CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 TERRIFYING Reddit Horror Stories to ease your demons to sleep

Episode Date: August 11, 2020

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "Mr. Moore wanted to stay alive, and it came with a cost" Creepypasta►14:22 "The Crawling Boy" Creepypasta►36:40 "My uncle used to own a farm. I wish I’d never set foot in that place" Creepypasta►59:20 "I've Seen What Lies Beyond Reality" Creepypasta►1:21:25 "If you ever explore an abandoned school. Don't feed the students" Creepypasta►1:52:49 "NASA Is Trying To Kill Me" Creepypasta►2:06:19 "My sister sang to all her dolls, but only one sang back" 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-

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caretaker had a care home for a few years. I don't expect anybody to believe my story, but this was what led me to quit my job. Mr. Charles Moore, or at least, that was his name when I met him, was an old man. He never told me his age, but I figured he was about 90 years old when I met him. By he, I meant his mortal shell. As for how old Mr. Moore truly was, if not for his old man's body and his raspy voice, you wouldn't think he was a man of his age. He had a sense of humour and often bantered with and played jokes on the caretakers.

He didn't seem to mind the dreary atmosphere of the care home at all. I wish I never met him. One day in the cafeteria after dinner time, I figure it was my second year working at the place. Mr Moore beckoned me to join him at his table. He was sitting alone, or most other old folks are playing cards, watching TV and doing what old folks do. I don't think we've ever gotten to know each other, Mr. Moore said, extending his hand.

I'm Charles Moore and you can call me Charles. What's your name's son? David, I replied and shook his hand. Nice to meet you, Charles. Are you a military man, David? Charles asked. Yes, I replied. Royal Marines, how can you tell? I had served in the Marines for a short stint some years before, and served for a while in Syria. When you observe people for as many years as I've lived, David,

you can easily notice patterns, Charles said. I was a marine man myself. When I watched you, I recognised the way you walk and the way you talk. That's impressive, Charles. I said, how long did you serve? If you are referring to my service in the Royal Marines, I've served 34 years, he replied. I began my service at age 18 and was discharged honourably in 73. So you served during the World War and the Falcons War?

My interest was piqued. The things you must have seen. Yep, Charles replied. I was among the troops who landed on Normandy in 44. I was a paratrooper to be more specific. That's amazing, Charles, I replied. I wasn't trying to be polite. I was impressed.

It is, isn't it? Charles responded. And yet, I'm here in a care home. The greatest generation. All dead are in care homes now. Funny, isn't it? He laughed. I didn't know how to respond to his bitter humour.

A moment of silence passed, and Charles took a sip from his mug of tea. Suddenly he turned and looked me straight in the eye, he said, his gaze unfaltering. I have to tell you something about me. Can I trust you? Of course, Charles, I said. I felt surprised, but decided to listen. What do you want to tell me? David, Charles said. What if I told you that Charles isn't my real name? What is the old bloke up to, I thought.

Then I realized he wasn't joking. Well, I wouldn't tell anyone if you didn't want me to. Your information is safe with me. All right, Charles said, and excel deeply. My name was Fritz Weber a long time ago and Piotr Viliqe before that. Anything before that, I don't remember anymore. Piotr Bilike was born in 1890 in Petrograd, Russia, which later became Leningrad and today St. Petersburg to a family of poor peasants.

Like most peasants, they despised the heavy taxes and conscription imposed on them by the aristocracy. In 1914, Piotr and his family were conscripted to the Russian army. Piotr killed many Germans in the war, but his father died in the war to a German sharpshooter. Piotr hated the Russian Tsar, but hated him even more after his father's death. In 1917, he joined the Bolsheviks in overthrowing the monarchy and was hailed a hero by his village. He believed very strongly in the communist movement and he was the party representative at his village. He had a wife and children and lived a happy life tilling the communal farms. He longed that one day he and his children would live in the communist utopia described by Marx.

Piotr loved his children, but he loved his country more. In 1941, the Germans began their infamous campaign, Operation Barbarossa. Piotr had to pick up his rifle again to defend his home and his family. He was sent down south to Stalingrad, where he, like a million other Soviets, fought a vicious battle to repel the fascists. He fought in the trenches and he fought on the streets. The battle killed a million Soviets and Piotr was among them. When fighting at close quarters in the Red October Steel Factory, he felt a German bayonet plunged into his ribcage. He felt a flood of regret that he would have to leave this life behind.

Alas, he had no choice. He had became Fritz Weber. Fritz was a very hot-headed man. He wasn't old enough to have fought in the First World War, but he was more than enthusiastic for the second. He was a devout supporter of the National Socialists. and, up to that point, was a real scumbag of a human being. I admit freely that I felt no regret in what I did of it, only in the fact that I had to leave my life in Russia behind.

Leningrad never fell to the fascists, and Piotr could never see his wife and children again. At this point, I was confused, but not alarmed. I suspected dementia was responsible for the strange story. It's easy for old people to mix up stories that seen on TV or read in a book with their own experiences. After that ordeal, I spent a few years in Germany. Charles continued.

Fritz, having been wounded in battle, was sent to be a guard at Auschwitz-Burkenau. David, I want you to know that I am not a monster. When I saw the things that happened in that place, I was horrified. I did what it could to help the starving men, women and children. I tried to sneak them food from the barracks and helped some of them escape.

But there were too many. of them. I'm sorry for what you had to go through, Charles, I said. That's all right, Charles said. For the last 70 years, I haven't told anyone about this. I just need to let it all out before I go. I'm not a young man anymore, David. I can sense that my time is almost up. That's all right, Charles, I said, patting his shoulder. I thought he was confused, but decided to tolerate it. That's some heavy stuff there. Let it out.

Anyway, two years after that, Fritz was sent to the Western Front, to Normandy. On June 6th, the Allies landed, and Fritz was sent to the front lines to defend a bridge. A British paratrooper of the 6th Airborne Division landed 30 metres away from him

and promptly shot him in the jaw with a rifle. Charles gestured at himself. That, he continued. continued, was me, Charles Moore. You've never told anyone about your time in the war? I asked, incredulous. No, Charles replied. My family knows, briefly.

Why would I tell them anything more? My own son put me here to rot. They're probably looking forward to the time I bite the dust so they can inherit my fortune. I'm sorry to hear that, Charles, I said. That's all right, he said. It's not like it's your fault. Besides, they aren't getting anything.

They didn't earn any of that money. I did. How would you like to inherit three million euros? I was stunned. I can't accept that, Mr. Moore. I stuttered. Give it to someone who needs it. Give it to a charity.

I don't deserve that money. He tried to persuade me, but I was adamant in my refusal. My co-worker and my co-worker Andrew approached me during a break period for caretakers. Andrew's face was glowing and his eyes twinkled with excitement. David, he said with a huge grin on his face. You remember something I told you a long time ago about old folks writing me into their

wills? Andrew was an opportunistic bugger. He told me once why he decided to join the medical industry and work in the care home. The old folks here are angry and cynical. Who wouldn't be if they were a little? abandoned by their ungrateful children and stuffed in a care home. All it takes is a bit of compassion and a show of kindness. And the next thing you know, they've written their kids out to their wills and left you

everything. This happens, Dave, and it happens more than you think. Caching! Yes, I replied. I suppose Charles Moore decided to leave you something. Three million euros, he yelled. And he's getting his will updated tomorrow. I knew something like this would happen.

I told you so. Good for you, Andrew, I said, and offered a polite smile. I'm happy for you. You bloody well should be, Andrew said. Once that will is updated and I make sure the geys it doesn't change his mind before he bites the dust, I am out of here. Andrew was a dick. But did he deserve what happened to him?

Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't. The lawyers determined Mr Moore to be of sound mind, and the will was smoothly rewritten. One month after a conversation, I was on night patrol duty. Basically, caretakers have to take shifts checking on the elderly while they sleep to make sure they take their medicine

and to help them into their beds. While I was walking down the hall, I noticed that Mr Moore's door was ajar. I took a glance into his room and saw Andrew sitting next to Charles Moore who was fast asleep in his bed. Andrew seemed to be deliberating and his face was scrunched up in thought

as if he was having an eternal struggle suddenly he stood up he extended his right hand and grabbed a pillow from Charles's bed I was alarmed what was he up to and then I realised Andrew was impatient

I was alarmed and took three strides towards the door Suddenly, Charles bolted up. His speed was uncanny, and it wasn't the demeanour of an old man. Andrew was shocked. He dropped the pillow and smiled haplessly when Charles turned to stare at him. The corner of Charles's lip crawled up his face to form a blood-curdling grin. His teeth were showing, and I saw how many small and sharp teeth there were.

They reminded me at that absurd moment of the teeth of a great white shark. Charles. No, that wasn't his name, for he had no name, opened his mouth as Andrew backed up against the wall of the room in sheer terror. A giant, black, eel-like tongue protruded from the yawning jaws of the thing that sat in Charles Moore's bed. It slithered and curved towards Andrew, now helpless and totally frozen. At that moment, Andrew turned away from the thing and saw me looking through the gap. His expression was a mixture of confusion and of unholy horror. He opened his mouth to scream, but he never did.

The tongue shoved itself into his mouth and into his head. His body went limp and his eyes rotated into his skull. I remember staring at Andrew's convulsing body, unable to move. I was numb with terror, but also filled with a morbid curiosity. A few minutes later, the black tongue of the thing began to recede slowly, back into Charles's body. Once it left Andrew, he stopped convulsing. A minute later, Andrew started to stir.

Suddenly, his eyes opened. To my horror, his bloodshot eyes stared, unflinchingly right into mine. David, Andrew said. I did what I had to survive. I hope you understand. I felt hot and thick bile shooting into my mouth. I clamp my hand over my mouth, turned and bolted from the door. Mr. Charles Moore was pronounced dead the next day.

According to the doctor, he had died of natural causes. There was no suspicion of foul play. Andrew White inherited the three million euros. Despite a fierce court battle, Charles's children failed to undo his last will and testament. I will never forget what? I saw that night in that room, and no amount of therapy will ever make it easier to sleep at night.

But when I think back, I can't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the thing that was Charles. Children appeared on my lawn much too often, trespassing on a dare. I thought that was annoying as it was, but it got complicated when I found that some of them were no longer alive. The crawling boy was one of the dead ones, the only one I'd seen so far, and the hardest to get off my property, that is, if he ever left. The living children were usually in their school uniforms when I discovered them in the daylight.

Sometimes they were alone. More often they came in pairs of little groups of threes and fours, milling on the grass that stretched from the estate for miles on all sides. They always ran away screaming when I appeared on the front porch through the front porch to the French windows. I'd be left standing there in my bathrobe and early morning grumpiness, blinking in confusion like a newborn kitten with a sun in its eyes while they pointed at me, screaming in laughter and ran right back into the trees where they come from.

Another few days and there would be another group of them. I never had to yell or chase them out with a hunting rifle. All I did was show up with my coffee and they dart back between the trees like fawns, gleefully terrified. There's no mystery as to where they came from. There was a school on the other side of the forest bordering my estate, a distinguished academy that was part day school and part boarding school. I have no other neighbours for miles.

As to why they came here, I knew that too. They dared each other, as I've mentioned before. It was almost the school tradition. I've been told that my house, the Hartfield Mansion, a glorified cabin if anything, was considered haunted because of how isolated it was. The adults told me this half jokingly, but the children was serious. To be fair, it might have also been due to the fact that I and my late wife had spread some unsavory rumours about the area.

We'd done it so nobody nearing retirement age would be tempted to move out here and interrupt our solitude with their golf game. and outdoor tea parties. I'm an old man now, with a gimplag, and I have little tolerance for all this. But the rumors drew the children in, sometimes to terrible and permanent consequences. While I did have the satisfaction of being feared, if not respected, as the ghoul of Hartfield manner, it nettled me that I wasn't scary enough to keep them from coming back. It wasn't just for my sake that I wanted them to stay away.

The strip of woodlands they had to cross to get to my property was a dangerous place. Much too often, children had gone missing. Search parties would come out of the other side of the forest, disheartened and empty-handed. I had to do my best civic duty as well, when I could. Whenever I noticed frightened children emerged from the trees, starved and crying, lost for a day or more, I would have to care for them at the house until someone came to pick them up. My wife was an angel to this bedraggled miscreants. I stayed out of the way and made phone calls to the school and the police.

