CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - Creepypasta REWIND - BEST Creepypastas of 2020

Episode Date: January 1, 2021

Here's a compilation of the best creepypastas of 2020. There were too many to choose from. Some too long. to keep this collection concise. What was your favourite of this odd year?CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►00:00 "I Exchanged my Baby Teeth for Favors" Creepypasta►33:10 "The Moon Just Split in Two" Creepypasta►54:33 "Greta" Creepypasta Animation (Horror Story Animated)►1:12:14 "We buried the only key with my sister. Now her old room is locked from the inside" Creepypasta►1:42:51 "The Door in the Mountain" Creepypasta►2:03:03 "Mr. Stixenstones" Creepypasta►2:37:02 "They paid me $5000 to go through hell" Creepypasta►3:19:34 "Why I removed all the doors from my house" Creepypasta►3:36:00 "I found a survival guide for 2021 in an old bookstore" 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- Gerasimos Kolokas: ►https://www.artstation.com/artwork/28...►https://www.instagram.com/kolokas_g/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-

If you've had the luxury of experiencing a normal childhood like most, then you'll probably remember the stories about the tooth fairy. When you lost your baby teeth, you were supposed to put them under your pillow or in a glass overnight. Come morning, the teeth would have been replaced with small gifts or coins. Excited, you'd run to your parents and tell them about the visit from the fairy, blissfully ignorant to the fact that they knew all along what you'd get because they were the ones who put the gifts there in the first place. I can't be 100% sure

But I think it's safe to assume That it's more than often the parents That tell their children about the fairy That comes in the night to collect the teeth As for myself My parents never bothered to introduce me To the wonders of imagination and fairies They were too preoccupied

Drowning their senses in bottles of vodka And Jack Daniels to care Instead I was told a story by my friend Lindsay Who showed me the five dollars she had gotten in exchange For her first mola She seemed genuinely surprised when I told her that I didn't know anything about the tooth fairy And in hindsight, I don't blame her

When I first heard the story I thought it was scary that a stranger would creep into your bedroom at night and take her teeth When I lost my first baby tooth after my dad had a rather nasty fit during a drunken stupor He simply threw it into the trash and didn't speak a word of any fairy wanting to collect them He was a large man and he had gotten a gold-toothedie used to brag about during his rare moments of sobriety, which puts a certain irony on this entire ordeal. Of course, I didn't share that part with Lindsay, and, as strange as I thought it was, I became curious about what I could get in exchange for a tooth. In fact, it made me

eager to lose my teeth. Luckily for me, I didn't have to wait long. Three days after my conversation with Lindsay, my dad got another hissy fit and threw a half-empty beer can at my face when I accidentally tripped and spilled one of his vodka bottles all over the living room carpet. Now, you might think that an empty beer can wouldn't be strong enough to knock a tooth out of a child, but given the strength my dad used when he threw it at me, you'd be surprised. At first, things went dark for a moment, but whenever I regained consciousness again, all I could see was a white tooth lying in front of me and the feeling. of a hole in my mouth.

The happiness I experienced knowing that I could get a dollar for this outweigh the pain my mouth was in. I quickly grabbed the tooth, got open my feet as if nothing had happened and rushed to my room. It was already past my bedtime

and since my dad was probably too wasted to bother chasing me with a belt I couldn't wait to fall back asleep. Once I got to my room I stuffed the tooth under my pillow, hopped into bed and excitedly waited for the tooth fairy to arrive. Being as naive as I was, I thought that if I stayed up long enough, I would be able to see her with my own eyes.

An hour of two passed by with only the sounds of my parents arguing to keep me company, and my eyelids started to feel heavy. I eventually fell asleep. The next morning, I woke up to the sound on my dad, banging at my door, telling me to get up if I wanted breakfast. He didn't mention anything about the stain on his carpet, so I took this as a sign that this would be a good day. It wasn't until I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, and I noticed the gaping hole in my mouth that I remembered what I had done the night before. Without even taking the tooth rush out of my mouth, I rushed back to the room and threw the pillow off my bed,

expecting to see some kind of gift left behind by the fairy. But there was nothing. The tooth was still there, untouched like the night before. What remained of my childish innocence nearly left me on the story. spot, and all hopes of a better day went along with it. For the rest of the morning, I didn't care that I got yelled out by my dad for being so down loud when I was simply breathing, or that my mom decided that making me a breakfast of bland bread and a lump of butter was too much of a bother.

I just didn't care. I was too disappointed as it already was. At school, Lindsay quickly picked on to my depressive mood and asked me what had happened. I told her that I didn't get a gift from the tooth fairy, and she tried her best remedy my mood. Did you have your window open? She asked me. I was confused.

I don't think so. Why? How would the tooth fairy get inside your room? I thought she just went through the door like a normal person. I reasoned. But she simply laughed. The tooth fairy isn't a normal person. She's a fairy.

She comes from outside. That's why you need to have the window open if you wanted to get in. Thinking of it, it made sense. So, the same night, I put the tooth back under my pillow and opened the window all the way up, letting in a cold breeze that momentarily chilled the room like a freezer. It wasn't too different from what I was used to, seeing as my room didn't have a working heater, since my dad didn't want to waste much money on things that didn't have a percentage of alcohol in it. So I wasn't too concerned about the cold temperature. And before I went to bed, I made sure to write a letter to the tooth fairy. It went something like this.

Dear Tooth Fairy Last night I lost my tooth And put it under my pillow But you probably couldn't get it Because I had the window closed Sorry I hope you can take it now that the window's open If you leave a gift

I want you to know that I'm not picky I'll be fine with whatever you have Smiley Face Love Lisa I put the letter on top of my nightstand And went to bed shortly after Exhausted from the lack of content in my stomach My mom only put a mouldy piece of bread on the table

for me to eat for dinner, so it didn't do much to make me full. If anything, my stomach began to hurt after I ate it, but I didn't complain to her. It was better than nothing. I sighed. If only I could taste one of the croissants, Mrs. Adams brought to class again. The next morning, when I woke up, I felt under my pillow to check her the tooth was still there. A bar to me still expected it to be there.

But, as I slid my hand across the barren mattress without feeling anything, I instantly threw the pillow off and discovered that it was gone. I checked every part of the bed and the floor without finding it. Still, there weren't any gifts or coins there either. So, I was even more confused. Then, as I looked from the floor and to the nightstand, my eyes became as wide as plates as I discovered what laid on it. Money.

A lot of it, stacked on top of my nightstand, as if whoever had left it had been in a hurry. I'm talking about probably a three-digit number at the least. There were ones, tens, even twenties, and for a child who was barely given an allowance of a dollar a month at the most, you can probably imagine the bewilderment that went through me as I held the many pieces of paper in my hand. I thought of all the croissants I could buy with this.

If this was what my baby tooth was worth, then I was curious about what my dad's golden tooth was worth. What I did next is something I would come to regret. for a long time, and I don't blame those of you that wish to condemn me for my actions. However, keep in mind that I was just a child, and I wanted to share my happiness with my parents like they cared about it. Long story short, I went to the kitchen, money in hand, and showed it to my parents. I told them about the tooth fairy and how she had given it to me. Yeah, I didn't go to school for the rest of the week.

Don't take this the wrong way. They didn't do what they did to me because they thought I had stolen the money. No, they simply did it because I was so goddamn loud that morning. Also, they took the money too, so I could forget about the croissants I thought I was going to buy. On the bright side, they did get to knock two teeth out of me for good measure, so at least I had something to give back to the tooth fairy for compensation. It took me a while to find them, though. One of them had managed to end up on the opposite side of the,

living room, but I retrieved it nonetheless after they were done. Now, you may think that my parents were impulsive, reckless people, and that's true to some extent. However, they were quite cunning when they wanted to be. They knew where to strike, so I wouldn't have to end up in the hospital, but they knew where to hit to make the impact last hours after making contact. They wouldn't be able to handle it if they got the CPS on their hands. I went to bed at night with enough bruises than I cared to brag about.

I think I cried too from the pain, but I can't remember the details. I still held my teeth in my hand, but I didn't have the energy to put it under my pillow and write a letter of apology to the tooth fairy. Still, even if I was in excruciating pain, I was happy because I knew the tooth fairy was real, and that there was something beyond this turbulent house of mine. It took me at least three days before I managed to recover slightly. I still have physical problems to this day because of what had happened, But back then, if I could stand without falling, I was as recovered as could be, using my mom's words.

My face still looked like a child had drawn over it with blue crayon, so I couldn't go to school until I looked like I'd only accidentally tripped on my face. My dad tried only once to force me to tell him where I'd gotten the money from and clearly didn't believe my explanation when I told him. At one point, he threatened to knock all of my teeth out to see if I was speaking my truth. But he didn't. If I went to school with no teeth, he'd have to do some explaining, which he clearly couldn't be bothered to do. So he left me after that and didn't speak another word of it.

He was content enough to use the money on another stack of bottles, and that was all that mattered. No more questions asked. On the third night, which was on a Thursday, I finally had enough energy in me to write another letter of apology to the tooth fairy. It went something along the lines of this. Dear Tooth Fairy, thank you so much for your gift. I was very happy. I'm sorry, but my parents took it, so I didn't get to buy anything with it. I understand if you're angry.

But I have two new teeth for you that you can take. You don't have to give anything back for these. Love, Lisa. Like before, I opened the window all the way, left the letter on my nightstand, put the teeth under my pillow and went to sleep. When I woke up the next morning, I checked under my pillow and my teeth were gone. I looked at my nightstand and instead of finding a gift or money, I found a message that had been written on the back of my letter.

What do you wish for? I blinked at the handwriting. It was a mixture of large and small letters, not something you'd expect from a fairy, but readable nonetheless. The tooth fairy was asking me what I wanted. I didn't think she took requests, but the thought of it made me happy. I quickly got her from bed, ignoring all the air. that searched through my body at the sudden movement.

Got another piece of paper from my backpack and excitedly wrote on it. Dear Tooth Fairy, I hope the teeth weren't too red for you. I didn't get to wash them off properly. I'm sorry. If you want to give me something, I'm not too picky. If you really want to, I won't mind a new notebook and some pens. I'm almost out, but it's no trouble if you can't get it. Love, Lisa.

The next morning, I woke up to find not just one, notebook in my nightstand, but five of them stacked together with a tied knot on top. They weren't just blank colours either. They were pink with unicorn drawings on top, just like I'd seen with Lindsay when we last went to town. Next to the stack was a pack of both coloured pins and normal ones, knotted together with a similar knot like the books. It took all my self-restraint not to squeal with happiness at the sight of them. The last thing that I found amongst the many gifts was a paper bag filled with croissants, and there was still. warm to the touch. My mouth watered like an animal, starved as sustenance, and I ate at least

one third of them in the bed, savoring the flavor. They were just like the ones Mrs. Adams had brought for class that one day before summer vacation last year, and I could still remember the taste as if it was yesterday. After I was finished, I decided to save the rest of them for later, in case mom decided to give me another piece of mouldy bread, or nothing at all. This time, I did not go down to my parents with my gifts. once bitten twice shy. So, instead, I decided to hide everything beneath a loose floor tile under my bed. That's where I kept things that I didn't want my parents to find.

Looking back on it, I should have kept the money there as well. But it was too late for regrets. I was just so happy about the books and pencils I had gotten that I couldn't be bothered to linger in the past anymore. When I returned to school the following week, my mom made sure that I wore some of her old long-sleeves, shirts took over all the bruises that had failed to disappear from my body, even though the sleeves were long enough to touch the ground if I didn't fold them up. I could tell Lindsay thought something

was wrong with me, but my cheery demean had distracted her. I wanted to tell her about the tooth fairy and all the things I'd gotten from her, but my mind went back to my parents and I stopped myself before I could share anything with her. During the next couple of days, I tried to keep Lindsay from poking her nose in what was going on with me, but she had always been. She had always been always been a persistent girl. She was smart for our age, observant like a hawk, but from where I was standing,

it was both a blessing and a curse. I didn't want to worry her, but I also loved her for a concern towards me. On Friday, just before class was ending, Lindsay finally decided to ask me about where the marks my face had come from. I was just about to distract her by shown her my unicorn notebook when I discovered that it wasn't in my bag.

I must have forgotten it at home. As such, I was forced to come up with an answer to her inquiry. I tripped, I lied. You seem to trip a lot of times, she pointed out. You've also lost three teeth, I've noticed. She gestured to my mouth. I waved my hand up dismissively. Seconds away from having the sleeves slide down and expose my forearm.

I was quick to fix it. I'm fine. Lindsay didn't look convinced at all. you've been gone the past week and when you're back you've lost your teeth and your faces all messed up you're not fine

before she could finish the sentence the bell rang and everyone hurried out of class including me I didn't want to stay behind and have Lindsay involved in the mess that was going on at home

so I quickly packed my bag gave her a quick hug goodbye and was out of the school in less than a minute I desperately wanted to cry but I couldn't I didn't think the day could get much worse

but boy was I wrong. Before I could even graze the doorknob to the entrance door. My dad burst out of it, grabbed me by my shirt, and shoved me inside the house like a rag doll, slamming the door behind him. I nearly stumbled to the floor on my way in, and was met with a side to my mom holding my unicorn book. It then dawned me that I'd forgotten it on the nightstand.

My dad then proceeded to grab a handful of my hair and shove me closer to my mom. His grip strong enough to scout me if he wanted to. What the hell is this? He didn't shout the words. That's what made it more terrifying than it already was. It's my notebook, I said, in between gasps, desperately clinging to his hand in an effort to ease the pain in my head.

Don't you think I see that? Where did you get it from? He asked. It was a gift, I swear. From who? My mum asked, considerably calmer than my dad, but no less ruthless. From the tooth fairy. I cried out, the pain becoming increasingly unbearable.

My mom took another look at the book, then back at me. If looks could kill, I'd be a puddle on the floor. Still going on about that damn fairy! Without breaking eye contact with me, she started to tear out the pages from the book one by one, and I watched despairingly as my precious gift was then torn to shreds in front of me. All the pink pages filled with the pictures of unicorns and glitters were reduced to nothing more than waste.

By the time she was done, all that was left was shreds, with not even enough space to write my name on it. The next thing I knew, I was hurled to the wall, all air knocked out of my lungs upon impact. I didn't get the liberty of standing up before my mother threw a punch in my face.

Don't be mistaken, even though she was much smaller when compared to my dad, she was arguably twice as brutal. Like a broken record that was going on and repeat, She hit me and punched me again and again and again, not even smiling as she did it. If this stupid fairy of yours is real, then how about we give her all your damn teeth?

Then see what happens, she said, voice void of emotions as she struck me time and time again. I could feel the warm blood pouring from almost every hole in my face, both the ones that were naturally there and the ones that my mom saw fit in adding onto it. The metallic taste of my mouth is overwhelming, and the urge to vomit accompanied this unbearable feeling.

I don't know how much time passed before she finally ceased her attack, but it's hard to know anything at that point. I could barely see anything. The pain had numbed all of my other senses, and it wouldn't surprise me if she had knocked out more of my teeth. Maybe it was just imagination or the aftermath of my mom's assault, but I swore I felt a multiplied number of holes in my mouth. Go to bed, I heard my mom say,

and in spite of it, I managed to get up and do just that. I walked away and didn't look back. I didn't bother checking where my teeth had fallen. I just up and left, though that in itself was a feat. I went to my bedroom and closed the door, and that's when I fell to the floor like the limp sack of meat I felt like. My breathing was almost non-existent, and I felt like I was going to die.

If anything, I wanted to. This life was unbearable, and while the knowledge that the tooth fairy was real brought me some sense of solace, If only for a time, I couldn't go on like this. With what little strength I had left in my body, I curled up to a fetal position and mumbled words I thought only I could hear. Dear tooth fairy, I don't have any teeth on me, but could you please, please help me, please?

Everything went black after that. When I woke up again, I was at the hospital. My wounds were bandaged and nursed. I had all these different tubes tucked my skin and my head felt light as a feather. It took me a while before I gained consciousness and when I did I was being visited by a police officer. His name was Nathan McCarthy and he was one of the officers that had been assigned to deal with the domestic violence that revolved around my home. Once I was in a relatively stable condition, he explained everything that had happened to me.

Lindsay had told her parents about her suspicions and they called both the police and contacted CPS. In his words, my parents had run away and they found me in my room, looking like I'd just been killed. When I tried to pry him for information regarding my parents' whereabouts, he dodged the question like the plague. I'm going to spare you the unnecessary details of what happened after. It isn't of any vital importance. Long story short, Officer McCarthy was the one who ended up adopting me, and he provided me with a stable home and life my parents had failed to. He was a good man and an even better father.

It was because of him and what he did that I decided to pursue a career as a social worker. While I managed to recover from what had happened to me after years of therapy, I still suffer from some issues because of the injuries my body had suffered from, though it's nothing too severe. I eventually managed to graduate college and pursue my goal.

I also stayed in close contact with Lindsay after all these years. She became a primary school teacher and we ended up working in the same city. We occasionally go out drinking together when we both have the time. It was during one of our nights out that I learned something from her that I didn't know before. Our drunken conversations ended up on the same subject of our past and even in my drunken stupor, I heard something that made my head come to a halt.

Your parents were assholes, she said, and I agreed. Then she continued. They had what was coming to them. Had what coming for them? I asked, suddenly feeling sober again. I hadn't talked about my parents since my last therapy session three years ago, and now that it was brought up again, something didn't add up. Dad said they ran away after they beat the hell out of me.

Lindsay suddenly looked sober again, and she paled at my confused expression. Wait, you don't know? No what? She shubishly played with the rim of her glasses before she answered. They didn't run away, Lizzie. They didn't? She went quiet again for a moment, as if debating with herself whether to tell me or not.

You should ask your dad about it, Lizzie. He should be the one to tell you if he hasn't already. He probably knows things in detail. And that's what I did. The next day, I drove back to my dad's place, which was only a two-hour drive. He seemed surprised to see me, but happy nonetheless to have me home.

We shared a few good words, drank a few beers, and that's when I decided to cut to the chase. Dad, what really happened to my parents? Much like Lindsay, he paled at my question. Even with years of experience within the police field, it was easy to read. How do you know? It doesn't matter, I said. Tell me the truth. He took a deep breath and put the beer can down on the table.

He drew a hand over his head and mentally prepared himself for what he was about to say. The reason I didn't tell you the truth was because you were already in a delicate state. Please don't fault me for not telling you. I won't, I promised, offering him a weak smile that seemed to ease the tension. When we received a call about the abuse in your home,

we came to your house and discovered that the doors were open. When we went inside after hearing no response, He paused for a bit, and I could tell from his expression that he was afraid. I had known this man, my father, for the past two decades, and I'd never seen him like this before. When we went inside, your parents were lying dead in the living room. My heart dropped, but not had a sadness. Dead? How? We linked the cause of death to a broken bottle of Jack Daniels that we found on the floor next to the bodies.

