CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 9 SCARY r/Nosleep Reddit Horror Stories to slowly remind you that Halloween is coming

Episode Date: October 10, 2022

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "I collect rare organs" Creepypasta►23:27 "As of yesterday, u/CreepyCars is offline" Creepypasta►48:29 "Journal Entries From a Plane Crash Survivor Lost at Sea" Creepypasta►1:14:43 "All the psychics want me dead" Creepypasta►1:29:08 "My Apartment Block Has Some Horrifying Residents" Creepypasta►1:45:14 "DON'T play a game called Ch4ngelings" Creepypasta►2:06:02 "If you're a property inspector and you see this house, don't go in" Creepypasta►2:34:52 "A man offered me $500 to make him sick" Creepypasta►2:56:19 "The girl of my dreams had a DARK secret" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►https://www.behance.net/gallery/83246...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

You can't call me at work. This is highly unprofessional, I said. I'm sorry, he said. But I got something special, never seen anything like it. Angel wasn't much for hyperbole. He'd done this for years. If he said he'd never seen anything like it and he's calling me at work about it,

it must be special. I'm listening. I got a new source. They have something amazing. Green? Of course, that's what you pay me for. I wouldn't risk it. I nodded. I'd never had a problem working with Angel before, and he was usually great at proving his sources. I'm a collector, not a monster. What do you have? Honestly, I don't have the slightest idea, but I'll put my ponytail you'll love it. That, if anything, was interesting. Not the ponytail, but the often.

I've always had an interest in the macab. I feel an amazing sense of control when people talk to me or visit my house, not knowing what I keep in the dark collection room. It makes me feel like I'm stronger and smarter, like a fox amongst chickens, confidently strutting among them. It brings me the confidence I need to do my job, and it earns me the money to support my lavish lifestyle. I've been collecting for years. It started with leftovers and vestigial parts, milk teeth and tonsils, just these useless little things that were thrown away. A discarded umbilical cord was my first setup, and when I got my parasitic twin, I was ecstatic. It was all supposed to be discarded and thrown away, but to me it turned into a wonderful collection.

Over the past 15 years, I've expanded into two rooms, shelf after shelf of discarded organs and enough bones to construct a complete human skeleton from dozens of people. I have six different human hearts, three brains, eight pairs of eyes. Organs who couldn't or wouldn't be donated. Some from the young, some from the old, some healthy, some sick, some disfigured. I prefer the latter. They make for more interesting pieces. But, they have to be green.

By that, I mean no grave-robing, no illegal harvesting, nothing unethical, either willing or dead, and nothing marked for donation. If someone needs that heart, I don't want it. But, a pair of eyes with the hetochromia from someone who peacefully passed, I have a place for those. I'd honour those. Maybe get a little rotating platform. form. I didn't just want to have volumes of organs though. I wanted variety and most of all,

rarity. I worked with a few doctors and morticians over the years, but most was squeamish and uncomfortable. I could rarely get anything, not mention anything fresh. But a few years ago, I started talking to Angel. Angel works exclusively online. I know he has a vast contact network, but he works mostly in North America, mostly the East Coast, but sometimes in the Midwest. I know he has certain illegal dealings, especially in the high-end wine trade, but he always played it straight with me. He has the proper documentation and can prove to me not only that the organ is what it is,

but that the patient is either passed, unharmed, or consenting. Green As I say it out loud It sounds so brutal That's not what this is about This is about control And that delicious warmth in my chest It feels like being Clark Kent

Knowing that all that stands between you And the complete ruin of everyone around you Is social convention Mercy and a pair of glasses I got the big S right there my trophies That day when Angel called me I had no idea what to expect

So when I got an email with 20 attached images My heart was racing I grabbed a glass of dry wine Dimmed the light and spun my chair around It was an unknown patient Passed from blunt force trauma Possibly some kind of traffic accident No one had claimed a body

no one seemed to know who they were. But this person, this anonymous nobody, had some really strange features. During the autopsy, Angel's contact reached out to see if they were interested in some lovingly named leftovers. And the pictures they showed me. Well, it gave me the shivers. I had no idea what I was looking at. Wonderful. It looked like a human organ, but it was either smoke damaged or, almost fermented.

Less than six hours out of the body and almost completely black. It looked like it was wrapped in some sort of seaweed with little barbs holding it all together. I had no idea what I was looking at, and I was already salivating over it. This was going to be reserved and given a proper placing for sure. They say this is a second heart, the email read, a piggyback heart, a growth added on top of regular heart to help combat heart disease. But I've never seen anything like it. Those are usually added surgically. This is organic.

It has no name. My contact wants to study it, but they're willing to send it off once they've done preliminary scans. Not going to lie, this will cost you. It is not damaged, eucalyptus fresh, green as grass. I have to admit, this was a unique find, as close to mint as I could get. I wanted to know all about it, and I wanted to have this, this trophy. It deserved admiration. I didn't even try to play it cool.

I knew Angel wouldn't try to rip me off. I just asked him to name his price. Angel got back to me the next day. He hired a courier and assured me the package to be delivered within 36 hours. He sent me more pictures, along with a few links to the accident. Some guy in a raincoat hit by a truck didn't look like much. Angel didn't want to say too much as to not reveal his sources, but it looked legitimate. For an entire day, I was like a kid waiting to open a Christmas present,

A genuine, unique type of organ in my collection. I had a few rarities. But this. This was different. This could be something new. This would elevate me one step over the other collectors. Of course there are others. What's the point of a collection if you can't brag about it?

When I got home, there was this nervous twenty-something outside my door, tapping her foot. She just handed a cooler over and ran No confirmation if I was the right person No code word, no notification Nothing Angel usually has more professional people Getting a delivery from sketchy people Makes you look sketchy in turn, you know

I brought it in and opened it up I prepared myself and cut the foam open Still ice cold with vacuum packaging marked with Hatchet Farmer, like most of Angels' deliveries. Can't miss it with that icy blue plastic wrapper. It's a pain to open, though. I put on my gloves and started preparing the preservative jar. I had a few jars that would work while I got something fancier for the showroom.

Even though I'd done this literally hundreds of times, I was visibly nervous. My hands were shaking. When I cut the bag open and reached in to grab the organ, I immediately felt a sting on the tip of my finger. The barbs were sharp. Bringing it out onto the light, I finally got a better view of it. The thing was bigger than my fist. This was not just a piggyback heart. This thing was an entire organ in and of itself.

It was a dark hazelnut brown with black veins, some sort of a little. dark green skin flaps covering up the edges. Part of it had these sharp barbs, some sort of keratin. I'd never seen anything like it. I could tell that it had a structure similar to a human heart though. It had clear connections to the pulmonary artery, but with just a quick look, it looked more like a dragon fruit. It was glorious. I couldn't wait to find out more about it. I gently placed it in the preservative, trying not to prick my fingers again. I was very pleased. My finger hurt a little, though. I spent hours in my lounge chair, just looking up at the thing in the dim light of my collection, a mild teal spotlight casting a sharp contrast.

Even with a temporary preserve jar, I had it on a rotating platform so I could see it from every angle. I still couldn't tell what was the right orientation. What was the front and back? It was impossible to tell. It barely looked like, well, anything. I fell asleep in that chair, waking up just past midnight. I shut the lights off and got ready for bed. I didn't even think about the ache in my fingertip, where the barb had punctured my skin. fell in and out of sleep all night. I had a fever, and by morning I didn't know what was real and what wasn't. I had gotten up to use the bathroom a dozen times, and I was sweating buckets. The sheets were sticking to my body, and I was drooling like an idiot. My feet were wet from sweat,

leaving stains across the floor. I barely had the energy to stand, and my balance kept failing me, to the point where I truly felt alive when I was getting up from the toilet and fell over. My warm cheeks against the cold bathroom tile was the greatest thing I'd felt in years. I managed to crawl into the kitchen. I called in sick for the first time in years and fell asleep leaning against the kitchen island. I kept blinking in and out of consciousness. I probably sat there for a few hours.

I woke up with this big chemical-smelling puddle under me, and my robe was covered in mucus. I tried to call for help, but I was too weak to hold the phone. I just remember smearing goss across the screen, and the face recognition just refused to work. I couldn't get a fingerprint either. I sat there all morning, just trying to muster the strength to move. I'd bouts of panic, thinking I might not ever recover,

that this would be it. I would feel my pulse hammering and I could physically feel my heart moving. Despite my body giving up, my heart was as strong as ever. A bit too strong it felt like it hurt like hell. I managed to get some water from the tap, but I couldn't keep it down. I kept slipping and falling over, bruising my knees and elbows. It was a goddamn miracle that I didn't crack my head open. I woke up on the kitchen floor some time in the afternoon.

The sky was grey outside and I could hear rain smatter against the windows. I managed to sit back up and grab some orange juice from the fridge. Just getting back up on my legs was exhausting and I found myself wheezing for air. Sitting there chugging a jug of orange juice, all I thought was about getting through this. My head was starting to clear. but my chest still felt weird. I hadn't even noticed my finger. The entire fingertip was just one big boil

that had burst sometime during the day. I managed to stumble into the shower and dump all clothes into a pile. I was covered in cuts, bruises and these big, discolored circles on my legs. I looked about as good as I felt, but at least I was back in my legs. shaky legs but still

there were still smatterings against my window but it sounded more intense I didn't even think about it at first I was just concentrating on staying upright I'd clean the mess in the kitchen once I felt better this was probably just some temporary thing that needed to get out of my system food sickness or some kind of bug

I didn't even think about my latest collection piece I keep those two lives very separate. By the time I stepped out of the shower and into a fresh robe, I kept having these flashes. It was as if the lights were turning on and off. It took me a few seconds to realize it was coming from the window. Looking out, my breath stopped. Something was moving past the window, casting a long shadow across the floor.

Then something else moved, Again and again, big shadows whoosh past the window, with the large shadows making the entire room blink. I took a step closer, blinking. For a while, I couldn't see them. It was as if they were there, and at the same time they weren't. But when they were there, they were there in horrifying detail. They were the size of large dogs, these pale, winged six-fingles. at beast, round, beady eyes, reflecting what little light slipped between the clouds. Like insects

flocking to a lamp, they swarmed around my windows, fighting to get a look at me. Carefully, they tried to pull at the window frames, probing for a weakness, a way in. I just stood there, looking at them. It felt like my heart was about to cramp. One of them clung to the window, staring at me, unblinking. I couldn't comprehend it. I just closed my eyes and started hitting my head over and over, like trying to be the image out of my skull. I groaned in frustration and felt my pulse rise.

When I finally opened my eyes again, they were gone. I slowly backed away from the window, as if trying not to knock over a house of cards. As my heart snagged on something, a barbed pain shot through my lungs. At the edge of every heartbeat, they came back into view, blinking in and out of existence. One moment, all I heard was rain.

The next they were clawing themselves in. They were there, and at the same time, they weren't. I needed help, but my phone had run out of battery. I splashed my face with cold water and stepped away to check in my collection. I had to get a closer look at this mystery organ. There was kinship there, one sick heart to another. It was oozing out of the jar. The preservatives had turned a solid blue and the organ had swelled.

It had doubled in size, and the little barbs had turned long and soft, like tendrils. But the strangest thing was what it had done to the rest of my collection. The other jars were also swelling, some preservatives turning blue, cracking the glass and dripping onto the floor. As my pulse rose and fell seemingly at random, I could see flashes of the organ moving. One second it was trying to break out of the jar, the next it was just sitting there. Much like the creatures outside, it was both happening and not at the same time. My head was flashing hot and cold and I could feel my legs buckling. Maybe it was all just a fever.

Maybe nothing was wrong. Maybe I was still on the cool bathroom floor. The warmth and cold that pulsed to my head made it hard to stay upright. The floor felt crooked, but I think it might have just been me. I hurried back to my living room. For a moment it was all quiet. a torrent of sounds, faces, scratching claws and leathery wings slammed against the windows. Then, a heartbeat later, all quiet, over and over again.

It was as if another world tried to beat itself into my mind, two realities trying to fit into my head at once. Slamming, scratching, screeching. It could go either way. It felt like a part of me was balancing on the edge of a knife, trying to be. fall one direction or the other, screech, scratch, slamming against the windows with hopeless abandon. But there was another noise.

A voice. Hello? I stepped into the hallway. I could see the shadows from the window behind me, come and go with my irregular heartbeat. But there was a strange metallic noise coming from the front door. I turned the corner. There was something standing. in my hallway, and a moment later it wasn't.

My door was open and also broken, hanging loose from the bottom hinge. A dark, towering creature. It was there and not, large enough that it had to tilt its head to stand upright. With its impossibly long arms and fingers, he held a simple paper bag dripping with blood. Then he was gone. My breathing slowed. I just stood there trying to calm down. Everything was fine.

Door closed, gentle rain tapping at my windows. Then the paper bag was held up against my face. The creature was looming over me. The winged beasts outside were going crazy. Give him what he wants. A muffled voice from inside the bag pleaded. He just wants it back. Please, just give it to him.

I fell backwards, crawling desperately. My sweaty hands slipped on the hardwood floor, scratching my palms and losing traction. It took the creature no more than two steps to catch up to me, holding the bag out towards me. It's not yours to keep, the bag screamed. You got your own. There was no doubt in my mind. Forcing myself to stand, I crashed into my collection room, knocking over jars and trove. cases, little boxes of teeth, little stands of mummified fetuses. The jar with a strange organ

had cracked, leaking a blue thick fluid onto the floor. It was a mess. It was all just a big, disgusting, chemical mess. I grabbed the organ, feeling the soft barbs, little tendrils tickling my arm. I stepped back to the large creature and held out the organ. It turned its bag inside out as something soft splattered onto the floor, something meaty and human, or with a ponytail, a decapitated head trying to breathe, opening and closing its mouth like a trout. I dropped the organ in the bag. The next moment, I was alone, a broken collection, formling and alcohol running rampant over the floor, my feet barely avoiding the broken glass

and just outside the rain gently tapped against my window I haven't experienced anything like it since the floor wasn't crooked and the door was fine no scratches on the windows no bloodstains no nothing and still the organ is gone I haven't been able to get back in contact with Angel It's like a line was cut

And I haven't heard from him since Something must have happened I have my suspicions But I don't think I can handle that path just yet It still feels like I'm one bad thought away From stepping back into that dark world Like the winged creatures are still looking for a way in I was sick for days afterwards

And I looked awful I've since contact a medical professional. They have found some irregularities with my pulse, and I'm waiting for X-ray results. I don't want to sound too alarmed, but the doctor brought in three other people to consult with. I know this story doesn't make me sound all too sympathetic.

I'm no saint, and to a lot of people, I guess I come off as a bit of a creep, but if you can just put that aside for a bit, a bit and think of me as a human. Then please, pray that the results are normal. The police aren't coming. There was nothing illegal about a car across the road. I tried to tell him I'd been threatened that my place had been trashed, but it's hard to explain. Ramblings don't come across very well over the phone, and I don't think they took me seriously. So, I'm taking some time to just sit down and put this all on paper. I'll try to collect myself and then I'll call

them again, if I make it that far. I don't know what to expect. It's all gone, but I don't know if that's enough. I know some of you have questions about what happened to creepy cars. I've seen the posts, I've gotten the text. I'm telling you, this is it. This is what you need to know. Let's start from the beginning. I visited a friend in Indiana a few years ago. I was on my way to the supermarket when I walked past an abandoned house with a rusted out car parked halfway up the drive. The car just looked, savage. It was missing a door. It didn't have a single window and there was a very graphic word written with white spray paint on the hood. I didn't think much about it. It's Indiana. You see these things every now and then. But then, someone stepped out of the

house, some Edgyne-looking guy, coughing up a lung. He lived there. Not only that, he got in the tetanist-colored rust car and started it. It was the creepiest thing I'd ever seen, like watching a machine come back from the dead. So yeah, I snapped a photo of it. I could never of guessed that thing would even start, let alone roll out of the driveway. I'm a bit of a car guy. What I saw on that Indiana driveway was a rusted out 61 Ford's 7 Mark 2, and seeing it like that was just tragic. So to share the pain, I uploaded it. Apparently, I wasn't the only one with a lot of opinions. This started a long thread, people not only but uploaded their own pictures, pictures of everything from rustic classics that had been stripped and abused, to videos of amateur Franken cars.

