said. Take care of me and I'll take care of you. You'll be happy forever. The moment happened without my knowledge. Suddenly I was standing a few feet away from the man, my hand covering my mouth.

I could taste the warm, sickly blood on my palm. I pulled it away to look at it. All I saw was red. The shard of glass was gone. I looked over at the man and that's when I saw it. The piece of mirror was lodged in his neck. The man tried to keep his composure, waving his arms like he was walking a plank, but it was only a few seconds before he was on the ground.

He sat there like a kid at a school assembly, his legs crossed, His expression vacant, yet concentrating. He was looking slightly behind me, his half-smile starting to fill with blood. Don't go, he said. His voice was on the edge of laughter, his eyes equally as amused. He collapsed on his back,

his focus now on the wall behind him. He was looking at the twelve outlines, the half-finished 13th one beside them. It was his audience. his full house, his upright graveyard. It was a reminder of the things lost, of things he couldn't quite hold. The machine laughter looped as the blood pulled around his neck,

soaking his grey hair. As I watched him twist and turn, I felt that laughter closing in. It was descending on him. For a moment, I almost felt sad. Then, like a fever breaking, the feeling went away. I was left with a dark power

An anger brimming and intense joy I wouldn't be the boy who laughed I was the boy who left The next hour moved by me Like I was watching it A movie playing in the background I grabbed the ring of keys from the man's belt And puzzled to the doorlocks

I collapsed into my grandmother's dark apartment My voice letting off a single scream Before I passed out When I opened my eyes again, the room was bright and filled with paramedics. I didn't pay attention to the news over the next few days. My grandma would play in the background while I tried to sleep, but I was too focused on just closing my eyes.

Every time I tried, they'd shoot open again. My jaw was wired and my head was a garbage heap of painkillers. All the while, through my bedroom wall, I could hear the newscasters talk about the victims. There were a dozen bodies. each one plucked out of the wall. On one of those nights, I heard my grandma's door open. I recognized the intruder's voice right away.

When my dad opened the bedroom door and saw me, he ran over and wrapped me in a hug. As he pulled away, I could see that twinkle in his eye. He wanted to make a joke. I was sure of it. But, like a fog dispersing, that twinkle went away. As he looked at me, I saw his darkness. It poured out of him like a ton of wet concrete.

It was a version of my dad I hadn't seen in years, like he had finally exhaled. As he grabbed me in another hug, I could feel his tears on my neck. You're my boy, he whispered. For a moment, I wanted to pull away. I wanted to kick, to scream, to drive something through his neck too. I didn't want to be anyone's anything. anything anymore. But that feeling slowly left the room. I felt my arms tighten around his back, pulling him closer. He had a strange love, an aggressive love, a desperate love, but it was still love.

Sitting in my apartment now, putting this out for the world to see, I feel a bit of relief. But there are some things I was never able to go back to. I don't go outside much anymore. to keep the blinds drawn, the lights off. I don't like music or television or any real sound. I like silence and the dark. I never really speak. I spend most nights on Reddit. I like to stick with no sleep, anything dark really. When I come across a meme, I try not to laugh, but on the off chance I do, I always wait a few seconds. I listen in the darkness. I listened for an echo for another laugh or two or three or twelve. Once I'm sure I'm alone, I tilt my head back and exhale.

I remind myself that I got out. I know I did. I left the party upstairs and regained my life. I know I did. Didn't I? I died for the first time on the 18th of August 2006. It wasn't a particularly pleasant day. nor was it the one that I expected.

It was simply the random act of violence that destroyed my life, and it came out of nowhere. We were just relaxing at the pub, enjoying a few drinks after a busy day at work. It was my turn to buy a round of drinks, so I was trying to get the attention of the bartender. I felt someone punched me in the side. At first I thought someone had just hit me, but then I felt the warmth and the rapid stream of blood pouring down my shirt. I realized then and there that I had actually gotten stabbed.

As far as I can remember, it wasn't even that painful. Still, my legs gave out under me and I collapsed to the floor. Even then, I was worried more about ruining my expensive suit, ignoring the fact that I might be dying. Uncoming death is funny like that.

Everyone thinks that the exception, that they'll get out from whatever horrible situation the universe is thrust upon them. At least that's what I thought, as the life drained from my body. The world around me just faded to black, and before I knew it, I had just died.

Then there was a void. At first, it was little more than darkness, only broken by weird shapes and colours in the distance. As I regained a sense of surroundings, I was dragged towards a new world, one without pain, suffering nor death. All there was were people on a journey to different destinations Whether they had all died like myself

Or if they weren't born yet, I didn't know All I knew was that I wasn't afraid anymore The worries, the anxiety and all my fears Had been left behind A light appeared in the distance Endlessly far away I knew that would be my final destination My final purpose in the brief life I'd led

Unfortunately, I never managed to get that far. I was jolted awake in my own bed, soaking wet from the sweat and shaking like a maniac. My hand reflexively clutched my side to cover up the wound I'd sustained. But it wasn't there anymore. In fact, I didn't have a single scratch on me. Had it all been a dream? My phone lit up on the bedside table. I picked it up to find dozens of text messages.

and missed calls. Hey man, we're at the pub, you're coming or what? The first message read, sent at 9.43 p.m. Hey, Rick, where the hell are you? The second message read, sent at 10.23 p.m. Then, there were a couple of phone calls and another message. I guess you fell asleep, or maybe you're getting lucky. Whatever, I'll drink another shot in your honour.

Happy birthday, Rick. Then, I had over 20 phone calls and a singular message that sent shivers down my spine. For goodness sake, pick up the damn phone, something happened to Danny. I immediately called back. My fingers were trembling both from anticipation and from the memory of what had happened only a night ago. Even if my death had been little more than a nightmare,

I knew for sure that I'd met up with my friends at the pub. The phone rang three times, then Jake picked up. Rick, is that you? Where the hell are you? Jake asked in a panicked, tired voice. I... I don't know what happened. I guess I fell asleep. I half asked, half stated. Danny got stabbed last night, Jake said, without listening to my explanation.

Stapped. How? I don't know. Some not job just walked up to him and stabbed him in the side. I almost dropped my phone in shock. Danny had been attacked just like myself, in the exact same place. A thousand thoughts rushed through my mind But worry quickly became my main concern Is he alright

He's still in surgery They're only letting his wife know about Wait here she comes Jake put his phone down But I could still hear the muffled sound of their discussion Then his wife seemed upset But I couldn't make out the words Jake

I asked He's He's dead Danny's dead The next few moments turned into a blurry haste of information We'd all known Danny since we were kids And now he was just gone

The murderer never even made it out to the pub Apparently he got shot by one of the patrons As he tried to attack another guest Still, I just couldn't shake the feeling That I was supposed to die that night Regardless of what happened Time marched on without answers Some of our co-workers quit after Danny's death, trying to hopelessly move on.

I didn't blame them. I also needed some distance. I never even told them what I experienced that night. It wouldn't have helped them anyway. A year passed and I hardly spoke to any of my friends. I started to get some semblance of normalcy in the wake of Danny's death, but that would all come to an end on the 18th of August 2007. My birthday had arrived yet again, and I had absolutely no intention of celebrating it.

Instead, I called in sick to work, bought a bottle of whiskey, and spent the day playing video games. By the time Day had given way tonight, I'd almost finished the bottle. Even as a rather large guy, the alcohol had hit me hard. At around 9 o'clock, I just passed out in bed, awaiting a horrible hangover in the morning. I only awoke around midnight when I heard the front door forcefully break open, followed by footsteps and whispers. I tried to get up, still drowsy from the alcohol. As I took one step out from bed, I slipped and came tumbling down onto the floor. It produced a massive crash, loud enough to alert whichever intruders had broken in.

I thought you said no one would be home, a man stated angrily. Don't worry about it. I'll go deal with him. The footsteps moved quickly in my direction. I tried to lock the door, but they were too fast, kicking it open and knocking me back to the ground. A masked man entered my room, holding onto a gun. He only spoke a single sentence to me before pointing the weapon at me and pulling the trigger. You should have stayed quiet. Unfortunately, the man was a horrible shot.

He aimed at my head, but had hit me in the same. the throat instead. There I lay, drowning in my own blood, as I desperately gasped for air. I couldn't crawl away, and I couldn't call for help. I died on my bedroom floor, on my own birthday, just as I had a year earlier. Once life finally drained from my body, and the god-awful pain ceased, I was back in the world beyond. I walked through the same, colourful dimension that lay just on the edge of life. I admire the shapes and colors as they passed. In the distance, I saw a tree with branches

stretching endlessly far from its trunk. From each branch dangled a new person, real, but not existing in our world. I wanted to visit them, but that wasn't my destination, because, just like before, I would awake in my own bed, unharmed by the events from the previous night.

My phone buzzed and I was filled with unfathomable dread. I still couldn't quite believe it, but I started to understand that someone would take my place in death. Hello? Rick, it's Dad. Your mother, she's... She's passed away last night. A lump formed in my throat. I knew what was coming next, but I had to ask.

How? What happened? The police say it was a burglary gun wrong. I don't know. I was working late. I should have been there. The discussion trailed off from there. My dad was distraught and could barely form coherent sentences.

He blamed himself for not being there, but I knew the truth. It was my fault. During the next two months, he fell into a deep depression. I couldn't blame him. He just lost the love of his life. I moved him with him just to try help pick up the pieces. He put on a strong face, trying his best to keep the ship afloat. But I could tell how close he was to just breaking down.

If only I'd been there. It wasn't your fault, Dad. Had you been there, you might be gone too. You don't know that. But I did know, because the burglars weren't ever supposed to visit my parents' house. They were supposed to kill me. I had to come clean. I had to let him know the truth. But how could I? Half a year passed and the secret ate at me. After everything that had happened, I still didn't know how to explain it. Still, I decided it was time to share my curse.

Dad? Can we talk? Yeah, what's going on? He asked with a word expression. on his face. He knew me well, and he could tell a heavy burden was weighing me down. I started by telling him about my first death, down to the smallest detail. Of course, it matched everything that people had witnessed in the pub that night, even the location of the stab wound. I told him Danny had taken my place in death, and that I felt guilty. Naturally, he was skeptical at first, but then I told him about my mother.

