CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 TWISTED Reddit Horror Stories compilation to welcome October

Episode Date: September 29, 2020

LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "I'm an office tech at a company that works with NASA. This is their secret" Creepypasta►18:52 "New Neighbor" Creepypasta►53:47 "The Rats Of Stragview Prison" Creepypasta►1:21:55 "Something Ate My Father's Brain" Creepypasta►1:39:09 "To My Old 4th Grade Classmates in Mrs Barther’s Biology Class. It's Coming For Me" Creepypasta►2:28:19 "A Meteor Crashed Outside My House. Whatever is Inside of It Is Still Alive" 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. CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Adeshark: https://www.deviantart.com/adeshark/a...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

I don't work for NASA. I'm a lowly office tech at a company affiliated with NASA. We store data off-site, mostly concerning their many secret unmanned missions to the moon, including the countless ones that took place in between the Apollo launches. There are regular landings, even today. As you can imagine, we're not on the books. Still, we are a necessary facet of the space administration's delicate infrastructure. Now that you're up to speed with where I work, I can tell you about the room.

Room 371 to be precise, the overseer's office. It always had an air of mystery about it. I and other staff members have been inside before, tasked with leaving behind flash drives filled with sensitive information for the overseer to upload to our database. You see, the sole computer in that room is an offline archive. containing almost every one of NASA's dirty little secrets, stuff that we can't risk getting out in the event of a data breach. If anyone were to hack our online mainframe,

they would only find decoy files, outlying pieces of data that have already been in the public's eye. Most of the information I dealt with amounted to mundane statistical analysis. The real interesting, controversial stuff was sent directly to the overseer, bypassing the prying eyes of entry-level employment. That brings us to yesterday. It was a normal drop-off assignment. Bring the flash drive to room 371,

leave it on the desk, and shut the door on your way out. I had done it countless times before. This time, however, was a little different. After placing the drive on the desk, I noticed a faint glow on the wall behind it. The computer was on. This was strange.

It was always shut down by the overseer after a data dump. The only times I'd ever seen it turned on were on the days he was in there still working. I admit, my curiosity got the better of me. With a slight spike in adrenaline, I walked around the desk and sat at the chair, ready to take back at least one mystery to the hive mind on the main floor. The convenience in this moment cannot be understated. I later discovered that the overseer was sick and had rushed to the bathroom, where he remained for at least 40 minutes.

Not only was the computer on, but it was unlocked. Even our personal workstations required a series of passwords that changed daily. Passwords, we had to spend the first ten minutes of any given day decrypting. This was the one and only chance I had to placate my curiosity. and dig for the buried treasures of NASA. I knew there just had to be something in the confines of our database that would elicit a gasp or mouth drop, something I would remember for the rest of my years. In settling in at the desk, my heart pounding at the thought of the overseers' return,

I noticed the computer was calibrated just like the rest of our PCs. Because of this, I knew just what folders to open and what digital stones to turn. and my hunt for secrets. Most files were your run-of-the-mill storage vessels, data pertaining to the boring truths of the trade, statistics and physics predictions. After a few minutes of searching, I almost called it quits,

but one document caught my eye. It was titled Project Burial at Sea. This was what I wanted. A classified NASA project never before released to the public. In this moment, secrets were revealed to me. Ones I soon wished I had never unearthed. As is common with these types of documents, the jargon was pretty straightforward and low on description. As such, I had to piece together bits of information to form a clear picture of the proposal

and subsequent missions that apparently started at the turn of our current century. What I discovered did indeed elicit a gasp. It also made my skin crawl. Project Burial at Sea was, ironically enough, a failsafe against information leaks. It implemented the pre-existing infrastructure of NASA's unmanned missions to dispose of cracks in the system. That is, individuals likely to come clean about privileged information. Yes, you heard wrong. right, individuals.

NASA was killing off would-be whistleblowers to protect their assets. The initial proposal called for sending the bodies into deep space, but too many unknown variables presented themselves. If even one probe was knocked back to Earth by an asteroid or unforeseen space event, the entire operation will be done for, especially if it landed in enemy territory. At that point, another country could use it to blackmail our government for aid, and financial gain.

Burying the bodies on the moon prevented this and eliminated all potential evidence tying anyone to a crime. The people who vanished made up a very small portion of NASA, so the ratio of missing persons in relation to their workforce was barely disrupted, deflecting any potential suspicion. After a rigorous sterilization procedure, the bodies are stuffed into the hollow spaces of the previously unmanned probes. Once they reach the lunar surface, they are collected by rovers, of which there are many more than you're aware of, and buried in the craters of a specific section of the moon's dark side.

In other words, mass graves. The rovers later collect samples to determine the long-term effects of the soil on human decomposition. This was not the purpose of the project, just an added benefit. I was flawed. This document was not what I expected. I couldn't believe this sort of thing would happen in our country, and at NASA of all places, an organisation I was involved with.

After closing the file and navigating back to the home screen, I left room 371 and shut the door. My worldwide view shattered. Upon returning to my workstation, my co-worker Bill questioned me. Jack, where did you go? Did he hear the overseer retching in the bathroom? Poor guy has that stomach book that's been going around.

I politely nodded, but offered no response to the initial query, still shaken. Bill buried his face back in his work. Eventually, the overseer returned, the sound of 371's creaky iron door slamming shut behind him as he resumed work at his desk. Beads of sweat formed above my brow, as I wondered if he would notice. something amiss, and no, I perused the archive.

My heart began racing as the paranoia took hold. I had to tell someone about my discovery. Perhaps I misinterpreted the information. Maybe Bill could put my mind at ease. He was a nice guy. Not the type to break a promise or betray his fellow worker. Bill, I whispered, have you heard anything about NASA sending corpses to the moon?

He stared at me a moment. an overly serious expression painted across his face. Then, he laughed. Jack, you're a card. Where do you come up with this stuff anyway? You should write a book. Without so much as a sound to alert his arrival, the overseer put his hand on my shoulder.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. Jack, I've been meaning to talk to you. A big promotion in the works. Meet me in my office in ten minutes. With that he loosened his grip And travelled back to room 371 My eyes widened and my heart sank Bill noticed something was wrong

What's wrong Jack You look as though you've seen a ghost Promotions are a big deal around here Only one every few months or so Lisa was promoted last year And went under supervised one of those unmaned probe launches Haven't heard from us since I turned to Bill and met his gaze

Bill, it's been nice working with you. He smiled before turning back to his computer. You too, Jack. Ten, torturous minutes came and went. I hesitantly made my way to room 371 and slowly opened the door. The overseer gestured for me to come in. Have a seat, Jack, and close the door.

I unwillingly obliged. The thoughts of making a run for me to come in. frick crossed my mind, but I knew the security detail at the front gate would stop me. Drawing attention to myself would only serve to expedite my demise. So, what is this about? I asked. My breathing now labored and sporadic. Like I said before, it's a promotion. NASA is recruiting from its affiliate outfits to supervise some of their unmanned launches. You've been selected. I tilted my head in disbelief. But sir, why me?

I haven't done anything to warrant such a promotion, to my knowledge. He grinned. That's where you're wrong, Jack. We've been watching you. We know what you did. You can't deny it any longer. With a wicked smile, he stood up from his desk and walked over to me. His arms outstretched in my direction.

His shadow covered the entire room. Or at least, it seemed that way in the moment. Without realising it, I had backed myself into the corner, almost cowering in fear. That's when the door opened, and my co-workers flooded the room. Surprise! I stood upright, shocked. What's going on? Bill responded.

Don't you know what day it is, Jack? The overseer pointed at his wall calendar. It was September 18th. which, according to them, was my hire date. It all made sense now. It was a ruse, a practical joke of my expense. The overseer sometimes did this on workplace anniversaries, but not for many years at this point,

and never to this elaborate extent. I didn't even realise what day it was until they pointed it out. Did you really think I would leave my computer on, unintended? Bill chimed in. But he's kind of in decomposing the, moon jack, there's no air. They both let out hearty laughs. I laughed

too, thoroughly relieved. The rest of the afternoon was nice. After all was said and done, we returned to work, invigorated by the positive surge of energy and morale. After finishing my leftover tasks, I left with a smile on my face,

happy to be outside, alive and well. This mood would follow me the whole way home, but, It wasn't alone When I parked in my driveway Someone pulled in behind me The overseer stepped out of the car

And greeted me with a friendly wave Jack Can we talk House calls were unorthodox in our line of work But not unheard of Of course, Coulter Please come in He followed me inside and joined me in the living room

I sat down But he paced at the fireplace looking over my family photos on the mantle. You know, what Bill said was true. Bodies don't decompose on the moon. That bit was added by NASA. They put falsehoods in all of their classified documents. It's another failsafe, a detail they can point to in the event of a leak to make it seem illegitimate.

I was utterly confused. I'm not sure I follow. What are you getting at exactly? He turned to me, a stern look painted across his face. It's all real Jack, the dead bodies, the craters, everything. You should have never sat at my desk. I chuckled. Come on, Coulter, the joke's over, no need to drag it out.

He wasn't laughing. This is no joke. You were hired in July. Not September. I sent out a last-minute memo to everyone in an attempt to avert your suspicion. Here, we can discuss things privately. Very funny. You're forgetting about my wife and daughter. As Mark touched the side of his cheek, he tossed me an envelope. Inside were photos of my wife, picking up our daughter from school.

My heart sank. What the hell is this, Colter? are you following my family around? We've intercepted them. Let's just say they'll be late getting home tonight. The gravity of the situation was beginning to sink in.

If everything I saw wasn't it real, then I was now a target. I would soon become the next NASA casualty buried at sea. If I didn't escape and get help, Charlotte and Leslie would never be saved. My eyes darted, for the door.

Calta noticed. I wouldn't run if I were you. I didn't come alone. My blood boiling, I was tempted to lash out in anger. Don't worry, they're safe. I remained silent but livid. There are things in the universe you can't begin to understand, things not only above your pay grade, but above your understanding.

Things human words can never hope to describe. Human? I asked, perplexed by the wording. Yes, Jack, let me show you. What happened next was enough to put my mouth on the floor. Using his right hand and a single circular motion in the air, Golter opened up a portal. A damn portal. One that seemed to connect my living room to the moon.

I could even see the earth off in the distance. What in God's name is that? I shouted. Come, Jack, get a closer look. As his hostage, I had no choice but to humour his demands. Upon stepping up to the void, still frazzled, I saw it. A crater filled to the brim with corpses. Why?

Why are you showing me this? I asked in a shaky voice. Just watch, Jack. I looked back to the scene and noticed something at the edge of the crater. Three shadowy figures, far too tall to be human. They extended their arms and a glow rained down from the space above the crater. The corpses. They moved.

I watched in horror as the bodies were reanimated. But these were not living things. They were shells controlled by a puppeteer. bent to its sinister will. The three shadows became one and formed an archway, a blinding brightness pouring out from within. One by one, the corpses walked into the light until finally the crater was emptied.

Then the light dissipated, and the shadows spun in unison, taking off at great speed into the abyss of deep space. With another wave of his arm, Coulter closed the portal. I was speechless. You see, Jack, Project Burial at Sea is more than a safety measure. It's a necessary sacrifice to them.

So, all those bodies? I asked. No, no, only some were would-be whistleblowers. The rest, John and Jane Does, left at morgue's, across the country with no relatives to claim them. Where did they take them? I asked. To the place where they live. There they are forced to build, stuck in the space between life and death for an eternity. Slaves of an alien race.

It's a truly terrible fate. We would all be there right now, if not for the deal we struck back in 1947. These creatures don't bode well in our atmosphere. We placate their every need to keep them from developing a time. technology capable of mitigating the effect our air has on their bodies and spacecraft. I couldn't believe it. Everything I knew up to that point was a lie. Colter walked to the door.

I like you, Jack. That's why I'm telling you all of this. I want to keep you on. You're a good man and a good worker. If you don't want to end up like the poor souls up of that hunk of space rock, you'll keep your mouth shut. I heard a car pulling outside. Looks like your wife and daughter are home.

We just took them out for ice cream. Before closing the door on his way out, the overseer turned back with a smile. See you on Monday, Jack. As a preface, when my wife and I first moved into our new townhome, we were surprised to find somebody already living across from us. We'd been told we were the first to move into the newly built community and, for sale signs, still stood in front of every home but ours

and the one directly across from us. The neighbour himself was nice enough. He was a curious man, perhaps mid-40s with some receding hair and cleanly shaven face. He dressed in two-sized, two large coloured shirts and dress pants that were so heavily starched they seemed to always hang around his thin frame. There were many small auditors about him aside from his clothes, but when we first met him, I was relieved to have such a friendly, albeit talkative, first neighbour. When we met him on our first day at the new home, while I unloaded boxes from the small rental

box truck, and my wife moved everything where it needed to be once inside. We met him on our first day at the new home, while I was unloading boxes from the small rental box truck and my wife moved everything where it needed to be once inside. We had moved from a smaller apartment complex and since we didn't have much to pack, the moving was thankfully easy enough for the two of us to handle on our own. The neighbour made his first appearance towards the end of the day when I was unloading the last of the boxes into the driveway. I stopped to take a break and heard the door across the street closed.

I looked over to see our new neighbour waving as he came across the talk. He made a friendly first impression. We talked a little about the neighbourhood and the construction, and soon my wife came out to meet him as well. He introduced himself as Andrew and told us he had just moved in as well and was glad to already have neighbours. We spent most of the conversation answering questions about ourselves, where we had lived, our jobs, if we had family in the area, and so on and so forth. I should mention that that to me, this was all rather casually brought up, and the conversation was quite normal. Since the sun was about to set, and we still had boxes to move, I mentioned as much to him,

and we parted in a friendly way. As soon as he was gone, my wife started remarking how strange he was. To be frank, she's always been the overly careful type, to the point that I'm the only one who answers the door, and so, with this well in mind, I listened as she listed off the things that struck her as strange. She noted he constantly used the word neighbour, which admittedly he did. His clothing, the way he asked so many questions, and that he seemed to not have a car. Which was true, his one car driveway was empty, and we couldn't see one parked anywhere nearby. She also mentioned how we seemed to hesitate and think for a moment before he gave us his name.