Hell, one guy just uploaded an ice cream truck, abandoned in a swamp. I swear, I saw an alligator trying to get in the driver's seat. We started sharing these stories of trashed and creepy cars from all around the country, and soon the world. Over the course of a few weeks, we sort of split off from a lot of. larger community and started something we called creepy cars. I was the main admin. Yeah, the one and only. Creepy cars was not just about funny and creepy content.

It was about enthusiasm. Sure, we all groaned over the various hack jobs, but it was also a sort of collective mourning. There was a genuine interest in the content uploaded. And of course, there was passion. I was called in a bunch of times to moderate discussions on rat rods, for example. We had some internal jokes and themes. We had don't wrench and drive, custom job Fridays, new year, new car posts, all in good spirit.

We had this one thing where we posted the ugliest selfies of ourselves and asked people to post what kind of car it looked like we owned. This one time, a guy found a car posted and reached out to us about how he could fix it. we raised $12,000 for the restoration. So this was the kind of environment I put my time in. These were good, honest people. So when I saw this car, this random ass rust bucket cruising down the road, I wasn't being malicious.

It was just fun. Just a quick video, nothing to think of. It was last May, Minnesota in springtime. I was dog-sitting Sally for a friend, and decided to take a long walk by the river before it got too dark outside. All in all, about a 30-minute walk. Not too bad, and Sally was happy to get out for a bit.

We were just about to head back when Sally started whining. She put a tail between her legs and cuddled up next to me. I looked around but couldn't see what had scared her. I brought her my phone. If it was a wild animal, I wanted a photo. Worst case scenario, I could call the police. Then I heard this strange metallic sound. It sounded like a rattling engine, like something had come loose,

an engine belt slapping around, bearing shots to hell. It sounded like a dying vehicle. And yet, something came rolling around the corner. The first time I saw it, I was amazed it even moved. It looked like some sort of cartoon. Something forgotten back in the 70s, possibly Hippacer. It had this thick layer of mud spread around the hood, covering a few forest green paint spots. There were lit candles spread out across the dashboard, which was the only light coming from the car, at all.

And in the driver's seat was this. I don't know how to describe it. Weirdo, I guess. He had a black motorcycle helmet with a crude face sprayable. painted in white. He had this faux fur coat with a raccoon pattern and bleach white leather gloves. He was leaning back against the only seat that remained in the car. A seat that was barely anything but a rusted frame. I didn't even think about it. I recorded it going past me down the street. The driver was looking at me all the way. The large helmet slowly turned to face

me every inch of the way. I should have listened to Sally. She was pulling on the leash, trying to get away, whining, barking, throwing herself against the leash. She knew this was bad, really bad. But I just stood there, open mouth like a fish out of water. I had no idea what I was looking at. Last thing I saw as it rounded the corner was the license plate.

Hot Rod with the O's of Zeros. I could hear it going down the street five minutes after it passed me. When Sally finally calmed down, I carried her back home. I had a video to upload. The thing went viral. It spread from our little community to pretty much everything. 56K upvotes on Reddit in a couple of hours. People were reacting to it, adding music to it, making memes out of

it. Hot Rod was all I heard for a week straight. I saw at least a dozen. They see me rolling clips, all by different people. That was all fun in games, but I got this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. When my buddy came to pick up Sally, she leapt into his arms, shivering. To her, none of this was fun. This was horror, even two weeks after seeing her. Even two weeks after seeing her, the hot rod, it was still fresh in my mind. The driver had been staring at me, like they knew who I was, like they were there for me. And then, that awful noise, like an engine trying to end itself. It sounded like it was already broken, but it just kept rolling past me nonetheless. I could make heads or tails of it. By all accounts, that car

should have been stalling on the side of the road, and yet it didn't. That night, as I laid awake thinking about it, I could hear something in my kitchen. Half asleep, I checked it out. My oven was on, highest setting. There was an electric hum rising and sinking as the temperature breathed. And as the temperature rose, there was a rhythmic thunking sound that just kept getting louder. I hurried to turn it off, only to realize that it was already off. I burnt my hands pulling out the oven, and had to crawl over to the countertop to pull the plug.

For about ten minutes afterwards, I just stood there, mouthing, what the hell, over and over. It wasn't until I headed back to bed that I noticed the automated porch light was on. Something had moved outside. Since then, things got worse. First, it was just small things. Radio going off in the middle of the night, interference on my phone, losing Bluetooth signal on my headphones, small stuff. But over time, I started noticing other things.

Lights flickering rhythmically in the supermarket. Light posts fading in and out on the street. Car alarms going off, but warping themselves that go fast, and slower, like a dying fire alarm. But the worst part came one day when I was driving home a few weeks ago. I'd been at a restaurant with a friend in the next town over. I took the freeway back home when my radio stopped working. By now I was getting frustrated.

Electronics just kept freaking out on me, and I had no idea why. That and there was always that sense of threat, looming in the air. There was always a sort of rhythmic pulse, like a hum of an engine, somewhere around me. I was just about to turn the radio off and on again, when my engine stalled. Not just spotted out, it just stopped. One big thunk sound, then nothing. I slowly drifted to the side of the road, turning the key didn't do a thing. I was just sitting there, my head resting on the steering wheel. You can't live out here without a car and everything just seemed to work against me. I snapped out of it by the honk of a horn. It was this water damage car noise,

combining a bright choking yell with a gargle. At first I didn't even register it. It sounded so strange that I thought I'd imagined it. It wasn't until I heard it a second time that I looked up. Parked right next to me, door to door, was none other than the hot rod. Motorcycle helmet driver and all. He was parked so close that I couldn't open my door. I just stared at the black helmet. It felt like that childlike spray-painted smiley face was not just a painting,

but actually grinning at me, like it was widening every time I blinked. The driver held up a white leather glove, and pointed down. He wanted me to roll down the window. Not gonna happen, I mouthed back shaking my head. Why was I scared? Why did I want to run? Almost as an answer to my question.

The window started rolling down on its own. Yeah, no, no way, I wasn't having that. I crawled over to the passenger seat and opened the door, only to have to have a it slammed shut, an outside force held the door shut and the locks clicked. They kept clicking over and over in the same forced rhythm as the engine of the hot rod. This awful funk noise over and over, like someone beating a dead motor back to life. My radio sparked back to life, a static burst crawled into my ear, sending a shiver across my arms. Delete it. The sound was pitch shift, but run through some sort of filter like an old 1940's radio receiver.

I couldn't tell what kind of voice it was. It was just this blend, broken stutter. I don't know. The video? You want the video? Delete it. I can't just... It's already out there.

Even if I deleted, it's still... Delete it. I can't, I can't, it's still going to be there. Get it done. He didn't even have his hands on the steering wheel as the car pulled away. I could feel him staring at me from the broken side mirror. I just sat there, turning my car key over and over. When the engine finally woke up, it screamed, clunked and complained.

It shut itself off a few times, but it got me back home. The entire side of my car was covered in rust and that car never started again. This was the first time I called the police. They didn't have a car with that license plate registered so they couldn't do much to help. They didn't understand what I was talking about. Some guy angry about me putting up a video, pulling up next to me, asking me to delete it. How could I explain the threat? How could I make them listen?

I asked the people at creepy cars as well. They didn't understand. It sounded like paranoia or some sort of science fiction. Cars don't just act on their own. They're controlled. A window couldn't have just rolled down on its own. Radios don't just say whatever they want. And doors don't just slam shut.

I was coming off as a lunatic and people were starting to accuse me. You just want attention, they said. You miss having notifications. From this point on, it just got a whole lot worse. I was getting calls that answered themselves all through the night. Calls demanding me to delete it over and over and over. Strange engine noises going by outside at odd hours of the night, lamps popping in their sockets.

Hell, at one point, my TV turned on and kept looping half-second clips from the monsters. didn't stop until I pulled the plug. He was getting harder and harder to get to work. At one point, as I was taking the bus, the damn thing just refused to start. Twenty people stranded in a parking lot. I had to ask a work friend to take me home. 35 minutes in the wrong direction. This was by the end of last week.

I've called in sick since. A few days ago, I heard the poor. The torchlight explode. There were footsteps outside. He was just outside. I know it. I was ready for him to bang on the door, to peek in the windows, something. I grasped the hammer and hugged it like a teddy bear,

begging God not to have to use it. But the driver didn't do a thing. Didn't knock, ring the doorbell or peek inside the window. He just stood there for the better part of an hour. waiting for me to delete it. At one point, I just yelled at him. Just do something. What the hell do you want from me?

Of course, I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to delete it. I already had. But it was out there and there was nothing stopping it from spreading. When he finally left, I felt tears rolling down my face. Just relief. I'd been so tense my hands had cramped into claws. I could just barely let go of the hammer.

Look, I haven't been out for a week. I've lived on literally everything in my fridge and freezer. Every leftover, every jar, all of it. The fridge shut down completely on Thursday. But by then, I didn't have much else than corn flakes and cup noodles anyway. Last night, I decided I'd give it a go. I brought my hammer and went outside. Immediately, I heard a rumble, a broken engine, then another, then a lot.

The hot rod was just the start. Six cars and a motorcycle rolled around the corner. These broken, battered machines, flat tires, rusted frames, broken windows, oil dripping from broken engine blocks, howling engines, forcing these machine corpses to retch forward one gasoline gulp at a time. And the drivers, all dressed in these black motorcycle helmets, painted with these crude faces. Angry, happy, sad, screaming, the entire emotional spectrum. Dressed in these absurd jackets, some fur, some cracked leather.

One of them had this yellow crash dummy-looking jumpsuit, one pant-leg, horn off at the knee. One of them was missing a shoe, revealing a dry white foot with two missing toes and black nails. I just dropped my hammer. They were a goddamn gang. There was nothing I could do. I ran back inside, slammed the door and picked up my phone. Of course, it didn't work. Open the door. It was a different voice, brighter, spoken. by one of the drivers, a woman trying her best to sound as kind and patient as she could. But there was something there, a threat just beneath the surface, trying to break through. Open the door, please.

I didn't, I couldn't. My body wasn't responding. I was just slowly inching back as if being quiet would make them go away. I found myself holding my body. breath, looking for a place to hide. You're going to open the door now. It was a gargling sound, someone spitting up water, splashing against the door. Seconds later, I could see the door handle rusting in a matter of seconds as the whole mechanism

fell apart. It took the door being battered down for me to finally snap out of it. The crash dummy driver was closing his visor back up, but I caught a glimpse. of the sickly pale face with a tint of algae green lips, long yellow teeth sunken into black gums. Then the visor was backed down, showing a sad spray-painted smiley face. Crash dummy stepped aside, and a small woman stepped in. She had this oversized motorcycle helmet with a cartoonish-painted grin on it. She had this plastic silvery disco jacket and snow boots. If it weren't for all my lights being broken, she'd sparkle.

You should have opened the door. I just ran. I locked myself in the bathroom as they went to town on my furniture. I heard smashing, cutting, soaring, some power tools, barely functioning, like battery-powered machines coming back on to destroy. I just crawled into my bathtub in the dark, pulling down the shower curtains as I stumbled back. I tried to force air into my lungs, but I just couldn't stop panting.

This is what Sally had felt like, the first night when she saw the hot rod. I'm sure of it. Another door, really? She cackled. This awful bird-like sound. I could hear something in a lungs rattle. You idiot. I heard a visor open, a wretching gargle, and a metallic fizzle.

Something loud, splintering the bathroom door by its handle. A small hand, gently letting the light in, careful steps coming towards me as I heard glass shatter in the other room. Why didn't you delete it? She asked. We asked you nicely. I... You can't. I saw the silhouette of the oversized helmet to the shower curtain.

She wasn't moving, not even breathing. I deleted the... the video, the others they, they copied it and... Video, she scoffed. What video? I just froze. What the hell were they talking about? If not the video, then...

I don't... What do you want? You stole our name. That's our name. What? What are you... She poured the shower curtain off and grabbed me by the throat. She had this cramp like strength.

like she didn't know how to hold back. I just started coughing, feeling these little bone daggers dig into my windpipe. Wicked little slug bugs, you think you got the creepy cars, you think you're it? I could almost see your eyes through the visor. I looked closely, but there was nothing there. We have creepy cars. You have minutes to live. I tried to say it.

I tried it over and over. To say I didn't know that I didn't, I didn't understand. I begged, I cried, I pushed and kicked. This impossibly thin little arm, barely anything but bone and sinew, holding me back. Somehow, she heard me, she listened. She dropped her phone in my lap, an older iPhone, wet and cold to the touch. It had this mutated blue sunflower-looking thing as the background image. It was already logged in on my accounts.

All of them. She watched me delete it. All of it. Creepy cars deleted overnight from every single platform. Confirmed, confirmed, confirmed, confirmed, are you sure? The phone kept asking. And I shakily accepted all of it. When it was all said and done, she just took her phone back and left.

My place is trashed. Even without a front door, I don't know if I can go out there. I've just sat here for the better part of a day. My computer started working a few hours ago, and I just... I had to say something. There was a rusty car in the field outside, and I'm starting to question if it's one of them. There's no one there. Maybe it's just a warning.

Or maybe it has always been there. I don't know. I'm questioning everything. I'm not going out there any time soon. Maybe it's over. Maybe it's just started. They left a black motorcycle helmet for me. My brother works for the Coast Guard.

A few months ago, I was helping him move and came across a yellow bottle stuffed with all worn out papers. After sorting through them, I realized there were journalists. entries. Many of them were unreadable, partially torn or covered in dark stains and smears, but the ones I could decipher told an extraordinary story. My brother said he found the bottle about a year ago while out on patrol. It was in an empty, partially deflated raft. I don't know what to make of these entries or what happened to the people mentioned, but feel like their

story should be shared. I translated them to the best of my ability. July 19th. We're probably the only ones left. The plane at 20 rows, I respectively sat two on one side and three on the other, so 100 in total. It was a full flight. The plane had two pilots and three flight attendants, so that brings the number up to 105. 105 unsuspecting souls. We were flying over the Atlantic during a fierce storm when it happened. I don't know what caused it, but the plane started shaking violently before going into a free fall. The pilots managed to regain control of the craft, only less than half of everyone on board got onto the rafts before a large wave sank the plane. Whoever wasn't on those rafts didn't stand a chance.

I don't know how we got through that night. I was lucky enough to be one of the first that got onto the rafts. There are at least a dozen others in mine before the plane sank. But after hours of getting tossed and turned by that violent storm, only five of us remained. We must be miles away from land because we can't see any insight. I don't know how my journal managed to survive that whole or deal without getting lost or damaged.

Perhaps I'm meant to record everything that happens while we're adrift. waiting to be rescued. I guess everyone's still trying to process these last 12 hours. Nobody said a word. July 20th. We found two more floating in the ocean, clinging onto a seat cushion. Our group total is now seven. It seems that rescuing these two kickstarted us to start proactively assessing our situation.

We don't have much in terms of supplies. Four water bottles, some toiletries, one first aid kit, two seat cushions and a plastic briefcase container. We all have scrapes, bumps, bruises and sunburns, but one woman named Norma is in especially bad shape. She has a nasty head wound, a fractured left tibia. The fractured end of her bone was protruding from her skin and had to be pushed back in by Kim, one of the survivors on this raft who's an EMT. Norma's injuries look infected.

She's been going in and out of car. consciousness all day. Kim is concerned. The other two are named Jordan and Elliot, not too sure what either of them do for a living. Incidentally, Elliot actually sat next to me on the plane. The two we just saved are Oliver and Isabel. They're both grad students who recently got engaged. Oliver said they got out of the plane right before it sank. Everything afterwards was a blur. Oliver doesn't know how they survived the storm or didn't get separated. It's quite remarkable. We're being carried by a wind coming from the northwest.