I didn't spare him any details. I told him where I'd gotten shot and that the door had been broken down and that there were two robbers. Every detail matched perfectly down to the letter. I'm so sorry, Dad. It was my fault. I killed her. He just sat there in silence, processing what I'd just told him. It wasn't your fault.

I was confused. There wasn't a single ounce of anger in his words. Only overwhelming empathy. How can you say that? She didn't have to die. He mulled over his next words carefully before speaking. You didn't do anything wrong, Rick. You just went about your life, and these things happened to you.

I don't know why you've been brought back, or even how, but you're not to blame for what is done to you. So, you believe me? I asked. He nodded and embraced me in a whole. Suddenly, I wasn't alone in the world anymore. Someone knew what was happening to me. What if it happens again?

Then, we'll get through it together. He stood by these words, even as my next birthday rolled around. That death was more tame. I just slipped in the shower and broke my neck. The last thought that went through my mind as I left the world for the third time was, how cliche! Once again, I awoke in my bed. I called out for my dad, making sure he was still alive, horrified that he might have taken my place.

I couldn't even breathe until he came rushing to my side, asking what had happened. I broke my neck, but I'm fine, I think. It took a while before I figured out who had taken my place that time. But once I heard that my boss had died, something broke inside me. He was the kindest man I'd ever met. And just like myself, he slipped and broke his neck. That was the final straw. There wasn't some bizarre coincidence I could just brush off, nor a premonition.

I decided then and there that I couldn't live with a responsibility. I had to put a stop to it, even if it meant giving up my own life. I figured that if I took control over my own fate and killed myself outside of my own birthday, Maybe I could prevent more people from dying. First, I left behind a long letter to my father, explaining why I had chosen to leave. I couldn't face him in person. I knew he'd just tried to talk me out of it.

But it was something I had to do. I couldn't allow any more people to die on my behalf. Alas, fate is fickle. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't end my own life. I tried hanging, but the rope broke. Then I tried to shoot myself, but the gun jammed. When that failed, I tried to drive my car into a tree, but I somehow survived that as well.

Any attempt was met with failure. All I could do was wait for my next birthday and let someone die in my place. No matter how many times I tried, I couldn't die. I was a slave to destiny, and it was destroying me. In 2009, I was hit. hit by a drink driver, and my girlfriend took my place. In 2010, I drowned, and my kind neighbour had to go through that death. In 2011, I died from a brain aneurysm, which ended up

killing my aunt, and so on, and so on. Each year I'd die, and a person close to me would take my place. I kept trying to find a way out, but fate wouldn't have it. Years went by, and on the 18th of August 2019, I would die for the 14th time. I had already fallen sick a week earlier, much to the doctor's confusion. According to each and every laboratory value, I was fine, yet I kept getting sicker. My father and I both knew my time is near, but we also knew I'd be forcefully brought back. Then, at midnight on my birthday, my heart just gave out. I was jolted awake in my own bed and the sickness was little more than a distant memory

Dad, I called out No response I got out of bed and called his name again I was met with silence I didn't have to call out a third time I already knew what had happened I carefully walked into his room horrified at what I knew would come

he was dead just gone from a heart attack. He'd taken my place and I could do nothing to save him. The funeral came and went in a blur. The only noticeable thing was the missing seeds from the people who had passed before him. Some of them had lived their own lives and died as nature intended. But a number of them were supposed to live on. Instead, they'd just taken my place in death.

I inherited a number of things from my father. Among them, I found a letter addressed to me. It looked rather worn, so I could tell he'd written it a long time ago. Dear Richard, today is your birthday, and it has officially been a year since your mother passed. While I miss her greatly, I'm thankful to still have you around. I know that if she was given the choice, she would want you to live. I feel the same way. We both know that I might one day take it.

your place in death. I never doubt that I would happily give my life if it meant that you may live. You didn't choose this curse, so never blame yourself. Just do what every person is supposed to. Appreciate the people around you because you never know which day might be the last. I love you. Dad, since I read that letter, I've been looking for a way out. My father might want me to stay behind. But how can I live on, knowing that I'm taking someone's place? I've long since left town,

living by myself in a cabin somewhere away from people. Hopefully, if I have no one left that cares for me, people will stop dying. At least until I can figure out not only how to die, but how to actually stay dead. I'm sorry.

Room was dark, the smoke clouds wafting up to obscure overhead, that made the man's shiny face all the more noticeable. He was sweating heavily, stammering out the last few minutes of his set as he told the crowd about an incident with his mother when he was 12. The audience, stoners and hipsters who had been drinking since noon watched him like a bug under a microscope. They wanted to be interested in what they saw,

but really they were just hoping he would burn up under the harsh overhead lights. At the end of the day, there's nothing better than watch. Watching a comedian crashed spectacularly. I took a swig of my lukewarm beer and made notes in my notebook. I had been doing comedy for about a year, and doing comedy is like being in AA. The guys who've been doing it longer than you are always super smug about it, and they just tell you to keep working the program, no matter how much you hate it. In this case, the program was a 15-minute set.

Randy, a five-year vet of the stage, had found me doing standard. at my college. He said I had some talent but suggested that I work on a 15-minute set until I knew it backwards and forwards. Once you know that set better than your own hand, then you can start adding new stuff. Six months later, and I've been doing the same set for nearly six months without fail. I felt that I knew it well, could have quoted it in my sleep, and I tried to add some new material time and time again. The bits were snappy, the one line, were delivered perfectly, and Randy had even said that some of my new stuff was good, though off script. I felt like my bits were topical without being inflammatory, and that my stories landed without being too long-winded.

I wasn't ready for Comedy Central, but I was more than prepared for the little dive bars that seemed to be where I was still cutting my teeth. So, why was I only receiving middling laughs? The guy on stage I hadn't bothered to remember his name after I shook his hand stumbled off the stage to some polite if not strained applause He flopped onto the couch next to me

wiping the sweat off his forehead Randy took the mic and started attempting to get the crowd excited for the next comedian Randy was usually the emcee at these events His reputation made over half a decade of funny And the crowd always seemed glad to see him He was building me up, getting the crowd hyped for my set, and, as he introduced me, I stood up to scattered applause and made my way to the stage.

I mounted the stage, appearing one hand and my notebook under my arm, and set up as the crowd murmured and coughed. I just adjusted the mic, dropping it a little from Randy's seven-foot-tall height, and the crowd seemed to find some amusement in this act. As I looked out over the crowd I could see many familiar faces sitting amongst the smoke and the smell of cheap beer The audience was almost always the same The same barflies and regulars Who came to hear the same jokes repeatedly

I was always happy to see them And their tip money at the end of the night But I remember wishing for some new blood Amongst the splattering of drunks and stoners Oh how the gods mocked me with their answers So, I'm pro guns, hold you booze. A few half-hearted booze came for the crowd as though in answer. Someone online asked me the other day if that meant I would shoot a home invader,

which it does, but as a comedian who works for tips, I don't usually have anything worth stealing, so it's not usually a problem. Some scattered laughs. Well, they always followed up by asking me, what, don't you value human life more than things? Well, I tell them, clearly he valued my things more than his life, so I must have nicer things than I thought. Some half-hearted laughs greeted the end of my joke, but they were perfunctory at best.

The crowd came in as I set up my next joke. Have you heard of this new paper made of elephant dung? Yeah, I kid you not, they take the dung, clean it, press it, clean it again, I hope. Through a process known only to the papermakers, they create an eco-friendly, paper that's safe of the environment. The crowd shuffled in as I set my punchline, and though I couldn't tell exactly how many there were, it looked like at least 20 that filled into the back of the room. I couldn't tell if they sat down or not.

The room seemed to get darker as they filled the space. They didn't move closer. They didn't fill the empty spaces left by the sparse crowd we had up front, and they just hovered near the back of the room in a cloud of strange silence. I paused a minute too long, realizing I was stretching my punchline out too long before continuing. It's like they say, isn't it? One elephant's crap is another man's 50 shades of grey. The crowd actually laughed at that one.

This joke was so ridiculous that it never failed to get laughs, but the group in the back burst into a sudden and immediate laughter. The laughter was sudden and unexpected. I saw people in the front jump a little as the 20 or so people. burst into spontaneous laughter very suddenly. I smiled a little, nodding, and asking if they liked that joke or something, before continuing on with the next joke.

The crowd of newcomers were definitely what we needed around here, and I rode the wave of their laughter into my next bit. You ever wonder why you never see any hipster necropheliacs? The front row shook their heads, but the back continued to laugh mechanically. Because they'd have to screw him before they'd, they got cool. The laughs from the front were more akin to groans as they accepted the corny joke, but the back

of the house burst into the same mechanical laughter. I was energized. I was receiving what I thought was my do at long last. These people were eating up what I was putting down, and it tempted me to do something I had been working on but hadn't brought out yet. So my mom called the other day and... The crowd in the back hadn't stopped laughing though. They buzzed with this sort of constant, can laughter,

as the others died down and waited for the next joke. Some had turned to look at the crowd behind them, and I could see some of the other comedians looking at them with misgivings. Their laughter never changed, never rose or fell in volume, but kept chuckling out in that fake sitcom laughter you always hear on friends or how I met your mother. She lives in a small town, two stars, uplight at Walmart and they have a dog that's become sort of a...

Sort of a... I was starting to lose my focus as the crowd kept laughing. They never tired and never stopped. And I could see one of the comedians getting up to go say something. The audience wasn't watching me anymore. They were all crained around in their seats, looking at the crowd that chuckled on and on. The comedian, Mark, for sure I thought, walked towards the back,

As he did, he was suddenly obscured by the smoky darkness that seemed unaffected by the murky overheads that flanked the stage. He stopped on the fringe, seemed to say something to them. He suddenly clapped his knees and began to bray the donkey laughter I had heard from the couch on many occasions. He laughed long and hard, joining the throng as his brays were lost amongst their grating mirth. After a few seconds, his unique sound was lost amongst their glee. Town mascot, I continued as I tried to power through it. It sleeps in the middle of the road, people feed it and leave it water. They drive around it and bring it inside at night and everyone knows who he is and why is there.