If this had happened, I couldn't recall it, and chalked it up to a usual. suspicious attitude. I reassured her that even if he was a bit odd, he was friendly and seemed harmless, and he was also our first and only neighbour. I don't think we mentioned Andrew again and continued to unpack. We returned to the truck after dark

and upon arriving home, we promptly went to bed in our sparesly furnished new home. Neither of us worked the next day and we made another early start in unpacking. We ended up finishing before lunch and as we made plans to go shopping for some necessities such as trash bags and cleaning supplies, there was a knock on the door. Andrew greeted us with his same friendly smile and handed us a simple store-bought sheet cake

as a housewarming gift. We invited him in and had a rather pleasant talk. This time I did notice his questions. He was like a child in his curiosity regarding every little thing. on our home, and while at first we happily entertained him while sharing slices of his cake, soon it had turned into more of our home tour. Everything was a wonder to him. Every knick-knack, item and book on our shelves was worthy of praise to him.

My wife, obviously annoyed, soon pulled me aside and made it clear that it was time for Andrew to be on his way. So, after some more small pleasantries, I sent Andrew away, claiming we still had more to unpack, refused his help and he left with a smile. I'll admit that while I knew neighbour was certainly a bit off, it appeared to me he was in fact trying his best to be a nice neighbour, and I reason this with my wife. She made the fair argument that he was creepy, and while I could see her point of view, I still found no reason to dislike him. The next day, however, I began to see things from her side.

Andrew showed up at noon, bearing another store-bought sheet cake and a pleasant smile. As awkward as this moment was, and much to the dismay of my wife, I invited him inside again. This time as I served some of the prior days' cake, I made sure to impress upon our good neighbour that I had some errands to do. This ended up becoming a tedious mistake as Andrew was eager to know of my errands. offerings, offering to lend me any tools or items I needed and so on. Eventually I had to wonder if this over-the-top display of constant helpfulness and interest was some kind of elaborate prank or hazing. But, seeing the genuine smile on Andrew's face and his keen interest in my plans to buy milk,

it seemed worryingly genuine. My wife had made some manner of excuse to leave us, and I began trying to ask Andrew some questions about himself. I say try, because I rarely got a clear answer. With each question, his smile would give the briefest flicker as he paused before giving his answer. I soon gave up on this fruitless effort and the remainder of his visit was spent answering questions about everything from our kitchen appliances to our extended family. When I saw Andrew out, with some gentle verbal prodding, I was ready to admit it.

Andrew came off as creepy, or at the very least annoying. Reflecting on this though, I realised, perhaps he hadn't had much luck with friends until now, and his keen interest in us was likely a result in what he saw as an opportunity for a genuine friendship or neighbourly companionship. When we went to bed, my wife spoke plainly what was on both of our minds, that if Andrew showed up with a cake tomorrow, he wasn't to be invited. in. Sure enough, at noon, Andrew arrived with an identical store-bought sheet cake and smile. This time I met him outside and I explained as politely as I could that we were well-stocked on cake and that he didn't need to bring a gift to us each day or at all. I also explained that we were

quite tired and unable to have him over every day. I expected this to upset him, but he took it in stride politely nodding and smiling. He told me he understood and we spoke outside for a while about random things. One thing we disagreed upon was the eventual moving in of other neighbours. This topic seemed to dampen his mood the slightest bit and he seemed convinced no one

or at least very few people would be interested in the homes nearby. When pressed he cited strange reasons such as soil quality for our small lawns or the way the sun would hit the window and so on. I didn't press him on this matter, but eventually, when I dragged the endless conversations to be close,

I realized he was perfectly happy to simply stand there outside with me, smiling all the while. I made an excuse about checking on the wife and mentioned in what I hoped was a not very subtle hint that if I saw him outside in the future, I'd be sure to say hello. That night, when my wife complained about our neighbour, I joined her in venting. While he seemed nice and well-meaning, he was exhausting to be around.

She did mention that we would both be going back to work tomorrow, and so there was no worry of Andrew's noontime visit, and I think I slept better with that thought in my head. When my wife left for work at 6am, the noise woke me, and I began a slow and easy morning, enjoying my coffee and the openness of the new house before I had to leave for work at 8. Eventually, when I did leave, I was greeted by none other than our neighbour, Andrew,

outside of his home, seemingly wondering about his driveway with a cup of coffee. He noticed me immediately and gave a hearty wave and a smile and made its way across the street to me. Internally, I groaned, but outwardly I put on the best smile I could, and we talked briefly before I mentioned I was off to work. He wished me a good day and still smiling, went back to his driveway and waved and watched me drive off. I watched him in my rearview mirror, and even when I was a ways down the main road, I saw him faintly in the distance at the corner near his house, watching. That was unnerving. Work went fine, but as it ended, I began to dread the trip home.

Sure enough, when I pulled into my driveway, Andrew waved and made his way towards me, but I stopped him with a brief and not as polite explanation that I was too tired to talk today and went inside. When my wife arrived home, I noticed from the window that she simply ignored him and came inside. She immediately explained how our dear neighbour had been outside at 6 a.m. in his crisp clothes enjoying a cup of coffee and the pre-sunshine gloom. She told me she was done being polite with him, and we agreed to set boundaries. Perhaps Andrew understood for my wife's actions alone, but he no longer bothered her.

Instead, he redoubled his efforts to me. Though, thankfully, after several days of using exhaustion as an excuse, he only talked to me in the morning, or when I was on my way out the house. Understand that until this point, while Andrew was definitely creepy and certainly annoying, I did not share my wife's hate for him. This changed one morning perhaps a week and half after we moved in. Andrew had mentioned to me in our brief morning chat

how he had seen a stray cat in the neighbourhood. I noted I had seen it as well, a feral-looking orange tabby. I jokingly said that hopefully it wouldn't be around for too long as my wife was allergic and for the first time since I had met him I saw Andrew's smile vanish from his face. Instead, he was utterly shocked.

He asked me how severe her allergies were, how they affected her, so on and so forth. He acted as though I had revealed my wife had some fatal disease. I assured him she was fine and there was no need for alarm, but when I left for work shortly after I could see he was still upset. The rest of the day passed by normal, but the next morning I was roughly shaken awake by by my wife just before 6am. There's a dead cat on our doorstep, she said. I got up and followed her, and even in my tired, groggy state, I made the connection

to Andrew. When she opened the door to show me, sure enough, there was the feral tabby, laid evenly on our front step, this neck twisted at an unnatural angle. I think she realized the cause before I explained it to her, but I went over the conversation I had with Andrew the morning before, and she was furious. She swore to call the police on him, told me we would get a restraining order, went on about how she always knew he was deranged, and it was all like a do to get her into her car and off to work before she was late.

As carefully as I could, and, with a heavy conscious, I placed a dead cat in a garbage bag and gently laid it in our outdoor garbage can. I spent the rest of the morning anticipating how I would speak to Andrew, when I saw him, and I went outside a few minutes early to meet him. He hadn't been outside, but he came out immediately after I moved to go down our front steps. It was almost surreal seeing him gingerly walk across the street, cup in hand, with a big smile on his face. Before he reached my side of the street, I said it. You killed the cat?

He beamed at me. The smile got wider and then. the pride appeared plain on his face. I was stunned. He truly thought he had done a good deed. It was nauseating. I had been kind and polite and patient with this man, but no longer.

I was angry. I told him that was unacceptable, that it was wrong and sick to kill a poor animal like that. I told him to stay away from us and our home and to get help. Andrew was struck, stone still in the street, mouth agape, he stared at me. Furious as I was, I watched him, unsure how he would react, but too angry to care. His shock turned to concern. He seemed hurt, then panic seemed to creep up his face.

His eyes widened, and when he did speak, it was almost a whisper. Oh no, he said. and took a step towards me. She didn't touch it, did she? I hadn't thought of that, and I left it right on the doorstep. He came to me and dropped his mug. It tumbled into the grass,

spilling cold coffee. He took my hand in his, his lanky frame bending before me, making him seem smaller, honest and true pleading in his watering eyes. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't realize, please, if this ever,

anything I can do. I snapped my hand out of his grasp. I was shot. He truly didn't grasp killing the cat as the bad thing he had done. The entire situation was beyond him. You're sick, I said. Stay away from us.

I turned from him and went back into the street. When I left a few minutes later for work, his cup was gone. There was no trace from him. and his house remained dark and unlit as always. He made no further appearance that afternoon either. My wife was overjoyed, and I'll admit it, I was a bit relieved. At times I did feel bad for how I'd snapped at him,

but those feelings instantly vanished when I remember the poor cat, cold on a doorstep that morning. I was glad to have him out of our lives. For a week we saw no sign of him. But occasionally, I would see the window blinds faintly shift when I went outside, and I was sure he was still there, watching us. Luckily, the four-sale signs had been taken down from the nearby houses, and we at least expected to get some other new neighbours soon.

I felt a bit bad thinking about it, but perhaps having other neighbours would help draw his attention from us. Perhaps a week later, with still no sign of Andrew, I noticed the books in my downstairs bookshelf had been rearranged. They were in no particular order before, but now they went from smallest to largest for some reason. When I asked my wife about this, she said she hadn't done it and thought I had.

When we realised neither of us was joking, she immediately blamed Andrew. I don't know how he got in here, she said, but it had to be him. I'd admit part of me thought the same thing. But in an effort to comfort her and myself, I pointed out how we had changed the locks on the doors and how the windows were always locked and there was no sense in someone coming in to rearrange my books, etc. We talked about it at length and we both calmed down, but we resolved to order a security camera and change the locks again. The following few days, we each began to notice other small things around the house.

And I'll admit, we started to jump at the time. shadows. The day after the books, I noticed that front door no longer creaked. My wife said she smelt disinfectant which she came home. As embarrassing as it is, since I left for work last and came home first, I began to stick a very small piece of paper near the bottom of the doorway, so that if someone came in, it would fall unnoticed to the ground. There were other small things, a chair being slightly moved, or our wall clock no longer

being a minute slow. the biggest was perhaps our bedroom attic. On the third floor in our bedroom, above the small gap between our bed and my wife's dresser, was a flat panel that lowered and led into an attic crawl space. I'd briefly looked around it when we moved in, simply poking my head in and noting the dust, insulation and nothingness before closing it back up. We stored nothing in there, and it was for this reason that my wife noticed it was just ever so slightly askew. It's worth mentioning that she noticed this at night when we were laying in

bed and neither of us felt very motivated to try to close it. To make it feel better, I did awkwardly stand in a box full of clothes and try to close it, but it seemed to be stuck, just hanging open barely a centimetre. I told her I will try to fix it tomorrow and we went to bed. It had been another thing on a long list of oddities that afflicted us. And the terror had waned. The two of us treated Andrew like a ghost almost, using him as a curse when something fell or spilled. The next day, the security camera arrived in the morning,

and my wife nudged me awake, handing the box to me with clear instructions that they should be set up today. After work she went, and so, blearily, I unboxed the camera, finding it was actually four rather small and rather complex cameras. I spent much of my morning mulling over the instruction manual installing the cameras app on my phone and after rummaging up batteries I placed one in the bedroom on our bedframe at the head of our bed looking in towards the room. One went into the stairwell on the second floor and another in the kitchen pacing out the front

doorway. The last one I placed outside precariously balanced on the light above our front door. I made a mental note to affix it properly later but I was nearly late for work and so I left. When I arrived home, I had completely forgotten about the cameras until I noticed the one I had placed above our door had fallen into the mulch by the side of the driveway. I attributed it to the wind

and my mind was at ease when I unlocked the front door and saw my piece of paper gently fall to the floor. It had been undisturbed. No one had entered our home. I went up to the bedroom and as I changed out of my work clothes, I noticed the attic cross-space panel was still slightly ajar. I resolved myself to go get the step-ladder from downstairs and fix it.

But as I sat in the bed, the weight of the past week really washed over me. I was mentally exhausted. We had become consumed by the constant worry of Andrew, and we were racked by anxiety. Every day turned into a spot the floor in our home. What had changed today? What was wrong today?

Was our neighbour peeking through the blind at us every waking moment? I felt like a fool. Even that very morning, I had stumbled around in the dark, placing cameras, wedging paper into my doorway like a madman. And for what? To catch someone who had no way of getting into our home. Someone I hadn't heard from who hadn't bothered us for a week. I sat there for some time

and looking at the camera on our bed frame. I resolved to put my mind at ease. I took her my phone and began watching the day's recordings on the app, starting from when I'd placed the camera over our door. At first, there was nothing. I watched myself as I left in my car

and then I fast forwarded slightly, resolved to see something. I eventually did see Andrew step out of his house. He was still dressed in his prim two large starched clothes, the familiar big smile on his face. as he seemed to greet the new day. I watched as he paced his yard a bit,

examining things known only to him, and eventually he went to the yard next door. Again, he paced at the driveway there, looking and seemingly making mental notes of things. He went up and tried the doorknob, and seeing it locked, nodded, and walked to the next house in the line. Eventually he went out of view of the camera,

and, after some fast-forwarding, I saw him come back around the other way, inspecting every house and testing to see if it was locked. Then he simply went back into his home. I watched as the camera kept on recording the midday scene, nothing of note. No cars passing by, and I once again reflected on Andrew killing the cat. How misguided he was. How very strange. Still, I watched, again skipping ahead, and eventually he emerged from his home once more. more. Same clothes, same grin. This time something in his hand. He locked his door and to my horror

headed straight to our doorstep. He didn't notice the camera. He didn't hesitate or glance around. He simply walked up to the door under the camera and remained there out of my view for a minute or two. Eventually I saw the camera shake and fall and I realized it was from the door slamming shut. How do I describe what I felt next as I watched? I could tell you about the sinking, twisting feeling in my stomach as I switched to the downstairs camera of how I watched Andrew step into her home. I could tell you of the fear I felt when I saw him relock our door and then gingerly pick up the piece of paper from the floor, inserting it deftly back into the doorframe. Perhaps the horror and nausea as I watched them step lightly across our living room, examining different things, and then as he took what appeared to be a fine-tooth comb, how he gently retracted his steps on the carpet, erasing them.