I don't know if it's good or bad, if it's pushing us closer or further from land. The rest of this entry is illegible. July 21st. I awoke first this morning. To my dismay, there was no land inside. An eerie mist hung in the air, limiting how far I could see. But the sun was beginning to rise. There was no breeze.

The raft wasn't moving. I couldn't hear a sound and was smothered by an unshakable sense of being watched. The morning haze eventually burned off, and although I could see much further, there was still no signs of land. As I sighed and glanced longly at the featureless horizon, I spotted. a peculiar shape protruding from the water in my peripherals. It was about 10 to 15 yards from the raft. At first, all I could make out was a dark greyest green shape. It looked inanimate, was egg-shaped and about the size of a soccer ball.

I thought it was a piece of plain debris. Then... It blinked. That's when I spotted two pale yellow eyes. They emitted a piercing stare through a thick veil of what looked like scraggly, matted, dark grey hair. I thought it was the remains of a crash victim, but remains don't blink, I remember thinking. Those glistening yellow eyes blinked a second time before the figure quickly disappeared below the surface. It happened in the span of one to two seconds.

I don't know what I saw this morning, but it was definitely real. because the water rippled around the spot where it submerged. I waited and waited, but the figure never resurfaced. We're hungry, so hungry. Jordan crafted a makeshift fishing line with some thread and a needle from the first aid kit. I later learned that he used a piece of flesh from the infected area around enormous head wound as bait. Jordan's been at it for hours, but hasn't had any luck. That feeling of being watched hasn't ceased.

I think the others sense it too. I could tell by their body language. July 23rd. Norma's dead. We don't know when she took her last breath. She could have been gone longer than we realized. Most disturbingly, Norma died open-eyed. Her skin has a sickly blotchy tint that's greenish-grey in colour.

It reminds me of that feeling. figure I spotted the other day. Nonetheless, we're relieved Norma's out of pain. There was nothing we could do for her, and she'd been suffering. She took up a lot of Kim's time, who hasn't said much since declaring her dead. We have a body curled up in a corner, covered in a blanket. We're contemplating whether we should throw her overboard or hold on to it. In case we get rescued.

July 25th. We saw a ship today, but it was too far away and didn't notice our raft. It was a dark and gloomy day anyway, with sporadic rain, so there was no way we would have been spotted. Fortunately, we're drifting in the same direction as that ship, so hopefully we're on some sort of travel route.

Jordan still hasn't caught a fish, but he's determined he spent all day and night jigging. sometimes staring at the spot his doing it in for hours. He stopped using bait and crafted a makeshift lure, but it hasn't gotten him any bites. July 26th. We've been adrift for a week. Jordan still hasn't caught any fish,

and there continue to be no signs of land, just a featureless dark blue ocean horizon. It's been so long since we last eight. We were so hungry and I can't stress this enough That's the only reason we did what I'm about to recount We decided to throw Norma's body overboard But not entirely

Kim and Elliot They cut off pieces of her Mostly strips of flesh from her calves and arms They got Norma's body off the raft Before making their cuts I couldn't see But heard them conduct the gruesome procedure. I tried preoccupying myself by tending to Isabelle, who became hysterical upon

realising what they were doing. Oliver and I tried to explain to Isabel that we had no other choice, but she was inconsolable. They soaked the flesh strips and sea water to clean them, and remarkably barely got any blood in the raft. Jordan refused to partake, saying he'll eat what he catches, and that he only used to. as bait. We tenderized the meat and cut some into bite-sized cubes. We had nothing to make a fire and ate it raw. I won't describe how it tasted. I just won't. Everyone but Jordan and Isabel ate the meat. Isabel had a face buried while curled up in a corner, screaming and sobbing as we ate. Jordan paid no mind and spent the whole time trying to catch a fish.

July 27th. The first two paragraphs are illegible. Seems like she kept writing and crossing out the same sentence. I just don't understand. Nobody understands. Norma. She's back. Her body.

Norma's body. It reappeared back on the raft. Yesterday we watched the body float away from the raft and disappear into the horizon. That awful sight was the first thing where I saw when I woke up this morning. My screams work everyone else up, and I almost fell off the raft scrambling away from Norma's corpse. Norma was clothed when Kim and Elliot threw her overboard. Now, her bloated body was completely nude. Her skin was covered in ghostly pale and bruised-colored blotches.

Her stiff limbs were bent backwards or twisted in some disturbingly unnatural position. The missing strips of her skin and flesh that Kim and Elliot cut off were glaringly apparent. She looked extremely decomposed, like she'd been dead for weeks and not days. That wasn't even the worst part. It was a face, a horrible, wretched face. Norma's cloudy bloodshot eyes were wide open and practically bulged out of their sockets. Her mouth hung a gape, appearing to be permanently frozen mid-scream. Norma's face didn't look like that when she died.

Her eyes were closed and all. Although a jaw was still parted, it nowhere near resembled its current appearance. There was something else about her head. I forgot to mention. It was twisted completely around, 180 degrees. We were all huddled on one side of the raft. Everyone's afraid to go near her. So, we're just sitting here, getting pierced by a twisted, manic stare.

Everyone, except Jordan, who's been trying to catch a fish all this time. July 29th Isabelle's shrill's screams woke me up this morning. I first realized that a thin coat in of blood covered the entire bottom of our raft. We almost have slept in for who knows how long. Kim and Oliver tried restraining Isabelle, who was absolutely hysterical, completely far gone. Elliot and I looked on in sheer horror at the unsettling sight that set off Isabel. Norm's body, arms were tightly weaved into the raft's elastic cables as if to hold it in place.

She was missing her lower right leg and had a large vertical gash running down her backside. Blood still seeped from a massive opening. I quickly realized her spine was missing. That's when I spotted Jordan. He sat on the raft's edge, grasping Norma's blooded spine in his hands. My stomach knotted upon realizing that Jordan fashioned Norma's spine into a makeshift fishing pole. His hands, face and clothes were smeared with red, as he stared intently while slowly jigging his fishing line. Jordan noticed Elliot and I were watching and slowly turned with a blank,

emotionless expression pasted across his crusty sunburnt face. It bends. That's all he said before abruptly returning his focus back to the water. He had Norm's missing lower right leg across his lap. Isabel wouldn't stop screaming and thrashing. Kim and Oliver couldn't take it anymore and wound up beating her into unconsciousness. I don't condone what they did. But damn it, someone had to shut her up before she made things worse.

Kim sliced his finger open during the altercation. It's been hours and he's just holding it over the raft's edge. He's sitting alongside Jordan, just watching his blood slowly drip into the water. August 1st. Norma's body was finally disposed of, but it left behind a thick stench of rot and decay that you could practically taste. Isabel went into hysterics again but was quickly silenced by Oliver and Kim Oliver even started choking her this time

He had to be restrained by Elliot Kim's wounded finger is infected He looks really bad But he doesn't seem to care We finished our last pieces of meat from Norma's body We're out of first aid supplies And still have some water Jordan kept Norma's lower right leg

he's got enough pieces to use as bait August 2nd Kim cut off his infected finger in one single motion and didn't bat an eye Kim did it so nonchalantly and clearly didn't care who watched Of course it was Isabel's screams

that drew all her attention Isabel It's weird to think that Isabel shrieks bothered me more than Kim's act of self-dismemberment That quickly changed after what Kim did next with his severed finger. He ate it. Peeled the skin and flesh right off its bone with his knife and dropped the strips in his mouth. His hand bled profusely, but Kim paid it no mind. He twirled a narrow strip of flesh in between his lips.

Kim stared at us maniacly as he loudly slurped it like he was relishing our horrified reactions. The rest of this entry is illegible. forth. The raft is starting to deflate. Elliot and Oliver are trying to mend the leak, but I don't think it's working. Although he cut his finger off, Kim's hand still got infected. He's visibly sick and hasn't said a word since yesterday. He spent most of the past 24 hours curled up on a ball on his side, undated entry. I don't know what's happening. I'm so hungry. August 6th. We found something floating in the ocean today.

It was a glass bottle, a yellow glass bottle. It was corked and held a single piece of paper. If we're even still alive, still in the same reality, this has to be a dream, a vivid, elongated dream. Maybe I'm still on the plane and it never even crashed. Maybe I never even got on that flight. paper inside the bottle, all our names were written on it. Elliot, Jordan, Kim, Oliver, Isabel and Rachel, myself.

Next to each of our names was a four-letter word. Elliot, Heat, Jordan, Hare, Kim, Pill, Oliver, Fire, Isabel, Room, Rachel, dirt. Everyone grew eerily silent after reading that paper. Elliot crumbled and threw it across the raft. Nobody looked each other in the eye. Isabel became hysterical. She kept asking how they knew before getting silenced by the others.

I can't imagine what each of those words meant about the others in this raft. I can't fathom what it says about who these people really are as human beings. Maybe we're all stuck here, suffering like this for a rift. a reason. Maybe. It's justified. For me though, I know exactly what it means. This is the first time I'm tangibly acknowledging that night. I'm probably going to die in this raft anyway, so what's the point of holding it in any longer? I always told myself it was an accident, but deep down I knew. I still see him every day when I leave for work and come home. Well, not literally, but we're always close.

Let's just say he watches over my garden, August 8th. I saw it again last night. It was still dark, but I clearly made out its shape in the moonlight. That same figure I saw about 14 days earlier. Even in the darkness, I could see his gleaming, pale yellow eyes, giving off that same discomforting aura. We exchanged stairs for two or three seconds before it submerged. Dwelling on this is a lot better than watching what's happening in the raft.

Kim is smiling, cutting off and eating pieces of his own flesh, August 12th. The blood finally reached my side of the raft, unwallowing in it or writing these words. We were all so hungry, so hungry and weak, desperate for any means of nourishment. Jordan's fishing rod snapped in half. Incidentally, I think it happened while he was hooked on a fish. A look of unfettered rage spread across his face.

I thought he was about to go on a violent rampage. I was certain it was over at that point. That's not necessarily what happened. but I was close. Instead, Jordan retreated into a corner, still clutching the severed spine. Jordan then looked at Kim, who was cutting off and eating pieces of his left forearm. He got down to the bone, even managed to cut around his veins. You don't have to do it yourself, Jordan said in a low, scratchy voice.

Kim's eyes had a glazed primal luck in them as he stared at Jordan. Kim looked terrifying, almost monstrous in appearance. Any patches of skin he hadn't gotten to yet were covered in sunburns, blisters and giant sores. We all had scabs, burns and blisters. But Kim, he didn't look human. Jordan and Kim mumbled back and forth to each other, their tones periodically spiking in excitement or anger. They started looking at Elliot.

The same frenzied expression overtook both their faces. They kept exchanging incoherent murmurs, which was when I picked up a few words that Kim grumbled. I'm so hungry. Elliot didn't stand a chance. He was fast asleep when Kim and Jordan pounced on him, sinking their teeth into Elliot's neck and shoulder. Elliot woke up instantly and started making these awful, blood-curdling,

high-pitched shrieks of helplessness. sheer agony and incomprehensible fear. Elliot struggled, but looked sapt of any strength to put up a fight. Jordan and Kim tore off pieces of Elliot's flesh, spitting some out or savagely chewing and swallowing other mouthfuls. All you could hear were Elliot's horrified, agonized screams, mixed with the sounds of ripping and crunching. I couldn't pull my eyes away from Kim,

whose face was buried deep into Elliot's face. neck. Jordan furiously stabbed and sliced into Elliot's skin with a broken end of normal spine. He was literally ripping off pieces of Elliot by hand and stuffing them into his mouth. It felt like an eternity, but Elliot's screams eventually ceased. I'm not exactly sure when he had actually died. After the scream stopped, Elliot's body violently twisted and convulsed for a few minutes, or Jordan and Kim continued devouring different parts of his body. Oliver had his face buried in his hands

as this happened and whimpered quietly. Isabel laughed August 14th. Elliot tasted better than Norma, August 15th. Oliver and Isabel

vanished. I woke up this morning and they were gone nowhere on the raft. They either fell overboard or went in on their own. I can't come up with another explanation. I suppose you can't blame them. Maybe going back in the water was better than staying on this raft.

Blood coats every surface, forming a thin, sickly, congealed layer that we're all sitting in and aren't even phased. I can't even smell the decay. I'm probably used to it. At least that's what I keep saying. Jordan and Kim lash out whenever I try to remove. removing any of the blood, almost like they prefer it murring their skin and clothing. They decorated the raft and themselves with Elliot's bones, entrails, and skin.

August 19th. My pen ran out of ink, so I've been dipping the tip of my utensils in Elliot's blood to write. The raft started deflating again, and I honestly hope that every ounce of air escapes. Kim and Jordan are huddled together, jealously guarding Elliot's remains. They keep staring at me with ravenous eyes. I haven't slept in a few nights. If I let my guard down, well, look at what they did to Elliot. I can't keep this up much longer.

I'm so tired, so weak, so hungry. The only strength that I can muster is being used to write these words. I think I see something on the horizon. The rest of this page was torn. I thought getting this transcribe for documentation will give me peace of mind, as much as I don't want to believe Rachel's account, and the slightest chance that something so spectacular happened, I wanted to get word out for the right eyes to see. But since starting, I haven't been able to get these pages out of my mind. My brother, who gave me the bottle, lives by the coast, and while writing, I have had a wonderful view of the ocean. A clear horizon for miles around, something that I thought would be a vivid backdrop to recount a heroic survivor's accounts.

However, these words have given the waters a sinister edge, a tale that haunts my mind into seeing spectres. Between penning these words, I keep seeing flickers in the water, something too defined to be a simple crash of waves. like a head poking out, glints of yellow flickering, but never long enough to be seen when I look. Normally this wouldn't bother me, something easy to explain away as a trick of the light, the yellow sun bouncing off the reflective ocean surface. If it wasn't for the little cut I got in my finger, when I first pulled out the pages. The first time I went to a psychic, it was pretty, much an accident. I was cutting down a side street in the city when a rough, vaguely feminine voice

called out to me from a recessed alcove I hadn't even noticed until I was jumping at the noise. When I looked over, I saw a big, heavyset woman wearing a long, bearded dress and a thick shawl. It was hard to say for sure, but I thought I spied a large and distended hump beneath the trappings. but I wasn't about to stare and she was already talking again. Tell your fortune, sir. I wanted to say no, but I wasn't pressed for time and felt embarrassed for maybe looking at a hump too long. So I nodded and walked over, taking a seat in the camp chair across a small wooden table when she jestered to it with a long-nailed hand.

I asked her how it worked and she said she just said, she just needed five dollars and my palm. I gave her the money and extended my right hand, trying not to wince or pull away when she gripped my wrist tightly and pulled it closer. She looked at my palm, but the back of my hand too, studying it for more than a minute before she started sniffing it. She had a short, stubby nose set in a round dinner plate of her face, but she still managed to take in deep breaths

and she pulled my outstress hand closer still. I was about to say something when she made a chuckling sound in the back of her throat and looked up at me. I'm sorry, but you'll be dead soon. I couldn't hide the shock in my voice. What?

What are you talking about? That can't be what you see. Persing her lips, she gave a mouth. massive shrug. It's the truth. Yank in my hand forward again, she ran a tongue across my palm, letting go even as I let out a disgusted squawk. Yes, no doubt about it. Staggering up from the table, I wiped my hand on my jeans. Screw you, you creep. I should call the cops. I wasn't sure what I'd be calling them for, but it sounded good at the time. The woman just stared at me, sadly, and after a moment of impotent frustration, I turned and strode away.

I thought about the odd encounter throughout the day, but it wasn't until I was laying in bed that night that I started to really wonder and worry. Why would she say that? Assuming she was just a fake wanting to make money, wouldn't she be smarter to tell me happy things about how I was going to make money or find true love, and how, for just a few dollars more, she could find more details for me. But what if she was the real deal? I turned over, took in my pillow, under my head angrily. That was stupid.

There are no such things as real psychics. I was a sucker for ever going to one in the first place, and yet, three days later, I found myself, had another one. This one was in an upscale part of town. I'd been there to meet a blind date, and when they texted me they had to cancel, I decided to take advantage of where I was and eat at the restaurant I picked out anyway.