I was losing focus. I could see Randy approaching the stage, plugging in a mic so he could remind the crowd to keep it down and respect the comedians. And I hoped that this was some kind of prank. The laughter had been going for nearly two minutes now, and it was becoming abrasive. I was no longer flattered. I was no longer heartened by the laughter. I was becoming creeped out. And if this was someone's idea of a joke, then it wasn't very funny.

I heard the static when Rand his mic clipped in. Okay, people, let's remember to respect the comedians and keep our laughter to a respectable level, okay? The laughter continued. uninterrupted. Eyes stood on the raised stage, looking out into the inky darkness and watching that chuckled tide. They rumbled out their artificial laughter in the face of my confusion. Randy stood by the stage, eyes glaring at them, and when he set the mic down, I could hear the reverb as it made an angry sound. He set off for the back of the house, not a long walk, and when he got to the throng of people,

he started shouting at them to be quiet. Randy had come to the same conclusion I had. He thought this was a big joke, a flash mob, maybe even once set up by Mark, and he was not amused. I watched from the stage as his shouts became a confused chuckle. His chuckle became a guffaw,

and then it was all over for poor Randy. He stumbled into the mob, grinning and laughing and his laughs were soon consumed by the tide of laughter that was when they started moving forward

the crowd was up now scent in danger but the group blocked the exit they could do little but watch as the shuffling mass crept forward seeming to float

as they came and swept slowly towards the crowd that had congregated close to the stage some drunk let fly with a pitcher of PBR the pitcher spilling as it flew end over end. But if the crowd was slowed by the beer or the heavy glass vessel, they didn't show it.

Another man charged at them, meaty fists raised, but fell to his knees, laughing before connecting with anything. The group rolled over him, and when they passed, he was no longer on the ground. The closer they got,

the less I felt like I saw them. As the group began to chuckle, the knees shaking and their fists pounding their chests, the more my feet began driving towards the back of the stage. The group was made of human-shaped creatures. Their features were dark and undulating, their mouths laughing, white teeth smiling, as their eyeless faces bobbed with mirthless laughter. Those who were absorbed by them were never seen again. Those who were absorbed by them never stopped laughing. When my back smacked against the wall, I knew I was out of places to retreat. The fabric curtain that covered the wall felt soft under my sweaty hands, and it was only then that I realized I was still holding the mic.

I let it drop, the feedback yarking angrily, but I hardly noticed amidst the din of emotionless laughter. The tone never rose, never fell, just remained as the same level of soulless noise as it drove ice-picks into my skull. I closed my eyes, sinking to my backside and covering my ears with my hands as the mask came up to the edge of the stage and attempted to mount it. When the overhead lights hit it, the mass recoiled and the laughter sounded like tortured screams with a thin veneer of hilarity.

It sounded like the laughter that comes creeping from the windows of an asylum. It sounded like the laughter one hears in hell. I closed my eyes and prepared to be consumed. I knew that I too would begin to chuckle any minute. I would be helpless to resist. I would simply start to chuckle, start to go for. And before I knew it, I would be running to them. I would gladly join the throng of laughing fools if it meant an end to this hell.

I was standing alone outside the joke and even now, in my terror, I longed to be a part of it. I don't know how long I sat there with my hands over my ears. One minute the world was a sea of robotic laughter. And the next, it was simply gone. I lifted my head to find the back room of the bar completely empty. The other three comedians, Mark, Randy, the audience, they were all gone.

I was the only one left, the only one not laughing. And when I left the bar, the owner watching me go with some confusion, I never came back again. I knew I couldn't stand at that stage again, not after what I'd seen, and I certainly couldn't tell jokes again, as I thought about that grinning audience of living darkness. Turns out that was the first of many retreats that night. Over the next few weeks, I saw the audience again and again. They were in the grocery store as I checked out. They were outside the bus as I rode it to work, standing outside the bus stop and looking at me with their eyeless faces. The night they were at the foot of my bed, I knew I had to leave.

I packed up anything that mattered to me and got in my car and drove. until I ran out of miles or ran out of money. Turns out, the money came first. I ran out of gas next to a little motel that needed a desk clerk. I've been handing that desk for the last two years. I'm pretty good at my job. I make most guests laugh. I'm always at work on time since I live on the premises,

and I can eat anything I want from the hotel kitchen as long as I don't go too crazy. I found friends in this list. I found friends in this little town, not the same as those I had, but they're good people. They tell me often that I should be a comedian. I tell them that in another life I was. When I go to sleep, I get to live that other life and listen to the chuckling crowd as it drags itself closer and closer to my stage.

I always wake up before they get me. I hope they never do. There is an unspoken rule that dictates that all stories, regardless of intent and genre, must be satisfying. So, I'll start by telling you right now that my tale won't abide by that rule. My tale isn't some leisurely story, not if I am to be faithful to what occurred. I'll have to tell my story as it happened. A slow, drawn out death. No lesson, no closure, no reason, nothing to justify what happened to.

to my friends me. If you're looking for answers, leave, turn away, shut the door, you won't find them here. Nightmares, like all sickly, malformed children, have a point of conception and birth. Mine was birthed in my elementary school, vile and caustic. I like to think that every school has them, little rumours and myths about a place. Ours just happen to be the wasting room. In the centre of the east wing of the school was a brick building, about the size of a small garage.

When I was in third grade, I walked past it, I was immediately entranced by it. I went up to it and ran my finger along the surface of the weathered brick, revelling in the amalgamation of strange textures,

spongy patches of moss, brick and mortar as rough as sandpaper, the deep crevices and cracks, all perfect contrasts, bound to a single surface. I circled the building, running my finger alongside it, until I stood in front of the door. I impulsively reached for the doorknop

and rested my hand on the cold, rusted brass door handle. Energy seeped from it to me, the transferring of an idea, an instinct, calling to me. I know that's what it was doing. My hand tightened around the handle, and I was starting to twist it open

when the harsh reprimands of a woman's voice froze me in place. Christopher, what are you doing? asked my teacher, Mrs. Leor. She gave me a mild scolding before telling me that room was off limits and to run along and get to class. Later that day at recess, I asked my friends, Danny and Leah, about the mysterious red brick building. That's the wasting room. My older brother says that's where they take the bad kids. answered Danny.

I heard a witchelips there, Leah added. I pondered it for a moment, and, just like most kids my age, accepted both answers as truth. Over the next few years, I learned more about that forsaken room. The rumour goes that back when teachers were allowed to hit students,

they would do it in that brick room. One day, an exceptionally cruel principal took a third grader named Lily into the brick room and beat her so savagely he thought he killed her. In his panic, he sealed the room and forbade anyone from entering. Unfortunately, Lily hadn't died. That would have been a mercy. She was just knocked unconscious.

When she finally woke up and saw that she was trapped inside the brick building, she tried everything she could to break out. But, being so young, her meek voice was never heard. Instead, she slowly rose. rotted away for a few weeks, wasting away from the inside out. When they finally found her years later, her remains were mummified, her face contorted in eternal anguish, her little fingers were whittled away to bone, fragments of her nails embedded into the bricks, dried blood stain the floor and walls.

Ever since then, the room has been permanently locked, a gruesome tale told the children living in a gruesome world. Of course, as all kids do with myths and urban legends, we embellish them. Danny would tell us that Lily was still alive, that she had survived off of a rat and a leaky water pipe. Leah thought that the teachers still use the room to punish the worst students. I made up a story of how I once saw Mrs. Lear open the door and I was able to see the dusty skeleton of Lily still inside.

Danny and Leah didn't believe me, of course, but the mystery surrounding the room still intrigued us. My favourite rumour was that the ghost of Little Lily wandered the halls of the East Wing, and on lonely, dreary days or dark starless nights, she would drag anyone caught alone into the wasting room to suffer the same fate she did. It wasn't until the beginning of sixth grade when we were invested in getting inside the room and seeing if any of the rumors were true. I was the one who pushed our trio towards that insidious red brick building.

It was our final year before we would be ushered into the ever awkward and painful stage known as adolescence. Danny was an early bloomer and as the first wave of hormonal changes hit, he changed drastically. He was no longer interested in running around with Lear and me as we chased small animals and hit trees with sticks. That was kid stuff. And if his sudden growth spurt was any indicator, Danny wasn't a kid like us. Not anymore. The night we decided we needed to make one last chance at recapturing that childhood sense of adventure was the night Danny pulled out a crinkled magazine from under his bed and flashed me the cover.

It was a playboy, a busty, scantily clad model on its cover. When he opened the magazine and tried to show it me, I turned away as if it was a photo of a crime scene. I didn't want to see it. I knew if I did, that would be the death of the death of the crime scene. the child that still existed within me. I didn't want to leave that stage of my life behind. Not yet. Danny briefly berated me, asking me if I was gay, saying that was the only reason someone would be scared of boobs. I ignored him and asked my mom to pick me up early.

I knew then that the only way to reel Danny back in would be with something that could still spark childish fear and wonder. The room. I knew even back then that after the summer our trio's dynamic would never be the same It was Leah Danny and I had been suddenly vying for her attention We both looked at her through different lenses

And I guess I just wanted to have one last adventure Before our biology tore us apart I was initially met with hesitation When I brought up the room But after a bit of badgering They were on board How are you going to do it? The teachers keep the doors locked, you know.

Leah said. That proves that they're hiding something, doesn't it? Danny added. Maybe we can steal a key from one of the teachers, I said. Leah scrunched the face of the suggestion. She warned us about how that would only cause more trouble. Danny interrupted to inform us of a secret entrance to the room his brother told him about. Leah and I were both skeptical at the claim.

But Danny was insistent that there was a secret underground entrance. My brother says that he found it one time, says there's a basement in the back of the school, Danny insisted. Well then, he's just going to have to show it to us then, Leah replied. Though we had settled on trying to convince Danny's brother to guide us to this so-called secret entrance, we still made an effort to locate it on our own. Leah got picked up as soon as school was out, but Danny and I had about 30 minutes before before his dad picked us both up. We both snuck to the field in the back of the school and poked around for a few minutes, but

found nothing but rocks and dirt. We gave up after a while and headed back towards the front of the school to wait for Mr. Powell to pick us up. I hadn't thought about the plausibility of the school having multiple sealed exits and entrances. Up until the mid-60s, my school was a hospital. It was too small and outdated, having been first built in the third. 30s to be of much use in the rapidly changing era. It was abandoned until the early 70s when it was renovated and repurposed into a school.