It matched the wounds we found on them. It was the worst homicide I'd ever seen, even if they got what was coming to them. He took a moment to collect himself, after sipping a generous portion of beer. We found you in your bedroom, wrapped in your blanket. We feared we were too late, but fortunately you were alive. Your window was open too So we concluded that the murderer got in through your window We didn't find any evidence of who it was

But quite frankly It was all the same to me if we caught him or not I don't know how long I was quiet for The discovery that my asshole parents had been killed Didn't necessarily bring me any gratification But it was better than knowing that they were alive and still out there Leaning back into my seat I took another sip of beer

And tried to process the information I'd been given I played through what he had told me over and over again in my head and something didn't add up. You found me, wrapped in my blanket? He nodded. Yes, we assumed you simply took it before you fell unconscious from the abuse. Breathing rapidly, I shook my head at this assumption. No, I said, I didn't have my blanket.

It was on the bed when I fell. We shared another look of horror, and decided to chuck another can of beer before we called it a night. The next day we said our goodbyes with a hug and didn't utter another word about what we had discussed the night before. For his sake, I prayed

that the alcohol had dulled his memories. Just as I was about to get into my car, my dad spoke up. Lisa. Yes, I tilted my head at him. Your parents, the mouths, they... Dad, open and close his mouth and repeat. But in the end, he decided against it and just waved me goodbye, and I took that as my

cue to leave. I initially intended to make it straight back home, but decided to make one last stop before I left town, and that was outside my childhood house. It was weird being back after so many years, standing outside that damned dendron store brought back a ton of memories that years of therapy had failed to make me permanently forget. I remembered each punch, hit an insult I had suffered from, every wounded scar that still adore my body. But most of all, I remembered the teeth I'd lost. I don't know why I returned here. I guess it had something to do with closure, or something like that.

Either way, I had to go back. What stood in front of me now was but a forgotten memory, a desolated, nearly demolished house that hadn't been touched in years. The walls had been graffeted, no doubt by teenagers with too much time in the hands, and the wood looked about ready to collapse with a simple push. Going inside could as well cost me my life, but that wasn't something I was too concerned with anymore. The door was unlocked, so I let myself inside.

The first thing that hit me was the stench of old alcohol that reminded me of all the bottles the old man used to drink. Most of the furniture was still there, but mind you, it wasn't something I would put up on the market for free. I ventured through both the living room and the kitchen, but didn't find anything too remarkable. Even after two decades, things still look the same. Old cans of beer was still littered across the floor

and it was evident that whoever was in charge of cleaning this hellhole didn't put much effort into their work, knowing that it probably didn't matter. When I returned to the living room, I looked down on all the mess that laid around and that's when I noticed the two red stains on the floor, like puddles that had gathered up during my absence. I bent down and inspected it.

And, after a few moments of observation, I stood up again and smirked while digging my heel into the two spots. Serves you right, I said, and spit on the stains, one for each. Rot in hell. I walked right over them and prepared to head down the corridor that led to my old bedroom, looking round the place as I went. It was weird to think that as a kid, this place seemed too large and so unsettling. Now, as an adult, he was just a house. an abandoned, mess-stained house,

but just a house in its core. There was nothing left here. When I saw the blue door, I had to compose myself before heading in. The bed was where it had always been, the nightstand too. I didn't notice how small it really wasn't there, just barely larger than a cupboard.

For a girl who used to be so little in life, this used to be a luxury. I looked out the window, which stood, tilted open, even though the glass was broken and pieces were stuck to the floorboards. Someone was the broken inside at some point in such of valuables, only to discover that there was none to be found within these empty walls. Turning back to the bed, I saw that it stood slightly askew.

The interesting thing was that the dust on the floor was smudged with the bedpost, which indicated that it had been moved quite recently. While this made me wary, I was past the point of no return. I climbed past the bed and down to the bed, and down to the floor tile I knew to be loose under it. I guess the police didn't search the place as thoroughly as they should have, but that was just fine for me. I gently removed the floor tile completely

and a wave of nostalgia hit me as I discovered a stack of old pink notebooks that had drawings of unicorns on them. While covered with dust, they were still in good shape. I guess the small space beneath the floor tile had preserved enough. After pulling the stack of notebooks up, I was quick to find the pensions. source I had hidden as well. Like the notebook, they were covered in dust, but untouched and preserved.

I promptly took them up and put them next to the notebooks, expect them to find nothing else but a bag of croissants I'd left there. God knows how rotten they must have been. But there was something else there that I knew for a fact I hadn't left the last time I was there. There was a blue pouch, knotted, with the same kind of tie that kept my books together. The hell? I pulled the light pouch of unknown content up and got to my feet. I gave it a light shake. It wasn't heavy, but it sounded like it was filled with pearls or maybe coins.

Whatever it was, there was a lot of it. Grabbing a hold of the knot, I undid it and slowly opened the bag to see what was inside. My heart skipped a beat and I immediately dropped the pouch from my hands. As it landed on the floor, Teeth poured out from the opening and scattered across the tiles. I wanted to run out of there, scream, do anything to react according to the situation, but my body wouldn't comply with my wishes. Instead, all I could do was stare at the many teeth that was spread around me.

From a distance, they may have reminded me of hail, but the discolouring of some of them disillusioned that. They were undoubtedly teeth, sixty-six of them in total. As if the horror of the situation didn't scare me enough as it was, I noticed that one of them wasn't a real tooth It was just a gold piece meant to resemble one Just like the old man's I didn't want to

But I put two and two together where I stood And the realisation of whose teeth these belonged to Came crashing down to me What the old man's fist used to These were their teeth They're discoloured, disgusting Alcohol-drenched teeth My eyes wandered down to the blue pouch again

and I noticed a note sticking out of it. The paper was pink and had the outline of a unicorn drawing peeking out of it. Despite every voice in my head that told me not to give into temptation, I did. I picked it up, my hands quivering, as if I was suffering from hypothermia, and I read what was written in handwriting I was familiar with.

To the girl who gave me her teeth, I have repaid your generosity in kind. after that I left I grabbed the books picked up the teeth and simply abandoned that place there was nothing left for me there anymore it's been a few months now

and I've tried to come to terms with what happened as a child it was easier to believe that it truly was a fairy that was responsible for all the wonders I experienced but as an adult I've reached a conclusion I don't think is worth sharing

feel free to come up with your own theories how As for myself, I'm not going to fall any further down the rabbit hole than I already have, and I don't think you should either. If you still believe in the tooth fairy, good for you. But I would advise you not to leave your windows open for it. You never know what might enter. Something I've found in life is that everyone eventually settles on a passion. Whether it's a professional hobby, lifelong or found,

people seem to find something they click with. I've had a childhood friend that adored trains grow up to become a conductor, and I've seen family friends in their 40s trying woodwork for the first time in their life in getting hooked. For me, I knew my passion since I was a teen. For the longest time, I've been heavy into astronomy. No, not reading horoscopes. I love to observe the night sky.

I wouldn't say I'm as detail-oriented as some of the more deeper enthusiasts, or as planned out as the professionals. I mostly pick and choose what I'd want to observe for a period and make handwritten notes on what I'd find. I splashed out on one of the best home compound telescopes I could afford. It cost a pretty penny, but going from a cheap refractoscope to this one was the difference between night and day,

no pun intended. I have an entire bookshelf full of old journals dating back the many years I've been doing this. Some, as far back as when I was a teen, in the garden with my dad. binoculars. Notes of the various constellations I've come to admire, my favourite being the Vasa consolation, genitive Furnay. It's a beautiful set of stars with a number of smaller constellations that made up the formation of a powerful light tower. When I wasn't looking at the stars,

I enjoyed appreciating the cycles of the moon. And this is where the mess began. I was documenting the moon cycle, something I kept up with on nights when the stars were less visible. The sky was circling with clouds, so I focused on the beaming full moon above. It was beautiful. I took note to the position, size and other bits of data I felt important. Yet something was annoyingly off. On the left edge of the moon, there was a slight blurred taper. No amount of adjusting my setting seemed to fix it. I feared the lens was out or the scope's mirror was displaced. I was hoping it was a one-off. But each day, it got worse.

Every time I looked at the stars, all would be fine. But every time I looked at the moon, the same blemish was there, marring an otherwise beautiful scene. I cleaned the lens, check the cap, readjusted every setting, yet nothing would alter the strange shade on the left edge of the moon's side. And each day, it seemed to get more noticeable. Part of me worried it was the brightness of the moon during bright nights. These machines are very sensitive

and the slightest thing can damage the many delicate parts that make these compound telescopes so special. My hope was that after a few days when the waxing giver started it would help alleviate this and make the blemish disappear. It didn't.

By the time the waxing gibbers hit there was almost a complete second circle of shadow on the lens. I was baffled since I'd exhausted all the possibilities of fixing it myself referring to the manual I thankfully still kept and finding no solution I took to the internet to see if there was something I hadn't tried yet

however every thread I found didn't come close to what I was experiencing my heart was broken this telescope was a hefty purchase bought under the principle of buy good and buy for life I overpaid more than I can afford under the impression that I'd never have to make the expense again, so I couldn't give up. I took to trying to dig into more specific sites

and find more knowledgeable people. Luckily, it seemed the answer was right under my nose. When I checked the FAQ on the Telescope's manufacturer's site, I found there was a tab to a forum that took you straight to a login or sign-up page. It seemed it was private, unless you remember, and you had to have a serial code of one of their products to join. Luckily, I kept everything from purchase, so I managed to dig it out and sign up.

It seemed to be a small forum for enthusiasts to intermingle, and when I say enthusiasts, they were heavy into the topic. There were sections for shared notes, threads dedicated to specific product settings, even one for fieldmeats. I expected nothing less with so many barriers of entry to get in. As soon as I made it to the main board, I saw there were already threads scattered with the same. questions that I had, along with a master post. Each individual post was of people lamenting about the stain on their view, and the master post was an official admin addressing the situation. All it summed up to was that the company was aware of the issue, and that it only seemed to affect the higher-end compound telescopes. They apologised and stated that they were doing all they could

to look into it. It was saddening to hear that there was a genuine issue, but I felt validated knowing I wasn't going crazy, and it wasn't just me. All I had was the satisfaction that they were aware of it, and that something was being done. My final thought to that night was of hope that things would return to a sense of normalcy. It didn't. After the waxing crescent, the new moon began.

A time where the moon goes asleep, as I like to say as a kid. This is often the time I either took a break or take my eyes to the stars, since you can't see the moon during this time. I peeked through the viewfinder just to see if it was focused correctly, not realizing it was dialed to the region where the moon was supposed to be.

In the absence of the moon, there was a strange round blur. At first, I thought it was the absence of stars that he sometimes used to spot the new moon, since that's the only way a hobbyist can catch the new moon. However, this seemed different. There was a strange quality to it and a strange familiarity.

I gasped when I realized it was the strange shade I'd seen before, this time seen without the accompaniment of the moon. After this, I started tracking this strange blur more seriously. I noted its whereabouts and general description of my interpretations. At this point, it looked like a barely opaque black disc in the sky, very small and very faint. It was the size of the moon at a far distance and was not visible to the naked eye. By then, I hoped to God this was an error with a telescope. The moon's visage burned into the mirrors of the scope, perhaps a marring of the lens's surface maybe,

because I started to worry about the implications if this strange disc was real. By the time the waning crescent began, my fear started to set in. The dark blur was almost the full moon's length away from my perspective. Others, still talking about it online, mentioned the same thing, and tension was building amongst those of us that were invested.

Though that was a small number, since with others to the forum with different models, we just looked crazy. The few of us talking about it were divided. Some were adamant it was what was announced, a manufacturing error. They demanded reparations for the company, both for the disappointments from the bad investment of the product

and the lost investment of time. Some people lamented that the documented streaks had been ruined due to the inconvenience, myself included. For some people, years of serious work were in jeopardy, asking for a temporary replacement while they waited for a solution. Others were raving about all gods, forgotten prophecies, an apocalyptic doom.

I just wanted my hobby back. I started getting in contact with some people to ask about their experiences. Though we all mentioned it, no one talked about specifics publicly for fear of looking loony in front of people who would not notice this strange phenomenon. I met some genuinely nice people this way, instantly bonding over our shared passion for the night sky. The first person I met was Christian.

He was very much the most level-headed of the bunch, often the voice of rationale and reason. He seemed to be taken the whole thing in stride, rationalising it as an issue with the way compound telescopes lenses reflect off of a mirror. This would explain why people with reflector or refractorscopes weren't reporting this issue. Something he added that was new to me

was that after a long exposure shot he took of the moon he could see the edges of the shade in the shot and on its rim he could see the formings of what looked like cracks rooting in towards the centre there were other nice people I spoke to in my time there then there was Ross Ross was a bit more vocal about his opinions

and his opinions were a little off he blew up the DMs of anyone who mentioned they'd witnessed the orb and left pages of his thoughts and ideas based on his research into strange, unknown topics. Conspiracies that ran off the deep end after only a few words, sprinkled here and there, he'd add his own thoughts. Feelings are being watched, not feeling safe at night when in the presence of the orb, wanting to look into forgotten sources for any kind of information. As you can imagine, he was very quickly banned from posting on the forum,

but he was still able to infiltrate DMs, much to the chagrin of the users. I tried to carry on as normal. I really did. I kept an eye on my favourite constellations, I noted positions and coordinates. However, in the corner of my mind, while checking the moon, I'd catch the orb in my vision, and my mind wondered over all I'd known so far. I started noting its position too, just for fun, along with brief descriptions, like, I did with the stars and moon.

Each night it drifted very slowly away from the position of the moon. By the next full moon, the shade was so far away, it almost couldn't be seen when viewing the moon's center frame. There was going to be a point when it would be completely out of view when looking directly at the moon, and I was looking forward to it. After another week, I got my wish. However, something strange happened. I found myself longing for it.

not in a positive way either I didn't want to admit it even in my notes but I caught myself edging the scope over just to catch a glimpse of it every so often I got no good feeling from seeing it in fact quite the opposite I'd feel the tingling of dread

in the pit of my stomach when it was in view to which I'd turn away but I still found myself trying to go back to catch sight of it I talked to Christian about this and he seemed to dismiss me about it, taking a jab that I was starting to sound like a second Ross, though the way he worded his response made it seem like he was saying this out of denial more than anything.

Judging from the shifting mood on the forum, it seemed we all started to sense the same creeping feeling. Ross, however, didn't even ask. He spoke like he knew we felt it, and he filled our DMs with more pages of his ideas and findings, all of which we ignored. As much as I wanted to deny it, like Christian and the others, the feeling crept its way from my stomach to the corners of my mind. Following the feeling was something a few of us started to notice. The shape was changing ever so slightly. I started to notice the cracks around the edges without the aid of a long exposure photo. It was hard to see unless I focused hard, which seemed to give me feelings of a migraine, but I noticed something like faded capillaries drifting towards the

center of the orb, the outline starting to look murky, more distinguishable, a ring like a nebulous halo. As I documented its slow march across the sky, I noticed that over the course of days, as it passed over distant stars, they would be hidden. People on the forum noticed this too, and those without the same telescopes that at first deny this strange event took notice too. Even those without telescopes but a keen knowledge of the stars picked up on missing dots that would otherwise be visible to the naked eye.

This is when speculation started flying, and more theories were cast about. An undiscovered planet, a black hole, a spaceship. The sub-community was a buzz. Something even weirder that those of us were the higher-end compound telescopes and a strong memory of the stars picked up was that the stars the shade passed over seemed ever so slightly less bright than before. A dollar hue. hard to confirm, but still thrown out by a few of us that noticed.

Like a pillar of sanity, the voice of reason chimed him with a post. Christian made a master post referencing all the popular theories and pointing out inconsistencies or counter-evidence stating otherwise. Each theory was explained away to the best of his ability and that the phenomenon will pass. He didn't seem to acknowledge the brightness issue though, but the post got so long and he seemed to focus on the more popular conspiracies. His DMs were blown up on the forum and it was not impossible to get through

to him after that, so I turned to his personal Facebook to talk to him from then on. He confirmed that a large portion of his DMs were from the infamous Ross, something of a meme at this point in the community. I asked him about what he was receiving and when I saw snippets, I realized it was different to what I was getting. Not only was Ross and one of his many maniacal tirades, but he was individually writing these out to everyone. At this point, I bid the bullet and decided to skim over more of what he was sending. What he wrote was absolutely insane. He spoke of ancient texts and carvings, whether it was Mayan, Aztec, or something older,

I do not remember. I honestly don't remember any of it, only what I wrote down briefly in my journal. He sent pictures of old statues, old wall carvings, with a central eye, casting a beam on a carrying populace. He followed the messages with warnings of being watched. Whether he was talking about me or him, I do not know. I did not pay much attention after that. The more I looked, the more I rolled my eyes.

He read more like a chain mail than a serious discussion. I closed out, leaving him unread. I started getting anxious on a personal level when I saw the orb hover over towards my favourite constellation, Vasa. Seeing what it did to do. other stars, I was scared it had ruined the arrangement that helped kick-start my passion. There were already some dim stars in the region. If there were to dim any more, they wouldn't be visible, even with my compound telescope. There were some people hopeful that the brightness would

return to the past over stars over time, but there was no evidence of that so far. Sadly, it couldn't be stopped. I watched day by day as it edged over to Vasa, and slowly cover the main stars in the region. My heart sank, hoping there would be the exception. But things took an even stranger turn. Almost all the constellation was hidden from sight. The edges of the once beautiful formation barely visible past the mild cracked edges of the shade. Other vasa lovers lamented, along with me,

at missing the beautiful Tower of Light formation. We patiently waited for it to pass over, yet it seemed to linger. The day it should have crossed to another set of stars came and went, and still it stayed, like it deliberately wasn't moving. This is when I started to really pay attention. I would watch it almost every night, pen and journal always nearby, taking meticulous notes whenever I noticed anything that stood out. I wrote about the vainy edges,

looking like they were bigger than the mark cracks of before. They would be different every night, like they crawled and pulsed on an enormous scale. The dulled edge started to become more prevalent And though I couldn't confirm it It felt like the middle was starting to stir Ever so subtly I sensed rumblings that something big was about to happen

I could feel it I started to get a little obsessed I booked time off work to sleep all day So that I can have more time to watch all night I filled out many pages in my journal Just based on those few days alone I'd watch for hours an uneven strain in my eyes from staring for long periods of time.

My cycle became routine. I'd watch, note, watch, note. Even when nothing changed, it was still right as such. Then, boom. Literally, boom! A heavy thume cracked down from the night sky. I heard concerned gasps from late-night walkers nearby. The only thing felt was something akin to a fast gust of wind.

and that was it there was an air of hesitation but there was no full on panic except from me because what I saw shook me to my core the orb blinked

as soon as I regained myself in the boom I looked back through my telescope it was gone the orb was gone not just the orb as well but the whole Vasa constellation I went to online to see if anyone else saw, but I couldn't find any new threads about it.

I scored to find the old master post about the phenomenon, but they were all gone. Nothing remained of the weeks of documenting and discussing the strange orb. I tried starting one, but it was quickly shut down. I checked other sites that I knew talked about it, and they too were gone. Nothing was reported on the news. I tried to message people that talked about it, but I could not find any of the old messages previously mentioned, Ross was completely gone.