Of course, this obligatory kindness ruined my reputation for being the local monster of the haunted house. But I think those children were too traumatized by their misadventure to really be disappointed in me. If anything, their near-death experience in the forest amplify the danger and thus the excitement of daring each other to do it again. The other students would try and learn and never return, but there would always be younger ones coming in every new school year, learning of the legend of Hartfield Manor from their peers and getting suckered into crossing the forest again. They would be fine if they kept a straight line until they got into the other side, I always said.

But the forest was a treacherous place, and it was easy to lose one's bearings and wonder for days. My wife used to tell me to practice being a grandfather to them instead of grumbling so much. But after she died, kidney failure a few years ago, I was in no mood to place Santa Claus to a group of children who set out with the intent to cause trouble. I had grandchildren of my own, but my only daughter, Adelaide, worked and lived in the city. She rarely visited with the kids after her mother died. In my stately isolation, I spent. my time wondering whether she would ever call or visit her old man.

It didn't help feeling lonely when I had too much company of the wrong kind. A ghoul they had called me, and a ghoul I would be. The truth was, these children haunted me more than I haunted them. The school was growing tired on my phone calls advising the staff to keep their children under control. They assured me that they were doing all they could. Still, I would wake up many a morning hearing their stifled laughter on the field. I wanted to stay indoors despite them, but they would venture closer and closer to the house

until I was goaded to come out and scare them back into the woods. I'd had enough. So one day, when I saw a young boy lying on his side on the grass in the soft light of dusk, all alone, I didn't think to investigate. I went straight indoors and called the school. There's another one, I said. I was told there were fences put up on the other side. Why are they still getting through?

There are fences, Mr. Hartfield, said the principal. It was the end of the school day, and she sounded a touch worn out. They've been up for a month now. Well, there's another one on my property. A boy. The children might have started climbing the fences. I'm going to have to call the police, you know. What's his name, sir?

Have you spoken to him? We'll contact his parents as soon as we can identify him. I haven't spoken to him. He's taken a nap on my grass. She paused a moment at this. Is he hurt? Well, I don't know, but it looks like something's wrong. He's just lying there, like...

I stopped. My gaze had wandered out the windows, and I noticed that the boy had gone. I sighed. Hold on. I put the principal on hold and took a walk around. Nothing. If the boy had heard me and run away,

or if some animal had dragged him back into the woods, that was not my problem anymore. Coldness was settling into my bones, but I felt a pang in my chest, recalling the look of the boy, small and frail, his white school shirt and offensive contrast to the green of the manicured lawn,

Just lying there, curled on his side, facing away from me into the forest. I tried not to think of it again. The next time I noticed him, two days had passed and it was getting on to be ten o'clock at night, later than I had ever seen any of the other children before, even when they were lost. I knew then there was something very wrong. The boy was on his side again, lying on the neat grass. that the part-time groundskeeper Martin

had carefully cut that morning. His white school shirt glowed faintly in the moonlight. There was no blood that I could see, but his uniform seemed a bit tattered, old and off-collar. I called out. I could see the small boy shiver briefly,

but there was no other answer. Suddenly afraid for him, I limped over, going as fast as I could, despite my bad leg. By then, the boy had rolled over on his back. His head, dark hair, untidy and matted, turned away. And then, after a slow, painstaking moment,

he shifted heavily onto his stomach and began to crawl toward me. I slowed to a stop before I was halfway across the field, just staring. The boy had a hollow, gaping mouth look about him. His jaw hung loose and his eyes were glassy and blank, as he dragged himself forward on his hands and elbows, clawing at the grass. His limp legs followed behind, jerking at odd angles and dragging behind him, while his head lulled on its scrawny neck this way and that, as if they were too heavy to hold up.

Slowly, steadily, silently, he approached. It was such a bizarre and grotesque sight. I couldn't look away, nor could I move. At first that same pang of pity hit me. The boy was obviously badly hurt. But then the feelings sank into dread. And though a part of my brain shouted, Help him, he's hurt, you could still save him.

Another part, though quieter, cut through to my senses much quicker. He's already dead. Get out of here. I said softly to myself. torn, but my instincts insisted, you can't do anything. Look at him. I did look. It looked like the boy was breathing through his mouth, but his jaw was hanging so strangely, a tiny bit too wide, a silent scream. I could almost imagine the sound of his breathing, shaky, wheezing, pained. I didn't stick around for him to get close enough for me to hear it. At that point, I suspected

there was no breathing at all. Now he was close enough I could see there were no whites in his eyes, just flat darkness. His shrivelled little fingers were pale and skeletal on the grass. I turned around and fled, slowed down by my bad leg.

But though I was slower than I wanted to be, the boy was even more so. I got into the house in plenty of time and made sure to lock all the doors and windows on the ground floor before I called the police. Then I hurried up to the top floor to be as far from the ground as possible.

From one of the higher windows, I could survey the field overlooking the forest. And there was no boy. The police, however, had arrived. In the near distance, I saw a couple patrol vehicles pull into view with a siren silent

and their headlights cutting across my empty lawn. They were used to my phone calls about the children, but even they knew I never called this late at night, this breathless. I made my way back down to receive them. After I explained the situation as generally as I could, they agreed to scour the area. I was made to sit down on one of the porch chairs.

I had over-exerted myself for my age, they told me. Every now and then, I would catch them throwing an odd look my way. I wanted to have the best Forest Rangers' searched the woods for the boy, preferably while armed. But the officers told me they couldn't justify the effort without evidence that there was any danger or that there was even a boy to find. If he really were hurt, they reasoned he wouldn't have been able to get away so quickly, nor would he have wanted to. An officer asked, do you want us to search your house too, sir? As if humouring me, or suspecting something.

Exhausted, I leaned against the wall and nodded. Please. They found nothing. To be kind, they told me that it might have been some kid playing a prank, but I knew they thought I had imagined everything. There had been no recent missing child cases reported in the past few days since I'd seen the boy for the first time. Meanwhile, there had been several warnings issued by the school staff during general assemblies.

They'd even invited police to the school staff during general assemblies. They'd even invited police. officers and forest rangers to talk to the children and scare them with authority. That kept them away for a while. It was true I was having a quiet a few weeks than usual. But then, what of the boy? I then thought to ask if all the missing school children on record had been accounted for, dead or alive.

The officers glanced at each other, and then at the dark, waving silhouette of the forest. Of course not, one of them said. Who knows how many of them are still in there? They told me to keep in touch, then became scarce. They promised to contact the school for any information they might have on the boy, but I never heard back from them on that end. Either there were no missing boy cases, or there were too many. Another two days passed by uneventfully.

I was more careful about taking it. taking all my medication, but I also found myself dusting off my old hunting rifle and practicing my sight on them. Then the next day, I saw the body again, lying there on the grass, facing the forest. I merely stared from behind the window. It was strange seeing him again in broad daylight, seeing anybody really when I knew the school was off for the holidays. And as I stared, that little head flopped over on its broken neck and looked my way again.

And, just as it began to turn itself over and start the long, slow crawl to my house, I had drawn the curtains and rushed to the phone. The police came a little more hesitantly this time. I couldn't figure out why at first. They performed the same procedure all over again. No boy, dead or otherwise. They asked me if I was a medication, and then I understood. They thought I was losing my mind.

Angrily, I sent them away. I knew that if I kept calling them like this, they would stop responding when I needed them most. I would be the man who cried boy. They would say it was a mental condition born out of grief for my wife, a lonely man's yearning for his daughter and grandchildren. And what if it was? I had no way to convince them otherwise. All I knew was I had nowhere to go.

If I were to call Adelaide and plead with her to take me somewhere else, she would leave me in some care facility for the elderly. My pride wouldn't let me leave the house. And so I had to put up with living children and now the dead one somewhere on my lawn. Every time the spectre of the boy returned, I learned something new about it. I knew that every time I looked at the body long enough, it would somehow feel my gaze, and, as if summoned, it would turn itself and approach me. No matter where he appeared on the lawn, he was always a good distance away, almost at the edge of the forest.

But when he turned over, he would always look directly at the window I was standing at, no matter what floor I was on. As soon as I looked away to call for help or find a way to defend myself, the crawling specter disappeared. And I didn't know if it was because it had vanished into the netherworld or because it was somewhere else on the estate, perhaps somewhere closer.

Sometimes I fought my reflexes and kept my eyes on him before he could blink out of sight. But it hurt to watch and I felt the life drain out of me the closer he got. I had to look away. I mentioned my old hunting rifle earlier. I kept its heavy case unlocked on the kitchen table beside the window. It was an eyesore there, next to the cut crystal vases and the ceramic salt shakers shaped like a cat.

My wife would never have let me leave it there if she had been alive to see it. I tried not to think of her. I only wondered if one could kill a thing that was already dead. I made sure the gun was close at hand at all times and only threw the quickest of glances at the lawn from the corner of my eyes every morning to ascertain it was empty. This was hard to do since I was horribly near-sighted and the corner of my vision fell out a range of my prescription glasses,

so I had to turn my head around to look a little more than I was comfortable with. If I noticed the boys form again, at random hours of the day, my old heart would quiver and stop for a bit. At least I imagined it did, but I had to immediately look away. As if by cutting my gaze off quickly enough, I could pretend I hadn't really seen it. But did the thing want to be seen? What could it want with me? After the police had done their half-hearted job this second time, I had Martin the groundskeeper help me scour the estate for any evidence that a schoolboy had been dragged around by a wild animal, or perhaps fallen down a ravine and broken every bone in his body.

We found absolutely nothing. Martin protested at the idea of digging up the estate to look for a buried child. I began to wonder if the body was somewhere in the forest, but that was beyond my curiosity to find out. maybe you're a bit too lonely, said my daughter, predictably. I had her on the cordless phone, telling her of my ghostly encounters as I stood on the porch, looking out over the empty field. Do you want to adopt another dog? She said.

I barked a laugh until her eloquent silence told me she was going to hang up if I didn't stop and take her seriously. The family dog, old chief, had died long before my wife did. There was a dog flap in the kitchen door leading out into the field and I often caught myself looking at it sadly. But I had no energy for another dog.

That's what I found myself thinking one day when, on an overcast morning, I saw the dead child crawling across the field towards my patio doors. This was new behaviour. I hadn't even noticed him before he was already moving, as if he had decided to sneak up on me, as if he knew he could. While he was still a good distance away, I opened the French windows and stood on the porch

with my gun lifted, but my poor eyes couldn't get him on the crosshairs. I couldn't even find him through the scope. The spectre just disappeared from sight until I lowered the gun again and could see him plain as day. I could probably get him at close range, I thought, but I was no longer sure I wanted to, or if it would do any good. I kept feeling a stab of guilt for not being able to help him,

in life or in death, for not being able to put him out of his misery, so much for this old call of the manor. I stepped back into the house and closed the doors, I drew all the curtains and packed my gun away, feeling my weak heart grow faint. It would take a long time for the child to reach my house. I could get away by then or call somebody. But who would be faster?

The crawling spectre, or the police, or an old man hobbling away on his bad leg. The spectre had always been slow but steady, like a tortoise in that old children's story in a race against a hair. But, also like the tortoise in that story, he could reach his destination sooner or later. So, there I was, leaning against the granite counter with my pills spread before me and a glass of water trembling in my hands. The entire lower floor of the house was darkened by the heavy curtains and blinds drawn against the windows. I knew death was coming for me, and that it would be slow and steady and silent. but I never thought I'd be alone when it happened. I was considering calling up Adelaide again

and finally telling her I was willing to be taken to a care facility in that city I hated so much when, from the corner of my eye, I caught a silent movement. There was a quick wave of sunlight flashing from outside. The dog flap at the kitchen door was swinging gently back into place. I was right about the sound of his breathing. From world-wide topmerken, to entrepreneurs that just begin,

millioner vertrow on Shopify. Vercoop online, in your winkel, on Instagram, TikTok, and more. All of one platform. Behear your products, bestelling and betaling, very and easy-foutish. Shopify grew with you with,

every step of the way. Start today not your gratis-proof-period. On Shopify.b. That is Shopify.b. When I was a kid, I used to love visiting my aunt and uncle's farm. While my parents chatted to them about boring grown-up things, I was allowed to go outside and play. At first, I had to stay close so that they could keep an eye on me.

But as I got older, they let me go further afield. I was thrilled. The farm was my playground, and finally I could explore. it. I would go down to the field and watch the cows, try my best, not always successfully, to avoid stepping on the cowpats. Then I'd sit on my uncle's tractor and pretend to drive it.