It was as I was heading back to the parking deck that I noticed the small but tasteful shop on the corner. It said, Tallulah's occult items and curiosities. And below that, a small hand-painted sign added that tarot readings are available. I'd never been to a psychic before earlier in the week,

but despite my declarations that all psychics were frauds, I still found myself worrying about the palm reader's death prophecy. After a moment of internal debate and external pacing, I decided to enter Tallulas, telling myself that it wasn't to get a second opinion, but only to reinforce to myself that it was all a sham. The interior of the shop was cluttered and dark, with neat shelves creating a maze to the back of the store where I saw a counter and register. The air smelled of sandalwood, and I found myself weirdly comforted by the banal quality of it all.

I never been to a psychic in the past. That was true. But I'd been in a few new-age shops, and this one looked more of the same. I was about to call out when a voice called to me from a curtain behind the counter. Back here, boy, glancing around for anyone else, I saw no sign of a customer or shopkeeper. They had to be talking to me, and I had no one else to talk to, so, sucking in a deep breath, I walked behind the counter and parted the curtain. The room beyond was more brightly lit by candles and a lovely.

lamp standing atop a wooden sideboard against the far wall. The rest of its surface were covered in various decks of what I assumed were tarot cards. But my gaze quickly travelled to the figure sitting at the large table, dominating the middle of the room. It was a lean-faced man, his age hard to gauge between the thick bush of his sultan pepper beard and the shadows cast by the hooded cloaky war. Did all psychics in this town dressing costume? Stifling a laugh, I gave him an awkward smile.

Are you Tallulah? His mouth twisting as though it tasted something sour. Tallulah is my mother. Glancing over to the sideboard, he pointed at me, and then one of the deck of cards. Bring those to me, please. The ones with a purple crane on the top. I followed his finger. My eyes landed on the deck right away.

Scooping it up, I carried it over to the table and set it down like an offering. The man nodded and then looked up at me. Sit boy, I can't do your reading with you looming there, can I? Oh yeah, sorry. I pulled up the cushioned chair that was nearest my side of the table and waited expectantly. For his part, the man joined. just stared at me for several moments, before smiling. First time, huh?

I blinked. First? Oh yeah, first time. For Tara, at least. He nodded and gestured to the purple crane deck. Take the index finger of each hand and put them on the top of the cards and then slide the deck over to me. Then we can begin.

Okay. I did so, and as soon as my fingers were lifted, he had scooped up the deck and were shuffling it one-handed with a degree of dexterity that made it look more like magic than just the display of skill. He cut the cards once, twice, and then shuffled again before pulling out an intricate pattern of face-down cards across the table. I thought he would go through each card individually with me, dramatically revealing them one by one as he explained their meaning. Instead, he flipped them over quickly and without pause, glancing at each one before moving wordlessly onto the next. When he was done with the last, he looked up at me, the large nostrils of his long, hooked nose, flaring as he studded me in silence. What, what is it? He shook his head slightly. I'm sorry, boy, but you're going to die very soon.

That night, I have. a dream. In it, someone knocked in the door, but when I went to open it, no one was there. But after that, wherever I went in the house, I had this terrible feeling of dread, like someone was watching me, or something was coming that I couldn't stop. I remember that I searched the house but found nothing, and I was about to leave when I heard something above. I woke up shaking, and after I got it, myself together, I vowed I'd never visit another psychic. I just had to put it all behind me and stop freaking myself out. And that's exactly what I did for the next few days. By the end of

the week, I didn't think about the psychics as much, and I decided it was just some weird practical joke they were playing. It was true that the first had only gotten five bucks, and the other had never even been paid. But not everyone did to do that. stuff for money. Maybe they just enjoyed messing with people, and either way, I was over it. And then today, I came home from work to find a beautiful young woman sitting in the middle of my hallway. Her face was breathtaking, with full red lips curving below a delicate nose and large eyes of deep blue. Though it was hot outside, she must have been freezing, as she was bundled from head to toe in a mound of blankets so large

I didn't know if I could even make it past her to the door of my apartment. Not that I wanted to. My heart quickened as she smiled at me and I was about to introduce myself, offered to help, say anything to engage this magical creature further. When the bottom of the mound of blankets were heavily soiled and trailing from it,

trickling towards me across the uneven warp tile of the building's third floor was a small, meandering line of what looked like sewage. Gagging slightly, I took a step back. Was she sick? Oh. I heard the girl giggle.

Tell your fortune, mister. I can read your aura for you. I looked up at her. My stomach's still rolling from the growing stench when I saw something shift under the blanket. The girl saw where I was looking. and smiled wider, her eyes looking bright and manic in the dim hallways light. I can see, I can see, yes, I see everything.

Her expression fell from a two-cherry smile into an exaggerated pout as she looked up at me with solemn eyes. I'm afraid you're going to die soon, mister. I ran forward and leapt past her, banging against the wall as I tried to avoid touching the woman. I was terrified she'd reach out for me, but she never did, and when I reached the end of the hall and looked back, she was gone. Shuddering, I opened my door and fumbled my way inside, hand shaking so badly, it took a couple of seconds shutting the door back and three tries to lock it again.

I thought about telling someone, about everything that's happened or asking for advice, who would believe me? I don't understand what's happening, where these strange people are after me, and what it all means, and I can't expect anyone else to either. In the end, I decided to write it down here, both as a record,

and because maybe, when I can reread it, I'll find a way to either stop what's happening or come to realize that things are not what they seem to be, but just now, as I write this I heard something a stealthy sound but definitely in here with me a few feet behind and high up if I had to guess

so I'm turning on my webcam it's all of them it they are perched up in the corner of the room their twisted collection of flesh and limbs and heads all one horrific mass like a writhing mound of pink mold against the far wall I see the chubby arm of the dinner plate face of the fat woman that licked my hand, the bony wrist of the gaunt countenance of the bearded man who read my taro, and the delicate fingers of the beautiful

lady rubbed into the befouled filth that drips from their belly, and sucked clean between a bright teeth and rose-colored lips. Her head is in the centre of the three stalk-like necks that protrude from the nightmare biomass they all share. And when she meets my eyes, on the camera. She extends her face out another foot closer before giving me a gruesome, grimy smile. She says it's time. I'm too scared to move or turn around, too scared to do anything as I watch the camera, watch them crawl after their place on the wall on three misshapen legs. I'm begging them to stop, to let me go. They all just start laughing, pulling a table out of the way as they hobbled toward me.

The sound they make is terrible. Oh God. Please help me. When I lost my job, I was devastated. Being fired was over in a flash. There was an email and a week's wages paid into my bank account. And that was it. My marriage collapsed over the months that followed.

And soon after, my house was repossessed. That was when I moved to the 20th floor. Growing up in America, living on the upper floors of an apartment block, was an aspiration. Here in Scotland, on the outskirts of a cold, grey city. It was very different. For a start, it was called a tower block, not an apartment block. Tower, like something out of medieval times. It wasn't surrounded by a moat.

Instead, rubble and broken glass and dog dirt littered the ground all around. There'd been other tower blocks clustered here once. I'd seen them on an old photograph in the public library. I loved the library when I was a kid. I'd take out as many books as I could. Horror books especially. Zombies and werewolves and vampires. They were my favourite.

That had been 30 years ago. Now I was going to the library to keep warm. Without a car, I had to rely on buses that rarely turned up to get there. I had no internet and a cheap mobile that I couldn't use because I hadn't paid the bill. I thought things could not get any worse, but then life dealt me a new card. I received a letter telling me that my claim for unemployment benefits was being suspended. I tore the letter up, then pulled my coat on and trudged two miles through the rain to the nearest shops to spend the last of my money on a bottle of whiskey.

I was desperate and angry and I needed to get drunk. And after that, I couldn't think that far ahead. The walk to the shops took me ages, and it was dark by the time I got back. The shared lobby off the entrance to the tower block was decorated with graffiti. Tags were punctuated with obscure offers alongside mobile numbers. Someone had vomited on the floor while I'd been out. I stepped around it and pressed the button for the elevator. The elevator stank and was painfully slow, but it was better than the stairs.

After an infuriating wait, the elevator doors opened, and I stepped into its urine-soaked embrace. I pressed 20, the doors closed. Then the elevator rattled and began to move. Downwards. Hellfire. It was taking me to the basement. I'd never been to the basement. Why would I?

There was nothing down there that I knew of. It was just dead space. My shoulders slumped, and I eyed the unopened whiskey bottle in its white plastic bag. I'd spent the walk back from the shops wanting to open it and take a swig, but something had stopped me.

A sliver of pride, a sliver of hope, maybe. The elevator thudded to a halt. It rattled once more for good. measure as the doors opened. Darkness stretched out before me, interrupted only by the white gash of a narrow strip light along the ceiling. There was a large refuse bin, a push bike lying on its side. Remarkably for around here, it still had its wheels. I wondered if it belonged to whoever had pressed the button to call the elevator down here. There was no sign of anyone,

and I wasn't going to wait. After all, it was probably teenagers or a junkie. Likely, they'd stolen the bike for the trip to their dealers and couldn't wait for the lift to get there. They'd be somewhere in the basement shooting up. 20 was still lit up, but I pressed it again anyway. Good riddance to them. I'll be back in my apartment soon.

I double-locked the door and turn the TV on, crank the volume up as high as I could to try and drown out the neighbours, the pounding music and the screaming that never seemed to end. I was surrounded by noise, but I lived in silence. I could not remember the last time I had spoken, other than the odd mumbled word as I handed over money in the shops or on the bus. The last conversation I had was with my wife, and that had been an argument. If I saw any of the neighbours in the corridor, I'd stare at my feet until they had passed.

I don't know anyone's name and did not want to. I reached in the plastic bag and began to unscrew the lid of the whiskey bottle. The elevator shuddered to a halt. I was only up to two. Damn it. I pressed 20 again and again slamming my palm against the button. Nothing. It looked like I had no choice.

I pressed the door open button and stepped out. The door to my left would take me to the second floor apartments. On my right, the stairwell waited. I had 18 flights to climb. I leant against the wall, finished unscrewing the lid, and with a bottle still in the plastic bag, lifted it to my lips. The whiskey tasted disgusting, as I knew it would. It was cheap, foul stuff, but it did the trick.

I decided a drinking game would help. I would take a slug of whiskey every time I reached a new floor. Yes, that would make it bearable. Smiling for the first time that day, I took another drink and set off from my ascent. The stairs were narrow and steep. fixed in the ceiling buzzed and flickered. I felt a headache start behind my eyes and paused halfway in between floors

to have a drink. I was putting the lid back on the bottle when I heard a noise below me. Something lowered down on the stairwell. I remembered the junkie. Had they given up on the elevator as well and were heading up the stairs now that they'd had their fix?

Or was it teenagers after all? Gang members? they all carried knives. I'd seen a program about that on TV. Either way, I did not want them catching up with me, and the noise was getting louder. I swore to myself and horrid up the rest of the stairs to the next floor. I tried not to make any sound,

but I could not stop myself gasping because of the exertion as I barged through the door, which led onto the third floor corridor. I'd never seen any police at the block, and I'd wondered in the past if it was one of the no-go zones I'd read about in the free newspaper that I sometimes found on the bus.

If it was a no-go zone for the police, it probably was for the paramedics as well. I stood in the corridor, try not to think about getting stabbed of the knife or jagged with a needle. If I was, no one would come and help me. The whiskey I'd drunk was burning painfully in my stomach, but I took another gulp anyway.

It was going to be okay, I told myself as I swallowed. Whoever it was would be gone soon, back in their own squalid apartment, chasing the dragon or playing shooting out games or whatever it was people like that did. The buzz of the whiskey was flooding my body and I kept drinking, stopping to gulp and breathe and then lift the bottle once more to my lips. It was going to be okay. I'd be back in my place soon and I could finish the whiskey and pears. piece. I lowered the bottle, staggered a little, then heard the door to the stairwell open. I froze. There was someone behind me, moving towards me. Only it wasn't footsteps I could hear. It was a scraping, scratching sound, like something sharp was being dragged along the ground. I turned slowly, reluctantly and saw a nightmare.

A creature conjoined from the darkness. It was tall and slender, its skin was taut and pale. It had the beginnings of hands and feet, but these tapered out into jagged edges that looked sharp. Its eyes were red, vivid and penetrating as they fixed me in their gaze. Its nose was flattened, bat-like against its face. As I stood, staring, this monstrous apparition shuffled forwards, and I realized the scraping was the sound of its claws catching the floor beneath it.

Sweat ran for my face. All the strength had drained from my limbs, but I knew I had to run. The creature was seconds away from me, and I could see troughs of spittle glistening between long, twisted fangs. I stumbled, backwards, away, and then I ran. I hammered indoors as I careened down the corridor.

help me, I cried. Someone, help me. No one answered. No one ever did in this block, because no one cared. And I had reached the end of the corridor. There was nowhere else to go. There was just the final door. I slapped it, kicked it, I pleaded. The creature was close enough to touch.

His breath was hot against my skin and fettered. It stank of decay. Of death. The door clicked and opened. A crack of light appeared and the line of a door chain draped in peace. Whoever was inside swore, a torrent of abuse as they told me to go to hell. I'm already there, I thought, and a manic laugh bubbled inside me as the creature turned its grotesque glare on the gap in the door. Then, with a single sweep of a claw, it sliced through the chain, then pushed open the door.

The man stood there. He was skinny, wearing a stained vest and shiny tracksuit bottoms. As he gawped, open the mouth to the creature, a dark patch spread out over his crotch. And then, I swear the creature smiled as it looped a claw around the back of the man's neck and pulled him forwards towards its mouth. His jaw was made a cracking sound and opened wide. And then, It bit.

Its fangs pierced the man's scalp and the underside of his chin. Blood splurtered, shanging the walls in the ceiling. And me. I felt the hot, thick liquid strike my skin. It brought me out of my days. The creature's attention was fixed on its kill. That was clear. This was my chance, my only chance to get away.

I darted past it and sprinted back down the corridor. and through the door to the stairwell. I hesitated, torn between the sanctuary of my flat and getting out to the building. Out, I decided. Three flights versus 17. I raced down the stairs, almost falling, but made it and exploded out into the lobby.

Where another creature waited. Its appearance was the same as the thing I'd just encountered, but I could see that it had long flaps of skin folded over on its back. It was hunched over a body, a woman. Her arms and legs were twitching as a pool of blood around her grew. The creature's mouth was over her throat, and it was oblivious to me. I staggered past and outside into the night. Derelict grounds stretched out before me.

I needed to keep going, to get away. But I could barely breathe after running down the stairs. I bent over, put my hands on my knees, and glanced back up at the block. A pale shape circled the building, slender wings rising from its back, showed in the light from the windows. It was looking for a way in, I knew, a new victim.

All it had to do was look down, though, and it would see me. There was no way I could make it across the open ground before this happened. I moved back towards the block, press my back against the wall, and tried to make myself as small as possible.

I stood there, shivering, waiting to be discovered. Time felt as if it had stopped, and I thought that the night would never end. But when light finally began to creep into the sky, I knew I was safe, for a few hours at least, because I believed I understood now what they were. The creatures. They were vampires, but not the blood-dusted. drinking brooding immortals of literature that I'd once loved. They were vicious, unthinking monsters driven to slaughter by their hunger,

and the tower block was their hunting ground, the people who lived in the block, their prey. I decided there and then that was not going to be my fate. Darkness was the vampire's time. They would be hiding from the light now. I would take this opportunity to escape. I started walking. I had nowhere to go, apart from away.

I had no money, no friends, no family. There were soup kitchens in the city centre, shop doorways to sleep in, ways to score drugs to get me through the night if I couldn't find booze. I hesitated. All I had done for a long time was spiral. I'd given up, and then given up some more. And it was never going to end, unless. I turned around and headed back to the.

the block. A dark smear stained the floor of the lobby. It could have been anything if you did not know it was blood. The woman's body was gone, likely taken to the creature's lair. I made my way up the stairs and along the third floor corridor. At the far end, another stain lay across the floor. The door was closed. It was nothing else, no sign. But I knew. I returned to the stairs, walked up to the 20th floor and let myself into my apartment. I still had my bottle of whiskey in its plastic bag. I went to the kitchen, poured a measure of whiskey into the nearest thing I had to a clean glass, then broke a chair against the wall.

