CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - Scary r/Nosleep Reddit Horror Stories to listen to while i grind stats in OS Runescape (im addicted)

Episode Date: May 2, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "I inherited an old creationist museum. To my horror, some of the displays were genuine" Creepypasta►50:18 "We Thought The Quiet Kid Was Just a Weirdo. Then We Found His Basement" Creepypasta►1:23:12 "I Was Hired to Keep an Old Woman Awake for 72 Hours" Creepypasta►1:59:54 "I'm a Driver for a Food Delivery App. There's a Reason We Avoid Certain Addresses" Creepypasta►2:27:36 "There’s a Homeless Camp Beneath the Overpass. They Worship What’s in the Dirt" Creepypasta►3:08:22 "My New Neighbors Were Too Kind. Now They Say I’m Family" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA 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

When I found what was left of my grandfather, he didn't look like he was any closer to God. His flesh creaking like the bows of a tree. I might not have recognized what I was looking at if he hadn't whimpered at my light. I'd only met him once before that. I was about ten or so. I had no idea about this strange man who turned up, claiming he was my grandfather. For someone who believed cavemen rode dinosaurs, Elijah wasn't as weird as you might think. He tracked us down when I was 13 and came over to Britain to visit us.

Dad had never mentioned his biological father, and while the old man seemed regretful about the lost time, he didn't sit around crying about it either. He was courteous but distant throughout, and he and dad, parted ways after those two days and never spoke again, at least not in person. He did invite us to see him someday in Texas as he left, but it never happened. Other than that, I remember that he sat me down one night to talk me through my math textbook, told me about imaginary numbers and string theory. Heavy stuff, but he made it a cessation.

through his simple yet earnest passion. It was only after he'd gone that Dad told me the old man was a young Earth creationist. Believe the Earth was around 6,000 years old, and that every last solemn word in the Bible was meant to be taken literally. Twenty-eight years later, and I was standing in the lobby of Elijah's privately owned museum that had passed to me after my father's death. Dad had never told me about either the museum or Elijah's own passing, but going through his estate turned it up, and I was as surprised as anyone to find out I was now the owner

of 60 acres on the other side of the world. The whole place was dedicated to teaching biblical science of the world's creation. I saw stone slabs with human footprints disdeme. displayed like great treasures, some of them 16 inches heel to toe and with little placards explaining that the rocks were proof of humans coexisting with dinosaurs. There was a whole jungle room with plastic cavemen versions of Adam and Eve crouched over paper cut out fire, while on the opposite side of the room, a badly made Stegosaurus watched Cain push Abel to the ground. Although the most ludicrous,

was the one where two generic-looking cavemen used raptor claws to harvest wheat. It was imaginative, I'll give him that. But it wasn't especially convincing. How or why Elijah was so obsessed with creationism was something of a puzzle to me. He'd begun his career with a PhD in mathematics and a short stint teaching at a local college, and part of the reason I spent so much time in that museum, museum, packing up his things, was to try and figure him out. During that time, I learned three key things. First, Elijah argued furiously with every other creationist he could find and burned every bridge there was.

Without their support, he had almost no visitors during the 30 years the museum was open. The second was a cutout of a newspaper I found on Elijah's death. on Elijah's desk, showing him grinning next to a dinosaur footprint. The article talked about how he'd gotten lost in the wilderness and taken refuge in a cave full of old fossils. I recognised the land in that photo as the place he'd later built his museum on, so it must have been important to him. I hadn't seen any cave in my wonderings though, but I figured if I kept looking,

I'd come across it sooner or later. The final piece of the puzzle was Elijah's letter to my grandmother. I never knew he'd reached out to her. All we knew was she slept with some American GI and never wanted to see or speak to him again. The letter was a proposal, and I was initially surprised she'd shown no interest. Elijah was wealthy, intelligent, hardworking, and, based on his photos, A good-looking and athletic man. But then I got to the last page or so.

Ethel, I can offer you more than just a good life. I can offer you an eternal one. I'm sure I told you by the time I hurt my leg hiking in the wilderness and was forced to take shelter in a cave until the storm passed. There, I found many strange and curious fossils, and I took the first steps on this strange hobby of mine. But what I haven't told the others, is that I saw more than just a few old rocks.