Whether it was because he was permaband, I do not know. I found others, but they had no memory of who I was. I tried looking for Christian, and this is where things got even stranger. He was also gone. I took around for his Facebook,

but I couldn't find him on my friend's list or previous contacts anywhere. All knowledge of the orb was gone, and no one remembered. it, and it was the same for the Vasa constellation. Look it up. I've tried scouring the deepest

pages of Google and cannot find any trace of it. I scanned all my books on the stars, and even there, all knowledge is gone. And what's worrying is that I have no memory of the orb or the constellation myself. All I've told so far

has been construed from all the notes I've written. I've been going through my journals, piecing things together, and I keep digging further and further back and finding more things are missing. I can't actually remember Christian, or Ross, but I wrote about them in detail in my journal, all the writing in a calm and neat fashion,

looking like I did it in sound of mind. When I tried to think back to my favourite consolation, my mind jumps the canis major, but my notes all say it's Vasa. I've pulled out books from my teenage years and found, even then, I talk about Vasa like a comfort, sketches of its formation,

details of its coordinates, stories of its history. Yet, when I try to look, I see a void, a starless circle in the night sky. More worrying are the other spots of information missing from my mind. In my notes,

I talk about stargazing with my brother, nights out just talking about the formations, the mythology of them. Yet, I know in my mind that I've always been a lone child. Cousins coming over that I have no knowledge of, pages written by an aunt who in my mind doesn't exist. There's either a hole in the sky or a hole in my mind.

And I'm scared of both. What I've told you may not be entirely accurate. I can never confirm what I truly saw, what I truly know, especially the end. The journey was detailed well, but the final page was hastily written in a rush that either blessed me with little detail or cursed. me with a slight knowledge. All that truly remains of the end is the last page. Four words scratched in so deep the paper was cut in several parts. Boom. I blink. Gone. Every community has an urban legend, the ominous law surrounding a strange house at the top of a hill, a ghostly

covered bridge, or a dark wood at the edge of the city limits. Even the source of the sort of small secluded farm town I spent the first 18 years of my life in had its own legend. Ars centred around the eccentric Strauss family and their even stranger daughter, Greta. I find myself unique compared to most. This, unfortunately, is because I am a first-hand witness of what so many generations whispered off behind closed doors around the campfire and at night to scare children. And one fateful evening, I found myself in the Strauss family home. I can say with brutal honesty that the horror I experienced on that night

led to countless therapy sessions, bottles of white pills, and a new life in a large city with the nearest farm being 100 miles away. I found it best to begin the retelling of my story by passing along the original legend the same way it was told to me by my peers. The Strauss family moved to the United States from Germany in the early 1900s and settled on a large pot of land in central Illinois. People aren't sure why they chose to leave Germany or why they decided to buy 300 acres in the middle of nowhere. We did, however, know a few things about them. They were very wealthy, self-sustaining and refused to leave the family farm.

All of their food was either harvested, fished or slaughtered. The children were homeschooled and the deceased were laid to rest in the family cemetery. Their property was littered with ominous signs written in both German and English, expressing how they very much wish to be left alone. There are more than a couple of rumours from townsfolk, witnessing door-to-door salesmen walking onto the property, but never off of it. Rose Lane was the only row that rang along the Strauss's property line. It served as a looking glass for the rest of the community, allowing an opportunity of 10 or so seconds to catch a glimpse of the massive, eerie home.

Over the years, the Strausses became more and more reclusive. Months would pass without seeing a single family member. Once in a blue moon, someone would spot one of the Strausses wondering the property or staring at cars as they sped along Rose Lane. and it was like winning the social lottery. The most common sightings were of the mother and or father, whom we simply referred to as Mr and Mrs Strauss. People would gather around a lucky individual and eagerly interrogate them as to whom they saw

and what odd thing they were seen doing. The most famous Strauss, of course, was Greta. Everyone knew her name thanks to our town's gossipy postman. Greta earned the coveted title as the Stranger Strauss due to a morbid choice of clothing and frightening appearance Greta sightings were seldom but always similar in the retellings She dressed in black and only black Regardless of the season or time of day

Greta would be draped from head to toe in an ink-colored gown Even stranger her head was always hidden beneath the dark veil. No one in town had ever seen a face, not even a glimpse. Many years ago, as the story is told, Greta was working in the stables. Instead of focusing on the task at hand, she began to dance and play about as most children do. In a split second of wavered attention, she startled the young colt, who was swiftly kicked in the jaw. To teach her a lesson, the elders of the Strauss family kept Greta from receiving the medical attention she so desperately needed, which in turn left her face a mangled mess of broken bones and cartilage. Growing up, my friends and I would scare

one another with stories of Greta. Whenever her dead animal was found on our property, we'd say it was Greta sending a warning. Whenever we were lying in bed at night and heard the floorboards creek, we would whisper that it was Greta lurking in the shadows. Personally, I had never seen Greta, despite the countless trips I had made down Rose Lane. I had only heard the stories. As the years passed, the Strauss sightings went from seldom to non-existent. The grass on their land grew long, and the lights inside their home ceased the glow in the night. Eventually, we assumed that the Strausses had packed up and moved without notice.

The bank couldn't sell the house, claiming a relative in Germany. still had ownership of the property and was wiring full legal payments. We simply put the Strauss family farm out of mind. Until the night, we decided to break in. John Kerry and myself were 18 at the time. We had just finished high school and would be attending different colleges in the fall. Like most guys our age, we spent the days and nights hanging out, drinking and saving up what little money we could. The summer and our time together were flying by in tandem, nearly at an end.

So we decided to make one last memory. The three of us were sitting on John's porch, watching the sun go down and throwing back some beers we'd paid Carrie's older brother way too much money to buy for us. John ignited the conversation that would change our lives forever, and he still hasn't forgiven himself for it. He talked about how he was driving down Rose Lane earlier that morning and thought he had seen someone in the third-story window of the Strauss home. Carrie and I told him he was full of crap. We conversed and shared our theories about what we thought the inside of the house looked

like. Carrie suggested that he was full of forgotten German treasure and that we could be rich if we broke in. No one would ever know since the Strauss family had been gone. for so many years. We smiled greedily at one another before we knew what hit us. The alcohol and excitement had us on our feet and walking towards the Strauss farm in the twilight.

As we strolled through the woods, we talked about all the things we would buy with our soon-to-be wealth. The sun had finally set as we reached the edge of the property, and it looked as though the monstrous house was glaring down upon us. We stopped for a moment as we finished the last few drops from our cans of liquid courage and debated for a few minutes as to how we should enter the home. Eventually, we concluded that the door in the back was the best option since it would not be seen from the road.

The three of us shuffled as quietly as we could down the gravel path and onto the wooden porch. My heart pounded in my chest as we got closer but my feet continued to move towards the house. We pointed our flashlights of the dirt-stained glass on the back door. Carrie and John silently decided that I was in charge as they prided me forward. I grabbed the old iron door-knob, turned it, and looked back in disbelief. It was unlocked.

As I pulled the creaking door open, a wave of musty air from within the house flew past us with a wine. Looking back at that moment, I wish we would have turned and ran back to Johns. Instead, we crept inside the darkness of the Strauss home and shut the door behind us. We stepped into the kitchen and began rummaging through the drawers. Apart from a few broken dishes, some dusty utensils and a couple of ancient appliances. The kitchen was virtually empty. The Strauss home wasn't living up to the house. living up to the horrific reputation we had collectively built for it over the years.

It was indeed old, massive, and a bit eerie, but nothing more than what you would expect from any other abandoned home. Everything seemed to be undisturbed. It was as if the Strausses had simply stopped their daily routine, packed up a few belongings, and left the home forever. The three of us searched through the first. rooms, opening drawers, moving furniture, and scouring through cabinets. Our respective alcohol buzzes and hopes of finding treasure began to fade.

But as it did, an uncomfortable feeling of dread and paranoia washed over us. We decided that this whole idea was a waste of time, and that going back to Johns the smokes and weed would be the perfect end of the evening. We backtracked through the home, into the kitchen towards the back door. Just as we were about to step outside into the freedom of the night, Carrie's voice broke the silence.

Guys, look at this. John and I turned and pointed our flashlights back towards Carrie, who was standing against the kitchen wall. He was running his hands along the edges. We looked at him curiously and asked him what he wanted. Just then, he pulled on one of the mounted wooden shelves and it swung open.

A new entrance had appeared before us, one that we instantly knew was constructed to be a secret. We adjusted our flashlights and stared at the staircase that descended into the dark depths below. The three of us knew that if there was anything of value left behind, it would be at the bottom of these stairs. Once again, John and Carrie nudged me forward as we crept down the stone staircase. The temperature dropped significantly as we reached the stone floor of the cellar. It was damp, dark, and I could hear the faint sounds of dripping water and scurrying rodents. We started our search, exploring the outer.

walls. Grasping with excitement as our dreams of wealth were back in full swing as our flashlights illuminated glimmering metal and stones. Jewelry, vases, paintings, swords and coins filled numerous tables and cabinets within the cavernous room. We frantically filled our pockets and rambled on about how we would come back in the morning with our trucks for the rest of the loot as we made our way to the far corner of the cellar. We noticed something we very much did not expect to see. A large wooden door. As to why it was barred from the outside with a metal rod, we had no idea.

But in the moment, we didn't care. If the cellar was full of valuables, then whatever lay beyond the door would have to be even better. her. John lifted the iron rod and set it on the ground. We pulled the door open and my stomach turned. The air was pungent with a sour smell of decay. We illuminated the room with our lights and my brain attempted to comprehend the scene before me. Mutilated animal remains was scattered across the floor. A pile of old newspapers and rags formed a wadded nest in the corner. Against the far wall was a mattress covered in torn, stained sheets that were covering a large lump. I looked at my friends as I covered my mouth and nose with my shirt, turning my back to the room.

I said something about leaving. Just before I saw the horror in Carrie's eyes as he pointed behind me. I jolted back and pointed my flashlight towards the bed. The lump, beneath the torn sheets on the bed, sat up and turned towards us. Initially, my body refused to move. The figure rose from the bed with awkward, twitching movements. I heard his bones creak and wet skin smack against the stone floor. After what seemed like an eternity,

I was able to move again. I stumbled backwards, falling into John and Carrie. We ran to the stairs like animals, thrashing about and knocking over everything in our path. John was the first to reach the base, and I was a few feet behind him. Carrie had fallen behind. John and I raced up the stairs towards the hidden entrance. I grabbed his shirt tail and yelled that we couldn't leave Carrie behind. We heard his panicked voice.

He was close. We turned our flashlights downward and could see Carrie at the base of the stairs. And for a brief moment, I felt relief. My moment of content was ripped from me. As I witnessed the figure behind Carrie. A skeletal hand sung its sharp fingers into his face as he screamed. The beam of our flashlights highlighted the horrific scene. scene like a spotlight on a stage.

Greta's mangled, decomposing face stared at me between the torn shreds of a dark veil. Her dislocated jaw hung from a few strands of flesh. Her nose and ice pockets were crushed and her head was cocked to the side as if her neck had been broken. Even with her deformities, Greta seemed to smile at me as she pulled my screaming friend into the dark abyss of the cellar and tore into his flesh. The next few days were a blur of police investigations, search parties and devastated parents.

The Strauss property was turned into a crime scene and ripped apart. The police discovered the hidden cellar John and I had described. They found the evidence of torture and human neglect in the barred room. The only problem, however, was the lack of bodies. Carrie was never seen again. The only evidence found were his flashlight and the remains of his clothes. They had been ripped into hundreds of pieces. I have a theory that Greta had always been a monster.

And over time, she became uncontrollable. The Strausses attempted to do what they could with her before abandoning their home Eventually, they resorted to locking her away in a makeshift dungeon to rot. But that's the problem with the worst kind of monsters. One very important thing the Strauss family neglected to consider is that some creatures, the ones urban legends are written about, refuse to die. I hadn't meant to kill my sister.

It had been a joke. In life, she never used to listen to me anyway, though as her older brother, I felt I had the authority. But after she died, and in my childish misery and guilt, I'd invited her to come back home. Well, she did. There were only two of us. Our parents thought that we were everything they'd wanted in a family, a boy and a girl. She came out a bit shyer than they wanted, quiet. and a bit odd, at least to me at that age.

But we were perfect side by side in family portraits. Now there is only one of us. We don't take family portraits anymore. It started when I'd found the key to a room. Our bedrooms were across the hall from each other on the second floor of the house. The doors had old-fashioned doornobs that locked with the key, which we didn't have and which I hadn't seen before. Then one day, I found a ring of unmarked keys and a junk drawer in the foyer's side table.

I went around trying them in everything until I'd matched every key to a doll in the house, including our bedrooms. Nearly every key in the ring had a spare, but not all did. The key to my sister's room was one of them that had only one master key. That was when I'd gotten the idea. I pocketed the key to a room and left the rest in the tree. where I'd found them. I waited for the perfect opportunity that evening

when she was in the living room with my parents staring at the TV, as she always did after dinner. I went upstairs on pretense to use the bathroom and quietly locked a bedroom door from the outside. Back downstairs, I acted innocent as we watched TV together. I loitered until my sister yawned, kissed our parents goodnight, and went upstairs.

I waited on the couch, grinned with suspense. It was a good long moment before we heard a shriek. Then the sound of woodbanging. She streaked downstairs in tears asking for help with the door. Father went up with her to see what was the matter. They both came downstairs again, her still in tears and he in confusion. It's locked, he said. Mother got up and retrieved the keys from the side table in the hall. All three of them went upstairs. I waited until they were gone to fall over myself laughing,

pretending to find something funny on TV. By the time I got sleepy and went upstairs, they were still there in a huddle, trying and retrying every key. Of course, none of them fit. Mother suggested my sister sleep in my room until they can call a locksmith in the morning. I was annoyed at this and reduced the key from my pocket, too tired to care about the trouble I'd get into.

It was just a joke, I said in my defence. After we'd gotten a door unlocked, Mother made me return the key to the drawer, saying the first chance she'd got, she'd get it duplicated to avoid this situation again. Naturally, she'd forgotten. That weekend, when our parents were out on an errand, leaving us alone. at home. I'd gotten bored and done it again. My sister knew immediately who had done it. It was a Saturday afternoon, and it was the last time I would see her alive. She flew into the kitchen, chasing me, demanding, I open her door. I pretended to have swallowed the key. By this time,

she was in hysterics and fled the house in tears, as if she could run all the way to mommy and daddy in town. This wasn't the first time she'd done that. She always came right back home before she got to the end of the street. I waited for her to give it up and return. But as the hour turned to two and then three, I began to worry. I waited by the chair closest to the front door and then the window. At some point I gone out and walked around our yard and then the neighbourhood.

but saw no sign of her. I came home with my heart in my throat. I decided to keep waiting instead of calling my parents from the kitchen phone. Ten minutes more, I told myself, then I would. At some point, I must have fallen asleep. The next thing I knew,

it was later than late. My parents were home, shaking me by the shoulders as if they wanted to kill me. The first thing I noticed was that they too, were in tears. My sister had run out

into the road and gotten hit by her car. Our parents had just turned the corner on the way home when they saw the ring of people and the flashing light. She had been found on the road two blocks away from home. Father, then I dared go on my own.

When the ambulance took her away, the sirens were silent. There was no rush. She was dead. My parents had come home to find out whether I was dead too, and I think at that point they wished I was. The first chance I got, I left them crying and hugging each other in the living room. I went upstairs to a room and unlocked the door, and then, just stood there at her empty bed. Her ballerina music box threw a weird shadow on the pillowcase from the moonlight outside a window.

I carried the key in my pocket during her funeral. My parents barely looked at me, and I wouldn't blame them. They had hardly spoken to me in the days since her death, except in harsh little commands to hurry up, get dressed, fix your tie, get in the car. I behaved like the perfect son they'd always wanted, but that did nothing to warm them up to me. Because of their avoidance of me, I managed to find myself alone at some point in the ceremony,

looking into the open casket of my dead sister, cold and pale and dressed up in a ballerina costume. I felt the key burning in my pocket where I kept my hands pocketed and clenched. I brought out the key and went to pat her cold marble hands as if to say goodbye. I'm sorry.

As I did, I took the key under her fingers, folded together over a chest. Please come home, I whispered. I didn't come home. cry then, or after. Mother kept making her promises. She was too grieved to go through my sister's room and put things in order after the funeral.

She promised to do it someday. Just not now. Not now. She only went as far as the stand in the open doorway and glanced in. The way I'd done the night my sister had died. But, invariably, mother would break down into tears and leave,

closing the door behind her. Sometimes she stood there until father took her away. I didn't dare go near her. She repeated this pitiful ritual almost every day, and then every week. She stopped after a couple of months of this. Things edged into a semblance of normalcy. My parents softened up towards me, just enough to allow me to have friends over. I needed someone to talk to.

my friend Keith came over out to school one day I told him about how the previous night I'd awoken in bed hearing the faint sound of my sister's ballerina music box playing in a room across the hall it stopped as soon as I'd fully opened my eyes and sat up I decided it was a dream but the melody will not leave my mind all day at school

I hummed the tune for Keith who had the inane idea that he knew the composer of the song. We fell into a debate about that, and to refresh his memory of the song and proved my point, we went up to a room to retrieve the music box. The door was locked. We peered into the keyhole and found that it was too dark for that time of day. Then I realised why.

There was a key blocking the hole. it had been locked from the inside. Keith saw no significance to this, since I've been too strugged dumb to say anything else to him. I stayed downstairs in the living room, staring wide-eyed at the TV without watching it, waiting for my parents to come home.

I could hardly restrain from calling my mother to hurry home from the grocery store or my father from work. But when they did finally get home, I found I could hardly mention engine anything to them. I stayed quiet all through dinner until it was time for me to go

upstairs to bed. I didn't want to go, but I didn't want to upset my parents further. I stopped outside my door and glanced at hers across the hall. Silent. I didn't dare

try the knob again. It was a Saturday the next day, and I was off school, but I was awoken early by my mother, battering the door to my room. I'd gotten my own key from the drawer and locked my door the previous night, something I rarely did before then. When she'd gotten in, she demanded that I unlocked my sister's door that instant, that I

had no right to. I interrupted and told her I had nothing to do with the door this time. Lies, she shrieked. You and your friend were falling around in the house yesterday when I was not here. I told her that was true. but we never did a thing to my sister's room, and that was the truth. She wouldn't believe me when I said I didn't have the key. I was forced to tell her that I'd left it in my sister's coffin.

She'd gone silent at that. Not because of the implications of what this meant, but because she was transported back to the funeral in her mind. Her eyes filled up, but the tears would not fall. I couldn't tell myself. to bring her that I thought the key was in the house now, on the other side of the door. All she was thinking about, now that she shook herself into reality, was that we couldn't duplicate a key we didn't have. What's more, she decided the door wasn't locked, but merely jammed

by humility or something else. Abed punishment for her for not having opened the door in a while. She decided we would have to call a locksmith that very day. Once she flew this idea by my father, however, he would have none of it. He left his breakfast half eaten at the kitchen table and roared out to the garage to retrieve his toolkit, and roared back in and straight up the stairs, followed by my mother, rolling a rise behind his back as he spewed forth his wounded pride. Gingerly, I hung back in the hall as my father began to play locksmith at my sister's door. With me and mother watching over his shoulder, he tried the door this way and that, pulled and pushed, banged it with precision here and there, and

finally knelt at the door-nob and probed a penlight into the hole. I saw his eyebrows shoot up. There's something blocking the keyhole, he said, confirming what I had seen the other day. It was mid-morning by then. My sister's room had a window facing east. The light should have shown through the door-knop as it did from the gap under the door. but it was dark as night. Through this gap my father slid a sheet of old newspaper along the floor

a good deal of a centre vault to cover as much ground as possible. Then with a thin metal instrument from the screwdriver kit he prodded into the hole until we all heard a thin, distinct thud of metal on the paper on the other side. A dot of light was cleared in the doorknob. My father pulled at the paper carefully. from under the door, and we could see the slight weight of the key keeping the paper from flapping. But then, before it was halfway out, the weight was gone, and the paper came clean away on our side of the door.