I took the pieces into the front room along with a whiskey and a kitchen knife, and I began to carve. I could keep running. I could spend the rest of my life. running. Or I could stay and fight. I held up the wooden stake I'd carved from the broken leg of the chair and smiled. At the start of the pandemic, I decided to get back into retro gaming. I wanted to catch up on my backlog and try some gems from the past. I posted about it on Reddit and got a few suggestions on what to check out. Using an emulator,

I could try pretty much anything. This one guy suggested I play Hatchman Cove. I never heard of it, and I couldn't find it anywhere. There was an inactive Steam page for it, but there was no available download. Instead, I opted for another game by the same developer called Changelings. I don't think a lot of people have heard of this game. It's a game for the PS2, but I don't know if it was ever physically published. I found it for the emulator though.

Changelings actually had a pretty clever concept. It was a sort of reverse game show. You are put in a position where your made-up friend, lover or parent has been cloned. Every round you are faced with four identical copies of a person, and your task is to find the real one. You have to ask them questions to figure it out. You are asked several personal questions to calibrate what sorts of answers you are supposed to look for. You can add as much data to your profile as you want. They got like 500 questions.

Based on the number of questions you answer, you get a psychological profile. You can check it out on the main menu. The more data you provide, the deeper and more personal questions you can ask the clones. If you just answer a few, you can't really ask the clones that much, and it gets a lot harder. The first night I booted up changelings was a lot of fun. Filling out your profile unlocked more and more cosmetics, so I made it a point to answer all of them. It took almost an entire night, but after that, the answers generated seemed eerily human. The game had a bit of an uncomfortable atmosphere.

The colours were toned down and the characters had this robotic auto-generated text-speech thing going on. It all took place in this sort of funhouse laboratory setting with strange mirrors and sterile walls. The main menu was a lab that you had to walk around in to get to options, start game, credits and all that. Also, there were tank controls. Thanks, Resident Evil. Once I started playing the game, it became a parent. that this wasn't just any old game. You could ask the clones weirdly deep questions

and they would answer as best as they could based on your profile, which meant that as much as you were playing against them, you were also playing against yourself. The better you knew your own profile, the easier it was to eliminate the clones. The clone, being a close friend,

relative or lover, would know you better than a clone. So just seeing who knows you the best in certain ways is the way to go. For example, I asked the clones what my favourite type of sandwich was. I got four different answers. Your favourite is tuna and oregano. Your favourite is tuna and ham.

Your favourite is tuna and mayonnaise. Your favourite is tuna and bell peppers. All answers were tuna, which is what I'd answered on my profile. But the second word, that wasn't part of it. of it. But that's the tricky thing about this game. Based on your profile, it makes an estimate about what could be your favorite. So thinking about it, I figured a mayonnaise tuna sandwich would be the correct answer, as it sounded

the most true to me and my taste. Nothing was completely wrong, but that was the most right. Still, it was a bit of a gamble. Yeah, I won that round. tuna and mayonnaise was spot on. The game figured this out by the sheer number of answers I provided. It knew my palette. I've since started making them regularly.

It's like the game knew me better than myself. And that's the game. I got really into it. One thing about these older unknown titles is that you actually have to discover a lot of it for yourself. There are no shortcuts or guides. I tried getting the best score, the most elaborate answers, making up the funniest questions, all kinds of stuff.

But if the questions were too nonsensical, the game just wouldn't recognize them. You could use preset questions and just put in certain words like, what is my favorite X? What do you think of X? What was the name of my first X? That was the best way to get a good answer. You could make a completely custom prompt though. you might get an error. Also, it was clunky as hell, as you couldn't use a keyboard or click

the letters. You had to move with direction arrows and choose the letters one by one. The game doesn't just let you pick out the character you think is the real one. You must kill off the clones in elimination rounds. It wasn't graphic or anything. They'd just be taken to another room and you'd hear a scream. At the end of the round, With just one person remaining, your character steps into the room. If you got it right, they'll hug you, kiss you or thank you. If you got it wrong, the character got this strange grinning expression on their face and the screen would cut to black.

Then your character would be the one who screams. By day five, I discovered a glitch. You could bug out the game by putting a question within a question, If you did, the clones sort of spazzed out and you got a full score as if you'd won the round. The score could be used to unlock cosmetics and new sets. It kind of messed with my score though. See, the game never really stops working on your profile. Whenever you answer a question, it analyzes it.

If it recognises what you're asking, it uses that information in establishing your profile. If you ask a lot of questions about your past, it might be able to ask you. Take that into account, same with questions about work, relationships, the future and other themes. The game really feels like it tries to get to know you. But with corrupted scores, the game started bugging out. For me, the strangest thing was starting a new round and the clones were just... Gone. Just an empty room, with no one there to answer my questions.

Other times, all clones would just stand there with a big grin on their face, all saying the same answer. At one point, the clone backed out of the kill room and just got back in their seat without a head. Despite all this, I reluctantly got into it. It was strange to reverse answer questions about myself. It felt like I was teaching the game who I was. Hell, I don't even mind the bugged out stats. In some cases, it just added to the atmosphere.

I took short breaks every now and then, but came back to try it a new strategy or to see if I could get a new unlock. I also got into the lore of the game, trying to find secrets hidden in the main menu room. There were a few folders and videos. Folders told a story of a pharmaceutical company who tried to perfect an algorithm for spotting imposters. A series of in-game cutscenes told the story of a team who unleashed something horrible and were looking for a way to circumvent an upcoming disaster by building a protocol. The game took place in the 70s, so it got some of that analog horror vibe going.

Two weeks into playing it on and off, I unlocked a character called The Boss, who was the final archetype of Changeling. Boss was by far the toughest one. She did this thing where all the clones had identical outfits and they'd sometimes switch places if you weren't paying attention. Beating her was an absolute pain. It wasn't just about having a one in four chance of guessing right. She would sometimes actively make herself suspicious and then switch places with the original. It was by all means the equivalent of a boss battle.

I tried using the glitch, but it just didn't work on her. All it did was throw me back to the main screen. I had to power through, grab my notebook and actually make an effort. She was just... odd. When you brought her clones into the kill room, there was no scream, it just got quiet and the lights flickered a bit. But Boss didn't thank you when you saved her. Instead, the lights just started to flicker,

and you're thrown back to the main menu. When I beat her, I got the final unlock, a character called Blameless. While other archetypes had icons of people when you start a new game, Blameless just had some sort of blue-tinted sunflower icon. The tooltips had, debug, while other tooltips had at least hinted at a viable strategy. As soon as I started it up, I figured something was wrong. The loading time was several minutes long And once it loaded up

The game camera was stuck in another room It took me a few seconds Before I realized that the camera had switched the first person And that I was actually in the interrogation room To my sides were clones of my avatar Looking at me with those distorted pixel faces On the other side of the window I could see the white hair and dress of my avatar

and dress of blameless, motionless. It was all switched up. The game started asking questions for me to answer, forcing me to defend myself. I figured if I was honest and revealing, the game could figure out I was the real one. So I got into it. I did my best. But the questions were getting out of hand. Some of them were way too personal.

and others were just strange, asking me about my love life, my religion, my childhood trauma, my fantasies. At one point I was asked the same question four times in a row. Would you kill for your God? At some point I just felt uncomfortable playing. The clones in the room were staring at me with those creepy smiles. It was the middle of the night and I'd been playing for hours. I decided enough was enough and stepped away to get a drink.

I was standing in the kitchen, Coke in hand, when I heard it from the other room. I said, would you kill for your God? I nearly choked to my soda. The game was paused. I had no idea how to be blameless. I'd lose over and over again. and I'd see my character taken into the kill room. The screen would just go black,

and then I'd be back at the main menu. I tried adapting to her tactics and listen for clues. But she was so unpredictable. The clones would copy part of what I answered and switch a few words up. Blameless would get it wrong over and over and over. Was she bad at the game, or did she just want to kill me?

Maybe for her the game was killing the real one instead of saving them If so they were really good at it Or was my character a clone all along At one point I just stopped playing I wasn't invested enough to get this frustrated I gotten all I could out of changelings So it was time to move on However

as I started looking for the next game to play My phone dinged. Text message. Game over. I turned off my phone and backed away from the computer. I just stood there panting. Unknown number. No way, no way.

I uninstalled everything. It had to be a virus. I turned my phone off and fetched my backup flip phone. I ran a malware check on my computer, locked all my windows. closed the curtains. Had someone used the game to spy me like a password fishing thing? It wasn't unheard of, and some of my questions could be used to guess the answer to my secret questions. I got paranoid. I stopped at random times or sharring, just to hear if someone was sneaking around my apartment or looking through the mail slot. I thought about calling the police, but seeing as how emulators can be a bit of a grey legal area, I wasn't too sure about it.

It'd be too hard to explain. It was half past midnight when my flip phone rang. Unknown caller. I thought about not answering, throwing it away and just not looking back. But I had to know more. Who was this person? And what did they want? What did they really want?

So, I picked it up. Game. Over. Same robotic text of speech function. Same tone of voice. Then the line went completely quiet. No breathing, no moving, nothing. Just a faint electric buzz. I just stood there trying to control my breathing.

I felt dizzy as if I'd suddenly run a marathon. What do you want for me? I asked. Too far. You just play without me we found you what? You answered well I thought about my but my mind was racing who was I talking to who was behind the voice and how could they reach me so easily game over wait What? What do you...

Click. The line went dead and the phone shut down. Then my computer shut down. Then the lights, the fridge. Hell, the street outside went black. I scrambled for a flashlight when I heard something. Footsteps. Someone was at the door.

I couldn't find my damn flashlight. I considered my options. I live on the second floor, so a jump might just break my legs. That won't get me anywhere. I didn't have a firearm, but I could get a knife. With my phone dead, I couldn't call the police. I had to do a thousand things at once, but that wouldn't change that someone was trying to get in. Before I could fetch a single racing thought, the door swung open.

For a few seconds, I just held my breath and listened. There were several people, and I was just standing around the corner, waiting for something to happen. I felt so goddamn powerless. This was my home, my space. As they got closer, I backed away, when they suddenly stopped. I realized I'd been heard. I had too many options to choose from, but I settled on the balcony. I burst through the balcony door.

The air was surprisingly cold and there was frost on the ground. My heart was beating so fast and I was hyper-focusing on anything and everything. I could barely see anything from the cloud of my breath, but I could see two people on the other side of the door. They were me, I thought it was a broken reflection at first, my mind playing tricks on me. But no, it was me. Different sets of clothes and different hair, but two variations of me. One of them was taking something from my computer, but the other just stared at me with a tilted head.

He made no attempt to open the balcony door. If he did, I wasn't sure I'd be able to stop him. We just looked at one another. I could see my mannerisms, my quirks, the way they moved, the way they looked at me. I'd seen it in the mirror every day. They were me. I hadn't even noticed I was screaming. The sound just escaped me.

I almost fell over the side of the balcony, trying to get away. It was one of my neighbours who saved me. An old woman on the next balcony over, calling out to me, asking if I was okay, telling me she'd call the police, telling me to calm down to talk to her. They're in, they're in there, I shrieked. I could barely speak. I pointed right at one of them, and he just tilted his head with a grin, the same creepy grin as in the game.

This unrealistic, twisted, ear-to-ear parody of a face. He grabbed the balcony door and slid at a jar easily. I put one leg over the railing. They weren't getting me. A broken leg or two was a small price to pay. You're fine, he whispered, in my voice. We know you're okay. I could barely hear him over my breathing.

I just shook my head. I'm real, I said. I'm real and you're not. You're not. He shook his head and closed the door. We exchanged a look. seconds later they were both gone

that was it I told the police the intruders were masked I told my neighbour I didn't know who they were I told them I thought I'd been stalked online and that I didn't know what was going on which is true I still don't they haven't bothered me since the game is just

normal it's like the corrupted file just reset itself In every way It just seems like everything has cleared itself up But I don't think it's that easy Something has changed since that night

Since playing changelings Sometimes When I'm in the bathroom I get this strange feeling A mood And when I lock up I'm grinning exactly the way they do.

Up until last month, I'd spent the last three years working as a property inspector for a national real estate company. They had over 500 houses across the three-state region I covered, and between me and my boss, Willie, we were supposed to check them all at least once every two months. That meant making sure there were no leaks, no notable wear and tear, no problem. with water or electrics where they were turned on, and of course, making sure no one was getting inside and either squatting or vandalising the owner's property. It wasn't a bad job, and while the work had been described to me as part guard, part plumber and electrician, honestly, it required very little beyond showing up, taking notes and pictures if I saw something that looked weird, and then reporting it to Willie.

simple stuff we might wind up doing ourselves, but the company had specialists for anything more complex or dangerous. And, as for trespassers, I'd never found a single one my entire time working there. But then, eight months ago, I went into a house that was new on our rotation. This was an unusual, of course. While some properties seem stuck in some permanent limbo

of not being rented or sold, there was a fair amount of turn. over with most of them, and every new two-month rotation inevitably brought some different houses with it. From the outside, this one wasn't particularly noteworthy, a single-story ranch house with faded white vinyl siding that went back further than you'd have thought from the street. To quote a common-willyism, it had a real ass on it. The yard was in decent shape, though I could already see recommending whoever was cutting it

coming by more often before the house started being actively shown. And while it could definitely use a good pressure washing, a circle of the exterior didn't lead me to check off any problem spots or needs for repair. Then I went inside. Opening the door and crossing the threshold into an empty house can feel a variety of ways. Most aren't really noteworthy at all beyond a bit of stale air. Some places are stifling hot or unexpectedly cold, musty, or just thick with dust and the stench of roach or mouse droppings drying in the shadows.

But this place, when I stepped through the front door, I immediately noticed that the air felt thicker inside, almost as though I had jumped off the ledge of a pool into water, I was now trying to walk among the bottom. I felt a moment of panic at the sensation, reaching for the light switch, before remembering that the electrics were still off here. The house had been bought at a foreclosure sale and it might be weeks or months before the company got around to turning utilities back on and putting the house with one of its agents.

Mottering a curse, I dug out my flashlight and turned it on. It was early afternoon outside, but you couldn't tell it in here. Everything was murky and grey. The beam from the light seeming dim and feeble as it pushed out at the shadows crouched in every corner. Grumbling, I pushed my nerves down. I'd gotten over the unease of going into empty houses

in the first couple of weeks of doing this job, and I wasn't going to freak myself out now. I wouldn't find anything different in this house than I had in a thousand others, and if I did, all I had to do was leave and call Willie. Not a big deal. Walking down the front hall, I turned to the right, brownish-looking carpet and bare yellow walls, no sign of any damage

or anything having been left behind. This place had 12 rooms according to the sheet, and I tended to work front to back. So before going through the door in the back wall of that room, I crossed over the main hall to the left-hand room. This was a small room, also brown carpet, green walls, nothing of note. to the door on the far side, there should be one more room, a larger living room area that, I paused in the doorway as my flashlight landed on something. It was an old rocking horse with a wooden body and rockers of peeling black paint

and a moulded plastic head that was faded with age, but still identifiable as a snarling face of a black stallion. The leather saddle on the back of the horse is what stood out the most. Unlike the rest, it seemed to be in very good shape, with a luster of the dark brown skin seeming to almost glow under my light. The embossed golden lettering above the yellow stirrup was legible even at a distance.

Nick's best deed. I felt my stomach tightened slightly. Something wasn't right here. It wasn't uncommon to find some trash or other things that the house cleaners had missed on a first inspection. But how would they miss something like this? Stepping back through the other room and into the hall, I reached for my notepad and hesitated.

Normally, I would write down things as I found them, but I didn't want to hear. I didn't like the sound of focusing my attention on anything other than my surroundings. Of making... I hesitated and then forced myself to finish my thought. Of making myself vulnerable. Clenching my jaw, I stepped further down the hallway. I knew I was being stupid, but it didn't matter. Nerves had me now.