I found a way down, down, down, down. Ethel, I went deep in the earth, and there I found a paradise, a piece of the world that had been preserved as it was before the great flood. And I saw early man still living as he did in the days of Eden, ten feet tall and a thousand years old, and speaking the tongue of God handed down before the fall of Babel. One of these great men sat me down

and told me the secret histories of the world. I have kept this knowledge to myself for so long, but I know I can change the world, and it begins with this new book I'm writing. After that, a museum to display all the proof I've gathered. It isn't just about history, Ethel. It's the future that's at stake. Down there, I learned how to put a stop to it all, the wars and the fighting, hunger and deprivation.

It can all be a thing of the past, and I believe it's God's will I do this. I can change the world, Ethel. I want you by my side when I do it. There it is, I muttered quietly to myself as I read the letter by the dim light of Elijah's old desk lamp. That was why my grandmother had not responded to his letters and why my father did not meet his father until Elijah tracked him down decades later Six weeks in the dusty ruins of Elijah's seldom visited museum

And I finally felt like I understood my grandfather Intelligent, stubborn Possibly mentally ill Over the next few days I continued to pack up his things and found myself often feeling sorry for him. It was lonely out there and it made me uncomfortable to think of how an old man painstakingly painted little plaques no one wanted to read or planning the best place to build public toilets for field trips that never came and he just kept at it right until the end.

It was like I was walking around the physical manifestation of someone who was. delusions, but then I found the door behind the bookcase, and I discovered that Elijah had built two museums. Whole time I'd been in that place, I felt a kind of quiet unease, but I'd put it down to the circumstances, packing up a dead man's things, or so I thought. But as soon as I pulled on that little locking mechanism and the shelf popped free with a puff of stale air. I understood I'd been sensing something else entirely. It was the darkness that stood out to me, or maybe the smell. Hard to say, since I'd never breathed air like it

before or since. And looking back, I think I might be overstating just how black the darkness at the bottom of those stairs really was. But just the sight of it made something inside me want to turn and run, not just out of the building, but out of the damn country, back to the airport and home again. I had no idea what was going to be down there, but for some reason I was scared witless, just the dark, I told myself, before forcing one foot in front of the other and making my way down. Wasn't far before the plaster chipped away.

and there was nothing but bare rock for walls. Turns out, I hadn't been able to find the cave on Elijah's land because he'd built the museum on top of it. And down there, in a large chamber, bigger than most school gyms, was a whole other set of displays. Eight large glass tanks, each one bigger than a car. I quickly realized what I'd been smelling the whole time was from aldehyde.

And it had turned those glass tanks into green and murky pits, where my light revealed only the occasional glimpse of what lay within. Whatever Elijah was planning on showing off down here, it wasn't fossilized rocks. There was flesh and bone in there, exposed muscle all white and wriggly. I moved quickly at first, shining my light into each. one and squinting. I was skittish and in a hurry, not sure what I was going to find, but then I looked into one and saw a fist-sized eyeball staring back at me, and I cried out in terror. It was the suddenness of it that got me, that, and it was housed in a socket of rotting flesh,

unfamiliar in color and shape. Couldn't have told you if it belonged to something that slithered, swam or flew. But as I walked around the case, I did find a hand curled up in one corner with fingers all different lengths and shapes. What was Elijah planning to do down there in that hidden room? There were no plaques, no explanations, only those eight tanks that took up most of the enormous space. Each one raised so the bottom was about chest height, ready for someone to wander around and marvel at God knows what. The floor had been covered in marble, so he clearly had grand ambitions. Now, there was only dust and sandy pebbles littering the floor.

But everything upstairs had been hokey and cheap, the kind of evidence that was going to convince the already convinced. But down there, in the dark, where I could just make out the great shape, floats in the murky dark, there was the sense of something electric in the air, a feeling of revelation that warmed its way up through the ground, through my feet, and into my chest, where it settled like a kind of slow panic. I couldn't stop myself wondering about Elijah's belief and how it factored into that strange place. What had he preserved for decades in that chemical filth?

I left after only ten minutes and returned to the normal world above where I spent a good hour sitting in the sun hoping the Texan warmth would purge the dirty feeling that dark room had left me with. I briefly made arrangements to return home, but quickly cancelled. Elijah was insane, so I told myself. But there was something down there and it was a damn sight more. more compelling than a bunch of cheap forgeries. That night, I stayed in the same room I always had,

and lay tossing and turning beneath the moonlight, unable and unwilling to simply let the thoughts of that room fade away. I was wide awake when I heard the sound of something moving around the rooms below. I was alone out there, far from civilization. The sheriff had spoken to me a fair bit about trying to get a hotel and for the first time I wished I'd taken his advice. He was mainly concerned about squatters and that's what I told myself must be out there. Despite the danger, I got up to check on it anyway.