Very suddenly, unburdened from its weight, the key was gone. Father had that puzzled look on his face, and he turned a glance to the doorknob. then he got on all fours that peer under the door to see if the key had gotten caught on something or had simply fallen off the paper but of course he saw nothing no movement of shadow across the light no telltale form of a key on the floor for any distance

I knew what had happened of course it had been plucked out from under our very noses mother asked father if he was quite finished playing locksmith so we could call a professional He wasn't ready to give in And as they continued to bicker I left them and went downstairs

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

From within the roof or any outside piping There were no tree branches close enough for a foothold. This side of the house was smooth and unscalable. And as I stared up at a rope and shutters and drawn curtains, the way they had been the last day of a life, I saw that the window panes were intact. Nobody had gotten in from there. Looking carefully and for as long as I could stand,

I detected no movement or light from the dimness behind the curtains. When I went back in, my parents were in the kitchen now, taking a break, it seemed, from trying to break the door open, but not a break from their bickering. They shut up at once almost as soon as I entered, and when I heard it, I shut up too. A great silence descended upon us three, as, from the top of the stairs, we could hear my sister's ballerina music box playing the way it did when the lid was opened. I was frozen, but barely a second later my father dashed up the stairs, eyes wild. My mother called after him in a fright, but then followed him after barely a moment of hesitation. I was drawn upward as well, as though by magnetism, though I wanted to be nowhere near that room. I found my father at the door, one hand on the still, tightly locked door-knob, and the one rapid,

sharply on the wood, calling who's there. No response. My mother had a mouth covered in both hands, suspended between shock and grief. No matter how much they demanded answers from an assumed stranger, as my father did, or changed tack and called my dead sister's name, as my mother did.

Nothing stirred from the other side of the door. The music had stopped by the time I'd gotten to the top of the stairs. It seemed we stood there, holding our breaths for a good half minute or so, before my father stepped back from the door and took my mother's elbow, leading her downstairs. He gestured with his head at me to do the same. Downstairs, they spoke in hushed funeral voices, wondering at what was going on. I couldn't bring myself to say much, and for once my mother showed real concern toward me. She had sit me down at the kitchen table while she got me a glass of apple juice to revive my energy,

afraid I'd faint. I noticed my reflection in the chrome body of the toaster oven, pale as a... I didn't dare say the word, even in my mind. We stay downstairs for the most part. At some point, my father went out to look at the window the same way I'd done and had come back to report to my mother the same things I had. observed. My mother asked again whether we should call a locksmith, but I could see a resolve had dissolved, and so had my father's. He didn't seem all that keen to be the locksmith either.

At dinner, my mother asked me, as if she had just remembered whether I'd really left the only key to my sister's room in a coffin. I nodded my head just once. I was sure I had. but I didn't want to be sure anymore. Mother asked nothing else. Father wondered if calling a priest would be more appropriate and my mother gave him a dirty look. Everyone knew that priests always failed in the movies and besides neither of my parents were believers.

Not in God, not in ghost, not in anything. I wasn't sure they even believed in me when I said the key was buried with my sister. But that lack of belief kept us all suspended in a swirling and torturous meaninglessness, where the only meaning that now presented itself was a dangerous one. They let me sleep in their room that night. This helped my nerve somewhat, though their bedroom was technically right next door to my sisters,

with a wall between it, while mine was directly across the hall from hers. I didn't mind as long as I wasn't alone, I don't know how they managed to get to sleep, or if they were pretending as I was. But at some point during the night, I was lured out of my drifting at the sound of the music box playing, softly as if to itself, down the hall and just on the other side of the wall. The next day, we all gave the room a wide berth and tried not to speak of it. We tried to get on as normally as possible,

but there was something very odd about the house now like we had an evil secret we had to keep from even each other every now and then the music box would start playing from the top of the stairs usually when we were downstairs and never more than a few bars at a time before it stopped again

whenever it did that we would all go quiet instantaneously mother would go white and rigid her eyes filling up and father would reach for a hand and hold it tight. I would go over to sit beside them and father would put an arm around my shoulder. I almost thought this was a good thing

to have that room occupied once more but I couldn't bring myself to be grateful. It was I who had asked the back after all but I dared not confess that part. As soon as the silence returned we would take a few seconds and then carry on as if nothing had happened, but we could not fool each other.

We were shaken. My parents refused to talk outright about how they felt, but I thought I understood, since I felt the same way. Instead of feeling any warmth from my sister's memory, there was only a cold dread, and around a door there was a sense of bitterness that chilled anyone who wondered too. close, even in the humid warmth of day.

We kept this up for the next few days, and no matter how late I tried to dally after school instead of coming straight home, I would always be the first one in. My parents were trying to stay away as long as they could too, but by the middle of the second week of this, my mother decided what it was they had to call. A real estate agent. We... We were going to sell the house and move out, but things had to get worse first. I'd found myself in my pent-up distress,

mentioning something about the door to my friend at school, and Keith invited himself home with me to check it out. I knew my parents would be away from home, and I didn't want to go back alone, so I agreed. I hung back a good few steps when Keith climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. He walked right up to my sister's door As if he hadn't felt the miasma That, at least my parents and I,

had grown stronger every day Keith dried the door As I knew he would And found it locked As I knew he would Then he bent at the waist And peered through the keyhole His other eye squeezed shut for focus

And his whole body Shuffling him side to side A few inches at a time To get a better. to look. I stood across the hall, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. Then I heard a reassuring sound of the front door opening and my mother coming in, calling my name. Before I could answer her, though, Keith jolted back from the door, gagging and clutching his throat.

His face was pale and strangled, his eyes wide and unseeing. He couldn't scream, but I screamed for him. him, and my mother was upstairs in an instant, just in time to see Keith collapse on the floor, writhing and twitching. As my mother rushed to tend to him, I threw a glance at the doorknob. Nothing but a point of light, an utter silence. We had taken Keith to the ER, left him there with his family, and gotten back home in time to tell my father what had happened.

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

Over the next few weeks, we had terrible luck selling the house. The agents we got kept asking about the room and why we wouldn't unlock it, and the few people who showed up to the open house had a bad feeling about that room. They assumed we had something to hide. they were right. No matter how beautifully we had presented the rest of the house, that room poisoned the atmosphere, even though

from a photograph of the second floor, you couldn't quite tell there was anything off about it at all. The house was listed as a three-bedroom space and people expected three bedrooms. My father thought, we should just promise to get the door fixed before they moved in and then just let them do what they would

with whatever they found behind it. but my mother argued with him over the ethics of it all. By this point, my parents were willing to just abandon the house and leave it to some in-laws they were not fond of. They had planned to move into what was supposedly a summer home, but with the idea that we would settle there. It was smaller, less comfortable, and further from school and my father's workplace,

but it didn't matter by then. We only had one goal between us. Get out. The music had started to drive us half mad at night. Sometime during the last week, the music box had broken, and the tiny mechanism began to play just one note over and over again. One key over and over. And then it went quiet again,

so suddenly that the silence was just as loud as anything before or after. To call it music was the call whatever it was on the other side my side, sister. It might have been music at some point, but now it was a mere sliver of what it had been in life. Now it was a hideously shrunken fragment of the hole, distorted and sharpened, so it was no longer recognisable as a part of the original. And it was getting louder and louder, and it appeared to be moving along the walls. My parents' bed, which I slept in with them, was positioned so that our feet were pointing to the wall that divided the master bedroom

from my sisters. That used to comfort me somewhat, knowing that this was the farthest we could get away from it, and from, well, her. But it had gotten so that it seemed the music was seeping into the walls

like a pipered burst and bled into the paper. The paint on the wall seemed to shift in my mind's eye in the half-light. We were unable to fall asleep until dawn And our daylight lives were thrown out of rhythm We stumbled home exhausted and stayed on guard all day Hearing that one key play on and off

Throughout the afternoon and evening And then we stayed Keyed up all night to repeat again the next day We were fairly at the end of our rope My mother insisted we move within a week and drove us like slaves to finish packing up while she saw to the logistics of getting boxes of furniture shipped off. We were even more strung out and exhausted by then.

I must have drifted off that last night before we were to move. Right there on the bare mattress in the master bedroom with nearly all of its contents and cardboard boxes. I woke up to hear the music over my head right beside my ear. I snatched myself away immediately and saw that my parents had done the same. The music, that one demonic key,

was throbbing louder than usual through the opposite wall of my sister's bedroom where our headboard was. The broken note played again and again, travelling and swelling and surrounding us. My parents were up in an instant, scrambling to get dressed and yelling at me to get moving as I sat there frozen.

They had to yell because the music was so loud now, it was impossible the neighbours would remain undisturbed by it. The moving company we hired was scheduled to come by and help us the next morning, but we had to get out right then, at half three in the morning. My father said we would return later to help the movers if they showed up, but for now we were going to a nearby motel with nothing but an over. overnight bag hastily thrown together. We rushed out and piled into the car,

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

our house was silent as anything should be at three in the morning. While my father backed down the driveway, my mother nervously scolded him all the way to watch the mailbox, and I twisted around my seat to look back at the house one more time. We were pulling down east, and I had a clear view of my sister's window from the back of the car. The shutters were still left open, and there was no light from the depths of the room.

which I could clearly see now that the curtains were thrown open and standing there in the gap of the curtains I saw a pale ballerina at the window watching us go When I was a kid

before they put in the Cumberland Gap tunnel there was a horrible and winding road that went over the mountains from Kentucky into Tennessee pretty much straight through the Cumberland Gap National Historical Park I can barely remember it Because I was so young when the tunnel was officially opened

Six or seven I forget But there's one stretch of the old road That my brain won't let me forget Overshadowed by the trees And built into a jut of rock That caused a kink in the road There was a door A normal average

You'd see it on a house door With a little brass knob It always irked me because I was, and still am, very much the type of person who doesn't like not knowing things, and that door became the mystery to end all mysteries. One of the most vivid memories I have about it

is the first time I asked what exactly it was and where it went to, sitting in the back seat of Mom's car while stuck in standstill traffic. While Mom was more concerned about the bumper-to-bumper crunch of cars that couldn't get past a wreck up the way, I was tidily asking about

the door repeatedly like her initial answer of I don't know didn't count other people thought they knew everyone had an idea or a theory or I'd heard somebody talking about knowing somebody who knew someone who'd been in there I heard a dozen different stories from a dozen different people over the course of my childhood it's where they hid munitions for World War II it's where the soldiers hid during the Revolutionary War it was where bootleggers had once hit their stash. It was where Native Americans had lived before they were driven out of the area. It was an entrance into a cave system that was at the park, or where they kept the controls

for things like lights and cameras. I personally liked my own theory that there were Neanderthors inside, who stayed up late making cave paintings of horses, which made as much sense as anything else anyone had told me. In time, though, the tunnel was finished and the old road was destroyed. The door was forgotten, like so many other childhood memories, and I became convinced that I dreamed up the whole thing. It happens. Kids have vivid imaginations and false memories are pretty common. That was, until my best friend decided we were going to have a day of fun at the park. Kayla was my polar opposite, the definition of an early 2000's popular preteen. She liked makeup, boys and Britney Spears, and wasn't much of an outdoorsy type.

Meanwhile, I was obsessed with Digimon and Dirt. We were an unlikely duo whose childhood was spent compromising in weird ways, and the trip to the park was her way of making it up to me for a marathon of pre-teen chick flicks. She knew I wasn't thrilled about Mary Kate and Ashley, so she'd take the dive and go catch tadpoles with me as a sort of concession. Hell, it was a double concession since, having hit the air, age where looks, friends and social etiquette suddenly became to matter, it was pretty obvious that she was becoming more and more hesitant to be seen in public with me. This was probably the reason

why, when we got to the park, she specifically asked to be dropped off at a not so popular entrance to the trail, rather than my favourite starting point on the Iron Furnace Trail. There was less a chance that one of her crushes or school buddies would catch wind of us, not that they'd be hanging out in the woods anyway. Her grandpa wasn't the keenest on this, since he didn't like the idea of us being so far from people, but she managed to convince him by citing that civilization what was literally down the hill from us if something happened. A big hill, sure, but you could technically see the roofs of houses from the road just off the parking lot. He hesitantly agreed and drove away with a sigh, leaving us standing there with a couple of jars

for tadpoles and some well wishes. No sooner than his car disappeared back into the road, did Kayla turn to me, sigh and say, what are we doing now? I had some ideas. I wasn't as familiar with a stretch of trail than the tried and true route at the iron furnace. But I imagine myself some kind of intrepid explorer

and figured that, so long as we stayed on the path, there wasn't anything that could go wrong. I also decided against heading in the direction, that would have likely led me to the familiar territory, based solely in the fact that I'd never been in the opposite direction, I was curious what I'd find. I didn't say anything about this, of course, and just like Kayla think, I knew where we were going, since she didn't seem too invested in our adventure, or concerned about where we ended up. So, off we went. I think it was about 15 minutes in that Kayla started to get the case of the heibi-jee-jeebies.

The woods were denser on the mystery trail I decided to take, and even in the bright spring sun, everything was dark and dreary. It was almost like walking in twilight, and, if you looked up, you could only barely make out the blue sky if the wind caught the trees in just the right way. She nervously tapped her nails along and shuffled after me, biting her lip and occasionally saying something snarky to mask the fact she was terrified of every creek, crunch, and crunch. crash she heard. I was oblivious. I was just excited about a chipmunk I saw. Thirty minutes in and I started to get braver. While Kayla sat on the benches, park marking the trail,

I'd leave out jars with her and merrily go skipping off the beaten path. She'd nervously watch as I disappeared into the shrubs to look for anything interesting, bird feathers, snail shells, cool rocks, and other things that I wasn't legally allowed to take, but would stuff into my pockets anyway. With every new venture into the woods, I gained more and more confidence. I would venture further and further out. If I got too far,

Kayla would yell for me, in sorts usually, about how I was a loser. I was crazy, she hated this, and she wanted to go home. I'd usually follow the sound back to where I began, and, given how far out I was wondering, sometimes the sound of her voice

was the only thing that would guide me to safety. It wasn't a perfect system, but it worked, and it worked right up until it didn't. To this day, I don't know what it was. Did Kayla stop calling because she was mad at me? Did I just mosey too far out to hear her? Was something else at play? I just know that at a particular bend in the trail, I dropped off my jars and treasures with Kayla, pressed out into the bushes,

and began to walk downhill further and further. into the woods on search of something interesting. A part of me knew I was going too far, but I felt this strange compulsion to keep going, like something was calling me from further ahead. So, ahead I went, like a goddamn idiot, stumbling over rocks and getting slapped in the face with branches.

When I hit the bottom of the hill, I realized I was standing at the top of a sharp drop down, a rocky jut about the height of a single-story, house, I was shrouded in darkness from the sheer volume of surrounding trees. If I squinted, though, I could make out what rested at the bottom of the fall, and my eyes widened when I saw fading yellow dashes and darkened asphalt. It was a road. Not just any road, but a pretty pristine road that, aside from some cracks in the cement,

was still completely drivable. but only for a stretch. I awkwardly climbed down the rocky drop to investigate and you could only walk along it for about the length of a football field before it gave way to greenery on the other side. It was just some bizarre slice of the modern age plopped right in the middle of the mountains, somehow immune to nature and time.

I marvelled for a bit before I finally saw the glint of something metallic in the fleeting moment of sunlight. In typical dumb kid fashion, my magpie brain took over and off I went to see what it was that was so shiny. Imagine my surprise when I realised from some yards away that it was a doorknob, just like the one you'd find on a door on your house. Apparently, by some fluke, I'd come out on top of the mystery door from my childhood. I hadn't even noticed it while climbing down to the road, even though it had been right next to me as I scaled and fell down the rocks.

My anxiety spiked as I stared down, since, even with my limited knowledge of direction, I knew I should not have been anywhere near this part of the park. I hadn't been on the Cumberland Gap Road since I was very young, but my gut told me that this should have been miles away from where we started and definitely did. too far for a preteen to walk on their own in the afternoon. I stood and stared at the door for a good long while before I decided that I'd had enough adventuring for the day. Despite the childhood curiosity I had about what was inside,

the whole situation reeked of fish, and my stomach turned at the thought of trying to open it. Inhaling deeply, I opted to instead scramble back up from where I came and play Marco Polo with myself until I heard Kayla respond. If I headed directly left of the outcropping over the door and just kept walking straight, then I was bound to find my way back to...

Knock, knock, knock, knock. My thoughts froze no sooner than I found a foothold in the stone. Three slow, steady knocks, thundered from the other side of the door. My heart found its way to my throat, but my eyes couldn't find their way to the door. My brain was torn as to whether I should look or not. Tap, knock, knock, tap. There was a rhythm to it.

Like a song, or, and I'm going to feel dumb admitting this, the telegraph scene from Balto. I know that sounds absolutely stupid, but as a kid, that was my only real exposure to the idea of Morse code or anything similar. In a moment of panic, I stood there, frozen, trying to see if my exposure to a 90s cartoon movie had turned me into an expert. Tap.

Hell, I didn't even know if it was Moss Code. The more I stood there, the more it started sounding like somebody just trying to get out of a room after they'd locked themselves inside. Knock, tap. I stumbled at the force of the knock and let out a yelp. Everything fell silent. even the birds in the trees frozen in my ass on the road

in the middle of the woods I gorked at the door tears began to well in my eyes this was some scary tales that telling the dark stuff and I was not having it hello a voice

small and familiar warpled from the other side rapid tapping accompanied it like dog claws skittering across the linoleum floor. Standing up and brushing my butt off, I started trying to clamber up the rocks again. Hello, Erin?

The voice knew my name. And it hit me like a ton of bricks, that the reason it sounded familiar is that it sounded like Kayla. The cadence was all wrong, though, like listening to a parrot talk. The door, or whatever was on the other side of it, mastered the sound, but not the method.

Erin, where did you go? You went so far, I looked for you. Foothold found, I hoisted myself up, using tree roots and rocks and anything that had support my weight. A part of me was hurt to leave Kayla behind, but I couldn't get over the weird rhythm of its speech. Besides, there was no way that she could have gotten ahead of me, right?

There's no way she'd even come out into the woods, right? She was scared of the actual trail, let alone the wilderness beyond it. Erin, you left. You went so far in. Erin, where did you go? Erin, I'm scared. It's dark. Erin, Erin?