Of course, as naive kids, we never connected the dots. This place had seen much more death and suffering within its walls than anyone was willing to acknowledge. I spent that night at Danny's house, annoying his older brother David to show us the location of the hidden passage. It took only a few minutes to get him talking about his house. his time spent it at school. It's sealed up now, you know. They buried it, and it's not a basement. It's a cellar.

I found it one day with Jimmy while we were goofing off. It had a rusty lock, of course, but I just broke it with a rock. We never actually made it to the wasting room. I don't even know if the cellar leads to it. That's just something Jimmy says. His teacher told him. Inside that cellar was a tunnel that ran under the school. Old rusty pipes ran along the walls and ceiling,

twisting like intestines. Yeah, that's what it was. We were inside some metal giant's guts. David jumped up trying to scare us. The only reaction he got from us was unified. Gross. David's face scrunched up into an annoyed half frown before he continued. Anyway, there was something wrong with this place.

Not only was it ancient, rusty and dark, but something felt off like something was in there with us, or like the tunnel itself was a lot. I swear, I thought to saw the pipes twitch sometimes, and the whole shaft was suddenly shifting like it was breathing. I don't know, but it was weird, man. We walked a few feet further into the tunnel, when we heard a clang, and we just froze. I tried to act tough, and so I called out like an idiot.

I heard it before I saw it. This figure just darted out into the darkness. It was small, but on all fours, and it was fast. That's when Jimmy and I started running, screaming our heads off. When we reached the cellar door, we just scrambled up, and I turned around long enough to see this decayed little girl, just on all fours glaring back up at us. Absolute rage in her eyes. I don't think I've ever slammed the door that hard since then. What happened after that?

I asked. Well, we ran screaming and crying to the principal's office and told him all about what happened. Of course they didn't believe us, but they were upset that we had found the cellar entrance. So the next day, they shoveled dirt over it and told us to not go near it again. You know, sometimes, I still get nightmares about that little girl. Her pale skin, covered in rot, and her hateful eyes. Maybe it's that lily girl they talk about. But, I don't know.

So, you'll show us where it is? Danny asked, in an excited voice. Hell no, if you kids know what's good for you, then you'll stay away from the door and from the wasting room. Nothing good will come of it. David replied. Disappointed, but not disheartened, we went back to Danny's room to play video games. David didn't know at the time, but his warning might have saved us from what was to come. If only we had listened. We told Leah all about David's experience the following Monday.

That's scary, and I'm sorry. I don't think we should go looking for that door. What if Lily is really down there, and we let her out? She asked. Don't be dumb, Leah. My bro was just trying to scare us. Besides, I've got a plan on how to find it. Oh yeah?

How? I asked. The next time you spend the night, we'll sneak out and hide my dad's shovel in the trees in the field. And after school, we can go digging around and see if we find it. Danny said with a grin. What about me? me? You know my mom picks me up as soon as school's out?

Just ask her if you can hang out with us for a little bit, he responded. Leah just sighed and said she would try. Danny's plan, like most of the plans children make, never came to fruition. Sneaking out at night and carrying a shovel wasn't going to happen. Danny modified his plans and instead snuck three garden trowls in his backpack to school every day until Leah was able to convince her mom to let her stay after school. It took three weeks of Leah's whining, but she finally caved in

after Danny's father gave her a verbal confirmation that he would drop Leah off at her house. It was a warm summer day when we made a trek to the back of the school to search for the cellar door. 6th grade graduation was near and I knew that these halcyon days were nearing their end.

This would be our last great childhood adventure and I wanted to make this the one to remember for the rest of my life. In the greatest knife twist of irony, that wish came true. We spent only a few minutes stabbing the ground nearest to the school building before Leah hit something with a trowel. She shouted for us to check it out. She was always eager when it came to being the first at things.

Danny and I started digging, and sure enough, we heard. and felt our trousers scrape against metal, buried only three to four inches deep. The three of us ran over and started scraping away until a rusty metal cellar door lay before us. Dan let out an excited yell and did a little half dance. I hadn't seen him act so goofy in months. I was starting to reach for the handle of the door to throw it open. When I felt a firm, icy grip on my wrist freeze me in place.

I joked around in a panic to try to get a glimpse of the figure towering over me What are you children doing? asked Mrs Leor in a calm but cold tone Nothing, we were just playing around digging for rocks and stuff

Danny answered Oh Explain why you're in a strictly off-limit area Hmm? Mrs Leor pointed an accusatory finger at Lear Leah Leah looked down at her feet for a moment and let a few tears fall

The poor girl was always frightened by authority figures We were just looking for a way to get into the wasting room Leah said tears slowly falling from her face Oh, that persistent rumour I can show it to you if you want Mrs Leor said with a slight laugh Wait really? Danny asked Yes if it'll put the

silly rumours to rest, come follow me, Mrs. Lear said. The walk to the eastern wing was punctuated by an anxious undercurrent. The various rumours surrounding that room, its nefarious purpose, and origins cycled through my mind. My anxiety peaked as we stood in front of that red-bricked building. Mrs. Leor took out a land yard with a single brass key, gave us one final lock, and inserted the key into the rusted, aging lock. The sound of the lock turning sent a jolt of paralytic fear

through my body. Something about the faint grin Mrs. Leor gave us seemed sinister. As she creaked the door open, I started urging myself to take hold of my friend's hands and just run, but every command I internally screamed

at my body was ignored. Mrs. Leor straightened her back and flung the door open. The screeching of its ancient hinges cut through the silence and echoed off the concrete and linoleum. Danny jumped back, Leah gasped, and I broke out of my stunned silence to make a diminutive sound at the sight of what lay beyond the door. Nothing. No skeletons, no bodies, no little girl withered and broken seeking revenge in the world that had condemned her to a fate worse than death. Just dust, some shelves and old furniture.

Want to know why this was called the wasting room? This room was once used as a pantry back when this school was still a hospital. When the first teachers opened it up after its conversion, they found it full of spoiled food. Guess the name got out to the students and they ran with it, made up all sorts of ridiculous things. We only use it for storage these days. Nothing to fear. But what about Lily? I blurted out.

Lily Teresa Esther, that was the name. The police determined that she was abducted by her estranged father and was never seen again. The last time she was seen was at this campus, but she didn't die here. The investigation was thorough and nothing was ever found. We stood, dumbfounded by the sudden revelations. Good enough for you, kids, she asked. Yeah, I guess, Leah answered. Good, I've got things to attend to, she said, locking the room and stuff in the

the lanyard into her back pocket. As she was getting ready to leave, Danny ran up and hugged her, thanking her for solving the mystery for us. She let out an exaggerated sigh and let him know that it was no big deal and turned to leave. As soon as she was out of earshot,

Danny spoke up. Did you see it? See what? Leah and I asked in unison. He didn't see it? Then, I guess I'll have to show it you. Danny said, as he dangled the lanyard.

Danny, we're going to be in so much trouble. You need to give that back. Leah said. Yeah, Danny. Your dad's going to be here any minute, I said. Just enough time to take a quick peek, he replied.

Danny took a quick look around to make sure no one else is around and quickly unlock the door and opened it wide. He walked in and motioned for us to do the same. Don't be babies. Don't you guys want to see it? I took a nervous step inside the room, Leah close behind me.

Danny walked towards an old, filthy dresser. Help me move this thing. All three of us worked to push the thing a few feet and revealed that directly under was the rusty cellar door. See, I told you guys, Danny said. I don't think this is a good idea, Danny. We don't know what's down there, and your dad's probably waiting for us, I said. Yeah, and we already saw that the world.

wasting room is nothing to be scared of. Danny tugged on the cellar's door handle and slowly raised it until it stood open. Did you guys ever think that maybe this isn't the wasting room? Danny asked. What do you mean? I asked. David said that he saw Lily in some tunnel in a cellar. We should check it out at least. I peered down the cellar and saw a ladder leading to a smaller chamber inside. There was a corridor attached to it. And at the very edge, I saw several pipes. Danny was onto something. And, with my curiosity peaked, I agreed that it would be worth taking a look.

What about your dad? My mom will kill me if we're late. Leah whined. It'll only be a second, just to see if the wasting room is down there, Danny said. I gave Leah's hand a quick squeeze and a reassuring look before she nodded slightly. Reluctantly, she joined us as we climbed. down into the cellar. The chamber was surprisingly well lit. Light bulbs lined the ceiling. They were far enough apart that pockets of darkness existed in between each one. The most

substantial oddity in the room was the profound lack of dust on anything. Sure, rust lined the pipes, but the dust was nowhere to be seen. I should have seen this as a warning sign, until that place had been inhabited for years. closer to me as Danny led our trio towards the pipeline corridor. The moment we crossed the threshold into it, we heard a loud slam that caused the lights to flicker. In the brief moments of darkness, I swore I saw movement. We screamed, loud and piercing, a collective shriek reached a siren-loud crescendo that quietened

as the lights returns of the normal usual stable illumination. Leah was gripping my hands so tightly it hurt, and she was openly sobbing. I... I want to go home, she said in between sobs. Yeah, Danny agreed. We turned to run back towards the ladder and saw that the cellar door had been slammed shut. I scrambled up the ladder and tried to throw the doors open, but no matter how hard pushed and hit, it made no signs of budging. I started to scream for help, hoping someone would hear and let us out.

Damn, Danny cursed. What are we going to do? I yelled. Leah was now hysterical, pleading for us to get her out of there. Danny stared at both of us, face paler than I'd ever seen it. This tunnel has to lead somewhere. I bet that it'll be at the cellar on the other side of the school. We should... No, we stay here and wait for help.