Sometimes I'd explore some of the derelict buildings. Imagine what they might have looked like when they were new. The farm was pretty old, so there were plenty of crumbling structures for me to explore, all with my uncle's dog by my side. was aboard a collie named Bonnie and she loved her adventures as much as I did. She would sprint around the buildings

and fields, although never straying too far from me. Energetic, but fiercely loyal. This was the happiest time of my life, but that would soon change. It was one of

our regular visits. The grown-ups were chatting inside the farmhouse as usual and I was off from one of my adventures. This particular day I decided to explore the main barn. It wasn't anything exciting really. It was just the biggest barn of the property where they stored the hay for the cows. The hay was covered with the tarp to protect it from the elements and weighed down with all tractor tires. There was so much of it that it formed a small mountain in the middle of the barn, nearly touching the high ceiling. After some time, I had finally plucked up the current.

to climb this mighty mountain. Using the tires as footholds, I finally reached the peak, taking a moment to survey my surroundings and appreciate just how high I'd climbed. Then I heard something, scratching coming from behind me, slow but deliberate. I turned towards the back wall of the barn and peered down the other side of the mountain. A figure, painfully thin, crouched in the corner. corner. It had its back to me and I could see every vertebrae, every rib, in sharp

contrast to the padded skin shrunk tight to the bones beneath it. Long, lank hair dangled from its head, covering the figure's face as it slowly dragged its ragged fingernails up and down the wall. Screech, scratch, scratch. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, frozen in terror, just watching this thing clawing slowly at the wall. Screech, screech, screech, screech, scroo. Bunny growled from the entrance to the barn. She had refused to go in with me, and now I knew why. Suddenly, the figure snapped his head around. I could finally see its face, if you could really call it that. It was so emaciated. that it was like looking at a living skull,

grinning madly. Except, I don't think it was alive. It stared at me for a few moments, its wild eyes gleaming with malice, savoring my unbridled horror. In the blink of an eye, it started to rapidly crawl up the mountain towards me. I turned around and ran down the other side of the mountain,

stumbling over the tires. In my panic, I twisted my ankle, but still I kept running. The thing was inhumanly fast. I could hear its ragged, laboured breathing in my ear and feel its ranted breath in my neck. That thing could have caught me then. I'm sure of it.

But it didn't. I ran out of the barn, screaming and crying, hobbling on my injured ankle. My parents, joined by my aunt and uncle, came outside to see what the commotion was. The barn, the barn was all I could stammer out

Still wheezing with tears streaming down my face Seeing that I had hurt my ankle My parents decided to cut the visit short And take me home That was fine by me I wanted nothing more Than to get away from that place

But as we were leaving I thought I saw a glimpse of something On my uncle's face It was fear About a month went by before we went back to the farm for another visit, partly because my injured ankle and partly because my parents were busy.

During that time, I started to doubt what had happened and what I had actually seen. My parents always said I had a wild imagination. Maybe they were right. So, when the visit started again, I was ready to continue my adventures, although I still wanted to avoid the barn. That place gave me the creeps' name.

Now. Little did I know, my adventures would never be the same again. On my first visit back, I saw it again. I was exploring the milking shed, and there it was, lurking in the darkened corner, crouching amongst the dusty, broken equipment which had been left to one side, staring at me hungrily, grinning through yellowed, jagged teeth. No matter where I went on that damned farm, I would see it, peering out from behind the dilapid buildings, standing motionless in the cowfield, even crouching in the dark

doorway to the barn. Even when I couldn't see it, I could hear it scratching at the walls, here it's ragged nails scuffling against the ground behind me, here it's loud and excited breaths. I could feel its malevolent gaze upon me, boring into my very soul. It followed me everywhere. Always watching. Waiting. I tried to find out more about it.

To see if there was anything I could do to stop it. I looked through so many websites and books. I sent messages to paranormal investigators, demonologists, and anyone who even remotely claimed to have experience in the paranormal. I even visited a shop in town that sold spellbooks, crystals, charms and the like. Nothing helped I felt so alone That thing even haunted my dreams

Every time I closed my eyes about to drift off the sleep I would see its grotesque face grinning at me Those eyes so full of hate Snatching me away from blissful slumber I barely slept And on the rare occasions that I managed to fall asleep I dreamed of being chased When it caught me, I was ripped from limb to limb, feeling the thing crunching my bones

and feasting on my flesh. Every night I experienced this horrifying death, waking drenched in sweat and shivering. My schoolwork started to suffer. It's kind of difficult to pay attention in class when you're exhausted from lack of sleep. Plus, I was spending all of my spare time researching this thing rather than doing my homework. My parents and teachers were baffled by this sudden change, but how could I possibly tell them? I decided to stop exploring, opting instead to stay in the house with my parents. I'd never seen the thing inside the house, so I thought I was safe.

I would bring a book to pass the time all the adults talked about boring grown-up things. Everything seemed fine for a few weeks. There was no sign of the thing, and I'd become a bit of a bookworm. But I guess it got tired of waiting. After drinking too much lemonade, I was bursting for the toilet. Usually I didn't like to use the bathroom at my aunt and uncle's house. It was cold and smelled kind of funny, but this time I just couldn't hold it. While the grown-ups continued chatting, I shuffled up the creaking wooden stairs.

towards the bathroom, treading carefully along the narrow hallway. I thought I heard a faint scratching coming from inside the walls. As I passed the open doorway to the spare room, I heard a thud. The faded curtains were closed, but in the dim light I could see that a stack of papers had fallen off the desk. I walked into the room, bending down to pick the papers up off the worn carpet. The floor was illuminated by a small patch of light from the open doorway. The patch of light seemed to shrink with every passing second, the shadows eager to engulf

me. As I stood up, I saw the door slowly closing, threatening to trap me within the darkened room. I thought I heard the quick, excited, breathing of something unseen. Unnerved, I hurried back into the hallway and darted into the bathroom, slavoured. slamming the door behind me. Sitting on the cold-tired floor with my back against the door, my heart was hammering against my chest. I sat there until my breathing slowed and became less panicked.

A few minutes later I cautiously emerged, pausing in the doorway to listen for the scratching. Silence. A sudden move out of the corner of my eye drew my attention to the far end of the hallway. sat the aged spiral staircase which led up to the dark attic. I thought I saw Bonnie's tail disappearing up into the shadows. Strange? She always stayed away from the attic. My uncle said the floorboard up there were rotten, so she wasn't allowed.

Neither was I. Slowly I climbed the stairs, calling Bonnie's name. I needed to get her back before she hurt herself. As I entered the dusty attic, I could barely see a thing. Cautiously, I walked forward past the boxes full of long-forgotten treasures, cobwebs brushing against my face. In the far corner, I thought I could make out a shape. Something crouching. Bonnie?

Come here, girl, it's not say... Screech, screech, screech. That's not... It was then that I noticed claw marks in a thick film of dust on the floorboards, as if someone or something had been dragged. I started to back away when the thing darted forwards, scuttling rapidly towards me. In my haste to get away, I stumbled and fell. It was so close I could see the gleam of its hungry grin in the darkness.

This was it? I had no doubt. Suddenly, a clammy hand grabbed my shoulder and dragged me back down the stairs and into the light. It was my uncle, pale and shaking. We need to talk, kiddo. I sat on the moth-heaten sofa in my uncle's room, still shaking from my encounter in the attic. He sat across me in his worn leather armchair, taking a moment to pour himself a whiskey. There was another farm, you know.

His gruff Yorkshire accent suddenly broke the silence Back in the thirties My mum and dad bought the place from some bloke It was a few miles north of here Said they got it for practically nought Guess he wanted rid of it Now I know why

He took a sip of his drink Staring thoughtfully out of the window behind me Growing up there wasn't easy for me It was in the middle of nowhere And miles from the nearest school In them days we had to walk to school walk to school through wind, rain and snow. I left

school as soon as I could, so it could help out on the farm, but your dad stuck with it, first in the family to finish school. He was clever, no doubt, but I think he wanted to spend as little time as possible on that farm. Didn't mind all that walking

if it got him away from there. See, there was something wrong with that place. Our parents dismissed it, but me and your dad could tell something wasn't right. No matter where you went, it felt like something were watching you.

We could always hear a faint scratching coming from the walls. Mom said it were just mice. We knew that wasn't true. The noises and feeling of being watched were even worse in the barn. We hated going in there. Always try to leave as soon as possible.

One night, me and your dad stole some beers from the kitchen. After a few, I got the bright idea to find out what was going on in that barn once and for all. Your dad knew it was a bad idea. Tried to stop me. But I wouldn't listen. I grabbed a hammer from his dad's toolkit

and staggered over towards the wall where the scratching was loudest. Desperate for the noises, the torment to end. I started hitting the wall and prying away the wooden planks. Dust and splinters were flying everywhere. Your dad was begging me to stop, but I was in a frenzy.

I didn't stop until my arms started to wake, my hands bloody from the splinters. I'd managed to make a pretty big hole in the wall. Standing among the debris, I started to realize how much trouble I'd been in when my dad saw in the mess. Then the dust cleared, and I saw it. A dead body. The police came and asked us questions. We didn't mention the scratching, just said it was stupid drunken hands. that led me to smash up that wall. After all, we were bored teenagers and the police seemed satisfied.

They told us that judging from the clothes and jewelry, it were a woman. She must have been there for a long time, because she was just a skeleton by the time we found her. Her fingers were damaged, and there were scratch marks on the wooden planks which had once covered her body. She had been walled up in there, alive. The scratching noises that had plagued us for some. so long finally made sense. The police never caught a killer. They couldn't track

down the previous owners of the farm and they didn't have much to go on. Besides, they reckoned she'd been killed before the First World War. An all case like that weren't much of a priority for them. They never figured out who she was either. No missing person's

report matched. They reckon she was a runaway who ran into the wrong person. The sight of that poor woman's skull grinning at me from inside that dark, terrible place plagued my nightmares from that night onwards. But I hoped that now she'd been found, the noises would stop.

Maybe she just wanted to be found and put to rest. The noises didn't stop. In fact, things got worse, much worse. The scratching throughout the house and farm buildings got louder and more frenzied. It almost seemed angry. We started finding scratch marks on the doors and under the beds, as if she'd be trying to get at us while we were sleeping. At night we would hear blood curdling and raid screams coming from the barn.

Our parents said it were foxes, but I don't think they really believed it. Then we started to see that thing lurking around the farm. First time I saw it, I thought I was done for, but it just followed us around, no matter where we went. taunting us, watching hungrily from the shadows. Each time we saw it, it edged closer and closer. I have no doubt that it was that poor woman we found, starving and looking for revenge, and she was toying with a food.

One day, my dad came stumbling out of the cow shed, white as a sheet, eyes wide and darting everywhere. He wouldn't talk about what happened, just told us the stouted. Stay inside the house before shutting himself in the bedroom with a bottle of whiskey. I never saw or heard those cows again. The next day we left that damn place for good, staying with our Aunt Vera for a few weeks.

Dad only went back once to burn down that cow shed. We didn't sell the farm, didn't want to burden anyone else with that curse. We just abandoned it, left it to rot. I doubt anyone would have bought it anyway. Rumors had spread around the village like wildfire. Then we found this place. Moved in straight away and started fresh. It seemed like we'd escape that thing.

The noises stopped and we never saw it again. But I still felt uneasy. I always felt like something was watching me. After your dad moved out and our parents died, I was glad to have my wife here with me. I don't think I could stand living here alone. Now, I know we never escaped it. It followed us here, and it's been waiting all these years.

Until now. She's found a new victim to prey on, and she won't stop until she catches her prey. My uncle put his head in his shaking hands. After a few moments, he took a deep breath and raised his head to look at me. This place ends safe for you. you anymore. He sighed. You can't come back here again, kiddo. She nearly got you today. Next time she'll be quicker. I nodded, trying to process everything I just heard, dread weighing

heavy on my chest. Uncle rose to his feet and started guiding me towards the door and out of his office. Don't worry, I'll make excuses to your parents so you can't visit again. Just as I was about to leave his office, he stopped me. Let's keep this between us. I don't think your dad remembers any of this. Either that, or he convinced himself it never happened. Bringing this up again would break him. My parents and I left shortly after that, as uncle said he needed to get back to work. That was the last time I set foot in that place. From then on, we only saw my uncle and aunt when they came to visit us, or when we went to the pub for lunch. Whenever Dad suggested we go and visit the farm,

uncle said he was too busy, or not feeling well. Last year, my aunt and uncle sold the farm and moved into a little bungalow. They said they were getting too old to continue running it, and they wanted to spend their retirement in a smaller place that was easier to manage. The company they sold it to bulldozed the farm and built a couple new houses, on the land. By then, years had passed since my encounter with a thing at the farm, and it had all seemed like a distant memory. Until now. A few days ago, my uncle passed away. The doctor said it was a heart attack. It was sudden and none of us expected it.