I hit the top of the incline and pulled myself up, panting and dirty with sore palms and mud in my mouth. Every muscle in my body trembled from a mixture of exhaustion and fear, and I lingered a bit too long, overlooking the door. It took me a moment to realise the door had stopped talking, and it took me an even longer moment to realize the tapping had stopped. However, it took me no time at all to realize that the sound of creaking hinges was probably a bad sign. Erin

Are you there Erin? The voice was clearer now And when I squinted down onto the dark road I saw the vaguest hint of a silhouette slinking out of a crack in the door It was humanoid I guess But not human

There were too many odd angles And thin extremities to count it as human Granted I also didn't take too much time to try figure out what it was, since I'd seen enough horror movies to know that the ones who gawk the longest die first. I did catch a glimpse of it whipping around to look at me, oversized poppy-dug eyes watching as I vanished into the woods, first quietly, and then with increasing volume as I heard it scampering after me. Shrieking like a banshee, I ripped through the underbrush and screamed Kaila's name at the top of my lungs.

I waited for her to yell back to me, but I only heard a voice coming from behind me, desperate and broken. Erin, it's dark, I'm scared. It's dark, Erin. Erin, you went too far. I can't see you. Want to go home?

Erin? My lungs burned as I pushed myself up ill, faster and harder than a kid should ever have to go. My heart thumped against my eardrums, and my legs felt. like jelly underneath me. Every time I stumbled, I imagined that thing gaining on me and barely stopped to gauge how hurt I was

before scrambling off again. Sometimes I made it a good ways on all fours, hunched over and trying to use my arms to pull myself ahead when my legs threatened to give out. And the whole time, the chorus of, Erin, Erin, chimed behind me, beside me, above me. I just kept screaming out of a cage, hoping that she'd hear my panic and answer me back.

In my heart, I knew I could tell the difference between her and that thing, since she'd actually sound like a human being. At first, that's what I told myself, as I recklessly tore my way ahead. As I crested the hill, I found myself going downhill again, and I let gravity carry me the rest of the way. The voice behind me became more distant the faster I moved, quieter and quieter, as if fading,

from existence itself, and I thought I would too, when my feet finally went completely numb, and I fell hard over a tree root. I felt my nose pop and the world's spin as I tumbled down and down, finally coming to rest with a grunt on soft dirt that was strangely devoid of leaves. I opened one eye and saw the edge of a wooden bench. On top of it was a couple of jars full of snail shells and bird feathers. Standing next to it, staring at me in horror, was Kayla. She immediately fell down next to me in a flurry of,

Oh my God, and are you okay? I was pretty sure God had abandoned me and I was far from okay. So I normally stared at her until I realised I hadn't broken any bones and could probably get up. She shakily hoisted me to my feet and began to fuss over my nose. It was bloody My clothes They were a mess And my hair

It was full of leaves She pointed at fresh bruises and cuts And asked what I'd done And I was too shell-shocked to answer As I'd from some paranoid glances Over my shoulder Oh my God Erin Erin

You went so far out And I couldn't see you anymore It was dark I was scared I've just been yelling for you this whole time How did you end up coming from uphill? Are you okay? I was so scared.

Oh my God, I wanted to go look for you, but what if we both got lost? Oh my God, let's go home. Let's go home. I want to go home. This is stupid. We left the jars. She led the way back. The half-hour hike felt like an eternity, but not nearly as long as the amount of time we sat on the benches in the parking lot,

waiting for a ride to come get us. We didn't really talk and, if we did, I don't really remember what was said. I can easily imagine her, ranting to the side of my head out of worry and anger, because that's how she was, and it would have been completely justified. But my mind was too fixated on the door, the thing, my pulse, how much I didn't want to sit with my back to the woods, but at the same time, I didn't want to worry, Kayla, by making her think something was more wrong then, I'm an idiot who fell down a hill.

I just stared, pointlessly ahead, until I saw her grandpa pull up. Of course, he wasn't happy with either of us. We should have taken the iron furnace trail. I shouldn't have gone wandering into the woods. My mom was going to kill him for not watching us. I ignored most of it because I had more important things to worry about, and it was a relatively quiet ride back home. But as I got out of the car in front of my house

Kayla grabbed my wrist to keep me from wandering too far Out of earshot of her grandpa whispering like a town gossip She asked me why I'd been messing with her while I was in the woods I told her I hadn't Her face went pale Oh she said Because it sounded like you

Sort of They were saying they had something neat to show me down the hill, said they'd found a door in the mountain. Sticks and stones may break my bones if these words deign to haunt me. That twisted little rhyme has lurked in this town for as long as anyone can remember. Most say it's just the twisted ramblings of a previous generation of small-town folk with poor memory, warping the words of Kingfort or Redford. But the old-timers, those gnarled old geysers and hags that sit on their porch rockers waiting for death,

Swear on God that those are the real words. The original verse is stolen from the law of this sleepy antique town. The children on the battered playground equipment outside the dilapidated schoolhouse gleefully shout the words as they run through their games, just as their parents did, just as their grandparents did before. Just as I did, barely more than a decade ago. Averyville is an old and forgotten place, originally founded in 1826 and on the decline ever since

as the thick forest around it were drained of their bounties and the hills mine dry of silver and oil. The ragged town is far past the point where such a place can be called quaint. More apt descriptors such as rundown and depressing are more often used. No one not born here stays in Aviville for long. Travelers passing through

might stop by the gas station or convenience store, neither of which have seen any kind of upgrade since the 1950s, but they're soon speeding back towards the interstate. I've never seen anyone stay more than one night at the decrepit old motel, and certainly never more than one car in the guest lot at a time. Though I was born here, delivered in the doctor's office's single medical suite, I was one of the lucky few who escaped the apathetic hold of Aviville, solid schooling and, and a doctor's office. An interest beyond the day-to-day monotony that plagued my fellow classmates earned me a college scholarship, a rare ticket out of the isolated and sleepy town which I quickly accepted.

I had broken free, pursuing a higher education and heights beyond anything my peers back home could ever hope to accomplish. I earned a degree, a career, and home in a lively city far away. But Averyville has its way to drag me back. I had received a call from Dr. Friedman only a handful of weeks ago. The shaky voice of the man who had delivered me into this world greeting me over the phone. Static hissed through our entire conversation. Averyville's ancient telephone wires apparently just as decrepit as when I had grown up there. The kind old doctor had given those fateful words.

It's your mother, Alex. She's taken a turn. He had sighed. It won't be long now. She needs you here. And so, I took a leave of absence from the firm, dropped my cat off at the home of a most willing acquaintance, and, with my affairs in order,

I had made the pilgrimage back to my hometown, the pit of missed potential and apathetic misery that had swallowed my friends and family. I've been living with and caring for my dying mother for just under a month now. the new head of the home I had once grown up in. My mother was never a particularly lively woman, but now she had grown to look positively wasted.

She was dreadfully thin, the smallest movements, causing her gaunt limbs to shake with the effort. Her hair was thin and patchy, the translucent and spotted skin of her scalp visible under the wisps of white. Her glassy and wet eyes always stared blankly forward at the television

I had brought into a room. The ravages of dementia had robbed her of nearly all understanding. The doctor was right. It was only a matter of time. We had never been particularly close, my mother and I. But this experience had strained

what little care I had for her. Honestly, I began to fear that, perhaps I hated her. The next door neighbour, a kind middle-aged woman named Mrs. Peterson, would occasionally take, my place in the home to allow me at least a few hours of respite from the work of caring for my mother. This was one such time, a brief chance to escape the dismal life of caring for a dying parent

too far gone to even appreciate what you're doing for them. I found myself in the town's only diner, lounging in a battered booth. Across the greasy table from me sat Chris Vettors, one of the best friends I made in high school. Unlike me, he had never been able to escape this place. When I had called him up from my mother's house, he was ecstatic to hear I was back in town. We had met at the diner a couple times over the month I'd been here. I stared in dull amazement as he ate, finishing his burger in barely three bites. Jesus, you know I've been watching you eat since we were 13, and I still can't believe you

haven't choked a death on a chicken bone or something. Chris snorted through a mouth full of fries Hey man Gonna take a lot more than a burger to take me down I let out a derisive chuckle I mean you say that But how many heart attacks is your old man on now Six

Chris swallowed his food before laughing Pointing a ketchup splotched finger my way Whoa sticks and stones man Sticks and stones Memories washed back over me It was the first time I had been reminded of the old playground rhyme since I'd left town all those years ago, probably longer. The cold and distant dread I had felt as a child,

hearing those words tingled somewhere deep in my gut. Chris noticed the twitch of dark expression as it flashed across my face. Oh, damn, that's right. He never did like that old rhyme. Uh, I don't know. It's not that I don't like it. I just never quite understood it. Seemed like the old-time

is superstitious crap to me. Chris leaned back in the cracked red leather of the booth. Fair enough, but those golden oldies certainly cling to it. I don't know anyone in town who wasn't taught the rhyme by their grandparents. He paused, mid-thought,

to take a swig of flat coke from his glass. And, I mean, you can't forget about Janney and what they say happened to her. I felt my face flush with a spark of angry annoyance Janney Moore It was senior year man Why the hell do all you people still talk

about Janney like that? I leaned into my words Have you ever met her piece of crap dad Her deadbeat mom? Janie ran and got the hell out of this town Just like me Chris's mood visibly darkened Look Alex

Think what you want But most everyone around here knows the story And what the hell do you mean You people you were born here too, you know. I sighed. Hey, you're right. I'm sorry.

I have no right to be an ass. Taking care of mom has just been crushing, you know. I swear she's killing me, just as much as the sickness is killing her. Chris tilted his head, and gave a sympathetic half-smile. He had always been understanding. It just always rubbed to me the wrong way

when people talked about Janie like that. That something came for her. She bailed, man. ran for a better life, you know. I hear you. The people in this town are so convinced, though, always talking about the old stories. People have always trusted, too,

not just the seen-or-not cases. I mean, damn, Sheriff Dougal, Principal Green, and Mrs. Hayden, all say they saw what came for journey that night, and I don't think the three of them have ever told a lie in their lives. I frowned again,

upset that my burger was cooling into the concealed ball of grease as the conversation took this dark turn. Whatever, man, not convincing. The whole town was in a panic after journey disappeared. Group hysteria does crazy things to people's brains. Mrs Hayden didn't step forward with a story until the sheriff's report was published.

She probably just convinced herself she had seen something that night. And the old times have been shoving stories down her throat since we were born. Of course her head start to manufacture stuff like this. I get where you're coming from. I really do. Chris retorted, but every old story is rooted in something, something true.

He shrugged and finished off his coke, almost choking as the ice jammed at the bottom of his glass slid free. I laughed, shaking my head. You really believe that? You really think that words can choose to be haunted? That Janie chewed out of dirtbag parents and something heard her, came for her? B.S. Man.

That's fairy tale crap. Stories to keep kids from backtalkie. their parents. Hey, I just know what people say. Chris quietly responded, eyeing my untouched burger. Without a word, I pushed a plate across to him. God, you're the best, he said with a grin. Sticks and stones will find your home, not trees or seas will hide you. It had been six scrawling days since the meal at the diner, six days of brutal work alone in my childhood home. last six days of my mother's life. When the big drop came, it came fast.

She couldn't eat, couldn't drink. I had to spoon what little thin soup I could into a drooling, slack-jawed mouth. The smell was awful, though I bathed her every single day, hoisting her tiny and decrepit form into the shallow tub, where there was a constant stench of sickness and bodily waste. It was as if the pall of death. was oozing from a pause.

The reek of her sickness clung to everything, no matter how much I cleaned. Her mind had left her as well. The woman I cared for in the house those final days was no longer my mother. As dementia and fever boiled in her head, she grew cruel, like a cornered animal, too weak to strike out. She spent what little energy she had, slowing vicious insult in my direction. Her bloodshot eyes tinged with cold malice Don't you touch me you cretan Get your father, he has a belt

Why are you born? Useless child Who are you? Tell me who you are You stupid piece of God damn you to hell For six days I endured such abuse My mother and I had never been particularly close Her cold and distant demeanour ensured I hadn't become particularly attached

But her words cut deep anyway More than once I had to lurch from her bedside to slump in the hallway, unable to hold back the tears any longer. On the sixth and final day, my mother truly unleashed her animal hate. You're killing me, you little... God, you always were an evil little ass. The tears came too fast to leave the room today. She continued to spit her ranted words as the air around us grew thick, with a smell of death. I should have smothered you in the crib,

never wanted you anyway. I couldn't stand it any longer. I jolted to my feet, bringing an accusatory finger mere inches from my dying mother's face. Don't say another goddamn word, Mom. The title tasted like acid on my tongue as my hate for her swelled.

I'm tired of this. Just die already. Her face went slack then. The malice and gregers. color draining away in an instant. She turned her glassy eyes to stare directly into my gaze as my hand started to quiver. She spoke in a gentle, quiet way, almost reflective. I said what I said, you said what you said. Sticks and stones may break my bones if these words deign to haunt me.

And then she fell silent. eyes blank and unseeing. She slumped down into the bed. Her tiny and disease ravaged frame like a broken doll or puppet with its strings cut. Her throat rattled one final, weak exhalation. She... She was gone.

Dr. Friedman and Sheriff Dougal arrived about half an hour after I called them. Two men who I had considered old even as a child. They stood on the porch as I entered the door, hats clasped and gnarled hands out of respect for the dead. The rickety old van they used as an ambulance waited in the drive, engine thrumming in the darkness that had fallen. We exchanged quiet words of grief and sympathy, and they took my mother away. I sat in the living room late into the night. The world around me choked by silence.

What did she mean? Why would she say that damn wrong? rhyme. Questions pounded inside my skull as I stared out the window into the wind-warked pines beyond the yard, the dark shapes dancing in the night. Avaryville was always different after nightfall, the outskirts of town hemmed in by black walls of forest and the buzzing chatter of the nocturnal world. The streets themselves were shade labyrinths lit by dim yellow street lights, dully glowing glass-topped antiquities that flickered in the wind. Narrow homes loomed pale in the night. Decrepit architecture of generations past

like hazy ghosts on the edge of the light. Sighing, with growing exhaustion, I rose to my feet and walked to the front door. With a twist, I locked the deadbolt and moved to the large landscape window across the room that looked out from the living room and into the yard and street beyond. I reached up and began to yank at the drapes,

preparing to close out the night. my heart stopped in my chest and my blood ran cold as ice. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, an incessant itch of mortal danger. Something was walking down the street towards downtown. I only caught the briefest glimpse, movement in the dim light of a solitary street lamp. Surely I hadn't actually seen anything. A pale limb, a leg perhaps, swinging out of the light. It had been so long and thin, like a stroke of a white pen.

But I had seen it, bending and stepping out along the street. No, no way. I stepped back from the window, shaking the sleep from my head. Get a grip, Alex. You just had a hell of a day. Your mother passed away. You're exhausted. Take it easy, all right?

Yeah, exhausted and seeing things. that's what it had to be. Shakily, I finished closing the drapes and collapsed onto the couch. Sleep overtook me, plagued with dreams of thin limbs, chalky skin, and the impassive stare

of an apex predator. Sticks and stones will take a prize. No hurried flight can save you. I awoke with a sudden jolt, sunlight breaching the thin gap between the drapes. The horrid wrapping above the door sounded again, stealing the last of the drowsiness from my mind.

I opened the door to the time-weathered face of Sheriff Dougal. A grimace of concern under his bushy white moustache. He took his cap in his hand as he started to speak. Alex, may I step inside?

It's about your mother. We sat across the dining room table from one another, separated by a vase of wilted flowers and some ragged old doilies. Finally, I broke the silence. What do you mean she's gone? Like you guys moved her to the morgue in Braxton?

The sheriff shook her head. What I mean is she's gone, Alex. I don't know what to say. We took her to the morgue in the basement of the doctor's office last night, and when he and the mortician opened up the door this morning, she wasn't there anymore. Just furnished. All do respect, Dugel.

But what the hell do you mean? Someone stole my dead mother. that she got up and walked away? Huh, Sheriff? I couldn't contain my frustration. Sheriff Dougaldralled in his slow manner of speech. I don't know, Alex. You'd know I wouldn't be lying to you.

You've known me too long for that. He sighed, defeatedly. No signs of a breaking, nothing else stolen or broken. Just your mother gone missing. Doors were still locked when Doc Freeman got back this morning. I dropped my head into my hands, nearly shaking with anger and confusion.

It didn't make any sense. How was she acting before she passed? Was she angry? The sheriff's sudden question made my stomach twisted knots. Excuse me? But your mother, was she acting like herself before she passed away? What does this have to do with anything? Sometimes people change at the end.

Say things. Did she say things, Alex? My face flushed red as I instinctively bared my teeth. Jesus, you too, her? You're talking about the rhyme? Like what happened with... Janie Moore? Yeah.

Dougal sighed as he leaned back into his chair. A lot like that case, Alex. No way. Janie bailed out of this hellhole. One of the few people around here smart enough to get out what they still could. if I hear one more damn story about her Did you say things back to your mother? What?

When she changed in the end, did you say things back to her? What does that have to do with anything? So you did. What kind of question is that? I see heathed across the table. The sheriff's face, impassive, under-thinking eyes. So you did, all right.

He said, standing from his chair, and collecting his cap from the table beside. him. I'll let you know if any more information comes out about your mother. Yeah, sure. Get out of here into your job, doggle. I spat as I followed him to the door. As he stepped out onto the porch, he turned back to me. I don't mean to be insensitive, but I just hope that this is some weirdo with a key to the morgue. For your sake, as he turned and walked towards his squad car, I rolled my eyes. a petulant and juvenile act of impotent defiance.

I shoved the door closed, catching the sheriff from watching a short burst under his breath. I couldn't hear the words, but I didn't need to. I slumped back onto the couch, mind contorting to contend with all that had transpired. Sticks and stones, a spiteful foe. He takes more if you flee him. Chris came by my house later in the day. having snatched a bag of takeout from the diner on his way over after work. I had called him not too long after the sheriff had left

and he was more than willing to come keep me company after a shift at the run-down old mill. We hadn't talked much, sitting in tent silence as evening came and passed. As the sun began to dip behind the pines, I turned to my friend. I don't get it, man. Why is this happening? Who would do something like that? "'Steel a corpse.' "'Christ sniffed, pausing for a moment before responding. "'There are a lot of freaks out in the world. "'Bad people.

"'It's just—' "'He trailed off again. "'It's just what? "'It's Averyville. "'People talk, you know. "'Talk about the old stories. "'Talk about what happened to Janie. "'What happened to your mom?

"'He saw the tired, exasperated look fall across my face. "'Not that they mean anything by it. it's just talk, just the old time is talking. I let slip a frustrated sigh, too tired to be angry anymore. Damn, man, should have known. We had always moved quick in this town. Chris raised his eyebrow in a wry agreement. So, what are they saying?

I finally asked, already knowing what he was going to say. He stooped forward on the couch, fidgeting his half-empty beer-bubed. bottle, obviously uncomfortable. Just, uh, you know, it came and took her. Uh, sticks and stones, like the rhyme. I snorted in Derison. Yeah, what a load of crap. Mr. Daring down at the diner says he saw something last night.