Leah yelled. Leah's right. If we stay here, someone's bound to find us, I said. Danny nodded and joined us in calling out for help and occasionally pounding at the cellar door. Hours seemed to pass by, and when we had screamed our voice's horse and worked our hands raw,

we knew no one was coming. We have to look for a way out, Danny said in a dry whisper. I nodded meekly and tried to help a near catatonic lear stand to her feet. She was responsive despite her silence. Walking to the edge of the room and peering down that ancient corridor,

I saw that it stretched on as far as the eye could see, the light bulbs illuminating as much as they possibly could before blinking out of existence. I took a precarious step into the tunnel, expecting something to happen.

But when nothing did, I took another. Danny. walked ahead in a feigned bravado, and Leah followed closely behind me. We walked until we hit the first light bulb above our heads. Like a spotlight, it shone in disorienting brilliance, giving us a clear view of the rusted and flaked metal pipes running alongside us. Some had built up condensation and dripped cold droplets.

Others lead to dubious black fluid, and some occasionally shot a jet of steam through cracks and holes. I had the slightest inclination to reach out and touch them, but I caught myself halfway through the thought. I looked ahead and saw the murky darkness we had to cross before reaching the next lightbul blit beacon. Grab my hand and run, I said. Leah took my left hand and Danny my right, and we sprinted as a linked unit into the next spotlight. We repeated this five or six more times before I noticed a change in season. scenery. The number of pipes running alongside had quadrupled, crowding the walls and ceiling

and leaving no space. The size variations of the pipes had also increased. Some so rusted that this seemed on the verge of bursting, while others seemed almost new until closer inspection revealed the layers of grime that coated their surfaces. Some pipes were as wide as my head, while others were as thin as wires. I also was beginning to see that the top of the surface. I also was beginning to see that some of them were, very subtly vibrating. I tried to pick up the pace, but after passing eight more light bulbs, my foot caught on something, and I fell hard. I was plunged into the darkness, unable to see what it tripped me.

The floor no longer felt like concrete. It was lumpy and harsh, covered in strange groves and valleys. Dread formed in my stomach, as I tried to imagine what it was. Get up, Danny shouted. He hoisted me up, and we ran into the safety of the light. It was there when I finally got a good look of the floor. Pipes. The floor was made up of pipes.

They lined every inch of space. I wondered if they rested on any concrete, or if we were walking in a hallway of suspended pipes. An unusually large pipe above our heads lightly showered us in a clear liquid I hoped it was water. Leah looked at me with fear in her eyes. Danny saw it too.

He turned away and stared at what lay ahead. The pipes beneath were now noticeably undulating. Not constantly, but a wave of motion came and went in 40 second intervals. No one spoke up about the phenomenon.

Instead, we rested for a bit before we continued our trick down the pipe-filled tunnel, silent and no longer holding each other's hands. I lost track of how many light bulbs we passed and how long we'd been down there. We collapsed in exhaustion under the glow of a light bulb. The pipes were now undeniably in constant shifting motion,

an industrial intestinal tract. The hallway itself pushed us forward ever so slightly. The pipes now had multiple facets, spigots and knobs, some leaking foul inky liquids, or some spewed a steady stream of vetted water. An amalgamation of fungus grew in most pipes, psychedelic, multicolored, multi-textured moulds, oddly shaped luminescent mushrooms and pulsating slimes. The putrid scent of decay, spores, rust, metal and death filled my lungs with every heaving breath. I stood up and propped myself against the pipe, wincing and, the gelatinous sensation of the fungal organisms living on it.

How much longer could I bear this? The sound of clanking and twisting pipes caught my attention and looked at the sea what was making the sound. It was a pale, withered hand, poking out of the tangle of pipes directly above us. I stood, frozen in place, unable to shout as a second hand slipped through and pushed the metal pipes apart as easily as if they were rubber. The sound the pipes made as they were forced apart caught the attention of Leah and Danny, and they looked up at the being directly above their heads.

As the hands pushed the pipes further apart, we all saw what it was, and we let out a collective shriek. The weathered visage of Lily peered back at us, hateful and cold with malevolent intent. Where her eyes had once been, now grew pale, table-capped mushrooms, The inside of her mouth was stained black, and his putrid stench overpowered that of the pipe corridor. From a long mummified skin, within the ribs and tears, some fungus grew and dangled down or stood erect, vile, defiling shapes taking root in a child long dead.

I saw the mycelium through a translucent, papery skin. It throbbed, ached, and the morbid thought that the fungus was puppeteering poor old Lily Teresa. briefly materialised in my head. It was dispelled by the shuddering sound she made, something between a wheeze and scream. She lunged wildly as soon as it escaped the rotting pit of her mouth. What was that? Leah screamed.

Just run! Lily was on all fours then, facing us. The swollen purple tongue fell out of that black pit and she fleeted suggestively at us. I saw little white postules lining the size of a tongue and recognised with horror what they were. Tiny mushroom caps. We ran faster than we had ever run in our lives.

Lily let out another wheezing shriek and was at our heels. My chest burned with every breath. Nearing exhaustion, I dared to look behind me. Lily was now on the ceiling, clinging on the pipes like some hellish gecko. She was closing the gap between us. In moments she would be directly over our heads. There, it's right there! Leah shouted. She was pointing in an object just a few light bulbs away.

I stood up to take a closer look and was shocked to see that it was a door. A rusted metal door. With newfound determination, I picked up speed and ran with all my might towards the promise of safety. I outpaced both Leah and Danny and threw myself at the door with a single push I forced it wide open. Danny dove in, but Leah was a second too late. Lily dropped down from the ceiling and pounced. She succeeded in grabbing hold of one of Leah's ankles and yanked the girl to the floor.

Leah let out a scream and took hold of my hand. With a free leg she kicked at Lily and landed a direct hit. I heard the sickening crunch of ancient bones and frail skin shattering, and Leah's head lulled back. Danny took hold of Leah's other hand and we pulled her out of Lily's grasp. As we pulled her inside the room, Lily's head snapped forward and we saw the kick had unhinged the jaw. It now dangled from thin strips of skin.

The fat, purple slug of a tongue hung out thick, inky fluid poured from its length. As soon as the liquid made contact with the pipes, thin white caps sprouted and grew. I slammed the door before she could make another move. I turned around just to see where in God's name we ended up. The inside of the room was huge, far too big. Its dimensions were a spatial impossibility. The expanse of the room was physically impossible to house just beneath the school. The ceiling was at least three stories tall and its sheer size dwarf the school seven times over.

It was just a jumbled mess of pipes, ladders, drains, vents, great, and the ceiling of the school, and the size dwarf, ladders, drains, vents, great, elevated metal walkways. It was maddening, an industrial hellscape. On some fixtures, the fungus was viewed so seamlessly. It was as if the pipes and its attachments were made of fungal chitin and mycelium, growing together in a blasphemous fusion of rust, metal and fungus. Testaments to the gods of rot and decay. Where are we? Danny said unsteadily.

No one answered, because no one knew. Somehow we had crossed some unspoken boundary that divided our mundane little world, and this world ruled by atrophy. It came to me then, the answer to Danny's question, and thus I spoke. The wasting room, a brief silence fell upon us. From the pipelined walls, something emerged, An enormous mass was birthed. It dwarfed us in all his unholy glory.

It was somewhat humanoid and comprised entirely of the same metal fixtures and fungus that made up everything else. Long rusty pipes and vents ran alongside its entire body, steam and fluid leaking from them. I could see multiple giant gears embedded in its chest, turning constantly with no sign of slowing. Polypore mushrooms, over a dozen feet in length, made up the organic majority of its mass. It grew along with its limbs and chest, a dozen other varieties made up the rest of its weight.

They were the medium for which the biological and industrial conjoined and merged. Bioluminescent blue caps, bright red spotted a maniters, wrinkled morals, gelatinous wood ears, basket stinkorns, and bleeding devil's tooth, All there, thriving and festering. The being's head was one giant, flat, fungal shield front. It had many points ending in pipe vents, multicolored smog spewing from them. In the centre of its face sat two dark, beady eyes. They seemed out of place, far too human. I knew at a glance what this being was.

It could be nothing else but the long-forgotten lord of decay. the god of rot. It didn't need to speak to convey the hatred and pain it felt. It was all in its eyes, but regardless it spoke. Cast yourselves unto me and my domain, and ye shall be gifted the fruit of immortality, for death is nearly the beginning. Be immortalized in mycelium and rust, that which countless eons will always fester. As soon as the words were broken. They rose. An army of humanoid, pipe, fungus amalgamations took form before our very eyes. They took slow, strange steps towards us. Metal and steam screeched with every movement they made. We ran. There has to be an exit, Leah yelled. How do you know? Danny asked. Because if this

place has an entrance, it means there must be some other way to enter and leave. I don't know if this place follows the rules of the outside world, Leah, I said. It follows some of them, though, she said unsteadily. We scrambled up a flight of stairs into an elevated walkway. There was one thing that caught my attention, following Leah's reasoning. I noticed that this place was illuminated by rays of light peeking in from overhead windows. If we could just reach them, then maybe we could escape.

There, I shouted. I pointed at a ladder leading up towards the ceiling. Danny was the first one to start ascending. I helped Leah up before I took my place and climbed for my life. Looking down, I could see the army of bio-industrial humans convening at the base of the ladder. Danny, Leah, hurry! I shouted. Danny struggled to pick up the pace and make his way towards the now visible door at the end of the ladder.

I felt the weight of the first creature started to climb. I felt the vibrations of every step it climbed and it informed me that it was fast, way too quickly for us to outpace it for long. Almost there, Danny shouted. He was about a foot or two from the door when his hand launched out to push it open. I saw the glare of a bright summer sun

just beyond the door. Danny hoisted himself up and had his up a torso to the door when the sound of wheezing scream cut through, instilling that familiar, paralytic fear. A dangling pipe directly behind Danny burst open. Vile black liquid spilled out in a torrential flood, drenching Danny. The reanimated corpse of Lily leaped out from the shattered pipe and clung under Danny's lower half, and they both came tumbling down. There was no time to scream or even react as they were both in free fall. Lily took most of the impact, her tiny, frail, rotting body bursting as soon as it made contact with the cold, hard floor, long-rotted organs and violet fluids splattering across the room.