I think none of these can fully explain how terrified and ill I suddenly felt. The silly, overreacting explanations had been true. Our neighbour had indeed been in our home mere hours ago. Panic had begun to take a hold of me, and I watched on. He carefully walked through our home, carefully picking things up and placing them back down. He eventually went up the stairs, and while I saw him lightly stepping and covering his footsteps, I could not see anything he did on the second floor due to how I'd placed the camera. Whatever he did there in the guest room, my office or our storage area, took him hours.

I carefully skipped ahead through the feed, shakily tapping my phone and eventually he reappeared briefly as he walked past the camera and ascended to the third floor the same big smile still on his face I put my phone down and took a moment to breathe I looked around the room

carefully scanning for what may have been covered footsteps for anything that was slightly moved aside or touched but I saw nothing I wanted to call the police right then to call my wife to flee the house itself but more than all of those I wanted to see what else

he had done and so I switched to the feed from the last camera at the head of our bed I saw him enter the room glassy-eyed his smile stretching to the edges of his face he stood there in the doorway

just breathing deeply for some time almost trying to suck up as much of the air as he could he moved around the big room and touched everything he would only gently place a tip of of his fingers and things, the dresser, the handles to the closet, the TV. He treated everything with reverence, and, as I watched his myriad of expressions of bliss,

I could see that this really seemed like a holy place to him. Eventually, he moved to the bed, and I saw his face clearly. Shear bliss emanating from him, so delicately did he touch our pillows that I thought he might cry with joy. As happy as he appeared I know that I was equally nauseous watching this Again I wished to put the phone down To leap from the bed where I sat Knowing he had touched it

But I watched on Around and around the bed he went Back and forth touching it Smelling it So much so that again I fast forwarded Until I saw him stop He had noticed the small camera on the bed frame At first he stood there, simply looking at it,

and when he reached out to touch it, I can only assume he realised what it was. Immediately, the blissful look was washed from his face. The wide smile twisted into a furious frown. The veins stood bulging against the skin of his thinly-haired head, and he flushed crimson. Where a moment ago, he had been the glass-like look of a deranged blissful man. Here, a mere foot from the camera, he was the face of a monster.

He was livid, the anger rising from him like steam. His shoulders heaved and spittle formed in the corners of his twisted mouth. I have no idea what went through his mind as I watched him. I could only see his fury as he continued to build and build. I held the phone at a distance from me and skipped ahead, feeling a genuine fear of what I was seeing. On and on I skipped, and still, the ruby red face of Andrew stood staring at the camera,

just as furious as ever, until eventually his eyes went wide, his anger still visible, but now another emotion vied for its place on his brow. Was it confusion, panic? Something he had sensed or heard made him unsure, and he retreated from the camera, never taking his eyes from it.

He moved to the side of the bed where my wife's dresser was and placed the foot upon it. Upward he sprang, gently pushing himself off the bed with his other foot. He moved like a cat, pulling aside the attic panel

and with a practice grace he quickly and smoothly pulled himself up and replaced it. Then a moment later it was pressed downward barely a centimetre. His eyes just barely visible. focused on the camera.

Until this point, everything I'd seen had disturbed me greatly. I dared not look away from the screen, even now as I watched the feed, looking into the eyes peering from the attic. With my stomach in knots, I simply watched. And equally, there in the attic, unmoving, Andrew watched the camera. Occasionally he shifted, so as to look down or to the side,

but only barely did he move. And still I watched. When a second person entered the room, my blood went cold. Yet still I watched. I watched as he changed out of his work clothes. I watched him as he sat on the bed where I sat. I watched as he pulled out his phone and looked into it. And I watched as the man in the attic watched him.

I did not skip forward. I dared not put my phone down. I dared not to breathe. Suddenly, I could almost feel Andrew's eyes boring into the top of my head, feeling his burning the expression of fury pressing into me from above. And then I heard,

so faintly that I might have imagined it. The attic panel above me creak. Like lightning, I sprang from the bed. I raced down the stairs, grabbing my keys, phone still in hand, and outside I went. I got in the car,

shoeless and reversed out of my driveway, speeding away from my home with no destination but away. I was in a grocery store parking lot when my wife called. I could hear the worry in her voice as I explained what I'd seen. Eventually, through her own shock,

she calmed me down and we agreed on a course of action. She soon left work and we went to a hotel for the night. She picked up some minor things we would need and I, having finally calmed down, called the police. To their credit, the police took me very seriously. I explained everything as clearly as I could,

and when we eventually got to the description of Andrew himself, there was a pause. The officer asked me if I was sure that was who I had seen. He repeated back to me the description of Andrew in even greater detail than I had given him. That's what the guy looked like, You're sure? he asked. I told him I was certain.

I even had him on video. We were told to come to the police station and assured officers will be sent to our home right away. When we arrived, dishevelled as we were, the police took us straight at the office of a man I assumed was highly ranked from how he was treated. On his desk was one thick manila file and several others stacked beside it.

We'd barely introduced ourselves when the man began questioning us. He wished to know every detail we could give him, far beyond just today's events. We gave him all we could, the name of our realtor, where we worked, contacts, family, so on and so on. Eventually, I showed him the footage I had captured on my camera where he had left off. The man took the phone from me and immediately swiped at the end of the footage, pausing it right before it ended. Andrew's furious face in clear view, his hands outstretched towards the camera itself. Yeah, that's him, he said.

He read the question as my lips formed them, and he held up a hand. He's a dangerous man, that's all you need to know. But you're safe now. And that was it. From then on, we were held for hours and questioned by several different pairs of police officers and detectives, but we were well taken care of and we did truly feel safe. Eventually we were informed that we could go back to our hotel and the police had been sent ahead of us for our safety.

Before we left, we were caught back into what we then learned was the captain's office and we spoke with the captain himself once more. He filled his in on what had happened at our home, which was largely nothing. They hadn't found Andrew or any trace of him in the attic. They had checked his house too, and the captain described it as a rat's nest. He told us of how the interior of the house was filled with trash and refuse, how there had been dozens of a cell signs piled up in the rooms, no doubt from the houses on our streets.

On and on, he described the horrid place Andrew had made his home, but they had not found the man himself. He explained how we were going to be protected, how he was going to contact both our employers, and so on, and, in the course of him doing this, someone else came in and handed him a phone, explaining he was two fellow officers. The captain answered it, and simply listened to the faint voice on the other end for a while, occasionally pausing to confirm details.

Soon he turned to us and asked, You were staying at the so-and-so inn of Hyford Street by the gas station? My wife and I nodded. He confirmed it to the man on the phone. A moment passed and he turned to us again. Room 204 And my wife produced our hotel key. Room 204.

Again, he confirmed it to the officer on the phone. They talked at length and we gleaned little details until the captain itself seemed to suddenly relax. Whatever news he had been given was good. Under the bed, Jesus, good work. With that, he turned to us, smiling, the first genuine smile I'd seen in weeks. We caught him, he said. I've been working on the Stragview Work Squad for about a year.

Working is the best way to make the time go by. At least, that's what I thought. Before I'd been arrested for aggravated assault, I was a landscaper's assistant. I ran the mowers, cut the bushes, and moved mulch and sod in the hot sun for fat, clients that had the money to pay for landscapers. If it hadn't been for that bar fight, I'd have probably gone right on doing that for the next 20 years until I finally blew my brains out.

Now, I get to do it for the next five years until I'm up for parole. If I live that long. Stragview is a big, old prison that's been around since the early 40s. It split into two sections, the outer ward and the inn award. The two are separated by a gate called the middle gate, and traffic between is heavily monitored.

The outer ward is for housing. It holds six open-bay dorms that will make big summer camp cabins. They house around 100 guys and hold a series of bunk beds for them to sleep on. Next are three big concrete block buildings that house the close management guys, two-man cells in a series of 40-man squads. Amongst it all sits the foreboding concrete and concrete and steel edifice that sits behind barbed wire fences and has the unfortunate look of being the Stragview confinement unit. Aside from some offices and the canteen building that serves

as our source of junk food, the rest is just grass and sand and concrete paths. That's a lot of grass to cut in the summer and a lot of places for the snow to blow in the winter. The inner ward, what lies beyond the middle gate, are the buildings that often serve as job sites, the chow hall, The medical pavilion, the classrooms, the library, and visitation area are mostly concrete and sidewalk, and don't require much work from my squad of me. These are the places that are frequented by admin and are usually best avoided if you can help it. The majority of our work takes place behind the middle gate. We were all sitting on the north pavilion, drinking sodas and eating snacks,

while the officer in charge of our squad came walking up. Sergeant Henderson was one of the best squad officers we'd ever had. He's not too strict, but not too lazy either, something which tends to get us yelled at by the major. He was fair to us, and that made all the difference for men trapped behind the fence. He looked worried as he came walking towards us, and Darius, one of the other guys on the squad,

elbowed me as he walked up and shook his head. Sarge doesn't look happy about something, This does not bode well for us. How right he was. Listen up guys, word from the warden just came down. He wants you guys to clean out the tower before quitting time. We all groaned. The tower was a crumbling concrete behemoth that stood in the dead centre of the outer ward.

It had existed since the early days of the prison, but was now a derelict monstrosity that officers used that house broken furniture and old records. The place was also crawled. was also crawling with rats, and they were supposed to be territorial as all hell. Inmates did not stray too close to the tower if they could help it. The rats would pop out and bite your ankles and chase you if you lingered too long. There were stories about them killing people and dragging the bodies off to be eaten,

but that was just talk. Every few months, an exterminator spread poison around the outside and sprayed harsh chemicals to keep them from coming out, and that was about all of the whole. that was about all the prison did to curb their advance. No one dared go inside, and anything that needed to be stored in there was done before sundown. None of us wanted to go into the tower, but the order had been given, and to refuse would be an easy way to get sent to confinement.

We all took due precautions before going inside. The shed we kept our stuff in had thick rubber boots and gloves, ventilators and leather smocks that we used when hacking back thick weeds or clearing brush that might have snakes. The get-up was likely to be hot. The tower had no AC. By the time Henderson called it quit. We were sure to be covered in sweat

and tired to our bones. But at least work squad paid well. A dollar an hour for up to 12 hours and we'd be able to buy something nice at the canteen when we were done. Six of us trudged off to the tower just before lunch was called. The line of inmates walking to the Chow Hall jeered at us as we walked.

They called us Dead Men Walking and Rat Chow, as it was pretty obvious where we were going. They joked about us feeding the rats, but I could tell that they were relieved too. They were relieved that it was us and not them going into that spooky old tower. The tower held an almost legendary status in their minds, and it was better us than them who had to go into it. Before we knew it, we were standing in its shadow.

The tower stood about five stories tall, roughly fifty feet. It was really only a ground floor and a top deck for observation, but the inside was the tall expanse of empty space. From the top, I figured you could see the whole compound, but I'd never been up there. When the prison was founded, this was where the rifleman stood and watched all the ants in the ground for signs of trouble. Now, it was just a relic, something that reminded people of the good old days and a home for the multitude of rats that lived there. When we walked in, the darkness was heavy and oppressive as the sun fought its way to the dusty windows.

Sarge flipped the switch next to the door and the overhead light, a single-string bulb buzzed the life. It shone for a half second before exploding in a shower of sparks and glass. The room was once again bathed in darkness and the light coming through the door seemed unwelcome in the menacing darkness We could already hear things moving around In the miasma of broken junk The skittering and chittering of many mouths

Were a little unnerving And we started dragging the stuff closest to the door out Asage called down for some standing lights It was mostly desks and heavy furniture That had yet to start falling apart As we moved it, I could already feel the sweltering heat sinking in. The furniture began to pile up outside, and as the lunch crowd filtered back into their dorms, we were all plastered with sweat and huffing on the lawn.

Sergeant Henderson looked not too comfortable either, his uniform shirt clinging to him as he tried not to let the sweat stain show under his arms. When the lights finally arrived, so did a tractor with a trailer. The desks began to be hauled away. so they could shove them into the incinerator. Some of the desks seemed to be okay, but most were ruined. They had been broken,

some split along the legs and others bowed and sagged under years of use. It was clear that some had been in much better shape before they had gone into the tower. The legs chewed and the top covered in pee and droppings.

As they came into the sun, you could see the slimy leavings all across the desk's simulated woodtops and I felt gross even through my gloves. The number of saved desks were minimal and most seemed destined for the incinerator. With a light set up and bathing the inside in a hazy glow we began to work deeper into the tower.

The deeper we went, the more rats we found. Under every shadowy crevice and in every yawning drawer there was a little cluster of them waiting to be discovered. They weren't horror movie rats but it's pretty startling when something comes jumping at you out of the dark when you least expect it. As we moved the desks, we broke up their nests. They were little collections of paper and wood that housed families of rats and mice, just waiting to be discovered.

They came hissing out at us and slapped against our aprons and ankles like furry bullets. The thick gloves we had kept them from biting us, but they still fastened on our hands and had to be shaken loose. Just the act of being bitten. was horrific, and several of the guys started refusing to go back in after the first hour. The mixture of hazy, dark and loud, angry animals was putting them on edge. It took all of Henderson's interpersonal skills to keep us working. Even so, there were mutinous whispers the whole time.