Mrs. Bormann swear she saw it walking down the street towards town. Weird stuff, man. My chest gripped tight as he said that. The memory. of a thin white limb, just out of view, brought screaming back to the front of my mind. What? What did she say about it? Ah, you know, just something walking down the street.

I mean, she's old, probably just half remembering what Principal Green described, back when Jenny went missing, you know. I could tell he was holding back how he really felt, being tender around my beliefs about Averyville's old law. I could tell. He was scared. And truth to be told, so was I. I didn't know what I had seen, what I really believed.

We sat in contemplative silence for a few long minutes. Both of us struggling against what we held as truth and the strangeness that had seeped into our lives. Night had fallen in earnest at this point. The windows only lit by the dim lamppost across the street, its bending L-curve standing alone on the sidewalk. The rest of the world was swallowed by the blackness of a starless night and the bows of the pines.

Chris quietly nursed down the rest of his beer as I stared towards the big front window, lost deep in thought. The wind washed through the trees, whistling down the street and causing the street light to gently rock back and forth, almost hypnotically. A narrow, pale face peaked up. from behind the street lamp at the end of the L curve. My scream caught to my throat,

strangled by shock and disbelief as to what I was seeing. Something behind the post stood up, knowing it had been spotted. It straightened up from its previous position, matching the silhouette of the street light, rising to a standing height taller than the utility post it hit behind. Unnaturally thin, impossibly so.

a thing two stories tall, thin enough to hide behind a light pole. It stepped out from its hiding place on stick-thin legs. A human form stretched beyond the creative vision of any sane god. With a jointless, awkward gate, it stepped from where it stood, pale flesh disappearing into the blackness beyond the dim lamp. Shocked, I slowly turned back to Chris. He was frozen next to me on the couch. His eyes locked on the window.

He muttered a name under his breath. A dull, groaning creek, pressed in from somewhere in the old house, a testing pressure on an external wall. Chris and I jolted upward, catching each other's terrified glances. The slow creaking sounded again, from somewhere else outside the building. Then the house fell silent. Chris and I stood, stock still.

holding our breath as the quiet coiled in around us. From upstairs, we heard it. A faint, rusted rattle as one of the antique window clasps ground open. We got a go, man!

Chris hissed, barely moving as he listened to the quiet clamoring above us. No, no, this isn't real. It's not. It's not. I snatched up an empty beer bottle from the table in front of me. Screw this, screw this.

I took off towards the staircase, brandishing my chosen weapon, dashing up the stairs three at a time. I heard Chris's shouted protest, but I had already made up my mind. I skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs, eyes straining against the darkness of the hallway that stretched beyond me. Ahead to my right was the door to my childhood bedroom, shut tight. To my left, the narrow area. alcove that held the home's tiny washer and dryer, and straight ahead the open door to my parent's room, the room in which my mother had died. The door to that room sat open. Beyond the frame, I could see the window, open, and with the white curtains on either side of it billowing in the

wind like manic spectres. Beyond the whistle of wind, the hall was silent as death. I held the above my head, preparing to smash it over the head of anything I encountered. I crept slowly forward, eyes locked on the open doorway before me. My bare feet caused the old houses floorboards the creek with an art protest as I made my way, silently cursing the groaning noise. After an agonizingly slow advance, I reached the doorway, steadying myself on the frame with my free hand. Every step I took felt as if it would be a little.

my last, as if whatever I'd seen outside would lash out from the darkness to strike me down. God, was it even real? It had been so quick, so ethereal. Group hysteria, right? Chris and I were just seeing things. I couldn't tell anymore. The wing gusted, sending the curtains billowing towards me in waves of undulating fabric and shocking me from my thoughts. Heart racing in eyes wide, I slowly realized there was nothing in the room. No ghosts, no ghouls, no nothing from an old schoolyard rhyme. Sighing with relief, I turned back to face the hall in time to see Chris cresting the stairs, joining me on the second floor.

He spoke as he made his way towards me. Damn man, is there anything back there? His voice was shaky, with barely concealed terror. No, nothing, and replied as he continued down the hall. Nothing at all. Damn, man, damn, can we just get out of here? It doesn't feel right. Feels like the night Johnny disappeared.

It feels like he never got to finish his sentence. With jerking movements, fast and silent, a spasming flesh, something emerged from the partially ajar hatch on the dryer. It unfurled narrow, lashing. limbs and its pale, gaunt body from within the tiny space, looping outward jointly like a filling hose or spilled innards. A leg emerged, then a shoulder, an arm, a hand, its white worm-like meat spilling out into the hall. It was so, so very thin, absurdly so, yet so tall that as it emerged from its hiding place, its wiry form filled the hall like scrolling lines.

So tall, my mind arched with the task of comprehending how it had contorted itself into such a tiny opening. Only the limbs of the thing gave any indication that this twisted mass of unfolding something was in any way humanoid. Arms and legs alike ended in hands, bearing fingers, as long as my legs that spasmed and twitched like the limbs of a fly-trap in a web. Its head emerged, turning to face me with a blank, predatory stare. Its mouth was a wide, lipless slit, held tightly shut. Its eyes were black, glassy orbs, white set in its wormy visage, wet with mucus and rolling in its skull. It opened his mouth as it saw me,

revealing a yawning black moor, surrounded by blacken gums, from which jotted jagged, nub-like teeth. The thing lurched out into the hallway, faster than either of us could have imagined such a thing could ever move, unfurling and unfolding into a mess of bent limbs and white flesh between Chris and I. I let out a shocked scream, terror and adrenaline, overtaking all rational thought. Chris stood stock still and gagging on his breath, shocked into an action. Instinct overtook me and I turned towards the room behind me, dashing for the open window.

I heard the thing slithering one of its bizarre limbs snaking towards me, me, pale meat, creaking and stretching out to take me into its clutches. I burst through the open window, tender-like fingers caressing the back of my neck, as I narrowly dodged what would have been certain death. As I rolled and bounced along the roof of the porch, I caught a glimpse back through the window. As the thing turned away from me as I escaped it, and it fixed its stare back down the hall towards Chris. One lass hard bounce

And I was plummeting over the edge My weight crashing into the rusted gutter And tearing it free I hit the ground heavily Landing hard on my back And ripping the air from my lungs Just as blackness overtook me I heard Chris start to scream

I was only out for a few minutes at most Drifting from traumatic Unconsciousness to dizzy awareness as my body urged itself back into action. As I came to, I found myself where I had fallen, lying in my back among the grass of the front yard. I watched through hazy eyes, blurred by tears and pain, as the thing walked past me towards the street.

It towered above me, lurching forward on thin limbs. As it passed, it looked down at me with its passive, staring face in little more than a disinterested. a very sad glance. Then, I saw its stomach, no longer narrow and pale like the rest of its body, but instead distended and deep red like an overfed tick. From within came an awful, slow grinding noise

like the shifting of wet gravel in a slow motion blender, the sound of what could have only been shredding flesh and splintering bone. Occasionally a shape would press weakly out against the translucent crimson skin. The desperate, broken limbs and contorted face of my dying friend as the thing's innards took him apart. The thing stepped beyond me, long legs like pale cable, carrying its stride far out into the dimly lit street. Sticks and stones looked away from me as it went, disappearing into the darkness beyond the streetlight. As the dead weight of silence pressed in all around me, oppressive on my aching and fallen body, I succumbed once again to the blackness.

It was the advertisement's outright simplicity that caught my attention. Revolutionized science, earned $5,000 call us now. I wish I could say I didn't know why I called them. I wish I could say it was some act of God or deception that drove me into their wish I was. waiting arms. But that would be a lie. The truth is, I called them because I needed the money, because I had gotten laid off at the publishing company I worked at, and I was having trouble finding steady work, because I was months behind on rent and facing my second eviction notice, because I didn't want to be a failure. I called them for selfish reasons.

Who are they? I'm not exactly sure. In retrospect, their obvious obfuscation of their identity should have been a red flag to me but at the same time their requests seemed too interesting their reward too vital for me to risk losing the chance to help them my best guess

is that they're a group of private researchers that are funded by some supercooperation they must be otherwise there was no way they could have been able to pay for the machine they showed me the machine the first time I met with them I was kept in a cavernous room in the basement of a five-story office building. It was a work in progress at the time.

They were still connecting pipes and soldering wires. But even in an unfinished state, it looked truly magnificent. Have you ever heard of a sensory deprivation chamber? I had. In fact, I had actually been inside one before when I was in college. Back then, I was on a real hippie-dippy spiritual journey. You know, meditating a lot, experimenting with psychedelic drugs, primarily magic mushrooms. At some point along that journey, I felt motivated to spend an hour of my life and $60

of my student loans inside a sensory deprivation chamber at the local spa. Your standard sensory deprivation chamber is a large metal tank filled with about a foot of salt water. You step in and float in the water. Then someone, a spa attendant in my case, closes off the tank so it's completely dark. With your vision obscured and your body suspended in the water, it's supposed to feel like you no longer have your two primary senses. Depending on who you ask,

this is supposed to be relaxing, enhancing your creative process, allow you to reach higher consciousnesses, hallucinate, or maybe gain magic powers. My experience with the chamber in college was fairly lackluster. I remember that the water was too frigid,

and the salt made my skin itch. It was difficult to concentrate on meditating or channeling my inner chakra or whatever the spa had promised. Truthfully, I did always wonder what it would have been like to get in one of those things while tripping on some magic mushrooms.

But I never had the opportunity. This sensory deprivation chamber didn't look anything like the one I used in college. This chamber looked like a vivisected suit of medieval armor strewn across a large metal table. Thousands of tubes and wires connected to the metal body were just about three times larger than my own body.

The head, or helmet of the chamber, was colossal and round, with big brass pipes running out of its crown into the tiled floor beneath it. On the walls surrounding the chamber were 50 or 60 computer screens, 20 or so server boxes and various iterations of medical equipment that I couldn't name if I tried. It dawns on me now that the utility bills and computers alone for the machines must have been many tens of times higher than the measly $5,000 they offered me, not to mention the salaries of the dozens of Labcoat-clad scientists manning those computer screens. Again, perhaps they should have raised alarm bells, but I ignored it with a focused ignorance of a man who was on the brink of homelessness. The man who showed me the machine told me his name was Dr. Mnason. He was a wrinkled, balding man with a clean shave and focused eyes of blue. When I saw him, he was always clad in blue scrubs and a clean white lab coat. Dr. Mnason was the primary liaison for my involvement on the project.

He explained the machine's purpose, brought me the necessary waivers and answered all my questions. Questions like, so what exactly am I meant to do? We want you to remain in our sensory deprivation chamber for three days. I'm sure my expression betrayed my sense of shock. Three days? Is that... I mean, will that kill me? You probably would still be alive after three days in pure isolation, though you would likely

be gravely ill and suffering from immense dehydration. Regardless, the machine will hydrate feed and otherwise sustain you during the experiments, so there is no risk of bodily harm. Dr. Manassan went on to explain how the machine worked. In your standard deprivation chamber, the occupant is deprived of their sense of sight, feeling, and to a lesser extent, hearing. This deprivation, this process of shutting the outside world out from the occupant's mind, decreases the burden on their brain. Thus, the occupant's mind is free to wonder more freely, free to think more creatively, to undergo a deeper state of thinking, to meditate and so on. But there is a problem with standard sensory deprivation chambers.

Although the brain is freed from most external stimuli, the visual and auditory, the brain will continue to be burdened by internal stimuli. That is to say, the brain is still very aware of its own carrier, the human body. The brain will still react to the hunger and thirst of the vessel that carries it. It will still process both the need to and the action of urination and defecation. These internal interruptions go on and on, but the point is that standard sensory deprivation chambers cannot truly be said to deprive the occupants of their senses. This machine is not your standard sensory deprivation chamber. Even a cursory glance at the machine made clear what the doctor meant.

Inside of the exoskeleton portion of the machine is lined with a soft rubber that would acclimate to maintain the exact temperature of human skin. The tubes and wires control and regulate a wide variety of bodily functions. Through these tubes, the body is automatically fed and hydrated. The unsavory functions of the body are handled with a catheter and other series of tubes. A respirator automates breathing and regulates saliva production. Even the body's natural sense of touch is completely removed while in the machine. This IV cord injects a numbing solution into the bloodstream that completely shuts off all feeling. The numbing agent is the most critical asset of our century deprivation process.

The list went on and on. It became clear that they had truly accounted for everything. Even for me, I was one of hundreds of applicants to be part of the experiment. For the first time in my life, I was the first round draft pick. The scientist explained to me that I had been chosen for three reasons. number one I had no prior history of mental or physical illness that would make my experience in the chamber subject to

quote intervening variables their words not mine number two my height and weight were close matches for the machine's original shape although the legs will have to be length of never so slightly you are by far the closest match to our initial design they told me and number three

the most critical There was nothing happening outside of that chamber that would lead to an early termination of the experiment. I had no significant other, no job, no living family members, not even a house plan to take care of. They could breathe easy, knowing that I would remain peacefully within their contraption for the entire length of the experiment. Number three was important to the scientists. They had specifically designed the machine to allow for three full days of isolation. If the machine's process had to be interrupted early, it would take them a month to reset the machine and run the experiment again. Unfortunately, reason number three also meant there was nobody to come looking for me.

The intake process was long and detailed. I signed what felt like hundreds of liability waivers. I listened to warning after warning about the potential side effects. Although it is apparent you have a clean bill of health, you should be aware. the isolation process may be taxing on you, our preliminary research suggests that disassociation, audio and visual hallucinations, depression, time dilation, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and other neurosis are potential effects. However, we believe such effects to be unlikely. They had given me several weeks to prepare for the experiment. My only requirement during that time was that I didn't

substantially change my body weight or somehow developed bipolar disorder. Somehow, I managed. I spent those few weeks living normally, watching movies, applying for jobs, getting rejected for those jobs, and reading a few books. When the day came, I was nervous,

despite Dr Manassan's efforts to prepare me. The process will come in stages. At first, you may endure a mild state of stress. We anticipate that soon after, you will drift into a moderate state of euphoria for the remainder of the process. You'll be signalled a few minutes before the experiment is over by a short audio queue.

This way, you will emerge from your state of century deprivation slowly and be able to reaclimate without any risk of shock. He played the audio cue for me, which was a short, musical clip of bells ringing. Then, with little ceremony or deliberation, I was asked to remove my clothing and climb inside the machine. As I lay down inside the exoskeleton, I felt the warm rubber against my bare skin. Even with the chamber still open, I was confined on all sides by the metal shell of the machine.

Slowly, the researchers began to attach a score of medical devices to my body. I felt strangely calm through every prick of an IV, an uncomfortable insertion of a tube. But as a respirator was placed on my face, I began to feel a foreboding sense of unease. As I felt my body being constricted and then held in place, A single thought filled my mind. Oh God, what have I done? The researchers pushed the helmet of the exoskeleton inward on either side of my head, sealing off my ears.

The world went quiet. A beat of sweat began to trickle down my sides. Then I heard a voice seemingly broadcast from inside my own mind. Hello, this is Dr. Manassan. I'm speaking to you via a small speaker contained with a little. the helmet of the exoskeleton. Your vital signs indicate that you are beginning to panic. This is to be expected.

Please do your best to relax or we finish preparing you. I promise that the process would become pleasurable soon enough. Somehow, telling me to relax just made me more anxious. Before I could react, I felt the machine closed around my body. Already, the numbing agent that was being piped into my bloodstream was starting to take away control of my extremities. I tried to push against the machine, but found that my arms wouldn't budge.

I tried to scream, but the respirator held my tongue firmly in place. I was unable to move, unable to do anything, except watch. I could still watch as researchers scrambled around me to check vitals and prepare the exoskeleton to finish closing.

I could still watch as a giant analog timer appeared on the TV screen above me and began to broadcast a time. One minute until deprivation begins. I tried again to scream. I tried again to plead to be let out.

I found myself unable to feel any part of my body. I strained my eyes to try and get someone's attention, but no one seemed to be looking at me. 30 seconds until deprivation begins. Had my teard ducts been operating, I would have begun, crying. Without nothing else to do, I began to pray that this was a bad dream, to pray that I was home in bed and not in this chamber. Five seconds until deprivation begins. The last thing I saw was the face

of Dr. Manassan leaning over me, waving to me, saying something I couldn't quite understand, closing the exoskeletons face over my own. Zero seconds until deprivation. begins. And then, everything went dark. If I'd been in control of my own breathing, I would have begun hyperventilating immediately. I had never felt such a profound sense of darkness as in that moment,

unable to see even my own body. It was as if I'd been extinguished from existence. My eyes swam in every direction in search of a single iota of light, but found none. After a moment's consideration, I realized that I had now been in the machine for some time. I had no reference point for exactly how long. Without outside stimuli of any kind, my only mechanism of telling time was by counting individual seconds in my head.

Yet, time ticked on. I found myself alternating between obsessing about my imprisonment and finding myself adrift in my own thoughts. I began to consider the state of my life. my recent unemployment, my lack of close friends. I felt a wave of depression come over me. Was my life really so meaningless that I could be snuffed out of existence for three days and no one could possibly care?

I pondered the source of my isolation. I looked back to times I could have tried harder at my job, images of friendships that I'd let fall apart out of introversion and stagnation cascaded through my mind. And then I came across the thought in my head that were my body not numb to the point of immobility, would have made me burst out into laughter.

I felt lonely. Well, of course I felt lonely. I was, at that moment, the most alone human being there had ever been. Surely there were researchers only a few feet from my terrestrial body, but my mind had been isolated completely. I was as alone as someone could be. I let my mind continue to wonder

I felt as though I'd been in the chamber for hours at this point although I had planned to spend this time planning some sort of creative endeavour the Great American novel perhaps I found my mind repeatedly coming back to my current predicament obsessively I thought about my body and the container that currently housed it the numbing medicine must have been truly quite something I couldn't feel the slightest whisper of breath passing through my nasal cavities

or the rumble of my stomach it was then that a pair of intertwining thoughts collided in my mind could I be dead no of course not that would be ridiculous I knew how I had ended up here I knew that I'd signed up to engage

in an experiment that would put me in this exact predicament but I must admit I no longer felt very alive Without my body or the surrounding world as a reference point It felt as though I had no assurance that I still existed My thoughts began dueling with one another Surely I'm not dead This is exactly what the experiment was supposed to be

If you're not dead then why can't you feel anything Why can't you feel your breath or saliva or anything But I know I'm not dead because I'm thinking right now What does that mean? You know, I think, therefore I am. A smart man could have told you who said that, but I was left with just that proclamation from an unknown source as the only assurance that I was alive.

As long as I was thinking, I was still alive. I began to picture myself floating through a void in space. The image was clear in front of my eyes. My body lay flat, my arm stiff, as I rocketed past stars an unfamiliar planet. I watched my body weave past asteroids and through planetary rings.

I felt the warmth of the sun on my body and the cold ice of the frozen planets of my skin. Except, I didn't really feel those things. I had to remind myself of that. I was starting to imagine feelings that weren't really there. I wasn't sure how much I should try to avoid those feelings or just embrace them for the duration of the experience.

Just another question to ponder, I suppose. There came a time when I realised that I'd been in century deprivation for a long time. Since I'd not been counting, it was impossible to know how long. It felt like it had been days already. Had it been days already? That was a worrying thought. In a timeless void, three days stretches on like an endless millennium. They had assured me that I would only be inside a time.