My aunt, the one who found him, is distraught. I went to visit her yesterday. to check up on her and see if there was anything she needed. After picking up some groceries and making us lunch, she handed me a small envelope. It was addressed to me in my uncle's careful handwriting. My aunt said she had found it that morning in uncle's office, sitting on his desk. Wanting to read it alone,

I left the bungalow and strolled over to the new housing development where the farm used to be. I sat on a bench opposite the neatly kept houses and opened the envelope. It contained a note which simply said, She's back and she's hungry. My heart leapt into my throat, terror freezing me in place as memories of that thing came flooding back. I sat there for what seemed like an eternity.

My eyes fixed to that little scrap of paper. I slowly raised my eyes to stare in horror at the house before me. In an upstairs window, I saw it. A thin, pale figure grinning down at me, scratching against the glass with ragged fingernails, staring hungrily, so, so hungry. Before I begin this story, there are some things you must first understand.

My name is Alan Bailey and for the past 13 years I have been raised by my uncle, Dr Richard Blackwater. These circumstances came to fruition when my mother and father both died when a drunk driver decided to rearrange their 1998 Ford Explorer on New Year's Eve in 2007. During the following 13 years, I was placed in the custody of my mother's brother who was my only living relative at the time. My uncle Richard had a doctorate in theoretical physics and a master's degree in theology. And while I've never been much of a believer in some cosmic entity with a big white beard in the sky watching her for us all, my uncle had always been a strong one. Well, I say a believer.

Perhaps I should have reframed that and say he was a spiritual explorer. His life obsession has always been the search for one thing. To actually find God. And that is why I'm writing this now, because of what he did find. And I'm sorry, I truly am for what I'm about to tell you, because I've sat on this discovery for the past four years and can no longer hide the truth. I wish I could make it easy.

I wish I could hold it back, but I can't. Because you, all of you, deserve to know the truth. It all began last spring when classes resumed at all. Ohio University where he was a professor. What struck me as rather odd about the beginning of the semester was when he asked me to act as his personal assistant. While skeptical at first, I couldn't really turn down an offer that was monetarily five times larger than my current salary as an assistant manager at a 7-11.

I have never been someone of outspoken interest in his work, which seemed rather odd at at first when the offer approached me. questioned, my uncle simply said that he thought I would do a good job at the tasks at hand, and that he would like to spend some time with me. Now, while his semester long work times were much longer than his off-seasons, we never really connected as close as some would expect. We had a good relationship, but nothing super close. Uncle Blackwater, or Uncle B, as I came to call him, was always... different. After a 10-minute conversation with him, it would become very apparent to you that he was most definitely on the spectrum of autism.

I mean, that's nothing to be ashamed of, but very crucial in understanding his behaviours. On the first day of my new job as his assistant, I arrived at his office at 11am, about 30 minutes before the start of his first class. He was currently listening to the soundtrack of Ghostbusters while flipping through the screenplay. That was just another one of his quirks. He never watched movies. He simply listened to the soundtrack or reading through the script. He once told me that you can't get disappointed with the cast or visual effects if it's all in your head,

to which I never argued. Hey Uncle B, I said as I shut the door behind me. Ah, Alan, he said with a smile as he closed the screenplay. Just a professor assistant I was looking for. Are you ready for your big day? I guess, I said with a laugh as I took a seat across from his desk For what it was worth

His office was very spacious At least it would be if it wasn't for all the clutter For all the things Uncle B was Tidy wasn't one of them What is it you'll have me doing today I need you to sit in on the class He said as he slips some papers into my backpack Don't worry there's a video I recorded to teach them

and they'll just email me if they have any questions. I just need you to click play and then replay when the next class comes in. That okay? To be honest, that sounded like the easiest damn job on earth. A little too good to be true, as I would later come to find out. Sure, I replied, but what will you be doing? Oh, I've got some work to do in the old STEM lab downstairs. After they built a new one across from the library,

I was able to turn it into a small testing ground for my new thesis. New thesis? I asked, looking at a transcript of his upcoming video lecture. What about? Oh, you'll see in time, if all goes according to plan. I don't want to count my eggs before they hatch, he said with a smirk as he got up from his desk and collected his bag. I honestly couldn't describe how easy my job was looking to be when I first started.

Students would come in, I'd play the video, they'd leave, and the cycle would just start up over again for the next couple of hours. It wasn't until the last class when I realised that things were about to get a little more... Interesting. Halfway through the introduction to theoretical physics video, the power suddenly shut off. In elementary school, when such an event happened, you'd be hearing tons of screams and cheers as kids thought the school day was over. Here, I just heard a couple of depressed sighs. To be honest, if I was shoving out thousands of dollars for one of my classes to be seemingly just caught on a projector and then the power to just go out,

I'd feel pretty down myself. It wasn't until I reached my phone to text my uncle that I realised that he was off as well, which was strange as it had been on 56% just about five minutes ago when I was checking my Facebook notifications. With me just sitting there awkwardly, not really having any idea what was going on, it didn't take long for the class

to eventually get up in mass exodus out of the auditorium. Although what I did notice was none of them had been on their phones as they were making their way out. Not a single one. With no students left and only the emergency powered lights illuminating the area, I made my way out to the campus

to get my portable phone charger out of my car, car. Making my way over to it, I had some trouble getting in as my key fob didn't seem to be unlocking my corolla at all. Realising the fog battery was probably dead, I just used the key to unlock it and retrieve my charger from the glove box. Leaning against the driver door, I plugged the charger cord into my phone to see what the base charge was, but my screen remained black. When I checked to see if something was wrong with a charger, it wasn't showing that it had any power. This was impossible of course, as I had just left it at full charge three days ago and hadn't

even used it once. Before I could get really frustrated, every single car in the parking lot suddenly exploded in a chorus of burglar alarms that almost made me soil myself. Instinctively I reached my keys to click the alarm off, which surprisingly worked the first go as it silenced my car. I was almost too distracted by the screeching a matter of alarms going off to feel the vibrating going off in my pocket where I'd just put my phone back into. When I pulled it out, my phone was suddenly back on with the battery level of 50% and a notification that Uncle B was calling me. Hello?

I nearly yelled into the phone as I tried walking back to the campus to get away from the alarms. Alan, he responded hysterically. Alan, where are you? I went outside to get my phone charger after the power went out. What's going on? Meet me back in the office. This is big, Alan. Just hurry.

With that, he hung up the phone. At the time, I didn't really know why. But I had this lump in my chest. The kind you get when you know there was a storm on the horizon that something was coming. Make my way into his office I noticed that the power inside the building seemed to come back on as well.

Everything seemed to return to normal, right? I thought so as well, until I opened his door to see Uncle B hunched over his desk, trembling. To give a bit of background, I've never really ever seen him upset like this. I had seen him cry a little over my mother at the funeral, but this wasn't him sad.

To borrow a turn from this generation, He was shook right down to his core. Uncle B, I asked, concerned, as I kneeled down beside him. What's wrong? I think, he said in a whisper. I think I found them. Found who? He then turned to me with a face I was all too familiar with,

the face of a child that had just learned. that both of his parents are now dead and gone forever. I think... I found them all. What are you talking about? I asked, as that lump in my chest seemed to gradually grow. He didn't answer me. Instead, he got out of his chair to begin to walk out of his office.

As he exited the door, he turned back to me. Come on, you need to see this. I have to make sure I've not gone insane. When he said that to me, there was a small voice in my head screaming for me to get up and get as far away from that campus as possible. But I didn't listen.

My curiosity got the better of me. So, at that moment, I made the biggest mistake of my entire life. I got up out of my seat and followed him. The path down to the old stem lab down was filled with the kind of wet and silky air reserved for the most abandoned basements. It honestly looked like the stairway and a joint hallway hadn't been cleaned

in years. The door to the lab was wrapped in chains and a single lock in place. Uncle B pulled out a key with his shaking hand, stated it, and with the clanking of chains which echoes reverberated down the hall, the door was unlocked. The interior of the lab was less of something you'd see in a college campus and more like a mad scientist's laboratory in a classic 80s sci-fi flick. Four large Tesla coils stood equidistently from each other in the center of the room while several boxes of machinery filled with colorful blinking lights lined the walls. What is all this?

I asked, almost unfounded by the vast scope of everything. Is this all for your thoughts? thesis? This is my life's work, Alan, he said, as he sat in front of a large monitor with two separate keyboards plugged into it. This is the telescope to see the beyond. What do you mean? He then swiveled back to me in his chair to face me, somewhat regaining his complexion.

Where do you think God exists? He seemed to already know the answer. from my face in response to it. Listen, I know you don't really believe me, but if you did, where do you think he or it would be? If there was such a thing as an all-powerful supreme being, I hardly doubt he'd be here. And why do you say that?

He asked. Well, with all the telescopes we have, there's no evidence of some bearded guy out there floating on a cloud. Part of me felt bad for acting like a smart ass to him. But he knew how the whole religious thing bothered me. Exactly, he said, to my surprise. If the creator of the universe exists, then he wouldn't exist here. He'd be outside of his own creation.

Think about it. If you were to create an aquarium, you wouldn't live in it. You would observe from afar as the life inside carried on with itself. What are you getting at? I asked with what I must admit to be a hint of curiosity. What I'm getting at is that if God exists, and if we as human beings have a soul that leaves our body upon death, and they must go somewhere, it's not here, it's beyond. Then what did you mean when you said you found them? It was that question that put the terror in his eyes again.

His entire demeanour was all over the place now. because I think No, I'm certain that I've found it Found them Found the beyond Beyond You mean beyond the Universe

Sorry, but how the heck is that even possible? With that He said, pointing at the Tesla coils You see, I've detected a subwave channel of energy That's seemingly everywhere It's what allows electricity to transmit itself from one atom to another. It's what allows gravity to expand and hold other objects into place. For all intents and purposes, is the hidden driving force of the universe.

I think you're starting to lose me. He then started to fiddle with his hands as he tried to tie his thoughts together into a comprehensive explanation. Let's go back to the aquarium analogy for a minute. He said, Once it's built, you can't just expect it to run forever. You need electricity to power the water filtration system. That's basically what I think I've found. The electricity that powers the universe.

So I did what anyone else would do. I traced it to the source. Because if you follow the current, you'll find the power box. Listen, I said, I know you're not one for practical jokes. But please tell me this is one of them. This is no joke! He nearly shouted as he jumped out of his chair.

I saw it. You what? I saw it, just for a moment, but I know I saw it, and I believe you've already felt the ramifications. If I'm not mistaken, the power went out, correct? But it wasn't just a blown fuse or a transformer error. It was almost as if the electricity around the entire campus suddenly vanished. correct?

The implications of his words were doing nothing to calm that lump in my chest that was now nearly the size of a football. I used up the local surrounding subway of energy to break through the other side, but now that I have the backup systems up and running, we should be able to look through much longer and actually figure out what's beyond. But that's why I need you, Alan. He reached out and gripped my wrist. I can't do this on my own.

this is the very definition of unknown territory and the thought of what terrifies me if I'm going to do this I need you by my side now I know you don't believe in this sort of stuff but please let me show you let me show us both that there is something out there please Alan I couldn't say no to him to those pleading eyes that reminded me so much of my mother

oh I know I wish I could believe me I do But my mind was trying too hard To keep up with what was going on And failing terribly in the process So without a word I closed my eyes And nodded to him

He jumped back towards the controls And began typing frantically As the large humming machines Buzz to Life around us My eyes then turned to the series of Tesla calls in the centre of the room They gave off The sinister hum of energy

like some ancient cursed monolith waiting to unleash its terrors on the world. He said as the coils took on this faint blue glow. When bolt of electricity began to explode in the middle of the series of Tesla coils, I instinctively began to back away, but was stopped when Uncle B came up beside me. It's okay, don't be afraid. Nothing can break out of those coils. As he spoke,

bolt of electricity began to burst the life more and more than, more until they nearly morphed into a single stream of light. This is it, he whispered as he looked down at his watch. Three, two, one. Suddenly, the air inside the four coils tore apart. At that moment, the horrifying truth of the universe washed over me like a tsunami as the veil of reality lifted itself like a nylon stocking. Through the tear, I could see the birth.

and death of the universe, and every second in between in a conglomerant amalgamation of insane living light surrounded by a perpetual screaming void of darkness. In case in the darkness was a seemingly infinite expanse of writhing masses that I was soon able to make out as what appeared to be individual people stitched and assorted together in horrifying seared sculptures of nightmares. I can't explain why or how, but the truth of everything suddenly became so crystal clear. There was no God, no creator, no supreme or knowing benevolent architect of the universe. There was just the unending black sea of non-existence, creating the whole of reality that defied

his existence. The energy my uncle detected didn't come from a creator, but from the very paradox formed by creation itself existing. There was never meant to be a universe. Time and space were all acts that defy the nature of the nothingness that existed eternally before. And worst of all, there was no explanation for it. No great and powerful casual agent that set everything in motion in the arms of destiny. It was all simply a freak accident to which no side understood. Reality buckled and howled and its own defilement of the true laws of non-existence. All the black void of the antiverse screamed in protest

of that which it now held. There was no reason for anything. There was just complete chaos. And, as for the nightmare conglomerations of bodies writhing in that chaos, those were the souls of the dead. Those themselves were also a blasphemous abomination to both creation and non-existence.