Slowly but surely, we got the floor cleared. As the furniture began to disappear, the rat started to flee. They ran out the front door, ran up the door, ran up. the stairs to the top of the tower and even squeezed through the crummy floorboards and disappeared below the tower. After a particularly fat rat wriggled through the boards, I bent and peeked through the slats into the inky darkness. I couldn't see much. It was black as pitch down there. What I thought I saw was something that reminded me of water. I heard the current, the rustling of many feet, and stood back up and tried not to think about it as I moved soggy cartons and threw them into piles of trash.

A rat river. An ever-flowing stream of blackbird bodies? Flowing... where? I wish I had remained ignorant. It all started when Sam went missing. Sam was a big guy, simple but strong, and he'd been moving around like a tractor in low gear all day. The big blonde farm boy.

had been moving desks with ease, laughing when the rats had bitten him and throwing them against the wall with relish. In prison for assault like I was, he had grown up on a farm, and rats were probably no bother to him than a fly. I was moving a big old desk made of genuine mahogany when Darius stepped on a rat.

He yelled, just as the rat squealed pitifully, and when he went down, the leg of the desk snapped, and the desk fell on his leg. The crunch was audible. And he started screaming immediately. I tried to ride the desk, but it took three other men to finally get it off Darius. His leg was a bruised mass of purple flesh, the bone quite obviously broken.

Henderson came running over, and when he saw the leg, he swore loudly. Medigo was radioed, but no nurse would willingly set foot in the tower. In the end, Wilbur and Reggie lifted him onto an old canvas stretcher that someone had pushed into the corner, and they took him to medical, Henderson in tow. He stopped just long enough to lock the gate and told Clives and me to stay in the lawn until he returned. Then he huffed down the sidewalk as Daria screamed and the other two tried not to jounce him.

That left Clives and me standing in the lawn in the tower's shadow, sweltering in the sun as we baked in our leather aprons and rubber gloves. That was when I realized that Sam was missing. Where did Sam go? I asked, no one in particular, looking round curiously. Clives only shrugged at my question, leaning against the tower and basking in the shade. He was an older white guy, over 50, and he'd been with the work squad the longest.

He acted as a straw boss most of the time, something we let him get away with because of his age. Today, I really wished he had helped to take Darius to medical. and left someone else to sit here with me. The guy was worse than useless, and before my eyes, I watched them fall asleep in the warm shadow of the tower. I started looking for Sam,

walking around the tower to see if maybe Sam had decided to nap somewhere outside as well. A quick trip around the base told me he wasn't there. I returned to the front lawn, Clives now snoring comfortably, and looked at the gaping mouth of the tower. He must still be inside. But I didn't see how that was possible. He would have surely heard Henderson calling everyone out.

He certainly hadn't decided to take a nap in there. That would be a death sentence. The longer I stood there, the more I knew I would have to go inside. I took a hesitant step, growing bolder as I approached the door. It yawn like a mouth, the darkness unaffected by the daylight that held sway outside. I stuck my head in first, looking around the now clear button floor and seeing no one. I glanced up at the spiral staircase that led to the observation area. Surely he wouldn't go up there.

That was very clearly out of bounds, and Sam wasn't prone to rule breaking like that. That's when I saw the rubber foot, silhouetted in the harsh halogen light. It was laid on its side, moving ever so slightly, the owner hidden. behind a small collection of desks still to be moved. I couldn't believe it. Sam was sleeping in here with all these rats. I knew he's a big dumb farm boy, but that sounded like a great way to get chewed on.

I walked over to the desk, ready to wake him up and drag him out to the lawn, but recoiled in horror as I looked over the desk. The green rubber boot had a leg in it, that was severed at the knee. I fell back against the wood planks as I stumbled, and when my arm went through the rotting floor, I felt wiry fur and then hard ground. Something bit my arm then, and I pulled it free with a quick little jerk.

The ground beneath the floor was dirty, covered in rat droppings and crunchy with a desiccated body of old rats. As I watched, I saw a flurry of rats scurry past the opening. There was a much room beneath the boards, but the skittering masses didn't seem to need much. The dragon grew my attention back to the desk and the leg, and I could see it disappearing around the corner of the desk even as I watched. I sprang up, the idea of the rats dragging what was left of him down into the earth was suddenly too appalling, and I sprang over the desk to chase it away. I came over the desk in a rush and found an absolutely huge rat dragging the leg away.

It reared up at me, as big as a good-sized cat, and covered in dark fur. and I backed away hesitantly as I assessed my stance. I reached for a broken-off two-by-four, laid across the desk, and swung it at the bristling creature. It ran then, tail-bobbing as it dropped the leg and ran for whatever hole it had come out of. That was when my cockiness got the better of me. I ran after the rat, brandishing the chunk of wood

and running after it as it fled in terror. I heard his smaller cousins run as well, and I swung the piece of wood around my head as I wooked and ran after them. They had been a constant terror this whole afternoon and now I was getting as much needed revenge. I should have counted my losses and went back outside. I would soon wish I'd called in sick that day

and stayed in my bunk. When my foot sank into the wood this time I tried to pull it out to give chase. Instead, it sank to the thigh and I was left squirming to try and get it loose. The big rat stopped running and turned to appraise me with his beady eyes. I swung the wood in his direction, but he was out of range, and he knew it. I squirmed and struggled, trying to free myself,

and when I heard the wood splintering, it didn't register right away. It wasn't until I was falling that it sank home how much trouble I was in. I free fell for a few seconds. The air dragged out of me as I plummeted into the darkness. When I hit the stone walls of some ancient shoot, I felt my back being scraped as I smacked against it again and again. The wood tumbled out of my hands as I fell, and, after 30 seconds of falling, I worried I would simply fall forever. Like Alice down the rabbit hole, I would fall until I found the floor. Unlike Alice, I would likely not survive the fall once the floor found me.

I landed on something soft about five seconds later. It knocked all the wind out of me when I landed, and sharp little spurs poked into my skin. I could feel blood oozing from the wounds, but they didn't seem to be too bad. My leg still worked, arms too, and as whatever I'd landed on began to wriggle, I rolled under the floor. I assumed I had landed on a rat warden. The spiky barbs must have been the wood they'd scavenged for their homes. But when I rolled off, I quickly scrambled away when I saw what I'd landed on. The light from above fell on a massive rat, as long as a sofa and just as big, that lay wheezing out its final moments.

I had broken its bones when I landed on it, and its black and grey fur was riddled with bone spurts that had popped free when I landed. Its single yellow eye rolled to meet mine, and I could see its profound confusion as it breathed its last, ragged breaths. I took a shaky step back, still transfixed by its staring eye when I started to hear the scuttling of many feet across the stone floor. I turned to the nearest tunnel and ran, not wanting to see what other horrors lived down here. I ran through the dark pretty much at random. The tunnels were pitch black as I put the light from the first room behind me,

but I had a smaller light that I used to see my way. It had survived the fall somehow, and I held my hand in front of it as I ran to not put it out. The tunnels duked and curved as I ran, taking myself deeper into the rat's lightless world. As I ran, I became aware of a strange scraping noise from up ahead. It sounded like hundreds of claws scrambling on stone, and I knew at once that I did not want to see what was making that noise.

The tunnel left me few options, though, and I knew what lay behind me if I turned back. The sound got louder as I approached, slowly and carefully as I walked toward it. The floor became slippery the further I went, and my feet crunched when they came down on something brittle strewn over the tunnel. A look with my lighter revealed small animal bones, probably rats, and some of the schools were big enough to have come from large dogs. As for the sudden witness, I couldn't tell. But the terrible smell that accompanied it may be not want to investigate too closely. I came out of the tunnel and into a towering cave a moment later

and found the source of the scraping. The light had dropped out of my numb fingers, but I had seen all I needed to see in the flickering illumination. I crouched down, hands scrambling, hoping beyond hope that whatever it was hadn't seen me. I knew it had. In this lightless place, I might as well have been carrying a bonfire. I could see it's thousands of eyes.

glaring at me in the darkness, and their hate was enough to freeze me in my tracks. The leviathan despised me, despised the intruder into its kingdom. As I searched for the lighter, I could hear it scrambling on thousands of legs towards me as it moved its bulk across the floor. When I was little, I had an uncle who had been an exterminator. One night, while he was babysitting my brother and me, he had told us a story about something called a row. rat king. Not some prissing mouse of the crown, like we'd seen in that Christmas play.

This was a group of rats whose tails have become hopelessly entangled to the point that they can't escape each other unless they chew their own tails off. He had spoken of dozens, maybe as many as 30 rats, strung together in a writhing mass. He had told us about collections of creatures that had become one creature, living as a symbiotic mass. I remember my brother and I sitting in a. an awe of such a creature. As I found and sparked the lighter again, I saw the mass of rats.

They were a hundred thousand strong, and many the size of mastiffs with tails like coils of rope. The one in the centre, though, he was absolutely massive. He stood at their core, eyes like semi-headlights, as big as a small elephant, and his hissing cry sent shivers down my spine. He was at the centre The tails wound to him And despite his size

I realised he was too massive to move Without their collective legwork They shied away from my flame They sensed of eyes dazzled By the sudden intrusion And the shrieks were enough to drive you mad As they fled Backpedling on their thousands of legs

I caught a glimpse of another tunnel That snaked out behind them I didn't know if that tunnel led to freedom or a fate worse than this. But I didn't care in that moment. As the massive rat king floundered backward, I sprinted for the tunnel and didn't look back as I ran through the blackness.

I was still running when I saw the daylight ahead of me. I'd been running flat out for it felt like hours, and as my eyes registered the return of some kind of light, I kept right on running. The air became less oppressive. My eyes adjusted to the light's return, and I stopped suddenly as the late afternoon sun greeted me from the mouth of a small cave. I moved out cautiously and it was a good thing I did.

I was soon looking out over a precipice that looked down into an old gravel pit that the prison had operated at one time. I had to be a mile or so outside the fence, bruised and bloody and bone-tired. I considered sleeping there until morning. One look back made me think better of it. it. I climbed to the top of the pit, no easy feet, and walked back to the perimeter of the fence. A post vehicle stopped me, an old hatchet-faced sergeant pointing his gun at me as I tried to explain what had happened to me. He zippedide my hands and put me in the bed of his truck, driving me back

to the prison's front gate. When I was pulled out by a couple of unhappy officers, it led me straight to the security building, saying someone wanted to talk to me. I had expected that that I would be punished, that I would be charged with escape, that I would be transferred to another facility or sent to confinement. I never expected to be taken to the warden's office. It was well after dark when they sat me down, but the warden looked resplendent as usual in his pinstripe suit and little gold room glasses. The guards unshackled me as they sat me down and then simply left me alone with him.

He slid a cup of something hot to me, and I drank the coffee happily. It tasted heavily after walking through the cold, and he let me get half over the cup before he spoke. The warden was one of the other characters at Strague. He'd been the warden for as long as anyone could remember. He had a mysterious way about him that made inmates uncomfortable. No inmate wanted to speak with him, not even the new ones, and he had never once been attacked or accosted in his whole time with the department. So, I understand, you've had quite the trying day, he said, smiling. I nodded, sipping at the coffee.

So, how was it that you came to be outside the fence? I told him about my fall through the floor of the tower, how I'd seen the rats in the tunnels, how I'd run to the tunnels to escape them. I felt my hands shake as I told him, and I was afraid I might spill the coffee on his office carpet. As I spoke, he leaned forward. and stared at me over the rim of those little gold glasses. He was interested, very interested, and when I glanced over the part about the Rat King, he leaned

back and seemed to look disappointed. I could give you an extra five years for escaping, you know. An extra five years can seem like a lifetime to a man inside. I saw a drop of the coffee fall to the carpet and tried to steady my hands. he can give me more time for falling into a hole. But I will spare you from such a thing if you answer one question for me. One question, and you may return back to your dorm

and so the rest of your sentence in peace. I looked into his eyes, those strange amber orbs that seemed like no eyes I'd ever seen waiting for the question. He leaned across the desk, anticipation clear on his face. Did you see him?

I didn't even ask who he meant. I nodded. He smiled, and his shark's grin was more unsettling than the giant rat thing had ever been. They returned me to my dorm, and I dropped into my bunk without a word. My fellow work squad workers tried to get my attention, wanted to know where I'd been,

wanted to know what had happened to Sam, but I just laid there and pretended to sleep. I didn't want to talk to any of the same. didn't want to say anything to anyone. I just wanted to try and forget the horrors I had seen under the ground. I wrote this the next day, and I'm going to try to get it to my people on the outside. There is something beneath the prison that must be rooted out. Sam's belongings have been moved.

His name no longer appears on any of the call-outs or work squad schedules. It's as though he never existed at all. What if I hadn't come back either? back either. Would I simply be one more inmate that never existed? As I sit here writing, I could swear there is a mouse on the windowsill watching me. He's just standing there, the rain beating on his whiskers as he stares at me through the day room window's murky glass. At this point, I have no idea what I'm more terrified of. I have no idea which fact still fills me with more fear. I've seen the guards watching me, so he's.

Beady eyes watching me after lights out, seeing the way the dorm officer's eyes often track me when they think I'm not looking, seeing the furry figures that stand outside the glass when they think I'm not paying attention. I'm not sure where I'm more sure my death will come from. Will I die by the hands of the sadistic warden or by the teeth of the rats of Stragview and the merciless king who resides below? My father passed away last month after a struggle with a strange illness. He started having problems after a hunting trip in Tennessee with a few of his work buddies.

They'd done it dozens of times in the past. Go out early in the morning, camp out, bag a few deer, and get back home by evening of the next day. And at the end, we didn't really have any reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary until the following spring. I think I should let you know what kind of man my dad was to understand the severity of his decline. He worked as an engineer at an aluminium plant, always showing up on time for 20 years. He was a big Kentucky Wildcats fan, always either going to the games or taping them at home if work or family matters got in the way. He was vibrant and opinionated. He would argue with you, but he would be the first to apologise afterwards.