The thought of a whole night spent hold up in that room waiting for some crack addict to come stumbling in didn't seem much better than going out there and confronting them. But of course, there was more to it than that. I had strange ideas floating in my head, left over from the short time I'd spent wondering those great glass displays. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw images of strange shadowed things floating within. I wanted to bury those thoughts as quickly as possible and put an end to fancy notions of monsters lurking in the dark. At first, the museum looked much like it always had. There were boxes of artefacts and books I'd spent the last few weeks putting away,

and quite a few displays still left standing from where I'd yet to get to them. In the jungle room, I walked past those funny-looking cavemen and plastic dinosaurs, hiding behind fake ferns and stopped briefly to examine the serpent that tempted passers-by with an apple in its child-sized fish. It was a cheap-looking creation with a strange childlike face rendered in fiberglass scales and beady yellow eyes. I disliked it from day one and catching it in the dark that night made me hate it even more. But this time I stopped and re-read the plaque beneath.

I remembered the words Elijah had written for it and at the time I dismissed them. But some strange feeling made me revisit them in that moment. Creatures alive today, such as snakes and lizards, looked very different under conditions of the pre-flood world, where the air was alive with powerful static and water did not fall from the sky, but seeped upwards from the ground as a kind of condensation. The serpent was probably not like any snake we'd see today, but perhaps an altogether different creature whose bones continued to confound the non-believer scientists who studied them. Only through the Bible can we realize what such fossils truly represent. This is only one interpretation of what

the serpent that tempted Eve may have looked like. When I looked up, another pair of eyes were gazing at me from over the mannequin's shoulder. I could not see the face that hid behind the fake plant, but there was no denying the two yellow reflective points that fixed me momentarily before blinking, one at a time. I froze, terrified by such primal sight as a pair of predatory eyes gazing at me from the dark, and watched in terror as they slinked away and disappeared entirely. There followed the sounds of a few rapid and wet footfalls across the tile floor as something in that room crawled quietly into the shadows. That night I barricaded my bedroom door and come morning when I felt a little braver in the daylight I checked the

jungle room and found wet and slimy tracks leading to Elijah's office with a disableness. appeared behind the bookcase and into the cave below. It was crazy, I told myself. All of it was madness, but I couldn't shake my curiosity. And if you were me, you wouldn't have been able to either. This was like seeing the ice wall in the Arctic, proof of some mad conspirator gibberish that we've all been peddled for years through rapid fire YouTubers who talk about

flat earths and giants under the pyramids. It was as if I'd felt what Elijah had spoken of. The air really was electric down there. The ground was different. But as much as I hated to even give his beliefs the tiniest iota of credit, I could think of no other way to describe it than I had, briefly stood in the conditions of another older world. I had to make sense of it.

I'd spent weeks putting away badly made fakes and forgeries, footprints with visible toolmarks, badly arranged dinosaur bones, and dioramas of raptors in Noah's Ark. Elijah had found something alright, but I was certain it wasn't proof of his worldview. I just had to understand it on my own terms. Despite every bit of apprehension, I went back. down the staircase. This time I took a crowbar and slipped a claw hammer in one belt loop just in case. I also brought a few wired floodlights and set about lighting that main room up so I could get a proper look. It didn't help me see what was in those cases any better.

If anything, the bright light scattered even harder in the filth and it all looked like a kind of pale green jelly. But I did find two doors I hadn't noticed the last time. One was a simple wooden one that led into a small closet full of old journals and cassettes. The other was like a metal bulkhead, the kind that would be used on a ship to seal a flooding hallway. I know at some point I was going behind that door, but for the time being I settled for reading some of a life. pages, old journals. It seemed like the easier of the two options.

Specimen 1, rat, failure, died after only a few hours, preserved and put aside for further investigation. Specimen 2, sheep, partial failure, the wool continued to grow at unusual pace, small buds, flowers, we'll see. preserved and put aside for further investigation. Specimen 3. Cow. Failure.

If size is anything to go by, the ark must have been colossal. Perhaps these creatures are the origins of the fossils so many scientists attribute to woolly mammoths. Attempted dissection, but proved too difficult. Specimen has been reserved and put aside for further investigation. Specimen 4. Spider. Successful. A truly prehistoric creature. It returned to its aquatic roots and lived for many days in its tank before dying during an escape attempt. To think

these creatures once swam in the oceans, I have preserved the specimen for further investigation. Specimen 5. Lizard. Success. The primitive attempts at speech were a promising sign. Uthinizing it proved difficult, but ultimately necessary. The things it said could not have been permitted in a god-fearing society, preserved for further investigation. Specimen 6. Cactus houseplant Success question marks?