Their forms were unbound and excruciating. Billions all cried out for their gods that never existed. all to end this suffering that would perpetuate until time itself became meaningless. That, I realised, was the destination to which all humans were headed. That was hell. No, I could hear my uncle's screaming protest against the amalgamation of terrors. No, no, no, he continued to shout in the howling abyss.

This can't be it, no. I couldn't stop him from reaching out the top of the coils down to the ground. My body was frozen in place. As he grabbed the nearest one, the tear instantly closed as a series of bolts reached out and struck him. The coal itself burning red-hot, turning his hands into charred black fragments of what they had once been. It was all over in a matter of seconds. Then the entire room exploded into the room. darkness as the machines died, while I remained there frozen, alone.

It only took an hour for the power to my cell phone to come back. After calling 911, I sat in the corner, try my best to come to terms with what I'd just seen. Uncle B remained sprawled out on the floor of the lab, smoke, rolling out of his body. It's been four years since that day, and I've done my best to mentally recover. as much as anyone can from what I had seen. But the truth of the final resting place of my mother, father and my uncle, along with the rest of the human race,

still lies there in the back of my mind like a cancer. H.B. Lovecraft once said that the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown. I would have to disagree with him though, because I'm not scared of the unknown. I'm terrified of the beyond. From worldwide topmerken

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and easy-foutage. Shopify grew with you with, every step of the way. Start today not your gratis proof period. on Shopify.b.a. That is Shopify.b. There are some cons to being the only person who lives in walking distance of the school I teach. Every single time the alarm goes off or someone forgets the lock, I'm called in. And at times, I feel like this has become more of a custodial job than anything.

It's gotten so bad that the school had a silent alarm installed years ago, and just though I'd insult to injury, they rooted it to my phone. Of course, the head tends to calm me up to make sure I'm on my way, just have a quick little walk around, Mrs. Weir says to me over the phone, just make sure some of the kids haven't tried breaking into the pool again. It'd be awful if something happened. Right, yeah. Except it never is just a quick little walk around. There's always something to keep you lingering, some noise that needs investigating, some mess that can't be left for kids to find.

In the day, that school is nothing but a shrine to the banal and mediocre. The walls are plastered in kitschy GCSE art of local peaches, bronze award in athletics and cardboard thermometers used to count the hundreds of pounds we've raised to stave off cancer or the apocalypse. With light streaming in and halls buzzing with running children, it's nothing but another busy part of the world whistling through space with bugger all to do except keep busy. But, it's different.

print in the dark. Or perhaps just when it's empty. Maybe it's because I see it so alive and full of activity in the day. There's something innately unsettling about a place only recently emptied of life. Perhaps there's a lingering body heat in the air or a scent too subtle for the conscious mind to register. Something that tells you that a thousand eyes have looked away from this place and now it exists outside anyone's notice but yours. You've alone, walking those empty corridors, whose walls look unusually tall and where the distance stretches away into dizzying perspective. And it always looks so much worse at night.

Maybe it's the effect bright fluorescent light have, but I swear it looks cleaner in the day, and come night the floors look filthy and cracked in a way that makes me wonder if this is really the elitest private school it pretends to be. But I hate it. I hate how I only noticed the rot at night. Moldy tiles, cheap laminate flooring that's buckled from moisture, and equipment that was dated in the 90s. It's such a silly thing to let the dark get to me like that.

But then again, it's not at all uncommon to hear giggling or see the shadows moving in the corner of your eye. It is impossible to escape the feeling you are following something, tracing the path of a laughing child as they run from classroom to classroom. will swing gently ajar just as you turn a corner. Chairs will squeak seconds before entering a room and TVs will blare with documentaries only to switch off just before your finger touches the button.

And for some reason, I just keep looking. I keep going, from room to room, sometimes twice around, sometimes for hours. I once sat alone in my classroom, light switched off and listened quietly as someone took a seat and the sound. of a scribbling pencil filled the silence. By the time it finally stopped,

the sun was rising, and the only thing left behind was a badly chewed pencil. The wood bloodied and rancid, like it had been dragged out of a septic tank. It was so late, I didn't even bother going home. I just stayed until 7C

filed in as normal a few short hours later. I've thought about leaving, but I didn't exactly exit my last school in a good standing. This place doesn't seem to mind so much if I skip a lesson or two or turn up hungover And despite my regular difficulties There is still a monthly bonus attached to my check that I was told the other staff should not hear about

I have to figure it's for the extra work and wonder if I'd be mad to turn this place down I know with some certainty that if I ever told Mrs. Wears I couldn't check in on the school I wouldn't keep my job for much longer and I can't help but wonder I can't help but wonder I if I'm the butt of some big joke. Sometimes I find myself going there even without being called. From my house I can see the chemistry lab which is a large glass building

that's freezing in winter and scalding in summer. It's all windows and on a bright night I can see people moving around in it. Sometimes there's a light, sometimes just a vague sense of a commotion but I can't stop myself checking it out in person, walking around the very space I once spied from a

quarter of a mile away where my house backs onto the football field. It's weird. I might find a broken phone, something way too old for today's kids, or a bag of old pennies, or even a few teeth scattered around the floor. What are they doing? I wonder. I found out from the IT teacher that every day he has to come in and restart all the the computers because their screens will be frozen on shop porn. He didn't make a big thing of it. He just said it wasn't nice, and if he was ever ill, I'd have to do it.

So I went one night, went and sat in the IT room with 15 old computers in three rows of five. It's small. We're not a big school, just 500 kids, and the room doesn't catch much light where it is. So it felt more like a dungeon than my own room. usually a clean greyish blue at night. It was pitch black in there, and once again I turned off my light and waited for something I didn't know until one by one, the monitor's thunked on and internal fan started up, going

from a silent burr to a frenetic and unnatural wine. I felt a kind of panic, something I attributed to the surprising volume of the computers and the epileptic sight of the monitor's glitchy flashing. I stayed myself though and waited it out until the monitors clicked from the buggy displays to images of mutilated and brutalized bodies, smashed mouths with exposed teeth and cracked bone, rib cages held open by groping fingers, soft eyes shredded by broken bottles. Each image was different and riddled with pixelated artifacts. After a moment the fans died down and the monitors settled and the room was lit up from within

like a Christmas tree, and I suddenly became aware that I couldn't see anything else. The bright light unsettled my eyes so much that all I could make out were the screens that floated in the abysmal darkness. Something deep within me started screaming that I wasn't alone, and my eyes darted from the spaces beside and behind the computers, even under the shadowy desks, but it was all impenetrable shadow. Suddenly the images animated and I suppressed a gasp and a shudder. Each one looped at different rates, some juddering with half a second of motion, others playing out elaborate acts of violence across the silent seconds. I turned my torch on and tried

to force myself to move, but didn't even manage to take a step. The door I'd entered in from, the one I'd firmly closed before settling down, was open and tariffed. black footprints led into the computer room and stopped by one of the computers. I shone the light down a fraction to see beneath the desk and found myself wondering if there had been a glimmer of motion as I moved the light as if something had retreated from the beam. A few pale fingers, a scrap of fabric, or the tip of someone's foot. My mind was racing and I was paralysed to fear.

And in the end, I simply waited it out until the sun rose and the room lit up naturally. It took hours and those hours were not silent. Whoever was in there with me, and was sobbing quietly, their muffled cries ebbing with the changing of the gore-streaked monitors. God, it's strange to say, but over time those images didn't look so pixelated, and for the very last hour I swore I wasn't looking through a screen at all. It really was like standing around 15 windows looking into torture cells. It wasn't about clarity.

There was a sense of depth you just don't get from a computer. There were hours of unbridled suffering, assaults, torture, sadism, groups of people laughing and a shivering victim who was left to pick glass out of the body, the gleeful joy in humiliation, and the power of what a gun can do to the human body and its owner. It all blurred together into a moving montage, and at times I wonder how much of what I remember I actually saw. By the time I was ready to turn the monitors off, I was pale and shaking, and my face was streaked with tears.

The footprints had disappeared in the light, but I couldn't bring myself to check the desk where they'd led. I merely thumbed the off switch on each computer before hurrying out like a child, afraid of the dark. It'd be a lie to say the things here make me drink. I've always had a problem, but it was different before. I was prone to bad bouts of drunkenness for most of my life, but I might spend months, even years, reasonably sober. I either didn't drink or I drank a lot. It's just that when I went off the deep end, I went in head first and wouldn't resurface until I was dragged, kicking and screaming out of the pool.

But now I drink every day I keep a flask on me just to take the edge off It makes things a little fuzzy But makes the kids funnier Makes the staff friendlier Makes me a better liar

I wake up in the school Some nights unsure of how I got there Or if I ever even left Sometimes I open my eyes And don't even know if I'm awake Or asleep Or alive or dead

because there's just blackness. Only the cold feel of the tiles beneath my shirt and my hands lets me know where I am. In the distance a door will groan as it swings open. I might hear the shuffle of a few chairs or the barely suppressed whispers of a fleeting presence and I lie there, ears pricked to these sounds and I wonder if I even really hear them at all

or if I'm just going mad. But I wait. I wait for the sun and for my eyes to see again, and I find myself lying on the floor of my classroom, with the desks piled up on high around me, and I find it hard to answer anything except yes to that question. Once I awoke with an old pencil case in my hand, a faded space jam logo on the gel plastic front. It was coated with dust and stuffed full with long dead felt-tip pens. The weight of it in my hands stole some of the dreamlike haze away from my mind, and it grasped. to my phone for light to check where I was. I sat up in the middle of my classroom and

steady myself while I studied the strange object in my hand. It was 3am, the school's distant halls buzzed with an uneasy noise and I pulled myself up to go looking around. For what? I didn't know, but the strange case in my hand gave me an unusual sense of purpose and I searched until I found a loose ceiling tile in the assembly hall, the height of which is easily 30 feet. I might have been inclined to leave it, especially after I turned on the lights and found myself staring at the distant corners as if firm in the knowledge that I wasn't alone. But there was no giggling in the air tonight, nor squeaking chairs or anything else.

It felt as if the school itself was holding its breath, and I dragged out the enormous step-ladder used by maintenance and began my shaky ascent. God, even now I wonder how I found the courage. I'm terrified of heights, but I climbed up anyway until my fingertips could reach out and gently push the tile further away. A flurry of empty crisp wrappers and crumbled paper fell out and I clutched the step-ladder with white knuckles and wide eyes as my startled reaction sent it wobbling side to side.

When it finally settled back onto all four legs, I breathed a sigh of relief and raised. rapidly began descending, feeling only some mild sense of safety when my feet were back on the ground. I knew the ceiling was too lightweight for anyone to actually be up there, and yet I stared at a small pile of rubbish with a worrying sense of unease. The food was ancient, the paper covered with felt-tip drawings, and I found a dried-up pen that matched the others in the pencil case. More than that, though, there was a stench that emanated from the pile that made me think

of desperation and neglect, and amongst the rubbish, was a plastic bag with bottles of unhealthy looking pee, and a wet rag that looked like it had been pulling toilet duty for quite a while. When I finally turned my attention back to my surroundings, I saw I was not alone. From the size of him, I'd say he was around 13, and he had somehow approached me without me hearing or seeing him, stopping only when he was a few metres away, where he crowded, He approached low to the floor and swayed from side to side. He looked like an animal, certainly feral in the way he moved. But it wasn't his demeanour that made me cry out.