As a kid, I go camping with him and he'd tell me all about the animals and the land and we'd watch the stars at night. I know this is something of a tangent, but I really don't like the idea of telling you about what comes next without some idea of who he used to be before he lost his mind. It began with as small as of things. He'd have headaches.

He'd forget little things like his keys or his email password. He'd get depressed and withdrawn one moment and he'd be right back to normal minutes after. Mom didn't think much of it, and neither did I, though in hindsight I was probably too preoccupied with community college to see what was going on The first true red flag we got was when he forgot how to spell his mother's name the day before a birthday He picked out a card for her for us to sign and when he sat down with his pen in hand

He turned to mom and asked How do you spell Margaret? We thought he was joking at first But that look of flat confusion in his face quickly proved that he wasn't. We were ready to write the incident off as just him having a scatterbrain moment, but things like this

kept happening. Just a day later, Mom called him at work to get some rice on his way home for dinner, and when he showed up without any, we found out he had forgotten to buy any rice, and even that she had called at all. Then he started having more problems

at home. His desk went from being always tidy and neat, to being strewn with papers and junk, because he kept forgetting to tidy it. He kept forgetting to feed the cat. After a while, Mom and I were doing most of the work around the house. Those periods of depression got worse as well.

Every time he forget something, he'd be withdrawn and madded himself for hours later. Another month later, and the headaches turned into intense migraines, and he was having trouble concentrating and doing math. Dad got worse after dark, and nearly every night, he'd wake up in a cold sweat,

freaking out about a dark shadow he kept seeing standing over his bed and staring at him. That was what finally got us to take him to a therapist. She told him he was most likely stressed from the job and gave him some pills for it. They seemed to help at first

until one day. They didn't. By now, my father was well aware something was wrong with him but his pride wouldn't let him admit the full extent of the damage to anyone. or even himself. We could barely get him to take the medication,

and we mostly just watched as he tried to force himself to remember things. The most we could get him to do was take a week off from work to recuperate. We took a trip to the beach, enjoyed the ocean air, and went swimming. He wasn't as coordinated in the water as he used to be, but it seemed to help Dad.

For a while, he was more or less back to his old self. and then it got worse. One day he came home from work a couple hours later than usual because he'd gotten lost. We couldn't believe it. Lost in a town he's lived in for years. Mom was understandably irate, having worried herself sick the entire time.

But she was quick to forgive. I think she just didn't want to think about it. Four days later and Dad got sent home from work. work early because he couldn't do his work and had a panic attack in the break room. It took four other people to calm him down. He was screaming about a shadow following him around, a shadow that wasn't his own. Then he threw a chair at a woman who was trying to help him. His supervisor was an understanding man and agreed that charges would be dropped and he would

not be fired as long as he took time off from work to get help. This time, there would be no debate about it. My father would go to a doctor and would do whatever they told him. As much as he hated the idea of being sick and depending on others, he hated what he was putting the family through more. Test, after expensive tests later, the doctor took us aside and gave us grim news. Your father has early onset dementia, he said. There was a moment of silent disbelief as the full weight of the situation took,

a while to really settle in. Then it hit us with full force. Mom was crying, I was crying. The doctor continued to speak. We don't really know the cause yet. There's no family history of Alzheimer's and he tested negative for other causes. He prescribed medication and told us to watch him closely as we were potentially witnessing the progression of a rare condition and would probably need specialised care. The drive home was silent. Dad spent the entire trip staring out the window, watching nothing in particular. Mom's eyes were red from the tears and she would break into fits of sobbing every so often. It was a relief when we finally got

home. We all went to bed early and my father had another fit of night terrors about that damn shadow. The doctor told us he was just hallucinating but I couldn't help but feel something more was going on. What if he wasn't just seeing things? The following weekend came and went and we monitored Dad's condition as best we could. His memories would come and go like songs on a radio with bad reception,

with some of them getting broken, mixed up and tangled together into this messed-up web of illusions and actual events. We spent every moment of the day dreading the inevitable decline into grey, hazing nothing. Needless to say, my father did not return to work when his sick leave was up. My aunt came over to check on him and Dad didn't know who she was.

The whole time she was there, he was getting more and more anxious and paranoid and Mom kept having to take him to the other room to calm him down. First, he thought she was a stranger, then he thought she was an imposter. After my aunt left, Dad got out a notebook and began drawing sketching. catches of the shadow he kept seeing. They varied in detail from four pictures to hasty scribbles, but they all had a consistent

general form. You could tell it was the same thing in every picture. It was a tall, dark, human-like figure, with lanky limbs and long fingers. It didn't have anything you could call a face, but it did have an empty

circle in the middle of its head where a face would be, and it had horns. curved horns like the jaws of a stag beetle. I could tell my mom didn't believe... I could tell my mom didn't believe him, but she humoured him for the time being. I asked what the thing was, and he just said,

memory eater. We couldn't get much more out of him, and pushing the subject further was beginning to upset him, so we just called it a day. I did some research, and most of what turned up mentioned shadow beings, but nothing about them eating memories or whatever was going on. As I saw my father declined, I knew I had to find something out and quick. I took the sketchbook to a professor at the college who was knowledgeable about American folklore, hoping to find a lead or at least someone I could talk to about this whole mess.

As he looked over the sketches, his expression soured. There was a grim seriousness and a moment of silence before he spoke. almost painful. And you said your father is dementia? He said, looking up at me, the lens of his glasses catching the light of his desk lamp. I nodded silently, and he continued.

I've heard of similar cases. One was a retired police officer, the other was a 30-year-old woman. They started losing their minds and nobody could find what was exactly wrong with them. And the decline was fast. In both cases, they had nightmares and hallucinations of something exactly like this. The professor pointed at one of the more detailed sketches of the shadow being,

and I felt a knot in my stomach. How had three different people hallucinated the same thing? Hell, what happened to them to begin with? I asked if there was anything he knew about how they could have caught this disease, or whatever it was, and he handed the sketchbook back to me. and sighed. All I know is that in both cases, the symptoms appeared after spending time in the woods. The woman reported being touched by a horn figure in a tent, but this was dismissed as another

hallucination. There have been sources comparing the cases to things like shadow people and demons, but obviously they're not taken seriously. He shrugged. I personally don't... I personally don't know what to think. I hope the best for your father. I like to consider myself a rational man.

I've never been superstitious, but I cannot show the feeling something is going on here. I don't know what to do or where to go, and it's just so frustrating. When I drove home, I got a call from my mother telling me Dad had another panic attack because he saw something in a mirror. I didn't ask what he saw.

I already knew. Around this time, he was confused. even in his more lucid moments. He knew he was forgetting things, but he couldn't remember what it was he had forgotten. When I got home, he forgot my name, and I saw this pain in his face, but he knew he was supposed to know, but he couldn't for the life of him dredge up the memory. It was that moment when I saw him cry for the first time. The next morning he got up, got dressed, and tried to go back to work.

Mom caught up to him just as he got into his car, and she had to literally drag him out before he drove off. The night terrors got worse. Nearly every night he would see the memory eater, and then the screaming and kicking would come. Now it was more vivid. He would cry out, It's grabbing my neck, over and over, as he thrashed around under the covers. Then he started going downhill faster. He no longer recognised Mom. so every day she had to explain to the man that they were married.

An entire life together, gone. And you could tell he was every bit as hurt as she was. He would mistake complete strangers for relatives, tried to call his long dead childhood dog into the house to feed it, and he would be heartbroken every time he told him what happened. Every day brought the same old confusions and horrors, made new by his wrecked mind. The most bizarre were his calmer moments.

He would just randomly zone out with a serene expression on his face and I am ashamed to admit that it was often a welcome break. The doctor said he was disassociating and I far prefer that to the hallucinations and the visions of the memory eater which only grew steadily more and more frequent.

It had reached the point where every time Dad was awake and not spacing out, he'll be watching for the horn's shadow with the empty face and he would yell at us to get him out of the room if he saw it. We never saw anything ourselves,

but we never argued with him. As much as it pains me to say it, I was relieved when he finally died. Mom refused to put him in hospice care because she didn't want to leave him with strangers and thought her job as a nurse prepared her. Maybe so, but I know she wasn't ready for the last stage of the affliction.

Dad physically deteriorated, losing weight and looking like a zombie. The confusion had deepened to the point that he had forgotten that his mind was going and he regarded both me and my mum as slightly familiar figures. The few times he spoke, he never called us by her names, and it was often barely coherent. He was bedridden and never slept for very long, for every time he did, it would be back. Even in this degenerated state, the memories of the memory eater were untouched. Perhaps the thing likes its victims to know that is hurting them.

Music seemed to help, so he kept a radio playing in his room all day. Sometimes we'd hear him humming along to the tune, and it would be like seeing him as he was. seeing him as he was for the briefest time. The day he died, it was my turn to feed him. So I went up to his room with some soup, and he grabbed the collar of my shirt when I got close. Then he looked me in the eye. And for the first time in a long, long while, I saw my real father looking back at me, not the degraded husk that the shadow fed off of. I'm so sorry, he said. Gracie, I never stopped loving you too. Then he drifted off and never woke back up.

Gracie was his pet name for my mother. I don't know how or why he was lucid in his final moments, but I was crying. A moment later, I heard my mom screaming in the next room. I rushed to see what was the matter, and she pointed at an open window. I saw it, she said. I saw the shadow. I knew what it was. Maybe it had drained enough of dad to assume a physical shape,

or maybe it led its scar down enough for her to see it. Whatever the case, my father went to the hospital, and there he finally died, being peacefully asleep the whole time. He was 54 years old at the time. And my mom's insistence, an autopsy was carried out. The results came back to us quickly. My father's brain was severely atrophied,

being shrunken and shriveled down to a fraction of the size it should have been. You know how the brain is usually a greyish pink? Well, it had turned a sickly yellow-brown and there was a translucent black liquid all over it, pulling in the wrinkles and holes left by the memory eaters feeding. We were asked to sign something, giving them permission to run tests to see if this was a new illness

but we have yet to hear back from them since then I have been looking for answers one person told me it was a prime disease and a few others have suggested I get myself screened just in case it's genetic I honestly

don't know what to do has anyone else heard of this memory eater has anyone else heard of this memory eater This is an open letter addressed to the 27 other students who endured the strange and traumatizing events that happened during our fourth grade biology class. I know that we all chose to keep silent and buried the memories. Some of you probably went to a therapist, some even might have moved on.

But I know the majority of you are still haunted by the past like me. However, if you're reading this and you're not a part of said class, please go ahead and tag you're along with his story, because at this point, I desperately need all the help I can get. My name is Nathan Gan, but people call me Nats. August was the first to call me that nickname, ever since a cloud of Nats chased me back in kindergarten, same with the constant shoving and tripping. He never stopped teasing me about it, so it grew on me, and everyone else started calling me gnats by default.

As you can see, we lived in a pretty typical elementary school life back in Oaks. That's until fourth grade came and a new biology teacher was added in the faculty. Veronica Schwartz Barther was her name. She had big sunken eyes to match a tall and thin frame. Her hair was dry and frizzy, but was always tied into a bun. She always wore long, dark and purple dresses matched with red heels. It made her stand out from the pink and orange blouses worn by the other teachers. Her thin lips made it possible for her to smile with just the teeth and gums.

But her voice was surprisingly soft and gentle. It always sounded like a mother telling a child that it'll be all right. Ironically. She would always call our class her angels, or the perfect set of children she always wished she had. But of course, it was all just a front. We were all ass kisses and she never found out

or maybe we were just too scared she was very fond of us some might even say obsessed no she was obsessed I tried my best to recall everything that happened but I can only remember some stories to refresh your memories

only stories that my gut could handle I remember August bowers and the soggy towels When she introduced the topic about microorganisms, she taught us that body odour is caused by bacteria, and that's what we all stank after phys ed. After that lesson, she instructed us to wear small towels under our shirts that catch sweat. She wanted to bring those towels home so she can take a snapshot of the bacteria and show it to our class. She collected our soggy towels for the whole year, but she never gave us any snapshot. One time, us boys were overstaying inside the locker room, but only for about five to ten minutes.

We were talking, laughing, playing and teasing. Well, most of the teasing was directed at me. Everyone was enjoying when the door suddenly opened, and she walked inside the room. The cheerful noise stopped, and a creeping silence replaced it. She just stood there, staring at us, for a good minute. Then she directed her eyes to a shirtless August, and the most disgusting smile painted across her face. You have a nice build, nice height. Your parents must be very proud they produced you.

She grouch to meet August's eyes. If only I could bear a child like you, like all of you. August didn't say a word, but we could all seem trembling in fear. I assume the towels are done She pulled a plastic bag from her pocket And we placed our towels one by one We all left without saying a word But she stayed inside the locker room

For a quiet amount of time If you think that was weird I also remember Emily Briggs and the Cut Cut Cutts on She would have us prick our fingers And put a drop of blood in a slide To observe it under a microscope I would guess you'd have thought this was pretty normal for a biology class,

but the thing is, she made us do it once a month for the whole year. I could never forget what happened to Emily Briggs. The first time we were instructed to do it, she was scared of pricking a finger. When Mrs. Barthas saw this, she approached her. What's wrong, my angel? She softly asked. We all stared at both of them. I...

Don't want to prick my finger. But it's for the class. I'm scared. Do you want me to do it for you? Mrs. Bartha took the needle. No, I'm scared. It's going to hurt. Emily sobbed.