Danny's head still smacked the ground hard enough to knock him unconscious. The creatures in the ladder jumped down onto the floor and they gathered around Danny. We have to help him, I screamed. Leah, poor, shy me clear, with eyes full of grief, may the final final. steps and climbed out into the world outside. I stood in shock, taking a glance back down at Danny and back again at Leah. I realized I had a choice to make. I could leave with Leah right now, or I could stay down here with a rowdy boy I had known since

first grade, dark-eyed and all too excitable, slowly maturing in a young man at the peak of his youth. How much longer would our friendship last? Danny, who once chased wild animals and built box forts. Danny, who played pranks and girls to scare them away, and talked loud on purpose to annoy adults. Danny, who now rarely played with us and said our adventures were childish. Danny, who now preferred to look at magazines with women's played out

instead of reading the latest Spider-Man comics with me. Danny had made his choice, and Leah had made hers. I reached out to her, and she took hold of my hand. wait, please, Danny shouted, now conscious. I turned to look one final time. Danny was being carried away by the creatures. The black liquid that stained him had become sprouting little mushroom cups. I'm sure if he was closer, I would see the thin mycelium growing into his skin.

I watched as they carried Danny to a nearby pipe jutting from the wall. It ended in an open. sprout, a familiar black liquid dripped from it. No, please, help me. His final cry for help was cut off by the creatures, ramming and impaling him into the pipe. Danny went limp and let himself collapse. His body twitched once as I heard the pipe groan and creak. I saw his eyes and mouth start leaking the black fluid as the inky tears ran streaks

down his cheeks, little mushroom caps began sprouting from them. Hot tears ran down my cheeks. They got a path through my dirt-stained face and fell onto the floor. I had made my choice. I let out a heaving sob as I turned and stepped out into our world. Her janitor found us at the back of the school, next to the cellar door where Mrs. Leor had scolded us. The police were called as we'd been missing for three days. to that point. We pointed meekly at the now closed door. The questions of what happened, where we were and Danny were asked non-stop for the first week. We could only point them towards the cellar and the brick room. We told them on the wasting room and the hallways

of pipes. They said it was trauma and that we created false memories to cope. They never found anything in the brick room, in the cellar doors, and Danny was assumed dead by the end of the summer. Danny's parents didn't invite me to the funeral. I saw in their eyes that they blamed me. With no one else to blame, they turned their ire towards me. Maybe they could see the guilt in my eyes. Maybe they knew that on some level I had abandoned their son.

They weren't wrong. David, Danny's older brother, killed himself in the following weeks, as if the power family hadn't lost enough. My parents blamed me too. They never said it, but they always treated me differently, as if I was some wild animal that could snap at any moment. Leah and I drifted apart. The last time I saw her was in freshman year of high school.

I found a note slipped in my locker. It wasn't signed, but I recognized a immaculate tiny script. All it said was that she was going back for Danny. that the door to the wasting room would open for her. Leah went missing that day, and I never saw her again. It's been six years since I first stepped foot in the wasting room. I tried to do some digging, but what I found doesn't solve or answer anything. I know that when the school was still a hospital,

the terminal patients were assigned to that cold brick room, left there to waste away slowly. That's how it got its morbid moniker. My small, unassuming school was a place for the sick to come and spend their final days in cold milgerie hospital rooms. Maybe, just maybe, a place can only experience so much death, suffering and grief, before some outside forces take notice. Or maybe, those who slowly rotted away called out to some higher power. Maybe, after so much tragedy, a physical location can become linked to some outer realm, by that tragedy, by that decay.

Maybe Mrs. Leor and the other teachers knew of the horrible domain beneath their very feet, and they played along with its whims and demands. Like I said at the beginning, I don't know. There is no answer. No clean, tightly wrapped ribbon that holds it all together. All I know is that I can't go on like this. Danny and Lea consume my every waking thought.

every waking thought. God I missed them. The god of rot promised me immortality once. I'm sure if I go back to that place, back to that red-bricked abyss, the wasting room will still be there. Waiting for me. I won't tell you the exact location of the event as what we did was highly illegal and on top of everything else I don't need a police investigation coming my way. I would like to stress that our intentions were innocent. We really were only there for scientific research, all of which had been signed off, and we certainly meant no disrespect.

Desecration was never on our agenda. But things don't always go to plan. Since the sunken wreck was a designated war grave, it is completely closed the tourism and other such morbid thrill-seekers. Permission is required to study the wreck, and even then, only from the outside. No living person is allowed inside that ship. I had been part of the project for some time,

the purpose being to investigate the wreck and its overall condition, to see how it had been taken over by the sea, and, if possible, to determine the integrity of the ship itself. After all, there was still fuel in there, and if there were going to be any leaks we needed to know. We had completely mapped the outside of the ship with sonar, and had had some success with small rovers that had been sent into the first two decks. We didn't expect to find too much in those floors due to the sediment buildup and the fact that oxygen levels were high enough to have destroyed anything organic that could be there. The pictures and videos we got back largely resembled a ship-shaped reef.

Shellfish, plants, the odd fish. There was nothing tangible that suggested that it was. humans had ever lived there, and only the square rooms and doorways gave it away. The lower decks, three and below, could be a different ballgame though. It was believed that the oxygen levels were lower down there, and there could possibly be less sediment too. Maybe we could find something more interesting. However, the first rovers we tried to send that low proved to be problematic, as we had

to release the cables ourselves, and that made it difficult to get them as the wires had a tendency to get caught up. The solution to this was a new robot with a self-winding cable. Though piloted from above, this little guy travelled along under its own steam, winding and unwinding as necessary and was much more reliable, an expensive but very welcome addition to the team. Before the incident, we had sent the rover in on two occasions and had made some decent headway. The video sent back was excited.

sent back was exciting, clothes hanging on hooks that would never have survived on the upper decks, paper with writing still visible. It was the first time for most of us that this actually looked like a ship rather than a strange museum where sailors had actually lived and died. We were in the control room watching the screen. The rover was drifting slowly through what looked like a mess hall. We could make out the top of tables over the sediment which are to officially raised the ship's floor.

A few tables still had a few ceramic plates on them. Alan, the rover's driver, shook his head in wonder. Crazy, he murmured. You almost expect to see people sitting there, eating. Lena, in the chair next to him, gave her, hmm, have agreement. Head rested on her hand as she watched the feed. Just think, she said.

No one has seen this for 70 years. She looked up at me. Do you think we're likely to see any remains, Jamie? Generally, that was a subject we tried to avoid, but in these lower decks, there was a more pertinent question than on previous missions. I doubt it, I said. The sediment has probably buried anything that's left.

And if we did find anything, we drift right on past. There was no document on the ship. We were there to document the ship, not bodies. On the screen, a doorway got closer. Lena looked down on the map on the desk in front of her. This corridor leads down one of the fuel tanks. There's also an officer's room to the side. Okay, I said.

Alan, if you can get in there, take a quick look in the officer's room first. Get a sample of the sediment for Catherine. Then we'll go check the tank. Catherine was a biologist who was interested in what kind of life forms we might find in such a low oxygen environment. She appeared at that moment with a tray of tea for us all and grinned at me. You bring me stuff, I bring you stuff. She placed the tray down and looked at the screen. Nice.

The rover moved gently through the doorway of the officer's room, its flashlight moving slowly over the contents inside. the tops of cupboards, a bed, a sink. Oh my goodness, gasped Catherine. Did you see that? The light reflected there. Is that a mirror? Alan moved closer to the sink and up.

Catherine was right. There was a mirror hanging over the sink and it was miraculously still clean enough, at least in some places, to see a reflection of our little robot. Take a look at yourself, buddy, grinned Alan. We all smiled at the image. And then we all flinched.

What was that? said Lena. I wasn't sure, but it looked like either the flashlight had briefly turned off, or something had passed in front of it. I hesitated for a moment, but nothing else appeared on the screen. All right, Alan, I said. Let's get that sample and head to the tank. Alan nodded, and we watched the screen. as a little metal arm appeared holding a glass vial.

It scooped up some of the sediment in the sink and then retracted. The rover turned slowly and began his journey back to the door. And then, with a jerk, it stopped moving. Alan moved the controls back and forth a few times, but nothing happened. Um, he said, we checked the readings, and as far as we could tell, the rover was working fine. It was still receiving the signal, still trying to move, and the winding mechanism hadn't broke. It caught on something, said Catherine despondently. After that, there was a lot of discussion. The law was clear. We couldn't go in after it. My position

is this, said Lena. Ethically, we're not doing anything wrong. We need that rover to investigate the ship and determine whether it's a danger to the surrounding environment and if we lose this one, who knows one will get another. We're not here to kick up sediment and steal bones. We're not taking selfies and laughing at the dead. If we go in and get the bot, we'll be doing something illegal, but I don't believe we'll be doing anything wrong. I glanced at Alan.

The look on his face made it very clear that, nervous about the consequences as he might be, he agreed with Lena. Also, he loved that little rover. Catherine cleared a throat. I would rather like myself. samples. She looked at me, but you're in charge here, Jamie, and if you decide that we just leave it, I won't make a fuss. I sighed, rubbed my face. This was a bad idea. Such a bad idea. If we got found out,

but I wanted the rover back too. All right, I said. I'll go. You'll all stay up here. The few of us that do this, the better. I'll go straight in, unhunk the bot from whatever's got it, and then get the hell out of there. We moved quickly. An unexpected visit wasn't particularly likely, but we were all on edge from the moment the decision was made and wouldn't be calm until the rover was free and I'd returned to the surface. I suited up and dived into the water, swimming quickly down to the wreck. I followed the rover's cable down to the entry gap and then hesitated. No one had been inside this ship, alive anyway, for 70 years, and now I was about to break that trend.

I swam in. There was a friszen of excitement in my chest as I moved through the rooms of the upper deck, my flashlight illuminating the rooms as I passed through. Acceleration from my own curiosity as a scientist, but also undoubtedly from doing something forbidden. Looking at things with my own eyes that I wasn't supposed to be. seeing. The temptation was with me constantly to leave the rover but just a little while and go explore on my own, but I rained it in. This was a dangerous place to be, both because of the consequences of what would happen if I was discovered down here, but also because it was an unknown

environment, especially in the lower decks. I followed the rover's cable further down, squeezing through a gap that the robot had no problem with and down onto the third deck. My heart pounded with excitement and I couldn't deny that I would likely remember this as a highlight of my life, even if I could never tell anyone about it. Alan's voice came through over my radio. Okay, Jamie, just a bit further to the mess hall and then straight ahead. I gave a nod even though he couldn't see me do so. Good, good, he said.