It was the gaping hole where his face should have been. The skull caved in like a hollowed out egg. His remaining skin was park marked and lesioned, and it took me a moment to register that he was nude. He was waiting for something, though I didn't know what. I tried to take a step towards the nearest door, but he took one too. He knew where I was, that much was clear, even if I couldn't figure out how. I considered shining my torch straight at him, given that the faraway ceiling lights made

the hole in his head pure shadow. But there was a faint impression of wriggling amidst the dark that made my stomach churn, and I had no idea how this thing would even react to the stimulation. I'm still not sure what put the connection in my head, but I eventually reached around to my back pocket and took the pencil case out. The boy started gibbering at the sight of it, and I cringed at the realisation the wet, excited sound, was coming from his cave-like skull. But I slid the case across the floor anyway. He snatched it up eagerly and immediately ran to the nearest wall where he scaled it with a wet sound of a gecko running up glass. With one final flourish, he stuck to the ceiling and slithered behind those loose ceiling tiles like a spider.

After a few seconds, the tile shunted back into place and it looked like nothing had ever happened. Some of the kids, I think, no more than they're letting on. They're not difficult kids. Most of them are quite smart. This place pumps out Oxbridge candidates like crazy and the parents pay big fees to help smooth things over when stuff goes. wrong. Suicides and runaway aren't uncommon, but we're told it's a consequence of pressure, ambition, social difficulties, so on. So now we're handed out questionnaires twice a year to ask our students about stress. The RE teacher doubles as a counsellor, and we have a mental

health awareness day every October, but it has never sat right with me to act with the two things are related. James Kinsberg, for example, went missing a few years back. He was a rugby player who wanted to study medicine and rumors were he could even be looking at a contract to play under 21s for a local team he was a big strong boy and yet one day I found myself trying to drag him out to the pool half conscious in the moment you just think oh damn a student is drowning and in my head my students are all kids you see but it was only after I dragged him out that I found myself wondering how the hell he found himself in trouble

He looked like he could wrestle an orca and win. But there he was on the floor, shivering and sputtering water out of his mouth. When I looked back at the pool, there was a kind of moment of recognition. I'm not sure what exactly. Just the dimming of the overhead lights and muted silence. A tinny laugh I could not place amidst the gaggle of kids crowded around us. But I looked back at James and wondered if he'd run into any real trouble at all, because the look in his eyes wasn't one of someone who'd nearly drowned, but instead, someone

who didn't care. He made me think of myself, lying there on my classroom floor in total darkness, and that was how we'd found him. It had all started with screaming and shouting, and I ran over from the bleachers where I was acting as a substitute for the lesson, only to seem pale and blue, lying down at the bottom of the pool. He didn't resist when I dove in and hauled him up, but it was like he wasn't really there,

like the lights were on, but nobody was home. When he went missing, I extended my rounds to include the pool. It's a huge warehouse of a room, and the water paints pretty lights on the walls, even in the dark since the roof is mostly glass panes. But I don't like it. The bleachers all in a neat row with scaffolding behind to make strange shadows, and the dam filters bang every few seconds from water that churns

and makes odd shapes of the tiles beneath the waves. When I first dove in to save him, I opened my eyes underwater for just a few seconds and got the strangest sense something hideous was nearby, but the pool wasn't empty, and it could have been anything. But a few times in the night, I have seen something slithing around out of sight as I walk around water's edge. It isn't human I think, although I have on occasion seen the faceless boy standing at the bottom of the water with eerie stillness. But I don't think it was him that James saw. I think it was something else. Something that looks like a mass of hair drifting in a current.

Something that effortlessly pushes itself from shadow to shadow. Something that occasionally slaps its way onto dry land and watches me from behind the bleachers. as I check the perimeter. I don't know where it lives. God knows it can't be in the water all the time. But when I confronted James and asked him what he saw, he told me only that it wasn't going to leave him alone. Not now.

Not ever. And a few weeks later, he went missing while out for a jog along the beach. When they found him, he'd been hollowed out and stuffed into a storm drain like an inside-out gym sock. It'll eat you, he said. But that was all he ever offered me.

We all acted like he committed suicide from the pressure, even as the rumours filled the school. How could the two things possibly be linked? I saw the photos of what happened to him. Even the police said it'd be treated as a murder. It was almost like the school knew the part it played in his death. So, we were all playing along to the facade that he was just another promising kid,

lost to the difficulties of adolescence. But he knew clearly what was going to happen to him. I saw that much in his eyes. That's why he laid there on the floor. That's why he wanted to drown. That thing in the pool had tagged him and he lay down right there and then, ready to be eaten rather than go another second.

Something about the sight of it just overrode every instinct inside him and he lay down. Ready. No, desperate to die. Is that why I lie down too? Why I wake up on the floor of my classroom? Why I shudder into lucidity at 3am, sleepwalking from room to room. Am I waiting to die?

To be eaten by the building itself. I teach lessons in the silence, sometimes deliberately, sometimes in my sleep. I teach about history, but no one else is just my own. I write out episodes of my life on the blackboard like a study of the Tudors or Stuarts, assigning homework and asking questions and even chastising the silent ghostly whispers in the back of the nocturnal classroom. To what extent was my alcoholism a consequence of modelling my mother's behaviour? Compare and contrast the loss of my father with the loss of my wife. Were the negative effects are cumulative or did they interact in unforeseen ways?

How has age altered my politics? Compare and contrast my voting habits as a young adult with those of the last election cycle. One day I came to in the darkness, half remembering a lesson on the role music played in my adolescent identity, and instead of continuing, I asked an instinctual question that surprised even myself. Why do I do this? I said, my voice unnaturally loud and clear in the silence. one by one the shadowy chair scraped back as the unseen students rose and ghostly footsteps filled the room as they filed out. Lesson over, I muttered out as I was filled with a deep despairing loneliness that made me realize just how brittle the truth is. Lately, I've started getting things mixed up.

I teach the wrong lessons to the wrong students and a few reports have gone in about my behaviour. It's not always guaranteed that I'll wake up to find the darkness all around me. Instead, there have been times I've awoken to a crowd of kids, giggling, and finding me asleep on the floor, with the sun out bright and strong. It'd be one thing if Mrs. Weir's dragged me out to give me a rolligan when this happens, but she just asks me if I'm doing okay, if I'm fine, if my home life is trying. She looks at me with pity, and it breaks my heart. I wish she'd be angry instead

Because the more she coos The more she calls me to check in on the place at night And the more I feel like the centre of a cruel joke Sometimes I visit the playground From when this place taught under 12s It must have been a long time ago Because now it's a giant pile of collapsed metal pipework And thanks to a hole in the nearby fence

Has made it a popular place to fly-tip All kinds of rubbish It's isolated from the rest of the grounds by a short hedge and a weak fence, but the kids know about it anyway, and sometimes go there to smoke, although not often. I'd like to look at it from my house. It's so ugly and brutalist. It looks like the kind of sculpture you find at the Tate

with a placard mentioning things like late-stage capitalism or the inevitability of death. Whatever it is, I watch it and listen to it. and occasionally visit it in person. I swear the pile's changes, sometimes even just between blinks of the eye. I've pulled out bloody axes and bike chains, pointed knives with clumps of hair and matted gore along the edge.

Tricicles smash the pieces with bits of headlights in the spokes. All these things make me feel queasy in the stomach. Supposedly, the pile eats pets, which is a rumour that works wonders for keeping kids away in the same, day, but it has only piqued my curiosity. I have pulled out my fair share of crumpled pelt and torn collars, but for some reason I'm not sure they come from things around here. I have nightmares about climbing down between the endless beams of rustled jagged metal

and climbing on forever and ever with no stop. It's an unspoken certainty, a belief held deep within my chest, but I don't think that the pile rests on asphalt at all. think it doesn't stop. I think it gathers things, things of loss and regret and guilt, just like everywhere else in this school. Are there blackboards in the day? I stopped not long ago and held a dry erase marker in my hand, stumped by the most unbelievable thought. When I teach at night, I use chalk. I've even gone home and washed my clothes to clear them of all the dust, but how then do I come in and teach to the class using a whiteboard?

My memories are becoming fuzzier with time, perhaps because of the drink, perhaps not. Sometimes I think back to my experience in the computer lab and my finger is pushing the heavy button of the clunky CRT monitor and sometimes I simply depress the dainty touchscreen button of the modern LCD. Which one was it exactly? Could it be both? Might it have happened more than once?

I'm not sure it's the same school come night And in fact it feels worse as time wears on There's an acceleration happening behind the scenes Just out of sight Sometimes I visit the hall And half the tiles have fallen down And the face of this boy looks sad As he perches along the vents and wiring

Sometimes the pool is growing thick with algae And the tiles have decayed And the window panes along the roof Have been smashed to pieces And the only hint of the aquatic inhabitant is the disturbance of the grotesque pond scum as it tracks my movement from edge to edge grotty trainers and children's shoes and human hair rising to the surface as the water churns. But was it always like that?

Why do I have memories of pulling James out of a sewage riddle pool, pushing through the thick green water as I dove in to drag him up? When did I even see the photo of him stuffed into a storm drain? and yet I remember it so clearly He was a good kid I think Sometimes he's there Amid the faces that surround me when I wake up in the middle of the day To bright light and laughter Sometimes he asks questions as I talk about my experiences growing up

His hands raised as he asks me if my three weeks with mono Will appear on the final exam That doesn't make sense But I don't question it It's my duty to educate after all, and I think he needs it where he is. I hate this place

but I can't leave it alone. I feel hollowed out most days. I'm forgetting things a little too important. Things I don't want to let go off without a fight. But every time I speak to Mrs. Wears, I lose all sense of time and just find myself agreeing to everything she says. Have I met her?

In person? I'm sure I have. have. She's spoken to me in her office. But is that the same as seeing her in person? I can't say. I must have interviewed for this position, right? I remember asking her about lunch, about the canteen, and she gave me the funniest answer. Oh, don't worry about that. She smiled. No one here needs a canteen, but they might just gobble you right up. Did I laugh at the time, or leave? I think I stormed out. of her office after she said something I didn't like, something about my wife maybe? Except,

well, after storming out, I went straight back to work in my classroom, which was always just a few doors down from her office, which now that I think about, just doesn't seem right. But then again, my name has always been on the faculty list. I've read it there multiple times. But like I said, my memory grows fuzzier with time. Things change. The school has changed, I think, but I can never revisit the past. Can I? Only what I remember of it. I remember it one way, but sometimes I stand in the silence,

in the pitch-black nothingness of a moonless night, and I wonder if it has always been exactly as it is now. Change is so hard to keep track of. Why is it that when I awake on the floor, my clothes have gotten bigger? I must be so very old. Was I as old as I am a few years ago? Of course not. What a stupid question.

It's just sometimes I walk around here and I feel like the art of Gennarian which doesn't quite sit right in my mind. Shouldn't I be... What? Mid-40s? Or is that a meaningless question to a drunk? Still, I keep going.

I keep teaching. Although lately, it feels like I teach more at night than at day. Sometimes I never even see the sunrise. It just keeps going. One long episode without end. I hope to take a break soon, to retire. God knows I need it.

I just need to clear my head to get it all down in one place, to think clearly if only for just a few minutes. But after writing it all down, I feel only more confused than I did before. most recent question for the students, written in chalk on a blackboard illuminated only by moonlight, leaves me feeling empty and alone. I don't like it. It says, What is eating my mind? My name is Dr. Adrian Reinhardt and I'm the last surviving member of the Kronos project team

under the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. You've never heard about me or the project because of For all intents and purposes, we do not exist. But I'll be damned if NASA is going to let my colleagues' deaths be for nothing more than a classified folder collecting dust on a shelf. I know you probably won't believe me. I wouldn't if I were you. But if I'm not asking you to believe me, I'm just asking you to listen.

The Kronos project was secretly established in 1998 by NASA and headed by the Department of Defense. The goal was to use deep-range satellites and telescopes to search the far regions of space for signs of life beyond our solar system. What we found was something far worse. In 2004, a signal was detected from the Boitius void, which is a vast span of nothingness in space, nearly a billion light years in diameter. And when I say there is nothing, I really mean nothing. The void contains absolutely no matter or even dark matter.

It's essentially a definitive null zone in the universe, devoid of anything, all except for a single, continuous signal. I remember it like it was yesterday. My colleagues and I were sitting in a room that can best be described as a discount version of the mission control facility in Houston. We were all there at our desks going over sheets of useless data from other reconnaissance scans until the detection alarm started to go off, signifying that a signal had been detected from deep space. When we started going over the data, we triangulated the signal source to RA 14 hour, 50 minutes, zero seconds, deck plus 46 degrees, 00.