We all expected Mrs. Barthor to frown. We thought it was finally the day we get to see her mad. But instead, her toothy smile grew much, much wider. Do you want me to cut the? them instead. Mrs. Barthes' words echoed within the four corners of the room. Emily stopped crying out of shock. All of us confused with our mouths half open,

Mrs. Bartha went back to a desk and grabbed a pair of scissors. She approached Emily again, snipping the scissors as she took each step, swaying her head from left to right, while rhythmically singing the word, cut. Cut, cut, cut, cut. Cut, as she approached Emily's desk. Our hearts dropped at each snip of a large pair of scissors.

With a shaking hand, Emily took the needle and pricked her own. Snot and tears mixed her awful crying, making gross bubbles from her mouth. Mrs. Barthard dropped the scissors and patted her head, telling her how she was a good girl while everything was dripping off of Emily's face. Every time after class, when our little microscope session is done, done and we've all left, she would twirl around the classroom, grab our slides and collect them in an icebox. She looked like a fairy snagging teeth from our pillows. I watched silently from the corner of the door and followed her outside the building.

She vanished deep inside the woods past the parking lot behind our school. To this day, I have no idea what she was doing with those blooded slides. Most of the horrifying experiences were ones we all shared. where we all, if not some, witnessed together. But the one that really haunts me until this day is something I alone had to go through. I remember the cups. At every start of the class,

she would lead us outside and have us form a line. We would all go to the comfort rooms as a class. She made us go by batches of ten, five boys and five girls. She told us it was the minimised instances of us, asking to go out and peek during lectures. What was odd was she instructed us to never flush the toilet after we pee.

She would go inside after each batch is done, take about ten minutes and flush it herself. It was pretty odd, but we never really questioned it since it was the least strangest thing she's ever done. One day while taking her exam, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. It was the quarterly exam, so the school corridors are most important.

empty. While I was walking in the hallway, I heard a strange clacking noise behind me. When I looked back, no one was there. I continued walking and heard it again, like someone was following me. When I looked back, no one was there, except this time, I saw it. Hiding from behind the lockers was a purple dress. My stomach churned and my palms started to sweat. I slowly walked forward, but with my head still turned, keeping a close eye on the dress. That's when she eerily peaked half her head out, and those big sunken eyes were staring directly at me. I immediately looked away and started to walk faster. The clacking noise started to get faster as well.

When I looked back, she was in the middle of the hallway, covering her face. But even so, her sharp shoulders revealed her chuckling behind a bony feeling. fingers. I started to run. When I reached the bathroom, I hid inside one of the cubicles. My heart was pounding and my blood was pumping inside my ears. While catching my breath, I noticed that the toilet's tank was slightly opened. I don't know what possessed me, but there was a nagging voice inside my head that something was strange when she takes ten minutes to flush five toilets. So, I opened it. Lots of cups. around seven to ten of them, all filled with amber liquid.

P. The most terrifying thing is that it was our P. Each cup is labelled with our name, August, Dominic, Howard, Lance, Nathan. My trembling hand tried its best to put the lid back on, when suddenly the comfort room door creaked. It was slow and loud. I tried to stop my breathing, praying she won't know. just me inside the stall. I heard her take careful steps. The sound of her heels clapped

against the tiles. Closer. She got closer and closer, until I heard a stop in front of the cubicle I was in. There was nothing but silence for the next five minutes. That's when I foolishly got on all fours and took a peek at the outside of the cubicle. She wasn't there. No heels were outside my cubicle I sighed in relief When suddenly a red shoe dropped from the sky I slowly looked up and there she was hanging on the cubicle door looking down on me

Are you done then then? She asked I was shocked and flinched and slipped I almost hit my head at the edge of the toilet She got down and opened the door When I was up and standing She crouched and got closer to my ear You need to get back to class

She whispered caressing my hair I ran as fast as I could out of the comfort room A stream of warm liquid streamed down my leg As I ran back into the classroom I could never forget that incident And would still have nightmares about it What would keep me up at night however Is that when I got home

I felt a burning sensation on the back of my neck. When I took a closer look, there was a scratch mark deep enough to cause a small wound, like she was trying to scrape my skin. I'm sure every one of us felt that Mrs. Barthor was somewhat odd, but I'm here to confirm to you that this woman was absolutely crazy. The soggy towels, the slides, the cups. They were all just things to think about,

things that remained a mystery. But I wish they just stay that way. I wish I didn't have to find out. It's been 14 years since the events inside our biology class happened. I've already graduated college and I'm trying my shot as a digital designer. I know that most of you tried to forget it. Some of you might have moved on. But for me, it all came crawling back from the grave.

And now, that thing is coming. for me. It all started last week when I got a random call. It was a nurse asking if my name was Nathan Gan and if I could remember my former biology teacher.

I naively answered yes and I was put on hold. When the music stopped the same voice, that same, sick, soft voice greeted my ears again. Than, I froze.

I couldn't see it, but I knew. I damn well knew. She was wearing. That sick smile. She was dying. That sick woman was dying. Well, according to her and a nurse. I don't know how she got my number, but she was able to call me.

And the last request? To see her angels once again before she passes away. I was in a strange position. I honestly didn't know what to do or what to feel. I had shivers down my spine, just hearing her call me that nickname. But then again, she's a dying old lady who never had any children. And the closest ones she got was us. So I posted and tried to call out to you guys.

To my classmate in Class B2 of Oak Elementary School, I bring to you news that our former biology teacher, Mrs. Bartha, is sick. and her chances of surviving aren't all that favourable. She told me her only wish is to see us again. If you'd like to join me, please respond below. I waited for anyone to respond, even if just one, to come with me to the hospital. Can't say I was surprised, but no one replied. I spent hours and hours contemplating if I should go or not,

paced around my room, biting my nails, as I think about other alternatives, like sending me. flowers or a fruit basket. But then, some random thoughts about a ghost haunting me would pop inside my head, further convincing me to go. I was having second thoughts and whether the events that happened back in fourth grade were as terrible as I remember. That maybe, I was just being too harsh on the old lady.

With these things considered, I decided to go. It was noon. Entering the hospital's sliding door, the floor was glossy, but it was barely white anymore. The same goes to the walls that were beige and hue. The stench of disinfectants and mould were dancing in the air. The lobby had a few potted plants, but was barely alive, almost like the patients who were roaming around with wheelchairs and dextrose. I approached the nurse's station and asked for a room.

The nurse that attended to me had paused in fair skin and bright red lips. Although the dark circles in her eyes either suggested she's tired or just a frequent smoker. 6-1-2. I couldn't knock on room 6-1-2. I stood there for a good five minutes, trying to bite the skin of my lips. I didn't know what to expect.

My mind was conjuring up scenario after scenario. I wondered what she would look like. Would she be weakly? Would she be alive and well? And all of this was a meticulous plan to kill me? The same nurse. red lips tapped me from the back. Go on, she's been waiting ages for you guys.

None of her previous calls came. That was my answer. I had to knock. Come in! A frail voice came from the other side. I'm not sure while the scene that greeted me after opening the door shocked me. The windows are open wide

and silken curtains were dancing as the sunlight entered the white room. On the window sits a beautiful, beautiful tulip, purple, like the colour she once wore, and on the bed, decorated with small blue polka dots, was an old lady. Her eyes was still as big, but had a more gentle stare. Her grey hair was flowing to her shoulders, and a smile was pure, excited but touched. Than, Than. The soft voice felt like it finally belonged to her. Her eyes started to shimmer, brought by tears that came streaming down her face.

I approached awkwardly and, How are you, Mrs. Bartha? Escape my lips so naturally. I found myself rid of the terrifying image of her in the past. I sat beside her. She made me talk about my life after fourth grade, my life in high school and college. It didn't feel invasive or anything.

It felt like feeding a mother's desire to reconnect to her son. I felt her genuinely being proud and happy for me through every beat of my story. When I figured that no one will come see me, I decided to write letters to my angels instead. Letters? I asked. Yes, here. I figured I'd handed to you in person since you were coming.

I sent everyone the same thing. She reached the white envelope from inside a pillowcase. It had slight creases and a couple of coffee stains on the side. I hope it was coffee. I stayed and chatted with Mrs. Bartha for quite some time. We were even laughing at some point. For a moment, my heart was filled with the closure and forgiveness, even if we never brought up the things that happen in class.

Red lips knocked on the door and reminded me that visiting hours were almost over. I was surprised, looking at my phone. 8.34 p.m. I got up and said my goodbyes, grabbing the letter with me. When I got outside the room, I felt like I was brought to another dimension. It wasn't covered with warm, mouldy beige, but instead the hallways were dark, almost to the tint of green. There were lights on the ceiling, but there would be at least one or two broken ones every six feet. I felt like taking a pee first before leaving, so I looked up for signs of a comfort room.

I walked the dark hallways alone. So I thought, I didn't get that far before I started to hear footsteps. I looked behind me, only to stare at a long, black abyss. I continued walking. My steps slightly sped up, but the footsteps got faster as well, almost like running. It sounded bare, like wet feet hitting bathroom tiles. I tried to ignore it, but I heard it come closer.

It was approaching me. I looked behind me with fists clenched this start. And there she was. Standing just beneath a flickering light was Mrs. Bartha. Naked while covering her face. Her skin sagged all over her body, a grey hair flowing down to her waist now. I didn't need to see her face to know she was chuckling. Her moving shoulders gave it away.

Again. I refused to believe the terrifying figure that was in front of me, so I closed my eyes as tight as I could. Go away, go away, I whispered to myself. I loosen the muscles of my eyelids, slowly opening them. There was no one. I breathed a sigh of relief and continued to the comfort room. While inside, flashes of what happened to me back in fourth grade appeared in front of my eyes.

Her sunken eyes, her sickening smile filled with thousands of teeth. When suddenly, I heard the front door of the comfort room creak open. It was a familiar situation, and my heart started pounding. I started hyperventilating. I looked at where the sound came from, only to see the door was slightly opened. A bony and sagging arm came inside and reached for the light switch suddenly. Everything went pitch black. I panicked.

My hands were feeling for the cubicles. I carefully stepped and tried to navigate inside the dark bathroom. casually slipping on the grimy tiles. When I found an empty cubicle, I locked myself inside. I pulled out my phone to turn on the flashlight, looking up and down for any signs of her. That's when the door from the cubicle on my right suddenly opened. I had enough. I wasn't going to wait for my eyes to see her, so I shouted on the top of my lungs for help,

banging on the cubicle door with my eyes closed. I felt the world closing around me. I was fearing for my life. Then, the lights suddenly switched on. Sir, is everything right, sir? A man shouted from the front door. I got out of the cubicle, almost hugging the janitor that saved my life. The world around me was spinning.

The fear got inside my head. I rushed out of the bathroom and ran to the nurse's station. But, Arthur, I tried to catch my breath. Is everything right? Sir, please sit down. Red lips got outside the station and held my arms and led me to a chair. Veronica Bartha, she's outside a room.

She's not sick. I rambled on and on. I'm sorry, sir. I asked her to come with me to Mrs. Barthor's room. Sir, you can't just storm inside a room. She stopped my hand as I reached for the handle. She knocked three times before gently opening the door. She wasn't there.

The crazy woman wasn't there. I looked at Red Lips' reaction, checking for validity, that I wasn't the one who was going crazy. So, where is she? I raised my voice. That's when I felt arms wrap around my torso. They were thin as twigs. I felt warm air on the back of my neck.

Gotcha then, then, gotcha. She hopped and rode my back. In a panic, I tried. tried to shake her off for me. I felt her disgusting hands grab a feel on my chest as she laughed like an old hag. Get her off of me! Get her off of me! I shouted. The walls felt like it was closing in and both the nurse and Mrs. Barther's voice were getting muffled. My head was aching and I was finding it harder and harder to breathe. The nurse was able to pry her off of me. I dropped to the floor, catching my breath, grabbing a hold of my sanity. The nurse was in as much shock as I was. She cared for

assisted Mrs. Bartha back to a bed with a confused face. When I got my bearings, anger soon filled my head. She didn't have any right to humiliate me like that, not anymore. My hands were still shaking, but I asked her for a reason and why she was doing this. I was just trying to play with you again, Than Than, just like we used to. She smiled at me. Her eyes reverted. to being wide and sunken.

That insane and deranged look of her was looking at me once more. Her soft voice can't form me again. You have to forgive me. It's just... Her voice began to change. Crackling, stuttering. I've always wanted kids,

and you were the closest ones I had. I looked at her eyes and they had filled with tears again. I mean, ma'am, I get that, but... If only I was just a couple years younger, she interrupted me. I would have let you screw me. Silence, blanket to the room. We simply stared at each other. What?

I said, I would have let you screw me. You and all your classmates, so I can have angels of my own. A sickening and salivating smile painted across a face. My stomach was in shambles. I felt as if my gut wanted to throat. itself out of my mouth. The nurse was equally mortified from what she just said. Then she laughed. She laughed like a hyena in the night. I stormed out of the room and the hospital and drove home. As soon as I got inside the house, I chucked down a bottle of beer and opened another just as quickly.

I felt the need of putting alcohol inside my system to flush the poison out. The feeling of fear and disgust wrapped around my body like a snake. squeezing the life out of me. I wanted to claw my skin off. I wanted to bang my head against the wall. I paced around my living room, shouting, desperate to get it out of me. Then I remembered the letter.

I grabbed the envelope and gripped it tightly, tore it in two before I could even read what's inside. I flung the crumbled letter across the room. Clink, it was unusual for paper to make that sound. It caught my attention For a second It distracts me from the anger I was feeling I got down to investigate what it was

There was a small key inside the torn envelope I picked it up and examined it Carved on the handle it says Angel So out of curiosity I picked up the pieces of the letter And formed them Try to read what the key was for

To my angels If you are reading this, then there is a good chance I've passed away. You are the most perfect set of children I have ever met. To me, you were a blessing by God. There's a reason why your old biology teacher died in a car crash and led you adorable, talented and gorgeous children under my care. I would like to share with you that reason. Deep within the woods outside Oaks, I resided in an old cabin.