Nearly there then, be over soon. I suspected his reassurances were for as much himself as me. I swam onwards through the hall, the gentle movement of my flippers, causing the dust of the sediment to swirl lazily up behind me, and I kept my hand loosely wrapped around the cable in case my vision became obscured. I paused as I approached the officer's room. The fuel tank was just down the way.

I could get there and back faster than the rover could. Would it be so bad if I just went and took a look? Stop it, I told myself. Free the rover, get out, damage limitation. I moved carefully into the room. The rover was just a few foot away from the sink. It's light shining up at the ceiling. Whatever had caught it had caused it to tip backwards somewhat.

I moved over to it and peered down. There appeared to be something wrapped around a metal arm on the bot, and as I reached down to remove it, I wondered what it could be and how it had become entangled so quickly. My visibility wasn't great, as I'd caused the sediment in here, undisturbed for so long to swirl up around my face. I moved in a little closer,

my hand trying to pry whatever the thing was from the rover. It was pale, and it felt stiff. almost like roots under my fingers. Gripping hard onto the metal as I pulled on it, I started to wonder if I would be able to remove it without a knife. And then, whatever it was, suddenly sprang open, and there was a perfect moment of clarity as my flashlight fell fully on the thing,

the sediment in the air clearing just for a moment, allowing me for the first time to make out what it caught our rover. I don't remember most of my flight out of the ship. I swam faster than I ever had before, and the journey was just a flash of rooms and swirling sediment as I fled through the wreck. I kicked up to the first deck and out of the entry gap, my heart pounding as I pulled upwards, my lungs screaming with exertion until I broke the surface. I pulled the mask from my face, staring up at the sky, a moment to catch my breath, and

then I made for the control rooms. and Catherine were waiting for me on the deck. What on earth happened? asked Catherine, looking concerned. You tore out of there like crazy. Nothing, I gasped. Nothing happened. I just panicked a little.

Lena gave me a friendly pat on the back. Well, good job anyway. You free the rover and Alan is bringing it back now. I nodded, trying to slow my breathing. Lena helped me out of my diving suit. and, once changed, I joined the others in the control room. We all watched the screen as the rover documented its return journey. What was it caught on? asked Alan,

maneuvering the robot out of the entry hole. I hesitated for a moment. Just some cloth, I think. Alan nodded, then glanced at the others. No harm done, guys, he said. So we keep this little adventure to ourselves, yeah? Lena and Catherine agreed with enthusiasm. Ah, little secret.

I nodded, saying nothing. They didn't need to tell me not to talk about it. My illegal journey into a war grave, where I wasn't supposed to be, to free a trapped rover. And the sight of the cold dead hand that had gripped it. King High Diamond Flush, I said boldly as I laid my cards out on the table. Despite my strong hand, my heart still thumbed to my chest as I waited for the only other play on the hand to reveal his cards. Although my odds of winning were good, I was nervous.

If my opponent had the ace, ace high, diamond flush. My train of thought was disrupted and my heart sank. My opponent had the goddamn ace. Unlike any other time I'd played Texas Hold'am at the casino, I had no idea what to expect. See, I wasn't at a normal casino. I was at the Holy Grail casino, where one does not gamble with money. My opponent had wager a finger, and I thought that that had been some colloquial way of making a small bet. Just as we say frequently, an arm and a leg figuratively for an exorbitant cost,

I thought that finger was being used in the same context. I was proven brutally wrong when the dealer, without a hint of emotion, put a large knife out of some concealed location and chopped my pinky finger off. I screamed, both in pain and disbelief. I had been expecting the most intense gambling experience of a lifetime, but I hadn't imagined anything of this magnitude. I had finally found a form of gambling, even I balked at. I'll come clean and say it.

I'm a compulsive gambler. I've had an enduring fixation on lady luck as early as I can remember. As a child, I loved making bets, even small and petty ones with my peers. When I was 18, and had my first job, I squandered a bigger portion of my very first paycheck than I cared to admit on scratch-off lottery tickets. With my addictive pricklivities, I ignore the glaring net financial loss that this incurred, instead gravitating to the mere $20 I did win from those tickets. Now you can tell me that my gambling winnings are heavily outweighed by my losses over the years, and you'd be right.

It's a stubborn fact that cannot be truthfully denied. But it did not matter to me. I was addicted to gambling. I was always convinced that the big, life-changing win I needed was right around the corner. It is this lifelong habit that is not only brought about a life of financial strain, but which, I fear,

has brought about my imminent appointment with my own mortality. You see, my gambling problem reached this end of last year after I cajoled one of my poker friends, Dallas, into taking me to a secretive and high-stakes casino that he frequently spoke of, and this is as good a place as any to begin telling what happened. So, is this the night you finally go to a seed and tell me about the mythical high-stakes venue you claim to frequent Mr Big Shot? I asked my friend Dallas.

Dallas was a pro at gambling. At least, he swept the floor with a competition nine times out of ten and the backroom car games we frequented Dallas groan loudly in the passenger seat come on bro I said doggedly you can't just set something up on a pedestal like this and not expect someone to persist I don't know man this isn't kitty stuff this is the big leagues Dallas answered I'm not a lightweight I objected no but this is way more than anything we'd ever bet back there he said referring to our backroom games, one of which we had just left. This is the real deal. Hardcore. This is the most hardcore gambling around. Dallas continued.

Like what, Russian roulette? I joked. No, man, Dallas said, cryptically. Look, man, I give you rides to these games every week. You owe me. I was getting seriously annoyed at his reticence. Fine, Dallas groaned, exasperated. I couldn't believe it. I had actually warned him down. But I'm warning you, this is serious, Dallas said sternly. I want to go, I said firmly.

Dallas reached into his wallet and handed me a medallion. Upon inspection, I saw one side was affixed with the design of an ornate, butchewed chalice, with the words, Holy Grail Casino written above it. On the other side, written in elegant cleography, was the phrase, Omnen Mamora, all the marbles in Latin. This certainly bore the look of a Ritzie, an exclusive place. I had a feeling I'd either win a jackpot of jackpot or end up homeless on the street. The reality would prove much worse than the latter.

Dallas was looking at me oddly, almost as if he was worried. But I could tell he wasn't going to be able to talk me out of it. I still hate him for his acquiescence to my pestering. When can we go? I asked excitedly. I was planning to go tomorrow. Dallas started. When should I pick you up? I interrupted. That's not how we get there.

Dallas answered. What? I started. But it was Dallas's turn to interrupt. When you go to bed tomorrow night, write your full name on a piece of paper, then put it and the medallion in your pocket when you go to sleep. I looked at him incredulously. had he been messing with me this whole time.

Look, just trust me. Either do it or don't. But that's how you get there. Dallas said, matter-of-factly. I looked silently at the road as we near the place where Dallas lived. Dallas seemed to be pensively looking out the window, as if he was debating whether or not he should have given me the medallion. I dropped Dallas off without a word and raced home.

I don't know why I was in such a hurry. I guess I wanted to start waiting for tomorrow night as soon as possible. After a torturous day of waiting, the next night finally came. Remembering Dallas's instructions, I wrote my full name on a slip of paper and placed it, along with the medallion in the pockets of my sweatpants that I was wearing to bed for that purpose. I could have sworn that I had heard my name being chanted as I drifted off to sleep, but the authenticity of those sounds is still ambiguous. What is not ambiguous is the fact that shortly after falling asleep, I found myself in an opulent,

red carpeted casino. I was in a lobby of sorts, at least I think that's what it was. I was in a large marble room with Greco-Roman-style columns flanking a plush red carpet that led to two magnificent ebony doors, which boasted intimately carved ivory handles. As I was soaking in the amazing, luxurious sight, a man in a suit, briskly approached me. You can't go to the floor dress like that, he admonished me,

pointing to my sweatpants and white t-shirt. I'm sorry, I began sluggishly. I'd be confused by everything. Was I honestly expected to go to bed in a suit in order to gamble here? No worry, sir. The man had a rather upper-class accent.

We will get you outfitted here, free of charge. A short while later, I was sporting a fine burgundy suit a white-dress shirt and black loafers and being led by the casino worker back to those grandiose doors. He stopped in front of them, held one of the doors open, and ushered me in.

Enjoy your stay, sir, he said as he closed the door behind me. I looked in the even more impressive sight that was the gambling floor. I stood at the top of a red carpeted staircase with gilded railings, looking down at a large room. On the far end,

The words, holy growl casino were displayed prominently on the wall, illuminated by spotlight. Like the lobby, a red carpet ran through the centre, bisecting the impressive layout of games and tables. Interestingly, there didn't appear to be any slot machines. There seemed to be exclusively traditional games. Poker tables, blackjack tables, roulette wheels, and craps tables, I all recognized. Finally, I descended the stairs. The patrons and staff paid me little attention as I set foot on the floor. I briefly scanned the floor for Dallas, but saw no sign of him. I shrugged and decided to jump into the games.

All around me, finally dressed patrons were engrossed in their games, and others stood to the side, nursing cocktail glasses and puffing on cigars. I'd never had much of an affinity for roulette or craps, and I avoided blackjack like the plague. It's definitely rigged for the house. accordingly I quickly settled on poker After rying several tables I settled on a table occupied by just one patron

An uninterested old man in a black suit Can I join here? I asked The dealer replied affirmatively I sat down and noticed there were no chips in sight I thought it had been odd that I hadn't received any But I had just figured they would be given at the table curious I asked First time

The dealer raised an eyebrow Yes The old man sighed annoyed What the hell Shouldn't a patron At such a purportedly high-stakes venue Be eager to have fresh meat

Well the rules state that one's first game Is one round of betting only The dealer said in a monotone voice No wonder the old man was annoyed I nodded and sat down but the chips I began to inquire We don't use them here The old man spoke for the first time

Before I asked what we did use The old man placed what would apparently be the sole bet of his hand A finger Had I heard him right He couldn't actually mean Bet is one finger The dealer said interrupting my thoughts As I stated in the beginning

I assumed that a finger was being used in the same figurative context that one often uses the term, an arm and a leg. I called the bet. The cards were dealt, and I felt confident as I laid out the king high flush I spoke of in the beginning. But then came the old man's ace high flush, and then came the chop.