For those not versed in stellar coordinates, they pointed smack dab in the middle of the void. Given the vast empty region of space, we at first had thought it was a system malfunction. But when we restarted it, it began immediately reporting a signal coming from those coordinates once again. We had originally thought we were just picking up fragments of a supernova or stellar burst of a long-dead star that had once been in that section of space.

But that hypothesis was quickly uprooted when we were able to filter through the background data and convert it into an audio format. It wasn't one long wave of static that you would normally detect from such cosmic events. It was a continuation rhythmic series of beeps that sounded eerily like a heartbeat. Now of course, we were miles away from actually confirming or denying that this signal was the work of some advanced alien civilization, hiding away in the empty regions of space,

but we were still absolutely ecstatic over the finding. I don't remember seeing a single one of the faces in there not smiling from ear to ear, while that beating pulsing signal repeated itself over and over again through the speakers of the control centre. Following our little eureka moment, we followed the proper procedure and contacted our administrators and awaited further instructions as we aimed every satellite and listening device we had at our disposal at those coordinates. I remember feeling like a kid on Christmas Eve as I was driving home that night, so impossibly eager to see what the next day would bring. Unfortunately, the days would roll into months, then into years, and to the next chapter of the ongoing conference, cosmic heartbeat signal would present itself. On August 24th, 2009, we were given the go ahead by the Obama administration to send a reply

signal to the same region of the void that the signal was still coming from. Although this was done as a ceremonial milestone, given the fact that the region of space was nearly 700 million light years away, it would be at least 1,400 million years for a reply to our message to even reach us. that the message was still a continuous repetition of two beats per second, we decided to use a similar frequency using a morseco translation of hello. We popped some champagne and enjoyed the event, as much as one could in a top secret research facility under a shadow section of the United States government. That night, around 3am, I received a call from Dr. Wesker concerning the signal.

I'll never forget how disappointed and yet terrified his voice was over the phone. The signal, he said. It just stopped. For years, that seemed to be the end of our little interstellar communications. But we still carried on with our research, always keeping at least one monitoring device locked on the target coordinates of the void. We had a few detected bursts of information that piqued our interest at the time from other regions of space,

but nothing like the heartbeat signal. I wish I could tell you that's where the start. story ends, I wish I could say that rather than typing this out as the last few hours for my life ticked away, that I was back in the facility searching the stars. But these are the wishful thoughts of a man at the end of his rope. It's at this time I've come to the realization that there are no happy endings. Eight months ago, going through a routine series of scans, we received another transmission from the Buotis void. One I'm still trying to come to terms with, not because it began again, but because it defied the very laws of physics. This was the message translated in Morse code.

Goodbye. It was a reply to the message we sent nearly 11 years ago. Somehow, a communication that should have transpired over the course of 1,400 million years took place in just 11. It didn't make any sense. It still doesn't. None of what was happening made any logical sense. As soon as the transmission was received and translated, the empty space around the center of the void began to expand as the surrounding star systems seemed to just blink out of existence,

one by one, like a series of bulbs being turned off. The stars began to go out. It was almost as if we were watching it occur in real time, which is another astronomical impossibility. You see, we can only observe as fast as light travels, which means if you were watching the Boatis void that is 700 million light years away, we would be seeing it as it was 700 million years ago. But now, we were watching an event unfold that was absolutely cosmically impossible. The rate at which the stars were vanishing was expanding the void at a rate of nearly 5 million light years a minute. I don't know how to describe it,

other than saying that the dark nothingness was growing faster than the speed of light itself, seemingly consuming and extinguishing everything in its path, all the while that message just kept ringing throughout the room. I don't know how or why, but very quickly the implications of this flooded over the control centre as my colleagues and I began to realise the gravity of this impossible event. There was no argument amongst us whether this was possible or not. It clearly wasn't, yet it was happening all the same.

At this rate, it'll reach the solar system in just under a year. Dr. Waterford sounded weak and hoarse as he exclaimed the obvious. We were all thinking the same thing. In a little under 360 days, this cosmic expanse would reach our very own star system. We of course didn't know what would happen when it did. But in astronomy, you always think of the worst. If the sun was somehow extinguished by the void, as all the surrounding stars were, it would take a little under a year for the Earth to become an uninhabitable wasteland.

That was, of course, even if the planet wasn't completely consumed and absorbed into nothingness as well. The entire time I ran the calculations and possible scenarios in my head, the message we received kept popping up again and again, seemingly trying to answer the question as to what was going on. Goodbye. It seemed to hit Dr. Redmond first as he leapt to his feet and made for a dashing sprint to the exit. Soon everyone began to follow. Under normal circumstances, you'd think that the man's cheese had finally slid off his metaphorical crackers.

But, given the current situation, given what we were witnessing, he may have been the most sensible one in that entire room. Then, just as a few others were making their way towards the exit, it suddenly dawned on me as well. The message, it must have been telling us and everything else in its path. Goodbye. Whatever was in the Boatah's void was coming for us, coming for everything. At the time we really weren't thinking of the consequences of our actions.

We weren't focused on the repercussions of suddenly jumping ship and going AWOL from a top secret government programme. The only thing racing in our mind was the sweeping wall of nothingness hurtling to all of the towards us faster than the speed of light. I went straight home and drowned myself in a bottle, hoping to wake up the next morning to realise everything was just some crazy dream. I wouldn't be so lucky, of course. In truth, I would come to find that out very quickly.

That night, at about 1 a.m., I was awoken by the phone. When I went to check the unknown caller, it turned out to be one of my colleagues, Dr. Maverick who was one of the last men to even leave the facility that day. You've got to run, Adrian, he yelled, trying to catch his breath. I had wondered at the time what had caused him such physical exertion. What are you talking about? I asked as my head pounded with a throbbing migraine. They're scrubbing the project, cleaning house.

Don't you know what that means? That first sentence was all I needed to sober up. If what he said was true, then Word had gotten up the chain of command, and they had now come to knowledge about both the discovery and its implications, as well as the science team's reaction to said implications. If they were scrubbing the project, then we would be the first to be cleaned up. How do you know about this? I asked him. I tried to go over to McGuire's house to discuss possible outcomes about the expansion. But when I got there, his house was burning to ashes. and Cuthbert and Lethbridge won't answer their phones.

And, on top of all of that, I think I've been followed. Are you sure? I asked as I made my way to the bedroom window, searching for any government hitman. Yes, absolutely. I've driven around my block twice now, and I'm on 58 South. There's been a black unmarked car following me the entire way. I could almost make out what was sniffles through the speaker. Listen, you've got to get the hell out of dodge right now,

why you've still got the chance. If you're half as smart as I know you are, then you'll... Those were the last words I heard from him before the signal gave out. I didn't need much more of a warning after that. I quickly got some things together and piled up into my Avalon and hit the highway. I've been on the run ever since then, dodging any sign of suspicion by moving state to state, county to county. All until now.

Once I post this, they'll obviously be able to trace it, and I'm going to let them. I've been running all year and I'm tired of it, mainly because there doesn't seem to be a point to it any longer. Within a few months the expanse will reach us anyway. So forgive me if I take the easy way out of this. I wish I could tell you in these final words that the governments of the world are working together to somehow try to stop this. But they know better. They know it's coming.

And rather than be up front with you. They want to hide it as long as possible. That's why there's been so much mess clogging the news and media here lately. They want total blanket coverage of so much chaos here on earth. That way no one locks up to see the inevitable. It's coming and there's no stopping it. So, do me a favour, will you? Make what little life you have left worth it.

Hold your loved ones. Go on that vacation you kept putting off. Do what makes you happy. Live. Goodbye. From worldwide topmerken to entrepreneurs who net begin. Millioonsertrawe on-in-your-trouwer on-line, in your winkel, on Instagram, TikTok and more.

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I hear the singing. I hear the singing of the cursed girl. My little sister, Sarah, took good care of all the dolls, but she didn't sing to any of them the way she did to this one. She gave each one of a dolls a name, and what one might call a theme song. Just a silly little ditty about how pretty they were and how they would be best friends forever,

with her hair of silk, eyes of gold, heart of rose, things like that. She was five years old after all. But this one doll of hers, this old doll she named Amandine, had a different song, much different. It took her a while to come up with it, or should I say, it took her a while to learn it. It started out as a hum, and then a bunch of la-la-la-la's,

Before she started muttering symbols that almost made up a language but remained unintelligible to everyone who heard her. But the melody was always the same each time. An anchor for the chaotic randomness of the words. It sounded like a folk song or a nursery rhyme. It had a distinguishable stanza and a refrain, a recursive melody and structure but no meaning. Not yet. Everyone else in the house knew that melody by the end of the first week, of her picking up on it.

She sang it to herself incessantly when she thought she was alone, in a room, in the garden, while distracted from her colouring books, or while waiting for an egg-de-ball in the kitchen. Then she started adding words, but none of us understood them as words. We thought it was a lot more nonsense syllables, which is strange since she did not have a propensity for that sort of thing. She had learned to speak at two years old and hadn't said anything nonsensical since. Even if you consider her dolls a fair bit of nonsense, she was very proper about them. She'd make up rules about where they sat around a little painted wooden tea table in the nursery,

where they had a tea party, and she took to scolding them like a mother for being rude to each other, or for being messy with their scones. What's more, none of her other dolls had gone through this discovery process for their own songs. I say discovery, because it was less that she was creating the song herself. and more like she had encountered it from somewhere else. Pretty soon we discovered that she was singing in a language she herself couldn't have known. We learnt this when one of our mother's friends,

a refined lady of society, had come over for a visit. Our mother made sure we three children all presented ourselves to Mrs. Harris and said our hello's and how do you do's. My elder brother, all dashing, and our younger sister in a modest, clean dress. And then, as my brother went back upstairs, my little sister politely excused herself and went to the nursery on the ground floor to play with her dolls. The door to the nursery was ajar, because I was supposed to be looking after her, even while I sat outside at the sidelines, more fascinated by the grown-up talk in the living room than my sister's cooing over her playthings. Inevitably, she began singing the same song in a light, quivering voice.

She sang soft, preoccupied and unsure of herself, but it was loud enough to be heard in the living room, and our guest shut up and listened. My mother was embarrassed and begged Mrs. Harris to ignore my sister, but our guest was curious. Where did she learn that song? My mother hesitated, then looked to me as if for help. I stammered. We... We don't know, ma'am. She made it up.

Delightful, said Mrs. Harris, her eyes lighting up. I'm so impressed that you're having her learn a second language. Always start them young, I say. Especially when it comes to a language as phonetically complicated as French. They have to pick up on the proper accents when young, you know. She's singing in French, I said, startled. My mother and I briefly exchanged wide-eyed looks. Well, of course, said our guest with a twinkle of a laugh.

I know a fair amount of French myself, though I'm not very strong in it as I should be. My own mother was a French teacher, you know, native English, fluid French. I can make out a bit of what little Sarah is singing. My mother who gained a smile, trying to find a place in the conversation. Oh, well, you know, I think I've mentioned before my husband's got some European blood on his side. his great-grandparents were native to Brittany and their children married with English I think his aunt was the last of them

who really spoke French but we don't think about that aunt she glanced at me and I nodded that aunt might have had the French but she also had the crazes that's charming said our guest

completely missing the meaning in our furtive looks so who's been teaching her is that lovely preschool she goes to it is a bit advanced for her age. Again, my mother looked at me for help. While at home, it was largely my duty to see to Sarah's education. Oh, I... I don't know, ma'am, I flushed.

She gives all the dolls a song. I really just think she made it up. Mrs. Harris laughed that twinkling laugh again, but it was a bit muted now, disbelieving. She looked at me with a challenging gloat. in a narrowed eyes and a teasing bright lipstick smile. Is that right? I hardly think so.

Do you know what she's saying? My mother said then, as if to come to my rescue. My little sister was still singing much more softly now, and then she stopped altogether and began quietly scolding some dull or other until it was clear that there was no point in listening further. I guess shrugged her delicate shoulders. Oh, it was something about a blacksmith, I can tell you that much. A blacksmith, then a prince, and a little girl.