I would only be inside the machine for three days. But how could I know for sure? Once I was inside, I had no way of getting out. They could keep me for as long as they wanted to. Maybe that was their plan all along. How could they get away with that? I thought. Who knows what all those liability wave as I signed said? I stopped reading them after the third or fourth one.

Maybe I agreed to this. You're being crazy. I don't know if I'm being crazy or not. I don't know how long I've been in here. So count. That was right. I had one way to tell how long I'd been inside the machine. Counting.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. And on and on. I counted to 60. That was a minute.

And then I counted another minute. And then another and another. I just kept going and going. I never lost focus on the task at hand. Technically, a thousand minutes was only a little more than 16 and a half hours. Certainly, not the three-day period I was supposed to be inside the machine. But that was 16 and a half hours on top of all the time I had already spent thinking about my life and dreaming about floating through space.

Surely I'd spent longer thinking to myself than I had counting. I tried to guess how long I'd been in the machine. It felt like it had been more than three days. I just kept trying to tell myself that I would be let out of the machine soon. I let my mind drift off again. My body once again floating through space, I watched it drift farther and farther out into an endless void of darkness. The planets and sun shrunk into oblivion until I was truly, deeply, alone.

In the black abyss, a creeping feeling of cold began to set in. Its biting sting spread up my legs and torso to my face. My naked skin turned pale blue and began to harden into a crystalline husk. As my body drifted farther into darkness, I watched the surface of my stomach crack and chip. Slowly, chunks of my body began to break off and float into the darkness. With each expelled scrap of flesh, a new wave of pain cascaded through my body. I found myself trying to grab onto my frozen body and put it back together, but my arms and legs were so cold that I could not budge.

I tried to scream, but my tongue had swelled so large that it had filled my crumbling, frigid mouth. All at once, my body exploded into an array of jagged, bloody shards of ice. The pain was indescribable. Then I was, again, alone in the darkness, bodiless, without lungs to expel the panicked breaths I was so desperate to create. I had to keep telling myself it wasn't real. I'm still alive.

My body is still here. Somewhere. But God, didn't it feel real? But it wasn't real. Real or not, didn't it hurt? Yes. Are you scared? Yes.

Wait. Do you hear that? I listened through ears that were a million miles away. A voice, not my own, burst into my head. Its bristly accent was familiar. Hello? This is Dr. Manasin. I'm contacting you again via the small speakers contained within the helmet of the exoskeleton.

I am proud to announce that you have successfully completed three days within the machine. I felt my alarm melt quickly into relief. I tried to smile to no avail. At this juncture, we would like to update you as to the status of our experiment. The data we're getting from your brain scans is proving incredibly useful. The medical implications are numerous. We have contacted our institution review board and obtained permission to extend the experiment indefinitely. This is, of course, in accordance to the liability waivers that you signed previously.

The machine should be able to keep you alive for a few more weeks until your body becomes unable to support it further. Do not worry. Five thousand dollars, nonetheless, will be credited to your account. Thank you for your contribution. Your sacrifice will save lives. I tried to scream. I tried to fly on my arms in protest and push back against the doctor's words.

But my screams were silenced by my arms no longer part of me. I felt a deep, echoing hole of dread growing inside me. Yet I would never truly feel anything again. I would die in this chamber. It would take days, and those days would feel like months, and those months would be torture. I again saw myself floating in an immeasurable darkness. There were no stars or planets. There was only my body, unequivocally alone, arguably alive, but inevitably dead.

I stopped counting the seconds, and just let myself float. my mind wondered again, this time for much longer. I dreamt off my childhood and of a future I would never get to lead. I made an imaginary bucket list and felt remorse for the boxes I had not yet checked. I held conversations in my head between old friends and lovers. And sometimes I didn't think at all. Sometimes I disappeared from existence altogether. But then I felt it.

I felt something. I couldn't tell what it was at first. It had been so long since I felt something that I couldn't tell if I was imagining it or not. It was my big toe. My big toe and my right foot. Somehow, some way, it still had feeling. Not a lot of feeling.

It felt like when you sit on your hand and becomes almost but not quite numb. Like it was being massaged by a set of pins and neck. needles. I moved the toe around, the little that I could, and tried to understand how this feeling had come back. Then I felt it. A tiny prick. The slightest droplet of pain against my big toe. Something sharp. An IV needle. It must have become dislodged somehow. Maybe one of those lab coat wearing schmucks tripped over it or something. All I knew was that I could feel again. I suddenly felt like I had been born again,

like I had died and risen from the ashes. This needle must have been one of the needles that was supposed to deliver the numbing chemical into my body. Somehow, it got dislodged, and now I had just a little feeling in my toe. Unfortunately, my big toe was hardly the vestige of my body most suited to orchestrate my grand escape. But still, I felt immeasurable happiness

because I had a secret weapon on my side. Time. There's an order dage that goes, if you give a monkey a typewriter an infinite time, he will eventually write the complete works of Shakespeare. Similarly, with a partially non-bigtoe, an infinite time to think, I could craft my grand escape.

My big toe was too weak to push open the exoskeleton. Despite my straining, I was unable to reach any other cords to pull them out. All I could reach was the IV needle that had been pulled out. And with that needle, I hatched my plan. I scraped my toe across it. It stung, but I knew it would do the trick. I knew that I'd force those stupid scientists' hands.

My effort had made a cut in my toe's skin, and now I knew I was going to be okay. They only had two options. Let me bleed out, in which case I would at least be free from this hell. or let me out of the chamber, at least long enough to reattach the IV. Either way, my plan was foolproof. Either way, I was going to be free, at least for a moment.

It only took them a few minutes to notice what I had done. This is Dr. Mnason again, communicating via the tiny speaker in the helmet of the exoskeleton. It seems you have managed to injure yourself inside the exoskeleton. After some discussion, we have elected to bolshellular. pause the experiment and correct the error. Stand by. The exoskeleton will be opening shortly. The light that soon flooded my eyes, all but blinded me.

As the machine opened, I bathed in the sound of its electric thunks and whirs and the conversation of men around me. The quick tug, as needles and tubes were removed from me, felt better than any touch I had ever experienced. They let me out. I was free. My body was numb for out. hours. The medicine prevented me from making any movements at all. During that time, the scientists left me in the exoskeleton as they went over data and bandaged my big toe. I tried to listen to everything they were saying, but found myself unable to concentrate. The bright lights above me burn my eyes, which had grown accustomed to perfect darkness. As the drugs slowly left my body, a dull ache developed in my joints. After a while, my body was hauled out of the exoskeleton by a team of the lab coats. I felt a dressing gown slip on over my head.

I was plopped into a wheelchair, still unable to move. I listened to the roll of metal wheels as they pushed the chair deeper and deeper into their lab. Explain again about when you were floating through space. What was their sensation like? Please, let me go. I can't. You know that. The data we are getting from you is too important.

Lives are at stake. And besides that, we can't risk you going to the police. You will be going back in the machine. This conversation had been going on for about an hour in the tiny interrogation room set up somewhere in the research group's massive underground lab. Although I had regained enough feeling to speak, I still found movement quite difficult. It was clear that as soon as I outlived my usefulness to the lab codes,

I was going to be placed back inside the machine until my bodily demise. The data that the scientists had gained so far was so useful that they had no problem holding me against my will. As I sat in that tiny metal room tied to a cold folding chair, clad only in a thin dressing gown, I had considered my fate. For $5,000, I had sold away the rest of my life. My only respite now was that I could delay going back in the machine for as long as I resisted Dr. Manassan's questioning. But I knew I was just delaying the inevitable.

I stared down at my big toe, now wrapped in a bandage. Somehow it had not dawned on me that, even if I got out of that machine, the scientists were unlikely to let me out of the building alive. Not after they decided to imprison me until I died anyway. What if I don't answer the questions? The data we intend to receive from those questions is critical and could save lives. But if we cannot elicit it, then the information received from the exoskeleton will be sufficient. If you won't answer me, you will return to the machine now.

So it didn't matter. I was already doomed. I might as well delay for as long as I could. Fine. Ask me what you want to ask me. I answered hundreds of questions. most of them multiple times. It took hours. The scientists barely listened to my words. There was a recorder placed in the room with me.

I'm sure someone would dig through my answers later. But for now, the conversation seemed to be mostly for posterity's sake. At some point, though, I realized something. The drugs had completely left my body. I could theoretically move again. For now, I was tied to a chair, but they couldn't keep me tied up if they wanted me to go back into the machine. And from that thought, I came up with a plan.

I knew I couldn't run immediately or they would catch me. I would have to convince them I was resigned to my fate. When the questioning concluded, I found myself being hauled back into the chamber containing the exoskeleton. Perhaps assuming that I would flee otherwise, the scientists kept me tied up during transit. But the ties came off when it was time to put me in the machine. They stripped me of my nightgown and lifted me inside the chamber. I let my body go limp as they did, feigning the same numbness that had, until recently, restricted my movement. As I lay down in the rubber interior of the exoskeleton, Dr. Mnason spoke to me through a loudspeaker in the ceiling.

I am sorry that we have to part again. Your answers will be invaluable for future research. I know it may seem now like we are villains, but the research we're obtaining is invaluable. It will save life someday. You are doing a valuable service to the world. As his speech ended, his research again approached to fill my body with needles and tubes. I was eager to make my escape, but I held tight. They would have to believe I was unable to move. I felt pinpricks in my right arm.

I was already been loaded with the numbing. agent. My time was going to be short. As some of the lab goats approached me on the left side to insert another IV, I launched myself upward, so I was standing inside the machine. Surprised by my sudden motion, the scientist on my left recoiled. I felt a sharp pain in my right arm as the IVs and tubes held tight against the strain of my sudden motion. The room exploded into panic. Men rusted me from all sides. I found my body moving as if on its own volition. My left left arm reached towards my right and ripped a series of cords and needles out of my body. Blood sprayed onto the machine.

My right arm felt loosely to my side. I propelled myself out of the machine and onto the floor, naked as the day I was born. The numbing agent had disabled my right arm, but most of my body was fine. I sprinted towards the door through which I had entered the lap, what now seemed like a millennium ago. I did not dare turn back to see if I was being chased. All I could do was run. As I pushed the door open, I saw a long hallway that led to a set of alternating staircases,

staircases that I'd walked up and down several times while preparing for the experiment, stairs that I'd always assumed I would one day walk up for the last time. I pushed my body as hard as I could. I ran with my right arm dangling limp beside me until I reached the stairs. Behind me, the angered yells of men and the thud of their footsteps. remained consistent. I knew that if they caught me, it was game over. When I reached the stairs, I practically jumped up the entire first flight.

As I turned to climb the next flight, I saw that only two men had kept pace with me. Suddenly, I was filled with hope. Perhaps I could outrun them all. Then I would go to the police and get a chance to put this whole operation under the microscope. As soon as I was at the top of that second flight of stairs, and through the exit doors, I would be free. My hopes were dashed as soon as I reached the top of the stairs. At least 15 men guided the building's exit.

Clearly my escape had been a contingency for which the facility was prepared. As the men approached behind me and in front of me, I knew there was only one way I could go. The alternating staircase continued past the first floor, all the way up to the room. I kept running, staircase after staircase, my hanging body protesting each step, my dead arm banging against the stair railings and walls as I made my way up those stairs. The sounds of angry men filling my ears as I took step after step after step. Soon I was on the last staircase, a ladder hanging from the ceiling led up to a hatch on the roof of the building. This was it. I was going to see the outside world again. I didn't know where I was going once I got up there, but I knew I was free.

I jumped onto the ladder and pulled myself up, about six feet into the air. When I reached the top, I pushed on the hatch. It was heavy and barely budged. I strained against the hatch for a moment, then felt a tight grip on my ankle. One of the men had caught me. He had wrapped his cold hand around my leg and was beginning to yank me off the ladder. I turned slightly. and saw.

He was Dr. Manassan. His eyes were red and his larger sources. It was like looking into the eyes of the devil himself. I reacted purely out of instinct. My grip on the ladder tightened and I swung my free foot to the doctor's face.

As my heel collided with his jaw, sending teeth and blood flying in all directions, I couldn't help but smile at the feeling. It hurts like you wouldn't believe, but it felt damn good to feel something. Dr. Manassan relaxed his grip. I pushed upwards again and the hatch gave away. I clambered upwards onto the flat roof of the building.

A thin layer of gravel covered the rooftop. The sharp stones poked at my bare feet. But I kept moving. I ran to the edge of the roof and looked out into the city. A beautiful horizon of skyscrapers and stars filled my view. I felt the cold breeze against my bare skin. the voices of the men behind me barely registered as I climbed onto the edge of the roof. I must have been a sight of the people walking by on the sidewalk below.

A naked man standing on the edge of a building, staring at the horizon as if they had never seen one before. Please come down from there. You don't have to go back in the machine. We just need you to come down. He was Dr. Mnason again. His voice was hard to understand now that he was short a few teeth. I turned away from the horizon to look at him He was surrounded on all sides by other men in lab coats I knew at that moment that I had no real choices left Could I believe Dr Manassan that he wouldn't put me back in the machine Probably not

But I had no chance to escape at this point There were too many of them for me to get away Just as one of the researchers reached out to grab me I took a step backward As my body tumbled down to the earth below I found myself laughing It was just like when I was in the machine

My body floating once again The cold air numbed my body And once again I couldn't feel a thing Just before I struck the ground I heard the sound of church bells ringing out Hallelujah I figured I must be on my way

to heaven. No heaven came. Instead, I found myself in complete darkness, feeling nothing, seeing nothing, simply ruminating on my previous actions. Is this what death is like? In answer to my question, I heard a familiar voice. Hello, this is Dr. Manassan. I am speaking to you once again by a small speaker contained within the helmet of the exoskeleton. You have successfully completed your three days within the exoskeleton. Had I not still been pumped full of numbing drugs, I would have wept. We are currently in the process of opening the machine. At that point, we will perform a physical assessment.

I am sure you are anxious to leave. I can assure you we will move as quickly as possible to make that happen. Thank you so much for your assistance for this project. It has been invaluable. Three days. I had been in that machine for exactly three days. It didn't click for me until they were pulling me out of the machine.

There was no bandage on my big toe, no needle near my foot, and which I could have cut myself. The facility was nothing but accommodating in the hours after the experiment terminated. They provided me with a comfortable place to rest while the remainder of the drugs left my system. Although they asked me questions about my experience, they were not hostile when I refused to speak.

The researchers were happy to answer my questions about the experience. Happy to tell me it was all in my head. In the days following the experiment, Dr. Mnason made sure that I was provided with any mental health resources that I requested. He connected me with a therapist that I have been seeing for several weeks. The therapist has prescribed me an antidepressants which I take twice a day. I have returned to my normal life. My rent is paid. I'm seeing someone new.

I got a new job at another book publishing company. It's like all my fantasies have come true. But, no matter how long I talk to the therapist, no matter how many pills I take, I can't get the machine out of my head. I can't stop thinking about how those three days seem to extend indefinitely. But you're out of the machine. your three days are up, I thought.

Yes, but... But what? I was out of the machine once before. But that wasn't real. But it felt real. Does this feel real? I don't know anymore. Could three days feel...

Even longer? Could I imagine a therapist, a job, a better life? I don't know. Sometimes I close my eyes and I become too afraid to open them. Because I'm worried. that when I do, I will see only darkness. I'm scared I will find myself still floating, motionless,

amongst those imaginary stars. My grandmother used to say her house was haunted. They're on the other side of the doors. If you listen closely, you can hear them, she'd say. Her words weren't those of an afraid woman. They won't filled with sadness nor despair, but rather joy. She'd tell me stories about the ghosts that stayed behind her in the house,

and as she did, her eyes were always filled with longing and love. So, they're not bad ghosts? I would ask, too young to understand the complexities of good and evil. Of course not, sweetheart. They would never hurt you. I truly loved my grandma, but I didn't visit her often. My mother wouldn't let me. To her, the house had an uneasy atmosphere.

one full of malice, as if an unknown and frightening entity loomed over the place. It didn't help that we lived several hours away, making it difficult for Grandma to visit us, with her advancing age and declining health. It made me sad that she lived all alone in such a big, old house, but she didn't seem to mind it. I'm not alone, she would say. I love kept us together, even after he passed. I knew she was talking about my grandpa, her late husband.

However, she mentioned several figures that kept her company, people, I assumed, were her own parents, and even some who could have been siblings. Back in her day, people remained at home to die, spending their last moments with loved ones, comfortable at home in their own beds. Because of that, a multitude of different people had drawn their last breaths in a very own house.

As time went by, my memories of the old house started to fade. I was too busy growing up and my mother didn't care to visit her child at home. At the ripe old age of 95, my grandma passed away, peacefully at home, with a smile still lingering on her face.

Her last Will and Testament arrived a couple of weeks later. By that time, I hadn't seen her in years and the sight of the papers made me feel a bit guilty. There was much of a person, message left behind, but it was stated that my mother would inherit all of her belongings, everything save for the house, which was left to me. Seeing as I was just in the process of getting married to my very pregnant fiancée, it would be the perfect gift to start a newlywed life.

We moved in about a month later, after spending what little money we had left refurbishing the place. Unlike the warm, yet mystical feeling the house had held when I was a chance of child, it felt cold, eerie as an adult. Even with new furniture and fixed frames, the house was still loud with creaks and strange whispers behind each closed door. My fiancé, soon to be wife, Alice, also noticed the strange fog of weirdness looming over the house, and my mother was still hesitant to visit. But when all things were said and done, my grandma had led a full and happy life in that house,

and no harm had ever come to her. so we were eager to start our life together. It truly turned out to be an idyllic place, perfect to raise a child, with lush green fields and vast forests surrounding the neighbourhood. We spent the next decade there, gifted with two children, a young boy named Alex and a little girl named Amanda.

From the very beginning, it looked like we were in the makings of a happily ever after. Alas, it wasn't meant to be. On the 3rd of September 2017, my entire family was killed in a burglary gone horribly wrong. I don't remember much from the night itself, just that I woke up to strange sounds and a shattering window. I wasn't a particularly brave man, but if my family was put at risk, I'd do anything I could to defend them. I grabbed the baseball bat. I was planning to gift Alex for his 10th birthday and went to investigate in the dark.

Before I could even turn the corner, I felt a sharp pain through my chest, as one of the intruders lodged a knife in between my ribs. I fell to the ground, unable to breathe, and unable to move my legs. I tried to call out for my wife, to warn her about the approaching men, to give her a chance to get the kids and run, but my lungs had filled it with blood, and I couldn't get a single, coherent word out. There I lay, dying helplessly on the floor, as my wife tried to fight off the two men that had entered her house. She screamed as they stabbed her, quickly going from panic to a gargle to silence.

Then, everything went black. I guess they didn't bother double-checking, or maybe the pool of blood I produced around me made me look dead. But, despite their best efforts at exterminating my family, I had somehow survived. I awoke as the ambulance rushed me to the hospital, and I cried for my family, as they prets me for surgery.