I needed to finish doing a quick sweep of the house and get out. The fourth room, empty. The fifth and sixth were the same. Then, in the seventh room, there was a television sitting in the middle of the floor. A pretty old one, with a small curved screen of thick glass surrounded by a heavy wooden cabinet. How the hell had they left this sitting here? I felt a dull sense of fascination looking at it. It really was old and kind of interesting.

Probably an antique that might be worth something to somebody, even if it didn't work out. Crouching down, I gave the large metal channel doll her twist, each number between one and nine making a satisfying click as it ratcheted by. Shining my light back across the front, I stopped when I reached the screen. The glass. The glass had lines, ridges in it,

six lines trailing down as though someone had run their fingers through clay. Though these marks looked as though they'd been made by something melting their way into the glass as they went. I shivered and stood back up. My momentarily forgotten fear back stronger now. It was nothing.

Plenty of houses had weird stuff left behind, right? Still, I was ready to be done and get out. Glancing around the room again, I moved on. Room 8, clear. Room 9, the last one on the right side of the house, so far as I could tell, had some peeling wallpaper, but no signs of water damage or mould behind it. I crossed back over the main hall into room 10, and at first I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Then I turned to look in the corner and saw the naked man crouched there, grinning at me. In that first moment of shock and panic, I took him in fully. His head was crudely shaved, with thin patches of hair still whispering away from a scalp, covered in cuts and scabs. His face was thin and lean,

except around his eyes, which were red and puffy. Even now, as he stretched, cracked lips wide to show me twin rows of grey teeth. He was crying, his body shuddering with a faint sound somewhere between laughter and a sob. Oh no, I know. The next moment, I was

running for the front door, and I didn't stop until I was back outside and in my locked car. I called 911 then, waiting in my car for the cop to come and get out the trespasser. It took half an hour before someone showed up, and when they did, they looked skeptical, I'd made the mistake of telling 911 that not only was there some guy in the house, but he was naked and crying.

At the time, I thought it'd make them come quicker, but instead it had made them think it was some kind of practical joke. The officer was polite, though, asking me a few questions before telling me to wait outside. I could tell by his expression, he didn't think he'd find anything. and as soon as he stepped back out, I could see that his suspicions had been confirmed. Still, when he came back to the car, I forced myself to ask if he saw the guy. He offered a slight frown. No, no sign of anyone in there now. He gestured toward me in the car.

You've been here the entire time you said, since you left the house. When I nodded, his frown deepened slightly. Well, this is the only door in a number. out that I saw, so unless he climbed out a window, I don't know where he would have went. He let the unspoken implication hang in the air for the moment, before giving a shrug. Still, let us know if you have any further problems and they'll send someone back out. I wanted to argue, to try to convince him, but I realized there was no point. What could I say, and what did it matter?

I was done for now and when I talked to Willie he'd know if there was anything else we should do he'd been working that job for over 30 years and there was very little he hadn't seen after all where did you hear about it kid

the internet I stared at Willie in confusion we're at Breckins a diner we met at once a week to eat breakfast and compare notes and I'd just finished telling him about the house and what I'd found there. I'd known his expression had changed as I talked, but at the time I'd chalked it up to him

being concerned about what I'd seen. Now that I was done though, he seemed not only tense, but almost angry. What are you talking about? He took a sip of coffee as he studded me over the cup. Look, I'm not calling you a liar, but if this is some prank you're trying to pull, just tell me now. I won't be mad. Where did you hear about the hollow house? I love. I looked at him blankly. Willie, I don't know what you're talking about. I swear. What's the hollow house?

Sitting down the coffee, he sighed. I believe you. You're a good kid, and I've never known you to be a liar. And hell, I don't know if anyone talks about it on the internet in the first place. I just figured that it might be on there somewhere like every other damn thing. He gave a small shrug. I learned about it at first. the same as you.

20, maybe 25 years ago. I went into that house, on the outside, looked just like the rest, and then I saw the TV. Back then, it wasn't so old-looking as it would seem now, with everybody having giant things

they hang on their wall. But it was still old and odd that it had been overlooked. I felt my eyes widen. You mean you saw this say? He cut me this luck that said, Hold off asking questions

until he was done explaining something to me. I fell silent. Rubbing his eyebrows, he went on. Then I saw the rocking horse, just like you described, down to the Nick's best deed and everything. By this point, I was starting to get skittish, but I was quick to get spooked back then, and I told myself that's all this was.

His hand trembled slightly as it trailed down to clasp the other on the table. But then, I saw the man. We didn't have cell phones back then, and they encouraged us to threaten people and bully them out when we could. Not hurt them, but make it seem like we might. He shook his head as he looked down at his coffee. The guy just kept on staring at me,

laughing and crying at the same time. Just eyes locked on mine while I got in his face and yelled, told him I get rough if I had to. Well, he gave a better chuckle. All while try not to be myself. He brought his gaze up to mine. That's when the guy's eyes shifted away from me. He was looking at something behind me now.

In spite of myself, I couldn't help but break in and ask, What was it? What was behind you? Willis' face visibly paled? No, I don't want to talk about that. Looking away, he licked his lips. Anyway, I got out, went and told the buddy of mine that worked for the country. company what I'd seen. He'd heard of it before too, and he knew what people called it. The hollow house. I frowned. Okay, if this is all true and you knew this place was messed up or

haunted or whatever, why didn't you warn me before I went in there? He gave me a little smile and shook his head. No, you don't understand. It's not the same house. It's never the same mouse, at least on the outside. Never in the same spot, same past stone as nothing. Believe me, I've looked into it some, and over the years I've talked to half a dozen people that have run across it too. Every one of them describes seeing the same stuff on the inside, but they're in different houses all around the country over the past 30 or 40 years when it happened. Sitting back, I let out a slow breath. How is that even possible? What is it? Willie spread his hand out and gave a deeper shrug.

I have no idea, not keen on finding out either. Leaning in, he lowered his voice slightly. That's why the couple of times I've run across it since. As soon as I know where I'm at, I beat feet back out. And from then on, that place gets my stamp of approval without me ever going closer than riding by to make sure it hasn't burned down. He held my gaze a moment. And there's exactly what you need to do too.

I nodded, but I could already feel my stomach tightening. I... I don't know, man. I can't lose this job. Even if it's all real, maybe it's just creepy, right? Like, you've never gotten hurt from it, and... I trailed off as Willie unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled it up. The first time I found the hollow house, I left with this. Just above his left elbow was a skull. The flesh there dark and hard

Like a shadow had been tattooed across his skin In the shape of a grasping hand He reached over now and gripped my arm It's not just a spooky story kid And you just got lucky this time The five or six people that have told me about going into the hollow house I've heard another dozen stories over the years About people that disappeared doing this job

How many of those do you think went into one of these places And didn't get out quick enough I was nodding now, terrified. Maybe it was how scared I looked that caused him to make the offer. Look, I'll just adjust our schedules, okay? Put that house and my rotation. I snapped back a little out of my shock. Willie, you don't have to...

He was already raising his hand to stop me. No, no, it's fine. I'm used to it, and I know the signs well enough now to get out fast. Besides, I don't plan on stepping foot in that place And as long as I've been here No one's gonna hassle me if they find a problem I don't report He pointed at me Not that you can let your guard down

If you stick with this job You'll run across it again at some point Sighing, I nodded Yeah, sure but Are you sure? When he looked at me this time He only met my eyes for a second Before looking away

Yeah, kid, I'll be fine. For the next few months, everything went back to normal. I knew from the schedule that Willie would have visited the hollow house twice, but he never mentioned it, and neither did I. I was grateful to not have to go there myself or risk-faking my inspections, but I felt guilty for passing the risk onto him. Still, every time I went into a new house, there was now a moment of fear and tension

while I tested the air and looked for signs of something being off. Nothing ever was, but that nervous anticipation never left me entirely, and that was enough to take the edge of the guilt at what Willie was doing for me, especially since I felt sure he wasn't actually going inside.

The next month, a new corporate policy came down from the National Office to ensure that every property was being revealed, viewed thoroughly, we were to take at least three photos of the interior of every house we inspected, including at least one that had a laminated property form in the shot. These forms were in every house, listing the address, property ID number, and various other details like square footage and local agent conduct information. Every form was unique, and were usually taped to the counter in the kitchen,

meaning that you couldn't just use a form from another house. My stomach dropped as soon as I got the email. And when I checked the schedule, I saw that Willie was supposed to be checking the hollow house again two weeks later. Enough time for me to talk to him when we did our weekly meetup, for us to come up with an answer, or if not, for me to at least offer to take the house back. No, kid, it's fine, I'll figure something out.

I frowned. Look, I don't want to go in there either. Maybe I can fake the pictures, right? Make a new copy of the form and take a picture of it taped to a different counter in a different house, not like they'd ever know. He looked thoughtful for a second as he considered it, and then shook his head. Won't work. They don't store the info on these forms in any computers we have access to,

so we'd have no way of knowing some of the stuff like the local realtor that's listed without seeing the form. Besides, I know the way the suits think. They started those forms five years ago, made a big deal of putting them in the same place in the house and making sure every place had one. I wondered why at the time when they could just give the info to us and the real estate agents. Glaring, he stabbed at a piece of egg.

What do you want to bet they were already planning this? Took pictures of the forms on the counters, so if they ever decided to do what they're doing now, they'd have something to catch fakes. "'Isn't that kind of paranoid?' "'Well, he shrugged. "'Only if I'm wrong. "'And I don't put much past a man looking to squeeze a dollar.

"'Hell, I don't think it's a bad idea, if I'm honest.' "'He sighed. "'Just damn inconvenient.' "'Well, I mean, I can go in and do it then. "'It can't be bad in there all the time, right? "'How else would they ever put the forms in? "'Sell these houses?' "'His eyes flicked up to mine.

I don't know that they ever do sell them. I've kept an eye on the ones I've found over the years, and best I can tell, none of them have ever actually sold. They just drop off the lists after a while. No idea why. And I'm not going to look if I don't have to. He nodded as he chewed.

Still, you're right. It can't be like that all the time. Maybe I'll hit it lucky, and I'll take a bunch of shots of the damned form when I'm in there, enough to dole out until I've retired. stomach in knots, I pushed out the question I didn't want to ask. Are you sure? Willie hesitated, and in that brief pause, he looked frail and old.

When he spoke, his voice was steady but low, barely above a whisper. Yeah, kid, I'm sure. I wanted to call Willie after his next check of the hollow house, but I held off. I was going to be meeting him for breakfast the next day, or make it into a bigger deal than it was already. Maybe the house had gone back to normal, and either way, he'd have let me know if something had come up, unless he never got back out.

I tried to push the thought away, but I couldn't. Finally, I gave in, calling him that night. The phone rang several times, and each second I could feel it getting harder to breathe. What if something really had... Hello? Willie, thank God, man. I...

Sorry, I just knew you had the house today and wanted to make sure you're okay. Huh? Oh yeah, it went fine. I sat down as relief flooded through me. Good, good, so you got the pictures he needed? It all went fine. I'm just real tired. Going to beg off the meeting tomorrow, if that's all right.

I frowned. Other than one time when he was down with the flu for two weeks, Willie, and never missed one of our breakfasts. You sure, man? He need me to bring him anything. No, I'll be fine, thanks. I need to go now. I went to say more, but I heard the click as he hung up. I worried about him over the weekend, but it wasn't until I got a phone call the next Tuesday that I knew something was really wrong. It was from the regional office, asked if I'd heard from Willie in the last few days,

that he hadn't submitted a report since the middle of the week before, and they couldn't get him on the phone. Heart in my throat, I told them no, but as soon as I got back into town that afternoon, I'd go by and check on him. Willie lived in a two-story house on the east side of town. The neighbourhood had gone down in recent years, but Willie always kept his place in great shape. He told me once that he'd been terrible about keeping up the place when his wife was alive. Too much like his job, he said.

Now that she was gone, and with no kids or grandkids, he had lots of empty time to fill. So he decided on doing a better job taking care of the house she had loved so much. I knocked on the door twice before ringing the bell and I was starting to wonder if he was home

despite his car being in the driveway. Hitting the doorbell a second time I called out Willie, you in there, you're sick or something? Still, no answer. Walking back off the porch, I debated what to do.

I didn't want to bother him but I didn't want him laying in there sick or dying either. Maybe I should call the... My eyes landed on a rock at the edge of the flower bed or something that looked like a rock

at least. Crouching down, I picked it up and gave a brief, humorless laugh. It was a hideer key. Sliding back the bottom, I saw the house key nested inside the molded plastic base. Willie might get mad,

but so be it. I wanted to to make sure he was okay. Fishing the key out, I went back up to the door and put it in. The key turned easily, and calling out to Willie that I was coming in, I started to open the door. I had only opened it afoot when I met resistance from the other side. Looking up, I saw Willie's haggard face peering at me from the gap. His eyes were red and wild as he stared out, and his skin had his sickly sweat sheen glowed to it. He really was sick. Hey, sorry to bother you, man. You look terrible. Are you get away?

His voice was a hoarse croak and it didn't take long for me to see why. Black marks, the shape of long fingers, banded his neck like a collar. I felt anger and fear welling up in my chest. Willie, what the hell man? Did someone hurt you? He squeezed his eyes shut. tears forming at their corners. No, just get away from here, kid. Don't come back. With that, he stepped back and shoved the door shut. I could have stopped him,

but I'd been transfixed by what I saw behind him in that brief glimpse into his house. By the time I realized what was happening, he'd already locked the door and slid a dead bolt, and my yelling and knocking didn't get any first. response. I went back home and then called the cops, asked them to do a welfare check. When I called back a couple of hours later, they said they'd gone by and spoken to Willie, and he was fine other than being bundled up, said he was fighting off a bug and stayed cold

all the time, but that he didn't need them or his nosy co-worker bugging him all hours of the day and night. The cop then mentioned to me that 911 was for actual emergencies and that I should probably just leave the old guy alone. And that's what I did. Willie never came back to work and after a few more weeks I quit myself. I reached the point where I couldn't go into any new house and it was only a matter of time before they fired me anyway. I didn't give up on Willie because of what the cop said, or even because Willie told me to go away. I tell myself that those would be reasons enough, but I know better. Willie was a good guy and my friend, and I should go back and check on him again, whether he wants me to or not. But when my guilt is at its worst, when I'm closer driving over

to the east side of town or giving Willie a call, something always stops me. The memory of that half-second glimpse into his house and the picture-perfect image of what I saw there, gently swaying behind him. A faded black rocking horse with a brown leather saddle polished to a high sheen, and between the seat and the stirrups, fine gold lettering so bright I could read it across the too thick gloom. Nick's best steed I looked at the ad unsure if my fever adult brain was reading it right

Wanted Someone to infect me with a COVID virus Must be verified as sick Having paperwork verifying illness No longer than two days from today's date And be willing to allow me to spend time near you We'll pay $500 for eight hours in your company Contraction of the virus notwithstanding

please email me at and their email address followed I had only been infected for three days but I had been affected by the virus for the last two months I had been laid off from work after a drop in profits had caused a store to go into bankruptcy

my boss had been very apologetic but he still hadn't been able to keep the doors open we had all hit the unemployment line after that but unemployment wasn't as good as the overtime I had been making before the closure. I had been living a little outside my means and the bills were starting to pile up. Getting sick had ended my job search and $500 for doing nothing more than letting a stranger into my house for eight hours sounded like a dream come true. I contacted him and he offered to come

over that very night cash in hand. We discussed the hours. I am a dedicated night owl and he agreed to come over about 6pm. His knock dragged me up and out of my stupor at around 5.58, and I staggered up to get the door. I didn't expect to be greeted by a well-dressed man in his mid-thirties. I'd expected a weirdo, maybe someone who got off on being sick,

but this guy was surprisingly well put together. He wore black slacks, a button-down shirt, no mask, and his brown hair was close-cropped. with square little gold glasses that made him look like a banker. He shook my hand, something no one had done in a while, and took an envelope of money out of his pocket. He showed me the five crisp $100 bills,

and I led him into the living room. He sat on my armchair, leaning in close as I sagged back under the couch and stared at me intently. So, I asked, Now what do we do? He shrugged. Just do whatever you usually do.