I screamed. To my shock, none of the other patrons even looked up from the games at the sound of my screams and the chop. Was this an ordinary occurrence? Before I could get up from the table, the dealer also procured some sort of ointment and quickly dapped some of the knob where my finger had been. The bleeding instantly stopped, and the pain eased, but I was having none of it. I got it from the table and began to run back to the doors.

This was too much. I had to get out of here. I heard a despaired how coming from the direction of the roulette wheels as I made it back to the centre of the floor, but didn't dare look back at the source. I stepped onto the carpet and set up at the stairs when I nearly collided with Dallas. Hey, you made it, he said. Oof, tough break on the finger, he indicated at my hand. How have you never lost anything?

I asked, pointedly, barely resisting the urge to shake his shoulders. Well, I have, Dallas smoked. You have all your digits, I sputtered. Well, that's because I won them back, he said. You can win them back? I was in disbelief. Of course, they'll attach it if you win one. I should have just cut my losses.

I shouldn't have been swayed by temptation. But if you know the rabbit hole that is gambling, you'll know how much people put themselves in the hole vainly trying to win back a negligible loss, all the while turning that negligible loss into something substantial. I was still weighing my options. Stay or quit while still ahead, when a booming voice disrupted my deliberation.

Attention, floor. We have a class 10 loser. Death. He couldn't actually mean. Before I could make any kind of move, the patrons became a mob, and the wave of people pushed Dallas and I to the centre with them.

A man who I noticed was already missing an arm was on his knees sobbing. An emotionless casino dealer stood before him, holding a sword. Everyone... Cut your losses. The man sputtered through sobs. Before he could say anything else, the sobs were cut off by the slice of the sword,

and the poor man's head hit the floor and tumbled, landing at my feet. My jaw dropped open, and I took several short-circuited breaths as the head stopped just shy of my feet. Honestly, I'm surprised I didn't scream or vomit. Next to me, Dallas was completely unfazed. I had to get out of here. To hell with my finger, this was too much. I turned to leave, pushing my way through the crowd of people. Nobody tried to stop me.

Dallas didn't seem to react to my attempted departure either. As I made it through the crowd and began sprinting towards the exit, I heard a loud, deafening sound. The sound of a clock striking the next hour. A cacophony of excited murmurs ensued behind me as I made it to the unyielding doors. Let me out, I need to get out of here. I banged desperately on the doors. You can't.

Not right now, I heard Dalla say behind me. Why not? I asked frantically, turning to face him. The masters of the casino are here. Gambling is compulsory until they leave. No, I weakly sobbed. You may as well try when your finger back, Dalla said gently. I'm going to play some poker.

Care to join my table? I didn't want to play poker. I really didn't. While it was typically my game of choice, the present circumstances were far from typical. I was no longer protected by the one-rule bet now that I had played my first hand, and I knew that. With all the successive betting, my predicament could only get out of control if I played poker. No, thanks, I think I'll find a different game. Dallas nodded.

I sighed, and, regaining my composure, descended the stairs. All around me, patrons are engaged in the now mandatory games. No longer was anyone leisurely sipping a cocktail or enjoying a cigar. The only one's not gambling were the four entities in the middle of the floor. As I walked along the carpet, I got a better look at them. They were utterly terrifying, devoid of any discernible trace of humanity. At least what little of them I could see was. They were clad in identical, elegant robes.

with their faces concealed by cows. Inside those cows, yellow eyes stared back at me, and, while their lower extremities were completely concealed by the robes, inhuman, twisted hands protruded from their sleeves. They were grey and looked to be of an organic material, but in shape they resembled tree branches more than hands. Play, one of them hissed icily at me. I quickly nodded, terrified, and settled on roulette.

Even though I had shunted earlier, I now felt it to be my safest option. For one thing, I could control the betting. I wouldn't have to contend with any extreme bets from the other patrons, and I could buy my time until this involuntary gambling ended. I approached the wheel, nodding at the gaunt casino worker there. Your bet, sir? he asked calmly. A finger, I said hesitantly. As the man nodded, I realised what?

luck this was. This roulette wheel had no numbers. I literally had a 50-50 shot of winning my digits back and being whole again. I'd never heard of such a wheel, but I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Black, please, I said to the man. One finger on black, the man said as he set the game in motion. I watched tensely as the ball rounded and slowed. Red. My heart sank. More pain ensued as the man, much like the first dealer, removed my ring finger. I cried out and fell to my knees. I struggled to get up in between pain sobs. Gambling was still mandatory, and I did not want to anger those foul beings. I would just keep betting on black at the roulette wheel. Eventually I'll be whole again. It only took one win

after all. Two fingers on black, I placed my bet. Very good, sir. the casino man said Red again God damn it More blinding pain A pitiful weak voice of mine Bet four fingers through clenched teeth Black

It landed on black Sweet merciful Jesus I was whole again Fascinated I watched as the man procured Four fingers from his coat pocket And somehow reattached them I gratefully wrote my regenerated flesh As I left the wheel

If I could just blend in with the crowd until the master's left, I would be in the clear. I could leave with my body hole and never return to this godforsaken place. But I wouldn't get so lucky. After about ten minutes of attempting to be the wallflower, I was spotted by a poker dealer. I was clearly guilty of idling and he knew it. I had two choices, he said. Play at his table or answer to the masters. I chose the former, and, as I sat down at the table, realised Dallas was there.

He had a hand missing. It was just Dallas and one other when I joined, and this three-player game quickly escalated. It was clear that this hand was all or nothing. Horrible as it was to be pitted against my friend, it was him or me. And down straight, I was choosing myself. Soon, the betting had led us all having, literally, our necks on the line. Somehow, I had ended up having my head on the line. Losing was not an option, and was no option for any of the three of us.

But I was determined to win. But so was Dallas, and in his steadfast desire to live, he showed depths of depravity I would have never deemed him capable of. I'm up in the stakes, death by immolation. Dallas proclaimed as the turn For those who don't know As the fourth card in Texas Holdham Was revealed

I couldn't believe it But the dealer Blanly restated the bet As if nothing of note had happened What the hell Dallas I screamed completely shaken Death is already on the line I don't want to die buddy

Dallas said And I don't want you to die either But barring the unlikely event of a tie two of us, and therefore you and I will die after this hand. But there are many ways to die, and decapitation is much better than burning to death. If your cards are bad, you need to seriously consider it. I feel pretty confident about my hand.

How about you? I was terrified, both at Dallas's villainous monologue and the terrifying prospects that I faced. My nerves nearly failed. I very nearly folded and took the easy death. If you fold you forfeit what you have previously bet In this case my head But I called the bet with a quivering voice My nerves were apparently stronger than the third player

He sobbed at his dilemma Before folding Poor bugger He was taken away from the table to be beheaded As the dealer prepared to reveal the river The final card I brace myself There were a couple of things of note out of the forecahed

cards. Three spades. Possible flush for Dallas if he had two spades and a ten. The ten was of note, because I had two tens. Three of a kind would lose to the flush, but four of a kind would prevail and save my life. After great inner suspense, the last card was reeled. I couldn't believe it. It was the ten. I was saved.

My luck had saved me when it mattered the most. There's not much more to wager, Dallas. I check, I said. Up to the gods then. Fine. Dallas said, show me a flush. Sorry, Dallas. Four tens.

I revealed my hand. Dallas was shaking, hyperventilating even. I was too. I took no joy in my own survival. I was sorry then, and I still am. I was sorry as I, along with men. other spectators watched Dallas get bound and set on fire. It should have been me there.

I had hounded him incessantly into inviting me to the damn place. His agonized screams and the smell of his burning flesh will stay with me until the day I die, which probably won't be long. As Dallas entered his death rose, the clocklight sound struck again, apparently signifying the end of the mandatory gambling period. We were free to leave. We were free to leave. I was free to leave.

Dejected at the horrors I witnessed, and profoundly guilty at the hand I had in my friend's death, I began to mosey towards the exit, only to be stopped by some unseen force. As many of the patrons filed out, the telekinetic force that had me in its grasp spun me around. I gasped. I was staring right at the masters,

and even though their faces were hidden, it was clear that they were angry with me. You didn't play, one said, accusingly. My heart thumped rapidly as I said that I had played and asked that I please be allowed to leave. You didn't play for a few minutes, another one responded. Damn, I was screwed. The master die, the first one said.

I watched in horror as one of them produced a large die. and rolled it. By the looks of it, nothing nice was in store for me. I suppose the best description of the dye I can offer is to say that it's similar to the one Bowser rolls if you land on a space in Mario Party 6. But I digress.

The die landed and my knees went weak. Fifty years of your life is forfeit as punishment. The master's chimed. Of course, feel free to try win them back later. I was sobbing. I was begging. But they were unmoved as they freed me from their supernatural grip. The next thing I remember is passing out on the red carpet and waking up in my own bed.

I wanted to write it off as a bad dream so desperately, but I couldn't. First of all, I was dressed in the suit I'd worn more gambling. My sweatpants and shirt were gone. Bad as that was, there was something much worse. something that absolutely confirmed the worse. Dallas had died under perplexing and seemingly downright impossible circumstances. There was no fire in his apartment, and nothing else was burned. Yet his mysteriously charred corpse was discovered in his bed.

Of course, I know why his corpse was charred, but I'm probably the only one. But worst of all, I know my time is very limited. I don't know just how long I have. But it can't be long. I lost 50 years of life to those creatures. I'm 35 and still alive. So I would have lived to be at least 85. But how long after 85 had I lived?

Maybe I'll die tomorrow, or the day after, or next year. Or if I'm lucky, maybe I'll have another 10 plus years. I'm living life, knowing that every day could likely be my last. Loathe as I'm about to do so, I know. My only hope is to go back to that awful casino and win back my 50 years. I still have the medallion, and time is of the essence. But I'm afraid of going back there. I'd better make a decision, lest I die without making peace.