I didn't know they'd all been killed yet. I still had hope. But that tiny amount of belief that my wife and children had survived was quickly extinguished. According to the police, the intruders were junkies looking for anything they could sell.

During the breaking, they'd been doped out of their minds and attacked anyone in their vicinity. Even as the police chased them down, they fought back, which ultimately resulted in them both getting shot. dead. No closure, no coherent reason for their breaking, why they chose our house rather than the

neighbour's vacant home. I was left with no good explanation, no justice. As for myself, the stab wound had been deep, so much so that the knife partially damaged my spine, enough to leave me with limited use of my legs and left arm. It would take months of rehabilitation before I could even go back home to an empty house. Naturally, my mother wanted me to stay with her until I could come to terms with what had happened. She had gotten old, but she still wanted to take care of me,

help me through the trying times. She meant well, but in a morbidly depressing way. Staying at that house was the last connection I had to my deceased family. It was a place of love, filled with memoirs of a life brutally cut short. Though I felt more connected to them at home, I couldn't sleep in our old bed, nor our children's rooms.

Instead, I slept in the guest room, one of the few places still untainted by tragedy. The next few weeks were spent in a haze of denial and anger at myself that I'd failed to save my family. In just the span of five minutes, my entire world had been shattered beyond repair, and I saw no solace in the foreseeable future. The house still made its usual weird sounds, creaks, howling wind, and whispers hiding behind each and every closed door. They'd always kept me company, but in the past they'd been a little more than a vague presence, something to ignore, to push to the back of my mind. After the tragedy, they seemed to wake up, turning coherent and understandable.

As I listened intently to the house speaking, the strange whispers started to take shape, and before long I could actually understand them. One night, three weeks and a day after my return, I awoke to the sound of a voice coming from down the hall. I shot to my feet and slowly approached the sound. It was someone singing, a beautiful, cheerful voice coming from inside our old bedroom.

But it wasn't just any song, No, it was one my wife frequently used the hum as she got ready in the mornings. Some old Italian verse her mother used to sing to her when she was a kid. While I never understood the words, it had always comforted me, even on the most stressful day. It had become a symbol of love, peace, when I missed every day without her. Alice, I said, starting to wonder if I was dreaming. I pressed my ear against the wood in disbelief at hearing my dead wife's voice. She didn't respond.

She just kept singing on the other side. As soon as I confirmed it was her voice, I hopelessly barged in through the door, distraught to find it empty on the other side, filled with nothing but an empty bed, and a closet full of clothes never to be worn again. For a second, I felt a grain of happiness. but it was swiftly taken away as a serene voice vanished in the darkness of night. I collapsed to the floor and cried for the first time since their deaths.

I'd been so numb that my ability to feel had simply shut down, but the overwhelming emotion I felt from hearing my wife again finally broke me. I fell asleep on the floor that night, and once I awoke, I convinced myself it had all been just the job. dream, and nothing more. That heartbreaking belief lasted until the next night, when I awoke to laughter coming from Alex's bedroom. Alex, is that you?

I called out as I approached this closed door. The laughter, unmistakably belonged to my dead son. That, along with the sounds of toys being flung around and light footsteps running from the room, made me temporarily forget everything that had happened in the past few months. Alex, I said again with tears in my eyes, but he couldn't hear me. And once I opened the door, I was met with another dark, silent room. In the blink of an eye, I was plunged back into reality, alone and afraid. As I felt his presence vanish, I thought back to my childhood, spending time with my grandmother, listening to her stories.

There on the other side of the doors, always there. There, if you listen closely, you can hear them, she'd say. The whispers I had heard since I was a kid. They were real, just too vague and hard to decipher. My grandma heard her husband because he was the person she loved the most in the entire world. That's why I couldn't understand. Now that the ghosts belong to my family, it became abundantly clear why my grandma loved that house so much. It was because she could stay surrounded by her lost loved ones.

Each night, the voice is continued. Next in line was my daughter, Amanda. I heard her jumping up and down while she talked to her stuffed animals, pretending there were real creatures out on adventures. She sung to them with a voice as beautiful as her mother's, and I listened while holding my breath. That night, I never opened the door. I just sat there, listening to me.

to a play around, smiling as I was once again living in a house full of life. It quickly became a nightly routine. I'd sleep during the days, and at night I'd huddle up outside their bedroom doors with a blanket, just to listen to them go about their lives, not knowing what terrible things had happened to them. Days, weeks, and even months passed, and I lived my life vicariously through them, unable to let go. It wasn't a great life, but it was all I had. I couldn't stand to lose my connection to them, so I kept at it.

My wife was the first to break a usual nighttime routine. She'd usually awoken me with the sound of her singing or by telling bedtime stories to our kids, but that would all come to a crashing end. On that particular night, I was jolted awake to the sound of her terrified screams. I shot to my feet. and instinctively called out for her. On the other side of the closed door, I heard a struggle,

demanding that someone stay away from her. It was an all too familiar memory when I'd struggled to forget. It was the moment the killers entered our room to murder her. I burst in through the door, knowing full well that I couldn't help, but that I could at least end the nightmare.

As usual, once the door had been opened, everything felt silent. Then I heard cries come from Alex's room. He'd been awoken by Alice's screams and wanted to find out what was going on. His cries were quickly shut up as one of the intruders entered his room and slit his throat. I heard a short whimper before he too fell silent. Last in line was Amanda.

But I quickly opened the door before I could be tortured by the sounds of her frantic screams as the intruders ended her life. Following that night, I decided to leave the doors open. No matter the fact that I'd never hear my family again, I just couldn't face their deaths for a third or fourth time. Alas, once nightfall came, the doors were inexplicably shut and the ordeal started all over. The screams of my wife and children,

they cries as they realized what was about to happen to them, my failure to save them. It all crushed me. In the end, I had no up. left, but to remove each door from their hinges to win the nightmare once and for all. Only the bathroom and guest room doors remained. It worked. Without a filter between the real world and the past, I had nothing to listen to,

nothing save for the deafening silence of an empty house. It was an impossible choice. To live peacefully without the comforting voices of my family. Never again would I hear them die. but I'd also be left alone, forever. Then I heard the sound of someone crying. I was headed to bed when I heard a familiar voice sobbing through the guest room door. It wasn't my wife, nor the cries of a child.

It was me. I'm sorry, I couldn't save you. I stood, speechless, too terrified to even open the door. But I was quickly brought back to my senses. when I heard a gunshot from the other side, followed by a quiet thump. And then nothing. Until that point, the house had always spoken to me with voices from the past. But then, something more sinister had approached, something that hadn't yet happened.

I didn't go to sleep that night, nor did I dare to enter the guest room. I simply sat at my kitchen table until I passed out from a haze of exhaustion and alcohol. and once daylight arrived I removed that door as well whether what I heard behind that door is my ultimate destiny or if I can somehow survive this nightmare remains to be seen

I can't say I haven't thought about ending it all but for now I've removed every single door from my house at least it's finally quiet I found the guide in a bookstore that was closing down most books were 50 to 75% off even the old and ordinarily expensive leather-bound tomes

kept behind glass in the rearmost section of the store. I hadn't gone in with any particular book in mind. I'd simply meant to browse and pick a few books up with the $20 I'd reserve for the occasion. I crossed row after row, pulling, inspecting, and returning several volumes, nothing too interesting that I hadn't already read, owned, or planned to own in some other, more preferable fashion. There were other shoppers, most appearing to be casual, readers or first-year students.

There is a college not far from the bookstore. The shop owner and his assistant were visibly melancholy, so I smiled warmly upon arriving and made efforts not to cross their paths. I'm terrible at consoling people, and figured that my plentiful patronage of the store

would be better than any funding words I could offer. I made a few rounds of the store. It was in a large place by any means, before finally settling on a few horror collections. Macon, Blackwood, Lovecraft, Beers, Stroker, and some books of Eastern mythology and mysticism.

Satisfied with my hall, I made my way towards the register at the front, but stopped short when I saw the assistant wheeling out a cart on which sat some particularly old-looking books, the single pricing sign listing them all as being 90% off. Immediately attracted by the discount alone, I asked her if I could take a look at the books, and she happily obliged. She left me with a car.

and went over towards a group of shoppers down an aisle. Most were first or second editions of books by authors I hadn't much interest in, but whose values were inarguable, and I felt sorry that the owners hadn't the means or time to sell these books more appropriately priced. My eyes scanned the withered and warped spines, reading the titles with a casual literary appreciation, but finding nothing of relevance to my somewhat specific interests. I had almost left the cart when I spotted,

On the second steel shelf, a book that seemed of an extremely advanced age, armored in dust with the spinal littering fading, Ashen. I withdrew it carefully so that the row in which it had sat did not totter. The book was averagedly sized, oddly enough heavy, and, as I had initially observed, it was of an age much older than its leather-bound companions. Upon brushing away the dust, I saw, with no small shock that the title read, How to survive the harrowing of 2021?

The lettering, once relieved of his ashen coating, glimmered faintly in gold, and was styled in a pseudo-cursive that flowed beautifully across the faded crimson cover. There were no other designs or markings in the book, front or back, only that bizarre title, whose message seemed an impossible thing, considering the book's obvious age. No authorship had been assigned to the book either, and this immediately inspired the idea that the book itself was some sort of joke.

A thing made to appear severely aged, a novelty that would have assuredly been a hit to younger readers if the store had had time to market it. I had no doubt that other copies sat in a box somewhere in the store, never to be sold as intended. I was about to open the book, where I expected to find fittingly contemporary messages of hope, faith, determination, and positive thinking,

but phrased archaically, styled anachronistically. But before I could crack open that expertly aged guide, I felt a sudden sensation of foreboding, an ominous and vague pre-science, which not only stopped my hand, but removed it from the book's surface. Through no conscious thoughts of my own, I had withdrawn my hand from the cover,

and yet the compulsion had been immediate and incontestable. A fear mounted within me, swelling almost to the point of actual dread, and I considered unceremoniously, tossing the book onto the cart and leaving. But some other impetus, equally powerful, impelled me to not only hold onto the book, but purchase it.

I stood there for a while, and the baleful apprehension which had entered my mind faded away, and a curiosity, morbid, if not scholarly, took its place. I added the book to the bundle in my basket and took my hole to the front. Surprisingly, the sum amounted to only $17,000, and I happily allocated the change to the tip jar at the register.

The owner thanked me gratefully, as if I'd thrown in double the amount I'd brought in and wished me a happy new year. I bid him the same farewell and left the store pleasantly encumbered with the new literature. It was a nice day, cold but not uncomfortably so, and sunlight fell plentifully upon the world. I decided to sit in a nearby coffee shop and read

rather than go home to my stuffy apartment to do the same. I walked down the sidewalk, contemplating which book to begin first. Looking back, I now think that I had always planned on reading the strangest book first, that guide which I had believed to be a fake, a bookstore's joke. Perhaps if I'd read anything else, I might have avoided the horror which was born from the pages of that truly decrepit and sinister tone. I sat at a table nearest the window for optimal. sunlight, ordered a cup of Earl Grey tea and freshly baked oatmeal cookie, just one,

they were quite large, and laid the contents of my bag onto the table. I went through the performance of considering each book, but my mind had already decided upon the 2021 Survival Guide. I stacked the other books nearby to my left, cleared a space to my right for my food and drink, and placed the book immediately before me. In the brief time that had elapsed, I'd forgotten the entire. intense feeling of apprehension that had come to me when I first considered opening the book. When I reached for the crimson cover, the feeling again returned, albeit to a lesser extent.

But this time, curiosity prevailed, and I endured the unsettling sensation, and gently opened the book. I was taken back by what I saw on the very first page. There were lines upon lines of tiny strange runes, scribed in letters that seemed entirely alien to human language. The writing, I'm sure that these letters had not been mechanically printed, was done in a deep red ink, absolutely sanguine against the thick and time-yellowed

paper. The spacing, placement, and script were all immaculate, despite my certainty that a hand of some nature had written the words. I was, nonetheless, amazed at the impeccable penmanship of the author. My eye scanned this first page several times, and yet I could intimate nothing of what it said. So, I flipped it, and was again shown a language entirely unrecognizable.

Though no hints or clues as to the meanings of any of the words, and, after flipping to the very end of the book, no cipher was found with which I might have decrypted them. I flipped pages at random, finding only that odd, unfathomable language, written beautifully and yet eerily upon the sallow pages. My order arrived, and I set the book aside, wanting to stain it, which, despite its age, was in a decent condition within. My fruitless scrutiny of its content had changed my mind entirely in regards to its nature. I had abandoned my belief of its literary duplicity. There was no way that anyone, certainly not a small-scale bookstore owner,

would have gone through the efforts necessary to create such a thing for the purpose of novelty. The language, though unreadable, seemed to be an inhumanly real one, in a way that is inexpressing inexpressible. The colour and feel of the pages were indistinguishable from the pages of other incredibly old books, and the smell was similarly genuine. I ate and drank, absorbed in thoughtlessness, thinking neither of the book nor its enigmatic language, but vexed by an undefinable impression imparted to me by the book. A similar sensation, though to a much less unnerving degree, might be the apprehension one feels as a child on the day in which school report cards are mailed, confident that your grades aren't abysmal, but nonetheless fearing that some

unforeseen or miscalculated grade still might appear and invoke the ire of your parents. I felt that I was, for the moment, safe, but that certain actions, or certain knowledge to be obtained later, would place me in the way of some terrible yet unforeseeable harm. Once I'd finished my meal, I returned my attraction to the book, this time determined to uncover some meaning or message from its previously inscrutable contents. Minutes passed. I finished my tea and ordered another,

this time getting an infusion of lemon grass, citrus herbs and ginger, among other things, and really scan the pages. But my efforts were pointless. The pages yielded nothing to any interpretation I tried to force. I was about to give up

when a woman entered the coffee shop and immediately passed by my table. which I had chosen due to his proximity to the front windows. She glanced down, and, in my natural shyness, I had averted my gaze. My eyes fell up on the pages. And for a moment, a brief, yet clarifying moment, I found some sense in the words. Nothing that I could really reproduce in my own thoughts and language, but there'd been for a moment a glimmer of...

Readability. Instinctively, through an instinctive, I hadn't understood. understood, my attention returned to the woman, who'd suddenly worn an expression of confusion intermingled with intense interest. Meeting my eyes, she asked what I was reading, and I admitted that I wasn't exactly sure. I noticed the logo on the plastic bags she'd been carrying, and pointed out that I'd bought the book from the very same bookstore, but that it was written in a language totally unfamiliar to me.

Her curiosity peaked, she glanced at the chair beside me, and I nodded, granting her permission to join me. One of the cafe staff came and took her order, and once that was done, I slid the book towards her so that she could comfortably read it. Initially, I'd watched her face as her eyes crawled over the pages. Confusion and excitement illuminated her green eyes, and her mouth twitched, as if the lips were attempting to read long, but hadn't any basis upon which to form the unreadable words. A few seconds of this past, and she sighed in defeat.

I laughed, commenting my own inability to decipher a single word of the thing. It wasn't until I glanced back of the book that the sudden sensation of literacy returned. For a moment, my eyes and her eyes had rested upon the same line, and I realized, in both excitement and horror, that the script was readable when looked at by two persons. She must have intimated the same, because she turned to me, eyes wide with the very same emotions that I'd felt. We said nothing to each other, but my hand involuntarily turned the pages

until it reached the beginning of the book, and my index finger came to rest on the book's first line. The moment our eyes landed on that first word, it was transformed from its alien text into English, or some interpretation simultaneously readable to us. I cannot earnestly say it was actually English upon the page. my mind reeled at the idea the concept that the text was only readable by two readers but by one in possession of four

or at least four eyes and covering the secret of that once impassable barrier was exciting pride-inducing and yet I felt that I had finally arrived at the moment for which I had earlier felt such apprehension and ominousness

I suppressed the rising terror mentally and even physically with a few sips of tea and once she had seemed to do the same for herself we began reading the previously unreadable book. The enigma unlocked before our eyes. The words shifted, reformed, were unmade as if by some cryptographic sense inborn within us.

Comprehension came immediately as if we were reading an ordinary book. We read in tandem, effortlessly trailing the lines of script without one falling behind or pushing forward. Our eyes and minds were locked together, our thoughts fused in some tether of previously underscure. We read as one, interpreted as one, thought as one, and the sense was absolutely incredible, though entirely indescribable, at least in the language with which I composed this account. Pages flew by, and I'm sure that to one lookers, we might have appeared very strange, our heads practically touching, our eyes moving along with equal pacing as if choreographed. In what couldn't have been more than 15 minutes, we had reached the middle of the thick book,

and by this time I felt the indefatigable return of that monstrous horror. The things we read up to that point were nightmarish, unrepeatable, and though our eyes had easily discerned the words and our minds clearly understood the meanings, our human mouths have been woefully inadequate for the vocalization of the ultra-alian text. It took a considerable effort to do so, but I pride my eyes. away from the words, and they immediately resumed their inscrutable arrangement and forms in the corners of my eye. My reading partner sighed, exhaustion and terror clear upon her face. I glanced around, not really to see if we've been watched, but just to keep an eye away from

the frightful book for a while. No one had seemed to notice our strange captivation. I turned to her and saw that tears had begun to form in her eyes. I felt a similar deluge swelling within the ducts of my own, but tried to keep them at bay, if only to appear, comfortably composed to her. The things we had read, the things the book had foretold, were appalling, things no human being, regardless of how black-hearted, would ever wish upon the species to which he belonged, the only world he knew to be home. And there was still another half to read through. She looked at the book, then to me, her eyes clouded with tears,

the once vibrant light dimmed by a potent, insuppressable terror. Despite my own feelings, I wanted, almost yearn to continue on, to read the rest of that darkly prescient tome. But with each page, the horror detailed therein had grown, worsened, and I knew that the trend would continue with each subsequent page. Conceding to her unspoken plea, I closed the book and set it on the table beside me. She smiled and nodded.

to me with a gratitude that was almost spiritual infurvency. Together, in silence, we finished our tea. Both of our minds struggling to reconcile the abysmal predictions of that baleful book with the relative normalcy of our present world. In a testimony to the weird unreality or the chilling hyper-reality of the event, I discerned a sliver of crimson light from the book. My heart seemed to irreversibly contract. My chest felt tight and hot.

as I realized that the glowing line was a supernatural bookmark, keeping the place where we'd left off. I did not point this out to my partner, who had regained a bit of a composure and sanity. Instead, hiding as best as possible my distress, I packed my things and left that wicked book in a chair, tucked beneath a table. I will not repeat in detail anything I read. I will not subject anyone to the horrific prophecies, the diabolical incidents, the cosmically inimical afflictions, the human race described in those sanguine ruined pages. I will only give this instruction, this

warning, and pray that it will be sufficient to prepare us for the coming storm if the book is to be believed. This woman and I, whom I have now befriended, as people who've shared a traumatic incident are often bonded, needed to read the book together

to decipher its abominable contents. Similarly, if we are to survive the coming year, we, humanity as a whole, All must band together, intellectually, emotionally, perhaps even spiritually, or else we cannot hope to combat the horrors which will descend upon us from the unmet tracks of side-real space, which will emerge from the molten depths of our own planet, and quite possibly, arise from our own, allegedly human ranks.

Our strength must be communal.