But she was on the refrain quite a bit. And, from what I can remember of that, it was something like this. Jean-tenchaanda, Jean-Ten Chanda, Della Fie d'Alme, Jean-Tens Chanda. Roughly translated, I hear the song, I hear the singing of the cursed girl. I hear the singing. We just sat there.

listening to the gentle clink of ceramic from my sister's tea party in the nursery. A bit of an odd choice for a song for her age, isn't it? said I guessed. But I suppose old folk songs are all like that. It's got quite a haunting melody. I feel like I should have heard it before, but I can't in all honesty say I have. After Mrs. Harris had left, my mother and I went to the nursery to talk to Sarah. She didn't seem troubled that a mother and big sister were both wearing solace. and asking about that song. We asked her to sing it for us again, but she refused to. She said she hadn't properly learned it yet, that she didn't really know all the words.

That's nonsense, darling, said my mother, fondly but nervously. You were singing the words so beautifully just now. Mrs. Harris heard you from the living room. Sarah felt silent and only stared down at the tablecloth, fidgeting with a hem of a dress. She had always been such a stringer, King Violet and she never was keen on performing any of her dolls songs for us. They were between her and the dolls only, so we weren't entirely surprised. Our father had come home at that point and my mother left the nursery to go to see him, leaving me alone with my sister. I watched her rearrange the tea things a bit and then asked her where she had learned a Mandine's

song. Sarah only glanced me for a moment and then away as if debating with herself on whether to tell me. Quietly, she said. Amandine taught it to me. I glanced at the doll at a place of honour at the head of the table, as if the doll itself could verify this claim. I don't know what I was expecting. Amandine was older than the other dolls, even when she was new to the house, and looked quite out of place among the others, with a muted, milky face compared to the shiny plastic of the other doll's rosy cheeks. Amandine's flaxen hair was also a bit thin, and

and a touch duller than their glossy synthetic curls, and her flocks was old-fashioned and sensible. With a cherubic expression, all demeanor and all almost bored, she came across as the eldest among them, the spoil sport in that ring of colourfully dressed, laughing baby faces, as though she was some infant Flemish angel looking down a nose at a group of ditty schoolgirls. Even from her proportions, you could tell she was made from a different era, when dolls were made to look like shrunken girls rather than babies. She was clean and very well taken care of with the rest of them, though I could see there were faint cracks of age

creeping up from a little porcelain chin, and it seemed she was going a bit bold on one side. Her disenchanted baby blue eyes stared blankly at the wall over my shoulder. The next time I could get him alone in his study, I asked my father where he had gotten the doll. It was the only one who knew where it came from And it kept it as secret all this time It had been his birthday present to my sister a few months ago

When she turned five in March We'd always assumed he had gotten it off a second-hand shop Or some garage sale Him being as cheap as he was Yet he seemed to have chosen with care Knowing what might tickle a fancy Amandine had quickly became my sister's favourite of the group Thoughts you'd never ask

He said grinning, which is why I never thought to prepare an answer. But now you mention it. He dropped his voice and his smile. I'd gotten it when I went to a great Aunt Leia's funeral last year. She died in the hospital, you know. He meant the asylum. I wouldn't know, really, I said.

We don't talk about those things and you don't want any of us to come with you. Father shrugged. It wouldn't have been right. none of you knew her, as it should be. In any case, I went to pay my respects, and one of the other aged relatives asked about how all of you were doing, especially Sarah.

You know how they all don't on her. And, when I mentioned your sister will be turning five soon, she knew what she might like, and brought out this doll. He frowned slightly, as if to recall the details from hazy memory. It was one of the several dolls that belonged to a cousin's sister of mine.

He said, the daughter of my craze Aunt Leah, God-keeper soul. I didn't know her too well. She died before I was old enough to remember. Anyway, he continued brightly. Amandine had many dolls, I heard, quite like your little sister. And this was the only one of a collection that seemed to have survived, or aged well. I forget which. So I accepted it as a present.

He smiled in conclusion. But I was still several steps behind. in this anecdote, staring at him in cold shock. Did you say, Amantine? Yes. Who's that? My cousin's sister, he said simply, but I could tell he was holding something back. People always got antsy when talking about that side of his family.

But I persisted, and this was the story I managed to drag out of him. The doll hadn't really belonged to his crazy Aunt Leah, but to a little bit of her. daughter, this cousin sister, Amandine, who my father hadn't known because she had died as a girl. Or at least they assured she died because she had simply disappeared. After that, great-aunt Leah went crazy. They thought she'd been crazy and only became outwardly so after a daughter died. They also said Leia had killed Amandine in cold blood. After Amandine had disappeared and rumors were divided and inconclusive about how.

Leah hung all her daughter's dolls from a tree in their backyard, dangling from their little porceling necks with twisted cords of knitting yarn, gardening twine or hair ribbon. In the night, she went creeping around the house, circling the tree, sometimes silently, and other times crying hysterically. Every now and again her husband, our grand-uncle, would see her through the bedroom window, strangling the hanging dolls or swatting at them, striking them repeatedly as they saw in wildly from the branches. She would scream curses at them and tear her hair and wail like a madwoman, disturbing the neighbors.

Nothing he did would keep her from this behavior, and the one time he attempted to take down the dolls from a tree, Leah turned down him viciously. They put her away, for everyone's safety. It had been rumored that Leah was haunted by a guilty memory of Amandine, that she had hung the girl's doll from the tree to kill any traces of the dead girl. Her husband attested to the fact that his wife was convinced their daughter was evil. They thought Leah was insane when she said the dolls were evil too. She said she hung them from the tree knowing this wouldn't kill them since they did not breathe,

but it would stop them from singing. Sometimes they would try to sing despite the constrictions anyway, and she would strangle them to shut up. Our great uncle could not attest to hearing any such singing, but he was increasingly concerned and alarmed by the way his wife dealt with these dolls and the effect they had on her. When she tried to burn them, she would feel her own flesh in the flames. She would try to bury them, but then we'd go and bring them back again after a few days, as if it had tormented her to leave them there.

She covered them in salt and dried herbs from mystic-quite doctors, then cleaned them off again, complaining of skin rashes that only cleaned up when she cleaned off the dolls. She went to a bridge and tossed a few in the river and then had nightmares about drowning. She never dealt with more than one doll at a time. She would never let anybody else touch them or even go near them. It was hard to say whether she was protecting the dolls from other people or protecting people from the dolls. Before she could get rid of all of them, she was locked away.

And being asked to explain herself, she said she was waiting for forgiveness. She insisted that she couldn't get rid of all of them at once, because it was through them that she might have received forgiveness from the other side, from a mandeen. As far as anybody knew, she died without having gotten this forgiveness. The attempts to get rid of the dolls were threats that she didn't want to carry out fully. This last doll was the one that had survived more or less intact from her strange attempts. And my father thought it was a good idea to give it to his daughter next. The poor, sad man.

I found myself at the end of this story hugging myself as though I felt cold, despite the warmth of that time of year. Did you tell any of this to Sarah? I asked. Somewhere in the house, outside his study, there were doors opening and closing, busy footsteps rushing here and there, up and down the stairs. My father frowned? No, of course not. what would be the point? Am I only frighten or confuse her? I think we need to take that doll away from her,

I said, beginning to grow even colder with fear. Why, what's the matter? Said my father, noticing that I had paled. I shook my head weakly, not knowing where to start. She named it a mandine. What? The doll, Sarah named it a mandine. Has she?

Well, that's... My father fell silent for a moment. I don't know that. She never told me. And I never told her anything about my cousin. The doll told her its name, I said. And it's teaching her to sing. My father stared at me, as if I'd completely lost him.

He's teaching her to sing this song, Your Crazy Aunt Get Tearing when she'd killed your cousin. Still, he stared. as if he couldn't quite understand, and I grabbed his hand, frustrated. Father, there's something wrong with this doll. It's dangerous. We have to take it from Sarah. Already I was moving away, intending to go to the nursery where I thought she would be, but I stopped short before I could. My elder brother, Philip, had thrown open the door to the study before I had even reached it. His face red and is breathing hard. It looked like he'd been running.

Either of you two since Sarah around, he said with a forced calm. But I could see he was unsettled, struggling against an inner well of panic. Mom's looking for her. We left the study with him and saw that mother was moving into the house from the garden just then. She seemed in a fluster, and usually neat hair was a bit untidy, her eyes wide and a breathing shallow. Have you seen your sister? She asked as soon as she'd seen me. Philip just asked us the same question.

I was just about to, I began, but Mr. Otis, a neighbour who had been helpful in the past, burst into the front door. He too looked like he'd been running. He looked at my mother with a panicked expression on his face and shook his head just once, but it was enough to drive a knife through my heart. What happened? I demanded. Sarah's gone, my brother said, before my mother could say anything. My mother swatted at his arm. We don't know that yet, Philip.

She had been in the garden with me, she explained to us, and we could see her eyes begin to gleam with unshed tears. We were seen to the herb garden, the rosemary. She wanted to go check the flowers at the window boxes. She was gone a while, and I began to worry. I called, and she didn't answer. I sent your brother to go around the house and look for her, and before long I called Mr. Otis to help us look too.

I was about to go to the nursery, I said, breathless now too, though I hadn't been running. She's bound to be in there. That's the first place I checked, said my brother, irritated, and his now obvious panic. You don't suppose I'd think to check the most obvious goddamn... Philip, my mother scolded him. Just check for yourself, he shouted and turned and went back out the door, with my father and Mr. Otis close on his heels to go help him continue the search. Mother and I turned as one and went straight to the nursery

It was full of dolls and empty of my sister Everything was tidy and arranged for their eternal tea time I stepped into the room staring down at the little table Oh, where's a mandeen? I whispered My mother asked a question from behind me But there was too much of a rush in my ears to hear her I turned and pushed past her running up the stairs two at a time to find Sarah's bedroom.

I stopped, breathing hard at the landing. I could hear her singing. Jean-ton chanty. Jean-ton chanty. Her voice was a bit hoarser now, as if she'd been singing for hours. But I was afraid for her to stop suddenly, sensing this would be my only connection to where she was hiding.

Her words had gotten very slow as well. stretching each word out to eerie and unnatural dimensions. Jean-Tan Chante. Sarah, I called out, sprinting the rest of the way. Sarah, answer me, please. I tore open a bedroom door and found a room empty. No dull, no girl. I checked under the bed, in the closet.

Nothing in the bathroom. My room, my brother's room, my parents' room. The kitchen, the attic, behind the curtains. I was quickly running out of places to look. I was down to the cellar and up again. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I was ready to scream. And still, I could hear their quivering little voice.

All al-lum, montal, jante, ma'u-shaun, jante, ma'i-sie-sha-sha-sha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-a-ha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a. It was coming from everywhere, nowhere at once, impossibly quiet, like I myself were imagining it, or carrying the voice with me in my head. My brother never mentioned he could hear her singing. Finally I stopped at the far end of the hallway where there was a window looking out into the backyard and the garden. I could hear my parents downstairs, talking in increasingly concerned voices.

I could hear doors opening and closing, heard them calling my sister's name out in the garden. I heard father on the phone with the police. I was crying now. I went to the window and lifted the sash just in time to catch a glimpse of my brother running down the street with Mr. Otis, looking left and right, stopping neighbours and asking questions. I leaned there with my hands on the edge, supporting myself. Jean-ton chanté,

Jean-ton-chante, La Fid am knee, chantan chanty. I listened and listened until I finally understood that this light, quivering voice was not my sisters. It had never been my sisters.

She couldn't sing the words for us because she didn't know the words. She told us the truth. It hadn't been her singing. It never had been. My jolly, massie jolly. I wiped my eyes and stared.

In the crabavowel tree in our backyard, I noticed something pale like skin, hidden among the leaves. It was the missing doll, a mandine, nestled among the branches. She was hanging from a high branch by Sarah's hair ribbon twisted around her neck. De Mo my fee, quita damn me, the basho of landi at a de la blesse, Sest set home Le Long de la Me. Chachior Ilverne me trove.

When I got my brother to retrieve the doll from the tree, I had it buried in her back garden. My parents did not question my decision, at least not allowed. I had been my sister's keeper, and I'd failed to protect her. They let me grieve how I wanted. Sometimes at night, I could hear a voice rising from the rosebush as if the roses were singing softly to themselves to keep from being afraid. I kept feeling the subconscious pull to the garden to retrieve a mandeen from a living grave, but I resisted.

Dreams of suffocation were a small price to pay for keeping that thing underground and away from other children. The search for the missing girl raised on in the community until it was finally abandoned. It lived on as only some exaggerated, for other mothers to threaten their disobedient children with, but nobody ever blamed was suspected a doll. We never found Sarah again. The rest of her dolls remain silent.