Watch TV, play video games, whatever. Hopefully my proximity will be all it takes for me to get the disease and I'll achieve my goal. I had wondered about that, I said, sneezing into a Kleenex and wincing as he leaned in closer. This is supposed to be pretty bad. Why exactly do you want it? He chuckled. I'd tell you, but honestly, it would sound crazy. I shrugged.

It's not like I have anything else to do but watch Netflix for the next eight hours. Tell me, it'll make the time pass. He glanced over at my bookshelf, eyes roaming as though he were looking for something, before getting up and taking a paper back from the middle. It was a newer book, Fields are foregone, and he nodded as he inspected the, spine. He must have liked what he'd seen because he smiled and held the book out to me. I see you're a fan of my work. I'll sign it for you if you want. But my books are part of the

reason I'm here. I squinted at him. Are you Timothy Corvin? The guy who writes the Ghostgrass series? Yep, three-time New York Times bestseller. I gaped at him for a few seconds before asking my next question. Why the hell are you at my apartment trying to get sick? But the smile was sad. You could say that my writing is why I'm here. Then he sat down and made himself comfortable before telling me the strangest story I'd ever heard. I got sick about a month ago. It came on quickly, a cough and a fever, typical flu-like symptoms, but I assured my agent that it wouldn't be an issue. I'd finish my latest novel and have it on a desk by the end of the month. The first couple of days weren't so bad. I was still lucid and I managed to get some work done.

I was trucking right along, making good progress when the real sickness hit. Suddenly, I was feverish, scatterbrained, and I could hardly focus long enough to get off the couch. I spent my days in a stupor, high on cold medicine and burglare. coherent. My nights consisted of rolling around in a fever-fueled days that made me question whether I was dreaming or awake. I had these dreams, you see. I say dreams, because I can't remember them, but I couldn't do anything but remember them then. I would sit on my couch and mumble about them all day, reeling through their world as I tried to wrap my head around them. I raised an eyebrow at him. That sounds pretty bad. It's a little. It's a little bit. It's a little bit. It's

Sounds like it didn't get a lot done. Quite the contrary. The longer I raved about the story, the more I started writing about it. Not so much writing, I guess. I read through my notes the other day, and it was more like drunken ramblings. At some point, I moved on to chronicling them. I would just come to at my computer banging away at her story, not sure what I was doing or how long I had been doing it.

The stories were great, but they were so far at some. of what I normally did, that my incoherent brain couldn't wrap around them. As the fever started getting worse, I would slip into these fugue states and just write for hours on end. One day I came out of one and found I had an email from my agent. I had sent her a draft for one of my stories. I was so worried. These stories were weird, completely batty, and I was worried that she would drop me as a client if she read

what my fever swallowed brain had been cooking up. He took a sip from his coffee then, wetting his pipes, and my own fever adult brain became a little impatient. So, what did she think? Oh, she loved it. She said it was the most unique thing she had read in ages and wanted to know when I would be done with it. Reading through what I sent her

and the stuff I was working on before I got better, I can see what she was talking about. It is both similar to so many things, and completely different. It's a timeless story that sits completely outside of the normal processes. It seems to contain two antagonists and no hero, a war with nothing but loss and stakes that didn't seem to make any sense. It was almost Luftcraftian, and I found myself as interested in hearing how it turned out as she was.

That's where the problem. arose. He looked at my glass of water longingly, and I slid it across the coffee table to him. If he wanted to get sick, then more power to him. He was paying after all, so he might as well get his money's worth. He reached out and brought it to his lips, throat working as he swallowed. I tried not to gag. There was probably backwash in that. My meds were quashing the fever, and the fever was what was keeping me in my altered state of mind. I was always careful never to ride it for too long, but the high was more than a little intoxicating.

I would time travel in those moments, starting on my couch and coming to at my computer as I finished more pages than I'd ever done. I throttled back on some of my meds a little, wanting to stretch this out as long as I could. But eventually, my body started to get better. My fever abated and my fugue states became fewer and fewer. I couldn't tap into that hidden world, and the story wasn't something I could just make up as I went along.

It was unknown, unheard of, and my mind couldn't begin to tap into that place. My agent was wild to have more, wanting an ending and wanting a sequel. And that's when I started thinking about contracting it again. I lifted an eyebrow at that. I know that's what brought you here. That's what you told me on the phone, but... I still have a hard time believing that you want this crap. It's miserable.

Between the headaches and the near constant fever, it seem to mostly exist in a state of misery. Some people are experiencing it worse than that too. What if you get the really bad kind and are hospitalized? It seems like that could put a damper on your writing. He shrugged. That's the thing. Even when I'm experiencing the same symptoms as you.

I still get the urge to write. I don't know if it's subconscious or what, but my brain takes over and forces my body to write. Maybe it's not even my conscious mind. Maybe it's this place that I have tapped into my fugue state. I've had this thing three times now, you know. If I'd had water at hand, I'd have done a spit take. Three times?

My God, you rarely hear of anyone getting it more than twice. After I got better the first time, I was struggling to keep up, he said, suddenly looking far away. I tried faking it, but it wasn't the same. My agent started to notice. She started to send my stuff back with notes like, I need more of the voice you had in your first drafts. I started getting desperate. She told me she had shared my notes with some of her colleagues,

and they were very excited about how it would come together. So, I started putting it in her. the pieces together and decided that I needed to recreate the situation. You needed to get sick again, I said. He nodded. I needed to get sick again. I started slowly, waiting at hospitals and walking around looking for sick people. But I became desperate after a while.

I got lucky the first time, a chance encounter at a sick friend's house. One trip to their apartment later and I was back where I started. feverish and coughing on my couch and waiting for the time skips to start. Did they? Would I be running the ad if they hadn't? Something was different this time though. This time I was treated to some of the most vivid dreams I'd ever had. I wasn't just hearing about my two antagonist exploits.

I saw it. I watched them play their shadow games, maneuver their pieces, snatch territory and lose it again. All the while I was chronicling them. It became a mania for me. I refused to take anything to dull the fever this time, but it didn't seem to matter. After a week, my fevers were abating,

and I was back to trying to fake it. But I couldn't fake it, wouldn't even try. I needed the dreams, I needed the visions, I needed the writing fits that I never remembered. That's when I started running the ads. The lady at the paper didn't want to run them, said it was sick,

but once I offered the payer the triple-going rate, she caved. As I watched him talk about it, I reflected that he looked a little sick. Not physically, but mentally, I mean. He looked like an addict describing his favourite drug. As he talked, he scratched at his arm, his face taking on a smiling rictus as he described the visions. I began to wonder just how this disease, or maybe it was the story, had affected him. I wanted to tell him to leave for his own good, but I really needed the money.

I've sunken nearly $5,000 into getting this again. Did I tell you that? Every time I post the ad, someone responds. After so many times, though, my body has built up antibodies to it, and every time I get it, it's a little less effective. The last time I contracted it, I barely had it a week. I was so anxious to get some work out of it that I don't think I got more than 30 pages out of the whole week. 30 pages, I gaped.

I was no writer, but that seemed like a prolific amount of work from a sick person. I know, disgraceful. The first time I was nearly averaging 30 pages a day, but after the first time, I never managed it again. You were getting that much a day? His eyes glazed a little, and he didn't seem pleased with what he saw as he looked at my popcorn ceiling. I see them constantly.

I simply can't make sense of it on my own. I can't convey something like storms battling for supremacy, tectonic plates crashing against each other as they tried to change the land differently. The fuchs allowed me to tap into something primal that could understand these ideas. My puny lizard brain just can't make anything out of it.

You know, reading these things that I've written, understanding only enough of what I've written scares me a little. How much of your book have you written? I asked. Not sure I wanted the answer. He scratched again, seeming uncomfortable,

but still wanting to discuss his drug of choice. I have written five books. I have catalogued the lives of these two, from the moment of their births, to the very last encounter the two had directly. I gaped at him. He was talking about five bucks in what must have been a matter of months. I couldn't even consider something like that. And I began to wonder how large they were. The page volume he talked about per day surely meant these were no small books.

He didn't seem to understand where these stories were coming from either. which made them even more mysterious and unknown. Can you tell me about them? He gave me a dead-eyed lock, and I almost regretted asking. It's not something people really want to know in the end. This little experiment started as a way to write the next great fantasy series,

when my agent stopped returning my emails about three weeks ago. The last two endeavors have been solely so I could learn how it ends. how we end. We? Humanity. We are ultimately the prize that these two creatures fight over. More specifically,

they fight over the right to subjugate and entertain themselves with us. We see their battles as nothing but the changing of the seasons, but they see them as nothing short of war. I can tell you, but you won't want to know once I'm done.

I didn't really want to know anymore, but now. Now I felt like I had to know. In the end, my curiosity was stronger than my fear. He spent the next ten hours telling me about the battle between the Green Man and the Pale Lady. He told me of their beginnings in strange, their emergence in exile, how they came to be on this plane of existence.

He told me about the Brandilu, the servants of the Pale Lady, and the numerous agents of the Green Man. He told me how this green warrior was worshipped as a pagan deity, how he took his sacrifices, how he sought out those who ran. It's funny how ten hours can seem like half hour when someone is telling you about Eldrous deities. When the alarm on my phone went off, reminding me to take my meds, I realized that it was 6 a.m. and the sun was coming up.

Timothy got up, checking his phone, and seemed to realize that he'd been talking all night. I seem to have gone over my time a little. Here, as promised, he said, taking out an envelope and handing it to me as he made to leave. Wait, I said, dropping the envelope and coming shakily up off the couch. How does it end? He looked back and shrugged. Hopefully, I'll find out. If I do, I'll let you know.

Then, he left. I wouldn't hear from him for another three months. Well, I'd never see him again, but he wouldn't make good on his promise. I felt better by the end of the week, my fever breaking and my headaches getting better and better. I finally acquired a negative test and started looking for work again. I got lucky. The bar up the road was hiring, and they needed someone to start right away. They had only recently been allowed to reopen, and the bartender,

who was working double duty with no barbacks to help out. Before I knew it, I was busing tables and hauling kegs and old pro. I enjoyed the work, though it wasn't something I had ever done before, and it felt nice to get back to work after such a long absence. Then, one afternoon, I got a bit of a shock. I was helping my new boss open, ripping on the TVs, and preparing to tune them to one of the several sports channels we often had on, when I saw a little squib on the news that made me stop.

I caught it towards the end of the broadcast, and the name on the article made me stop in the midst of flipping channels. And the city is mourning the death of a local writer, Timothy Corvin, who died of COVID-related symptoms in St. Graham's this morning. Mr. Corvin, the writer of the Ghostgrass series, is survived by his father and his older sister. Services will be held on Tuesday for friends and friends and fans. I couldn't believe it.

The guy had been in my house not even a month ago. Had I? Killed him? Had he contracted his fatal disease from me? I had to sit down. I didn't know what to make of it. My boss mustn't notice that something was off because he tried to send me home, wondering if he still had some latent fatigue from being sick.

I told him I was fine though. and went back to work. As I worked, I wondered if he discovered the end he was looking for. I got my answer in the mail two months later. A package was waiting on the stoop. I hadn't ordered anything, and the return address was from Samantha Drummond. The delivery address was mine, though,

so I brought it inside and opened it. Inside was a manuscript bound with twine, with no title across the surface. On top of the journal was a typed note from Mrs. Drummond, informing me of a package's purpose. Hello, my brother requested that I send this to you if he should pass. He was very adamant that he'd be placed into your care. All the best.

I lifted out the journal, opening the front page, bearing a message written in shaky hand. I found the end. Let's hope it helps you after I'm gone. I've been sitting here looking at the book for close to an hour, not sure whether I should read it or burn it. If the beings Timothy talked about have been using his infected body as a mouthpiece, I'm not sure I want to open my mind to them.

This book contains their history, contains their past, present and future, and this knowledge was gained at the cost of a life. Will they come to infect me? if I subject myself to this arcane wisdom. That knowledge scares me more than a little as I put the journal back in the box and carried it to my room. I've decided to put it in the closet for now.

Some things are better left. Unknown. Our first date was in the graveyard. She did this thing with makeup around her eyes that made my heart melt. Her eyes themselves were the most amazing emerald green. I was crazy about her. She was walking a few paces in front of me, trailing her fingers over the tops of headstones. It was late on a summer's evening. The sky was

turning red. It's like the sky's on fire, I said. This had sounded impressive in my head when I thought of it a moment before. She glanced back at me and smiled and forget the sky. my insides were on fire. I'd never really had a girlfriend, and this was now the best day of my life. I'd first seen her a couple of months before when she started at my school. She wasn't like any of the other girls, wearing what looked like a thrift store dress flowing over the top of big boots. Her long black hair was tangled, and had bits of torn ribbons and colorful plastic beads

tied into it. On that first day in particular, she was getting a lot of dirty looks. I was staring at her with my mouth open, while my pulse went into overdrive. I was immediately smitten.

I pretty much spent every waking hour after this thinking about her. There are a lot of daydreams involved. I would step in when she was being bullied for being different, and she would tell me we were soulmates, then would kiss me. She would be sitting alone in the cafeteria on her own as always and looking sad, and I would sit next to her and say something funny.

Then she would kiss me. Kissing made a number of appearances. When I wasn't fantasizing, I was writing out opening lines. I would then practice them. More than once, I started walking towards her, telling myself this was it, that I was going to talk to her. I got too scared every time and carried on being in love from a distance. Then she tapped me on the shoulder.

It was after lunch and I was putting a book in my locker and didn't realize it was her. I turned round and she was there within, well, kissing distance. Hey, she said. I tried to say something back but I seemed to have lost the power of speech. Thankfully, she kept talking. So, I've seen you around and I get the feeling you want to talk to me, but something is holding you back. And it's just, I believe life is for living to the full, you know, seize the moment and all that. So, if there's something you want to say to me?

She left the question hanging, and I knew I had a life choice to make at this moment. A, I could stand there mutely until she went away and then ignored me for the rest of time. B, I could pass out, or C, I could say something. Somehow I went with answer C and blurted out at speed. I think you're beautiful and you go out with me, I gasped for breath. She was looking at me, but not answering, and I knew I'd messed up and made a total fall of myself, and answer B was looking like my next course of action. Only she laughed and said

We can hang out after school if you want And if you want to call her a date That's cool with me I may have said Sure at some point after this Then we swapped numbers I spent the rest of the afternoon Until school broke in a total days

When she appeared at the place we'd agreed to meet After I'd convinced myself she wouldn't I decided I was the luckiest kid on earth I got back some of my power's speech So, um, where would you like to go? There's a new movie that's got rave reviews Or maybe we could go for pizza or just, you know, stand here? They all sound good, apart from maybe the last one, she replied.

But I have something else in mind. You okay with that? I definitely said, sure, at this point, and fell into step alongside her. Going on a date, I thought, with a girl of my dreams. Sweet. We headed away from the centre of town, past a couple of abandoned lots. The rusted skeleton of a bike lay in the middle of the sidewalk. There was no one else around, just the two of us.

Before long we reached a pair of cast iron gates in a tall stone wall, which would not have looked out of place in a late-night TV horror movie, one made on a very limited budget. A sign hung at an angle on the gates. It read, no trespassing. I was not the rebellious type. I never had been. I'd always done what signs told me up until then.

She was different. She opened the gates and stepped through. Swallowing nervously, I followed. No sign would have stopped me now, apart from maybe one saying minefield. But I seriously doubted that there were any of these in my hometown. I found myself in what felt like another world. There were weeds everywhere.

They overhung the path I was on and rose up the sides of the stone walls and grew tangled and wild around dozens of graves. The headstone nearest to me was faded with age. I could just about make out the year, 1805, and the beginnings of what looked like a name. but the rest was too worn to read. She was just in front of me, trailing her fingers over the headstones. And that's when I said my thing about the sky being on fire.