I have sent you the keys to it. May you find the special gift I left for you. From your loving mother, Veronica Bartha. This is insane, was all I ever got to say before crumbling the paper and throwing it inside the trash can. My phone vibrated. I was shocked. It was a notification from my post. It was a comment from Emily Briggs, the once little girl who refused to prick her finger.

Hey, I saw the last. letter. I'm planning to go. You coming? I wasn't sure why, but I had a bad feeling where this was going. Beans and things. It was the name of the coffee shop Emily and I agreed to meet up in. I did some frantic scrolling on a Facebook to check out what she looked like. I kind of felt like a creep, but you have to understand it's been 16 long years since I've last seen any of my classmates. As for me, I'll probably be easy to spot. once I entered the shop since I was the only Asian kid in the class. I was feeling all sorts of emotions when I entered the shop.

The smell of roasted beans surprised my nose and made it itch a little. My hands were sweating and my legs were jelly because I really wanted to bale, partly since I want absolutely no part of this crazy teacher's narrative anymore, but also because I was getting kind of insecure. I constantly pulled out my phone to fix my hair and made sure my sleeves were rolled up evenly. I scanned the room for a girl with black hair wearing a turtleneck and a beanie. There are a lot of them. Wish I asked for the colour. Nats! I go out from the farthest corner of the room called out and waved at me.

She was wearing a pink turtle neck and a purple beanie. I nervously smiled as I walked toward the table. We shook hands and sat down, waiting for the first person to start saying anything. It's been a long time. I awkwardly tried to break the ice. She simply took a breath. Yeah, it is. She gave me the warmest smile after. So, uh, you want anything?

I asked. Oh no, her eyes lit up. It's okay. August got us some coffee. My eyebrows wrinkled upon hearing his name. Wait, August is here, yep. I shook my head in disappointment. That was something she should have said before I agreed to go.

I grabbed my phone and got up for my chair to leave, but a cold hands grabbed mine and stopped me. No, wait, look, I know it's hard to be with your ex-bully. A concerned face turned into a smirk. Slash, X, she raised the brow. But he contacted me first about it, and I just think there's safety in numbers. I breathed in with my teeth.

Before I could reply, a familiar voice interrupted. and headed to our table. So, Nats. August was wearing the same old denim jacket and wearing the same lame as cologne. He sat down with three cups of coffee on a black tray,

seemingly unbothered. I was unbothered too. I was at least trying to act like it. I pulled my hand from Emily and sat back down, fidgeting with my phone. I was looking down, turning it on and off, but I could see with my peripheral vision that she was looking at me.

August took a deep breath. So, Nats, how's it go? Why are we even going? I interrupted. This teacher screwed us up in just a year. She's just a creepy old hag. My voice was sounding more agitated. What that disgusting woman did to me back in the hospital came rushing back. Emily had a more soothing tone.

Kind of sounded like one of those ASMR videos you'd listen to. She answered the question by turning it back to me. You said it yourself She's dying and she's just an old woman It was ridiculous Lots of past teachers are already dead Some of them are also dying I demanded an answer

As to why the hell we needed to fulfill this old hag's wish I clenched my fist from my blood boiling Money August replied That was the initial pitch I gave Emily And she came up with this altruistic stuff soon after Seriously Emily's sweet voice changed.

A woman who seemed obsessed, no, was obsessed with us, left us a gift. She tracked us down and sent us letters. We're probably like the only family she had. August confidently explained. Plus, isn't she a famous scientist or whatever? It's probably her savings, man. He wasn't wrong, however.

Going on this little hunt made sense. Whatever she wanted to give us was probably something. valuable since she was fond of us. It was easy for them to say, since they weren't grubbed by her, but I couldn't. I couldn't bring myself to regurgitate everything what happened inside the hospital. I wanted it buried deep down inside of me. I needed this distraction. I needed to know what was driving Mrs. Barthor to act like this.

She might not have been the best teacher, but it's the right thing to do. This was just the poor old lady. Emily reached for my hands again. August slightly chuckled as Emily gave him the side eye. The word, fine, found it hard to escape my lips. The next thing I know, I was driving to our old abandoned elementary school with August and Emily. August called shotgun, because it was always shotgun, according to him. Can we change what's playing on the radio?

Emily asked from the backseat. What, it's too close to home? August replied with a smug face. We continued to ride while listening to Highway to Hell. Distasteful, but I got too much going inside my head to be bothered too. 9.27pm. It was a long drive, but we managed to reach the school. We parked the car just outside the rusty gates.

Shining the headlights made it conjure up ominous shadows on the building's front door. The gates were chained and locked. I pulled the key from my pocket and tried. It wasn't a fit. August pulled me back and proposed the different solution. He kicked the chains repeatedly. The noise was slightly unbearable. Emily and I got worried someone would hear us trespassing,

but he actually managed to kick the chain down. Leave it to the soccer player to open old gates. After that, he looked at me and smiled, as if I had given him the pleasure of looking impressed. We travelled inside the dark woods with only our phones to act as flashlights. Apparently, the letters contained maps behind them. I was just too busy throwing it out to notice.

Walking down the path, snapping twigs and crunching dried leaves, helped me remember the time when I saw Mrs. Barther disappear inside the woods with the iceboxes of our slides. Somehow it sent shivers down my spine, that we were walking the same step she made. The image of her, the happy face of hers, was flashing before my eyes. as if she was just in front of us.

Wait, I called from behind them. My breathing was getting inconsistent, and I could feel the trees closing in on me. I fell down to my knees. They rushed to my aid. You okay? We're almost there, Emily shouted. August pulled me back up and rubbed my back.

I get them sometimes too, he whispered, usually after I wake up from a nightmare, sometimes even if I'm wide awake. He offered to turn back, though I dusted myself and told them that I was okay. I wanted to see it through. The cabin wasn't anything extraordinary. It stood in the middle of the woods surrounded by twigs and leaves. Seeing the cabin's dark wooden exterior and dusty windows as we shined our lights wasn't really an inviting sight.

The moon, although shining bright, wasn't helping the overall mood either. I found myself nervous. Knees were shaking as we got closer to it. We slowly walked towards the front door. And suddenly, I heard rusting noises from the trees around us. No, I can't. I started breathing heavily. We're literally a couple steps from finding the money, Emily then disclosed.

I stared at her in disbelief, although August didn't look that surprised. Let's go. Emily got rid of her calm and sweet voice, walking head on to the dark wooden door. August goes inside after her, telling me that we needed to help her. I followed soon after, afraid of whatever I might see lurking in the trees. The cabin interior was just as you expect a crazy old hag would live in. The living room in the kitchen was seemingly blended together, having almost no space for the three of us to roam around.

It had a single light bulb in charge of illuminating the whole lot, making it less like a cabin to live in, but a well-decorated tool shed. The carpet we were standing on was mouldy and dusty, although the description fits rather well on the walls, shells and furniture too. How the hell is this relic still running with electricity? August asked as he flipped the light switch on and off. Would you stop it? Emily told him, visibly irritated. Now, take a look at this. She didn't need to point it out, since it was the most noticeable thing inside the cabin.

A door slightly opened with a busted padlock. We're too late, Emily grunted. I don't think so. August approached the lock and inserted the angel key. It fit perfectly. If it was one of us, then they should have used the key. No point in wrecking the lock or the poor door. August opened the door and an unpleasant smell came out of it.

We all took a step backwards because of how putrid it was. It smelled of rot and alcohol mixed, burning on nostrils. As we shine some light, it appeared to be a door leading to a basement. A chain dangling from the doorway suggested it was the light up downstairs, but it didn't do anything. Well, ladies first, August smoked at Emily. With an annoyed face, Emily proceeded to descend into the darkness. You can stay here if you want to. August looked back at me.

He was probably concerned, but I took it more as a challenge during that time. I walked past him and followed Emily down the basement. It seemed like a normal basement at first, full of trash. But the more we moved around, the more it got intriguing. Stacks of wooden boxes were scattered. scattered and piled against the walls. The floor was made of cement, but it felt grimy and slippery. Our shoes would occasionally make squishing noises in some parts of the floor, and neither of

us bothered looking at what we were stepping on. Old stuff in an old cabin, except for the operating table, shining clean and new in the middle of the room. We all approached the operating table and found traces of shining liquid on its surface, dripping on the sides. What the hell is this? It escaped my mouth almost involuntarily. We continued to scan the room for anything worth bringing home.

Where the hell is the money? said Emily. She approached the wooden boxes and tried to see if she could pry it open. I continued circling the operating table and found a bag of tools underneath. Surgical sores, syringes, hooks, clamps, all of it. of it, blooded and clumped together inside a red bag. I flinched to the sound of broken glass. Emily clumsily broke a jar that she found inside one of the boxes. She stepped back and made gagging noises because of how bad it smelled.

I went to her to check if she was okay and to inspect the boxes as well. Inside the jars was the pee Mrs. Bartha was collecting. What the hell? Why are our names on those jars? gagged. Opening the other boxes reveal the towels and the blood slides neatly stacked together. She was collecting them for sure.

It was a thought I've always had, but never confirmed until that moment. Of course, to Emily, everything came as a shock. She started tearing up, asking us that we should leave. Emily, calm down. We need to... Calm down! Emily shouted. This is invasive and insane. This is so damn.

She stopped. We both stopped and stayed silent. Creaking noises came from upstairs. Soon it started getting clear that there were footsteps. But then the pattern got weird and it sounded like multiple people were walking above us. What is that? Emily whispered.

Probably whatever was inside this. August called her attention as he was slowly walking back from something. She shined the light at what seemed to be a large metal cage. It was standing by about 8 by 7 foot. At the bottom of the cage seemed to be lumps of a red and brown substance. I couldn't stare at it long enough to figure out what it was. The bars in the middle were bent open as if something got out.

Oh my God. I gasped, looking at the clipboard hanging from the right side of the cage. Project Angel by Dr. to Veronica S. Bartha. We heard the footsteps again. August signalled us to turn off our flashlights and pulled both of us in the dark corner of the basement. Whatever it was, it casted its shadow

on the basement stairs. We all looked at it in horror with hands on our mouths. It wasn't a silhouette of a human or any animal we knew. We huddled together, cowering in fear. Then

it left. We stood there, shaking for a good ten minutes before I turned on my phone light, deciding to speak out and ask if it was time we get the hell out of there. In a count of three, we run upstairs and go outside. No looking back. August looked us both in the eyes. My world was spinning. This time I was ready to vomit, but the adrenaline was keeping me stable. The three of us could feel each other's body shaking. but we knew that it wasn't the time to mess up.

One, two, three. We sprinted across the basement. The floor made it hard for us the sprint to our full extent or else we would fall on our faces. Once we reached the living room, we all ran outside. We turned on our phones and looked straight ahead. Well, that was the plan. We only made it a couple of steps outside the house

when I heard August stop running. I looked back to two. check on him. He was standing still, looking up. Brother... It was like a choir, the sound of children's voices in unison, screaming. It was coming from the roof of the cabin. Brother, sister... My jaw dropped, and my hand could barely keep the light shining on the thing in the roof.

At first glance, it looked like a spider. A gigantic spider whose legs span about six feet. The more you look at it, the more you notice its grotesque features. In the centre of those eight legs was a mass of pink and blooded flesh, shimmering from all the mucus it was covered in. It was dripping with the same viscous fluid I saw from the operating table. On the body were faces, multiple disfigured faces, but they weren't indistinguishable at all.

I saw mine and August and Emily's and all the other classmates I could remember Our young nine-year-old faces writhing and squirming on the surface of that monstrosity I continued shining my light as it sang with the voices of my classmates I was almost in a trance frozen in fear after seeing all other eyes look directly at me until I felt a big tug on my shirt Nats, let's go, August screamed at me as he pulled. My leg started working again and we ran deep inside the woods as I heard the monster skitter from behind. We ran as fast as we could.

Emily was several metres in front of us. I could hear it lunge itself from the trees, rustling and crying. When we reached the school's front gate, Emily was already holding the door to the front seat, waiting for me to open the car. I hurriedly sat behind the wheel as August sat at the back. They both shouted at me to hurry as they scanned for the creature outside the car.

I think it's gone, Emily whispered, as she frantically looked around for any signs of the creature. Any time now, Nat. I'm trying, I shouted back at August, desperately trying to get the car started. As we were catching our breath

inside the car, we could only hear nothing but silence from outside. The creature was nowhere to be found. When I got it running, I put it on reverse and turned the car back to where we came from. I stepped on the gas. We reached quite a distance from the school and no creature was following us from behind. We collectively sighed in relief.

Well, August chuckled. Guess we... Something big landed on top of the car. Out of nowhere I heard the rear windshield shatter We were all screaming From the top of our lungs Nats

August was screaming in pain I looked back and saw the creature Latching onto August Dicking his claws on his arms Head and chest Trying to pull him out to the car from the rear August was desperately clawing at my shoulders

Calling out my name I reached out to grab his arm And stop the car Emily wasn't wearing any seatbelt so she hit her head on the dashboard and knocked herself unconscious. I struggled to pull August as he was slowly getting dragged by the creature. I turned to unbuckle my belt for a second, and in the blink of an eye, August was pulled from the back seat

as if he was nothing but a rag doll. I stumbled to get out of the car. Augie! Augie! I screamed out to the dead of night. All that was left was the trail of mucus and blood leading back to Oak's elementary school. I fell to my knees, unable to do anything. I stared into the distance,

until eventually, Augie's awful screams, stopped. I sat down in the road, in the middle of nowhere, dazed. The sun came up, and I was waiting for myself to wake up, waiting for my body to start moving. Do something. Emily woke up with a blooded forehead. I heard her stumbling outside the car, where she later sat down beside me, and cried.

It's been a week since I last stepped outside my room. I haven't slipped, bathed, nor ate. It's not a day that passes that I don't blame myself for what happened to Orgy. I also got word that Bartha passed away. To my old fourth-grade classmates from Mrs. Barthor's biology class, I hope you burn those letters I hope you never visit Oaks again What I saw inside that cabin

Is something I'll never forget until the day I die Which wouldn't be too long now I guess I was keeping in close contact with Emily After all that happened She soon talked to me About how she could still hear this skittering from time to time After that She stopped answering as well

So I guess I'd want to end this letter with advice to the remaining 27. Lock your doors because I'm pretty sure I'm starting to hear this skittering from outside my house too. I had been sitting on the edge of my bed, head in hands, when the still night sky was cleaved by a white light that streaked across the sky before impacting a few kilometers away from my house into a nearby field scattering the grazing herd. The resultant aftershock rippled through the corn stalks, being powerful enough to send me rolling onto the floorboards. I stared up at the ceiling, the pounding off my heart deafening any other thoughts in my head. After rediscovering my feet, I wasted no time in going outside to investigate.

The piling eviction notices on the welcome mat crinkling beneath my feet as I rushed out the front door. Excitement and fear pounded through me with each hoving step I took. Most meteors burned up in Earth's atmosphere, let alone in rural Iowa when nothing ever happened was unprecedented. I followed the scorched trail of Earth where it had skidded along, stumbling over flaming blades of grass beneath my feet. I skidded to a halt, finding myself on the precipice of a smoking crater about six foot in diameter. A few cows crowded curiously around it, the fire flickering in the vacant black eyes like burning cold. The forces of gravity pushed down on my back, with my outstretched arms being the only thing keeping me from plunging in. There, at the very centre, lay the shooting star.

It wasn't at all what I expected. It was an obsidian black orb, the size of a basketball, with a smooth, almost polished exterior, which I saw my own darkened reflection blink back at me from. There wasn't even the slightest scratch from its rapid descent through space and, crash landing. It gleamed up at me like an exposed pearl, pried from the ridged moor of a shell. Looking down at it, I realised the insanity of my current situation. What was I doing? I glanced down at the glowing screen of my phone, which I'd used to guide myself through the pitch black, wondering who to call. The police, fire crews, the military, the news? Images of green army trucks and khaki-clad soldiers and scientists filing out the probe every inch of my home made

my throat constrict. Still, the value of this thing couldn't be underestimated. Any undamaged meteorite had to be at least a million dollars, enough for me to keep my home and buy two new ones. I picked up a splintered shadow fence and gave it a cautious jab, trying to roll it closer to where I was standing, which elic elic, clink. A jagged crack appeared vertically up the spear face of the spear face of the object and it snapped in two. My heart shriveled in my chest, my hopes vanishing before my very eyes. The two halves clattered aside,

revealing a pulsating, fleshy mass that had been concealed within, somewhere between plant and animal. It shifted under the glaring spotlight emanating from my phone, bristling tendrils unfurling outwards. Amid to my shock. It spoke to me

Help Despite his lack of eyes Or any other earthly feature I knew it was looking at me Help Hungry Consume Fear

Laced his plaintiff Fragmented pleas It was a lone life form Displaced light years Unto a tiny Backwards a planet In some insignificant galaxy Without family or a home

just like I soon would be. Whatever it was, it needed me. I slid down into the crater, landing just a few feet away from where it was wriggling around. Pulling off my jacket, I bundled it into it, safe from the prickling night chill. Noticing the hose coiled on the ground like a python, slithering over the gravel, I whipped it up. Laying the swaddling entity on the ground, I soaked it. The tendrils that trailed out curled inward, engorging as they absorbed the water. Hungry, it whined inside my head.

It wasn't enough. Ignoring its body, soaking through my clothes, I wrenched open the groaning doors of the vast red barn, my eyes scanning around for anything that might be considered proper sustenance. Half buried in the hay was a bright green bottle of plant formula. I hurriedly snatched off the ground and raised it towards the ground. creature that I cradled in my arms. Its face unfolded, green prickly flesh splitting apart into fleshy red pet-like segments to reveal a suckle-like opening, in the center of its face, which I took to be a mouth. I held the tip into it,

its tense form relaxing as it began to suckle. As I held it, it dawned on me how bizarre it must have looked to any outside observer, the human feeding the alien like some bizarre mockery of parents and child. The worn floorboards of the old farmhouse had once resounded with the running feet and ringing laughter of children, among which had been my own.

It had always been a secret dream for my parents to raise my own family there, as our family had done for generations, but I had always preferred my own company to that of others. When I had inherited the farm, it had become my haven from the outside world. I had

resigned myself to a life spent a life, spent alone. I never thought that I would need anyone, but this night had made me reconsider that notion. It let out a warbling hum of satisfaction, a pitch that vibrated through my own body and made my eyelids heavy. I held it close to my chest, determined to share my body heat with it. It made me realize how long it had been since I had been close to somebody. As the escaping sunlight wore my cheek through the overhead cracks in the supporting beams, I became aware of a sudden torqueness around my waist. As my scattered mind tried to recall whether I'd put on a belt, I looked down and saw a thick green tendril wrapped around me. The thing had doubled in size,

now about five feet in length. The root-like vines, which sprouted from its body, had unfurled even longer than that, digging under the earth. The sight of it filled me with a strange sense of fear and pride. A gurgle from my stomach reminded me of my own needs. I headed back inside the house to get breakfast, but before I could even open the doors, I found myself jerked back with surprising force. Glancing down, I saw a prickly tindrel curled around my ankle. Stay, it crooned.

Sighing, I lifted my leg up to distangle myself from its grasp. Don't worry, I'll be back soon. I promise. It seemed to understand the appendage sliding back into the darkness to join the multitude of others that sprouted from its cephalopodic body. Inside, I milled over a soggy bowl of cereal, wondering what to do next. I flicked through another yellowing page of the ancient botany book I discovered in the attic. My eyes scoured over the illustrations, trying to find something even remotely like the life form that had taken up residence in the barn. But my every effort was fruitless.

There was nothing like it. Nothing on earth that was. Still, I picked up enough to know that it was siphoning off the energies of the earth, like all plants did. But it had no place in our ecosystem. It was an invader, a parasite. But it was ignorant of the morality

our civilization operated by. A starving man couldn't be blamed for stealing food to support his family. My kind would no best. raising the world under the pretense of industry and progress. The frigid milk droplets soaking through the front pocket of my shirt jolted me back to reality, gazing down at the spoonful that I'd been holding for the past five minutes. Its wriggling body flashed through my mind.

I wondered what it compelled me to care about something that wasn't human. The long dormant, rational part of myself still hissed inside me to destroy it, but it felt those tendrils had buried inside me as it had done into the earth, tethering our existences together. All it wanted was a home, just as much as I did. Gelt slid in like a needle being inserted into my body. I knew I couldn't give it the home it wanted. It was a fragile one for both of us, one that would be shattered any day now. I hurriedly swallowed it and rushed back outside to attend to my new guest, shifting those thoughts to the recesses of the of my mind.

Hey, buddy, I panted as I wrenched up to the door. How are you holding up? The bulbous head wrenched up in my direction. Its spiny roots had extended even further, lining the weathered interior of the structure, where they webbed outwards into smaller veins, that bathed the barn in a faint blue bioluminescence. Consume, it moaned. I know, I know, I muttered.

Here, let me get a bit of the barn. the hose and fill you up, okay? Just as I was about to refill it, there was a rustle of straw. A tiny chocolate-brown field mouse timidly scurried out of its hiding place at the far corner of the barn. Its nose twitched in the air, trying to process its changing surroundings. As it bounced forth in search of food to eat, one of the newest tendrils whipped forward and snatched it into the air, a moment so rapid that it took me a few seconds for my

still groggy brain to process what had just happened. It slithered tighter around its tiny body, enough to elicit the crackle of bone. The mouse's pain squeaks grew shriller, still wriggling as it was dragged to the lifeworm's mouth. The visceral red opening was slick with a pearlescent fluid which soaked through the wood as if salivating in anticipation. The mouse plunged, shrieking into the abyss.

The sizzle of its skin filled the air, along with a nostril curling odour of burnt fur as it was slowly digested alive. The screams of the rodent reached an unnatural pitch, which forced me to clap my hands over my ears in a futile attempt to block it out. Once the cacophony subsided, the creature's head dropped. Two shorted tentacles folded over its torso as it gave a rumbling churn of satisfaction, leaving me standing there, frozen in disgusted fascination. A newspaper article about a mouse-heating plant found in the Philippines dredged itself up from the sea of memory.

The picture that had accompanied the text had been a scarlet red picture, one that had been filled with digestive enzymes that would dissolve the bones of any small, unwary creature unfortunate enough to clamber in and become trapped. Cannibalistic plants existed, but I had never seen one in action. And this thing didn't have the assurance of documentation. What if its diet extended beyond small rodents? It sensed my rising panic. One of the longer tendrils, about six feet, snaked at my body to caress my cheek. The wet bristles that lined it plugged against the harsh stubble of my cheek.

No. No. It hissed. You stay. Anything resembling fear drained from my body. The simple act of affection made my heart. knee's buckle. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched me like that. I grasped at it, determined to keep it close. We needed each other. That was our actual

existence for the next few days, feeding it, talking and relishing in each other's company. Its growth continued unhindered, spread outward like some rapidly expanding starfish. I knew that it was becoming too big to hide and that others were unlikely to to be as accommodating as I had been. They wouldn't understand. They never did. The thoughts of prying, ignorant eyes, falling, and my only joy in life made me burn with rage and dread.

I wished that the rest of the world would vanish, leaving us to live out the rest of our lives in our isolated paradise. Then came the inevitable knock on the door. The smile fell from my face when I heard it. I had started towards the house with a life form whining in protest as I retreated. I pursed the finger to my lips and shushed it, afraid the noises would draw someone near. He was already huffing on the doorstep once I opened the door. A ponching middle-aged man in an immaculately tailored white suit, a black bowlero half buried

under his jowls. His thinning black hair was slick into an oily comb over, his face half shaded beneath the wide-brimmed imitation cowlough. boy hat he had on. He was red-faced from a mixture of relentless sun and the exertion of having to walk five feet from his awaiting limousine to ring my doorbell. The closest he'd probably ever come to a rodeo was in the spectator seat, wolfing down butter-soaked popcorn. He sneered down at me behind the dark aviator sunglasses he was wearing. He had hounded me relentlessly over the past few months to the point that his name was enough to make me seethe with rage.

Ellison Ruckman, as it had been printed on the business card he shoved into my face when we first met. The biggest name in property in the entire state. Lovely morning, isn't it? he drawled, dabbing the beads of sweat that rolled down his forehead. Perfect for a little chat. With his sleazy smile, he extended a clipboard out towards me, or clicking a pen in his other hand. This is my final offer, Mr. Parker.

it's a tidied little sum. I think even you'll have to agree with that. Enough to buy your nice little condo somewhere in the sun instead of sweltering out in the middle of goddamn nowhere. He roared with a laugh at his own joke, belly shaking as he wiped a dismissive finger down the pain of the adjacent window. It was in this moment

I seriously considered slamming the door on his foot but managed to restrain myself. Like I've said before, Mr. Ruckman, this house isn't for sale, No amount of money in the world will ever take it off my hands, I stated. The corners of Ruckman's shark-like grin curled inward into an irritated frown while still trying to appear congenial. You're a stubborn man, Mr Parker, he muttered. I only want what's best for this community.

Can't you see that? Why do you insist on making things so difficult for yourself? Just sign right here and all of your troubles would be gone. The other farming families in the area had a very important. He had already given in to his offers and had long since sold their properties and moved far away. This land had been toiled over by almost five generations of my family. There was no way I would let him raise over all our progress so that he could build a shopping mall. He'd already harassed my poor parents into an early grave.

Time had only given me more to protect. I couldn't let him destroy whatever was inside the barn. Deep down, I knew Ruckman had already won. When you were a man of his wealth, you could buy the world six times over. It was only a short matter of time before the bulldozers would roll up to my property. He seemed to realize this too. His mouth pressed up in a smug satisfaction. A low rumble nearly knocked us both of our feet.

The pen had been gripping in his sausage-like fingers bounced from his grasp and rolled out underneath the porch. Ruckman dazily staggered upwards, squinting around. His shade slid down his squat, potato-like nose, revealing eyes with wide terror as he stared behind the house. What the hell? The wooden walls of the barn groaned as they buckled outwards under the rapidly expanding life form within. After straining for a few more minutes, they finally surrendered to the deep cracks. They exploded, showering us with wooden shrapnel. A six-foot splinter landed just two feet away from Rockman.

almost skewering his skull. He cowered into a quacking squat, like a cockroach recoiling within its exoskeleton. The pulsating mass swelled with zenith, then split open into four vast, fleshy red petals that draped over the jagged sides of the ruined structure, casting a shadow that enveloped us both in the surrounding 200 acres. The developer, his white suits saturated and sweat, tried to make a run for it, Only for a tingeal, 20 feet long, to wrap around his thick waist and pull him screaming into the sky, where he was dropped into its massive moor.

Familiar screams and hissing filled the air, which was broken by the shrieking of tires, as his terrified chauffeur sped off down the dirt track, kicking up rapidly dissipating clots of dirt in his wake. A deep, sonorous groan rose from the centre, like some demented whale song. They vibrated through the ground beneath my feet. A dark fog burst upward from its centre, spreading through the atmosphere until no trace of blue sky was visible anymore. As I squinted through the black, I saw the millions of tiny particles teeming within it. Spores They would be scattered on the rising winds to all the corners of the earth, ready to see themselves and sprout more of its kind in the world,

that would rise to wrestle this planet from the destructive. of species that ruled it. In the absence of humanity, Earth would bloom. This land was ours now, and no one would ever take it away from us.