And she glanced back and smiled, and I knew without question, this was the best day of my life. And it kept on getting better. She swirled round in a circle, her arms outstretched and said, This is my favorite place. I feel so alive. Then she held out her hand. I took it, hoping she would not notice I'd started to shake.

She was looking down at the ground, though. I followed her gaze. There was a tiny corpse lying nestled in the weeds. It was a bird and was decayed. There were little white maggots wriggling in its rotten flesh. I felt a bit sick. I was about to say so when I noticed how intensely

she was looking at the dead bird she looked captivated There is beauty everywhere If you open your heart She said Then turned to look at me My head was spinning I had no idea what to do

I just stood there and she leant towards me And the lips touched mine And that was the best moment In the best day of my life After she had kissed me She said it was getting late And we should call it a night

I nodded Domley and followed her back Out of the graveyard I offered to see her home But she said she was fine and walked away Turning once the wave I pretty much floated home The next day was a Saturday And I woke early

Monday was a holiday Which meant a long weekend Which would have been sweet enough anyway, even if my life had not been transformed. I was absolutely buzzing as I sent her a message. Hey, beautiful, what time and where do you want to meet up for our date part two? I added five kisses, thought there was too much and deleted them. Added one kiss, which did not seem enough, so I deleted that and pressed send, and waited

for a reply. She did not get back to me straight away, which was fine. She was probably still asleep, I figured. So I had a shower, a very quick one, as I did not want to leave her waiting for my reply to her reply. Still dripping because I hadn't tried myself, I checked my phone. Nothing. I sat to my bed, wondering if I should have left the kisses in,

or sent a completely different message. I was rereading it and wishing I had when a reply came. Sorry, can't, busy today. No kisses. Four words. Result. Devastation. I didn't understand. What happened had been so special and it was like she didn't care. I wanted to phone her, to ask her what was wrong, to tell her I had to see her.

But if I did that, would it scare her off? Did I need to play it cool? I had no idea, and in the end I just sent a thumbs up and spent the rest of the morning feeling pathetic and sad. My parents were away for the holiday weekend visiting an aunt and would not be back until Monday night and I was free to

mope about the house in my t-shirt and short and there was no one around to care. At lunchtime I decided I couldn't stand being in the house any longer. I had to do something or I would go mad. I set off walking to the graveyard.

It was the only place I knew where she might be. The sun was high in the sky and merciless, and by the time I got there, I was sweating heavily. I gave my armpits a quick smell. It was not good, and I considered turning back, not just because I smelled so bad, but because I had no idea what I would say to her if she was there. Hey, I was just out for a walk, I didn't expect to see you here. No, couldn't say that.

Maybe I could go honest. I am hopelessly in love with you and needed to see you. That was worse. What was I meant to do? One thing was for certain. If I turned round and went home, there was no chance I would see her. But if I went in the graveyard, there was a remote chance I would. And maybe she'd be happy to see me.

Maybe we would talk. Maybe we would kiss. I took a deep breath and pushed open the gate. No trespassing sight. meant nothing to me anymore. The headstones rose above the weeds. I started to wonder about the dead whose presence they marked. They would have been mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and children.

They would have been loved and mourned. But as the inscriptions had faded, had the memories of those buried there also faded? Feeling very down, I walked past grave after grave. We're not gone this far into the graveyard the day before. and the grave started to look even older. Some headstones were cracked, others lay flat on the earth. Part of me wanted to lie down among them and never move again. And then I saw her.

It was just a glimpse before I lost sight of her behind an ornate stone structure. I ran after her, my heart beating hard in my chest, and everything else forgotten. She was there. I was going to see her. I reached the other side of the structure. It was an elaborate resting place for a dead person. I struggled to recall the name. Was a Liam?

I wasn't sure, but it was seriously creepy. Its walls were darkened with age, and a gargoyal perched above the door. Too big, heavy-looking broken headstones were propped against the wall by the door. But there was no sign of her. Unless, I moved closer to the door. door. It was open just about. I looked all around me. There was only one place she could have gone. I gritted my teeth and squeezed myself through the gap in the door. Shafs of light falling through narrow cracks in the stone meant I was not blind as I moved along a narrow passageway.

There was a low arch over an opening. I stepped through it and into a chamber. where my world collapsed. She was in there, and she was not alone. She was sitting on a stone coffin resting her head against someone who had messy, long brown hair. They both had their backs to me and had a blanket draped around themselves. My heart was breaking. I felt so stupid, so naive. She was with a lover, her actual love.

lover, not me, not a stupid kid. And now she was turning over to a lover and running her fingers through their hair. And now moving their hair away and leaning towards them for a kiss. The sweat, cozy my body turned to wise. I could see her lover's face, the cheekbones, the jaw, the exposed teeth. It was a skull. She pressed the lips against bone and kissed, a long lover's. in kiss. I began to shiver all over. Finally, she broke the kiss, then whispered something to the

bone face and smiled. Then she stood and turned and saw me. Surprise flickered across her face, then she seemed to recover her poise, and she smiled again at me. Hey, she said, it's good to see you. She sounded like we had bumped into each other at the mall. not in a tomb where she'd just kissed the skeleton. What are you doing? I managed to say, with that. I pointed at the skeleton. My hand shook uncontrollably.

With that thing you took out of its coffin. She looked confused at this, but just for a moment, and then she laughed. Don't be stupid, she said. I didn't find him in a coffin. I met him at my old school. We started dating and the graveyard was our favorite place to meet, especially in here where we were so private. It was our place and it was here where he told me he wanted to be with me forever.

I told him there was a way that could happen if he truly did love me. He never left here after that and each time I visited he was a little bit more decayed. And it was beautiful. It was my special secret. And now, all that's left of him, his bones. But don't be upset. I was kissing him for all time's sake. I've told him it's over between us, because I've met someone new.

You. As she said this, she moved towards me. Then she took me in her arms and told me, and now you can be my special lover. When the skin on your body darkens and dies, and the insects begin to feed on your sweet, decaying flesh, I'll return when you are dead and embrace your rotting corpse

She kissed the tip of one of her fingers And place it gently against my lips Then she left I heard stone moving But could only stand there Horrified I don't know how long passed Before I managed to shake myself free of my shock

I needed to get out of there Still feeling very shaky and sick to my core, I retraced my steps to the door. There was no gap, I swore. She must have dragged it shut. I tried to drag my fingers in between the door and the wall and slide it away, but it was hopeless. So I started to push with all my weight against it. Again, it wouldn't move.

I remembered the broken headstones that had been propped against the outside wall. Had she moved them against the door? door to barricade me in? As I considered this, a terrifying thought trickled into my mind. I was trapped. My chest started to hurt, and I felt like I could not breathe. I tried to swallow, tried desperately to take a breath, but it felt like my throat was constricting.

I was suffocating. I told myself that this was in my mind. It was because I was panicking. I managed to cool pinsome air. That was the trick I told myself. I needed to stay calm and think straight. And I remembered my phone. Of course.

I tugged it out and felt sick when I saw I had no bars. Rule that out then. Still, there had to be another way out of there. It was Saturday afternoon. People would be going in their gardens, barbecuing. They'd be shopping, hanging out. I began to shout for help. I walked around the constricted space, yelling at the top of my voice again and again.

Surely someone would hear me. I kept yelling for ages and nothing happened, apart from my spirit sinking even lower, as I thought how I hadn't seen a single other person in the graveyard or on its outskirts both times I was in there, which meant I was in a no-go zone. I was completely alone and no one would be coming along to rescue me, no matter how much I shouted. Until my parents came back on Monday night, no one would even realize I was missing

and in the worst trouble of my life. Realising this, I broke down in tears. I lay on the cold stone floor of my prison and whipped uncontrollably. After a while, I curled up into a ball and watched the shafts of light coming through the cracks in the stone fade until I was.

was in total darkness. At some point I must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes, I could see faint light bleeding through again. I sat up, feeling from the way I ate like I had aged 50 years overnight. My mouth was horribly dry, and I needed to pee really badly. A random thought occurred to me about something I had read in a textbook, about sailors back in history who was stranded at sea having to drink their own urine to survive. Gross, I thought, it wouldn't come to that for me. I just needed a new idea and I would be free in time for the lunchtime specials of my favourite diner.

I was going to get an extra large cola so overloaded with ice that it was spilling out over the sides. Then I was going to eat three burgers in a row with so many sides I wouldn't be able to move for hours. I hadn't been very hungry. until I thought of this, but suddenly I was ravenous, and I still couldn't think of a single thing to do that would get me out of there. I hugged my knees to my chest and wondered if I should just wait for my parents to get back and discover I was missing. They'd phone the police

for sure and a manhunt would be launched. There'd be helicopters, police dogs. The search would probably be all over the news channels. I'd be a celebrity. After I was found with a tearful reunion played out in front of the cameras, I'd be on the talk shows. It would be amazing. I was happily lost in thinking about this when I felt a sharp pain in my ankle. I looked down to see a rat next to my foot. It had blood on its teeth. My blood, I realized with the horror. It had bitten me. I swore and kicked out of the rat. It snarled and stood its ground. It was big, way bigger than I thought rats were meant to be. Its fur was matted and filthy and its eyes were a disgusting reddish pink. I was convinced it was about to attack me again

when it turned around and walked away. I had been holding my breath without realizing it and gasped painfully, to catch my breath before gingerly lifting the leg of my jeans. The rat's teeth had gone all the way through and a line of bike marks shone with fresh blood. It stung like hell. I cursed the rat and its parents and the rest of its family and the entire rat species. I could not believe it had bitter me.

I was clearly alive and moving and it really wasn't okay. Fresh tears ran down my face. Being a celebrity wasn't worth this. But I did not see any choice other than to wait for my mom and dad to come through. Only time passed, and I had no idea what time it was beyond the fact I could still see light coming through. I started to think through logically what would happen when my parents got home. It would be late, and they would probably assume I was in bed asleep.

On Tuesday morning, they'd leave early for work, though they would leave fresh members. out for me for cereal and a note saying how much they'd missed me. My parents were nice people, but they were too busy and distracted. I knew they had money problems because I'd overheard them talking about this. I was in no way a neglected kid. I just had a lot of space. That had always been cool by me. Until now.

Because it meant it would be Tuesday evening before they had any idea something was wrong. Even then they might think I was out So it will be Tuesday night Before any kind of alarms will be raised And then how long would it take for the police to do anything Let alone unleash the dogs and helicopters I lowered my head between my knees As the hideous reality of my situation

Continued to sink in I was going to be there for a long time If I was waiting on being rescued My stomach hurt really badly and I was so thirsty. I had a blazing headache as well. I tried to recall how long a person could go without food. I seemed to remember that it was at least a week before any real harm was done, but I had no idea where I plucked this knowledge from. So that was maybe doable. What about going without liquids though? I had an awful feeling that was a matter of two to three days. And then

that would be the end. I would check out, die, alone and terrified in a tomb. I closed my eyes and began to cry again, only this time I was crying like a little kid, asking out loud for my mommy and daddy to come save me. I was still doing this when it felt full dark again. I was going to spend my second night as a prisoner. I did not sleep at all. I kept hearing the sound of something moving.

about on the floor nearby. I couldn't see what it was, but I figured I knew, and, at regular intervals, kicked out and shouted to try scare the rat away. I wasn't going to be its midnight snack. When the light returned, I dragged myself to my feet. I'd been so wrapped up in myself, I hadn't even thought about the thing I was sharing my confinement with. The skeleton was still sitting in the coffin. She must have propped it up, I figured, so she could make out with it. I shuddered. As well as having straggly hair, its fingernails were very long.

Another snippet from the vault of useless knowledge came to me, that hair and fingernails continued to grow after death. How long must it have been here for all the fleshy stuff to be gone and for the hair and nails to have gotten so long? long enough for this to count as a long-term relationship, I guessed, and that actually made me laugh. Once I'd started laughing, I could not stop. I ended up sitting next to the skeleton, laughing so much my sight hurt.

As the laughter finally subsided, I wiped tears from my eyes and took a deep breath. I had definitely lost it there for a bit, and that had contributed nothing to me escaping. I turned to face the skeleton and told it, I guess you're the only person in the world who knows how I feel at this moment of time. The skeletons' empty eyes peered into a distance only they could see. I sighed and covered my face with my hands. Death was coming for me, and once death had done its worst, she would be back to satisfy her sick desires and what I'd become.

If I gave up. I yelled out and slammed my fist into the coffin lid. No, I wasn't done yet. I would do anything to survive. I was now in the gross zone. It was the urine drinking time. The problem was, no matter how hard I tried to go, I couldn't. I gave up.

The rat had reappeared while I'd been trying. Its ugly nose twitching, biding its moment, I guessed, for when it would start eating me. unless. The rat wasn't expecting me to leap at it. I didn't give myself time to stop and think. I bit down and drank its blood. I did what I had to do to live.

Afterwards, filled with self-disgust, I lay back down on the floor and closed my eyes. I was so tired, I spiraled down into a deep, empty sleep. Until something crept into my sleep. A sound, my eyes flickered open, the rest of me stayed put. I was too trained to move. Then there was another sound. Footsteps.

My entire body tensed and I closed my eyes. I did not need to see to know she was back. She must have thought I was dead, that enough time had passed, which meant the rat had saved my life. My mind raced with thoughts as I listened to her moving around the chamber. I pictured her big boots, her flowing thrift store dress, her long black hair decorated with beads and ribbons, the makeup around her green eyes. And I still didn't move. My heart was beating very fast and I wondered if she could hear it, if she knew I was still alive. Surely she must do,

surely. If not, I had my chance to escape. I could play dead. I could play dead. I was to. I could play dead like this, then surprise her and make my escape. I felt her touch my cheek with her fingers. She ran them down my cheek and onto my neck. And then she kissed my neck. A lingering, passionate kiss. Then she whispered, I can wait, she knew.

It was now or never. I opened my eyes, the shafts of a new day's light met me. I grabbed out at her. but she was too quick and stepped back against the wall. Her eyes wide and she hissed at me with a feral anger. I did not hesitate. I ran for the opening beneath the arch towards the door. Behind me she screamed, but I wasn't going to stop.

Not for her, not for anything. I stumbled out into the daylight. My legs felt like they were going to collapse at any moment, but I kept running, tears streaming down my face. and the memory of a touch of my skin burnt into me. When I got home, milk sat on the table in the kitchen, along with a little note. I read it and cried some more. I looked at the clock.

I should have been at school, but that was fine. I could say I woke up feeling ill and my parents would believe me when I needed them to speak to school for me. I was already beginning to build the lie. Love is the weirdest thing. It's so extreme. Every moment is defined by the actions of the person you love, and is either agony or bliss. And the craziest part about all of this, as far as I'm concerned, is that after I'd escaped from the tomb, I still loved her.

I couldn't stop thinking about the way she kissed me as I lay unmoving on the floor. I couldn't stop thinking about the way she smiled at me when I said my thing about the sky being on fire. So, I told no one what had happened and lied where I needed to, and the next day I went back to school as if nothing had happened. I spent hour after hour beforehand writing out messages for her, like I used to write out opening lines, but I never sent any, because none of them felt right. What do you say to the girl you love who has left you to die trapped in a tomb so she can go back and make out with your rotting corpse? In the same way, I had no idea what I would say to her when I saw her at school. But I had to see her. I had to.

Only, she wasn't at school that day, or the next. And every night, I woke up stifling screams because, deep in sleep, I had been trapped again in the tomb, and this time she was there, just out of reach. Soon the weekend was looming, and with it, the terrifying process. that I needed to return to the graveyard. It was the only thing I could think of, the only place she might be.

Then, on Friday afternoon, I was going to put a book in my locker. When I saw there was a note taped to the front. My hand shook as I unstuck it and began to read. I'm sorry I hurt you. You're a nice guy, and one day you'll find someone who deserves you. Don't try and contact me. I've gone away. There were no kisses, but there was a PS.

I've hidden the evidence. And that's the last I ever heard from her. The girl of my dreams, who became the girl of my nightmares.