Relatively unchanged in outward appearance, but dissection revealed the east. insights are developed a meat-like appearance, continues to grow despite best efforts, preserved in the hopes that formaldehyde will kill it, but must keep a close eye on its display. Specimen 7. Blue Catfish Success. The origins of the Great Leviathan perhaps lie within creatures such as this. Its growth was extraordinary, and it will be a struggle to fit the beast inside one of displays. I do not envy the ancient sailors who encountered one of these in open waters. Specimen 8. Sparrow. Failure. Dreadful mistake. Euthanized itself while screaming obscenities.

The things is said were extremely blasphemous, preserved and put aside for further investigation. Spescent 9. Despite my best efforts, exposure to pre-flood conditions has begun to affect me. I'll have to join the great men below, if they will have me. I will not be able to continue my great work, and that saddens me deeply. Not a success, but not a failure either. At least I can take solace in knowing this will bring me closer. to God, I looked at the tanks and suppressed the shudder. Were these Elijah's failed experiments?

And if so, what on earth had he been doing to them? There was no scientific equipment down there, no mad scientist laboratory with bubbling vials and buzzing Tesla coils. That eye had been the size of a cantaloupe, and could not have belonged to anything on that list, at least not in its natural state. But Elijah's notes hinted strongly at him, having changed them somehow. A kind of mutation, I wondered, perhaps even a form of radiation. For a moment, I considered going through the rest of the notes, but that was just delaying the inevitable.

I was impatient, curious, and desperate to make sense of these things. So I approached the great metal door and reached for the lock, but hesitated when I heard a sound on the other side. A gentle susseration. I leaned forward and listened intently as I could. Jacob, open the door. It was not a sound. It wasn't. I could not tell you the timbre of the voice, the volume or language.

It had none of those things. It was inside me, and it hurt like hell. A hammer swing to my cortex that left my mind ringing. My sight turned into a slide show, blood sprayed from my nose and mouth. The floor was suddenly inches from my face, and then my hands were reaching for the locking wheel. I dragged myself to my feet and gripped it steadily. I was going to open it, even as my mind finally caught up and I was flooded with a terrible panic, a desperate, feral need to get out of there.

But I couldn't stop myself. Resisting became a kind of physical impossibility, as out of bounds as flying or walking on the ceiling. The loss of control was haunting, and I would have opened that door, written. not for the sound of splashing water behind me. Something about it scared me enough that the spell was broken and I regained some of my senses. I managed the glance behind me and my light caught a glimmer of something black and oily slithering in one of the tanks. That sight alone turned my blood to ice, but it still paled in comparison to the force radiating

from beyond that door. could feel it still there on the other side, a white-hot aura of domination that threatened to unravel me like a piece of thread. I'd never experienced anything like it before, the kind of terror that nearly had me me me mewing like a beaten child. Before that thing could speak again, I ran screaming from that room and out into the open air where the shock finally hit my nervous system like a freight train. And I passed out. I woke up.

My mouth was gummy with dried blood and the sun had burned me badly on one side. A black boot was nudging me gently in the side. You're okay down there? I looked up and a policeman I'd once spoken to not long after arriving in Texas was squinting down at me. I just about managed to remember that Wheeler was his name. You need help, pal, he repeated, and I tried to answer but got a mouthful of dust. It wasn't until I sat upright and coughed most of the dust back up that I managed some kind of response.

No, I'm not okay. No sign of a breaking. I looked over to see another officer step out of the museum. Someone attack, Wheeler asked. Who was it? Crackhead. Sheriff told you it was a bad idea to stay out here all alone. We got to get out of here.

The deputy put a hand on his holster and unclipped it. Don't you worry. You're safe now, he said. Rifled through your things, the second officer added as he arrived beside Wheeler. We'll need you to come look and see if anything's missing. No, no, no, no, I said, stumbling to my feet. No, we gotta go, we gotta leave, take me to the airport. Calm down now, Wheeler said as the two men exchanged a funny look.

You ain't even got your passport. Why don't we go in and take a moment? Maybe let us get a statement. Besides, Taylor and Keene here have done a thorough sweep of the place, right? Yep, the other man smiled. I think he was trying to reassure me. Taylor's just finishing up in that basement Elijah sure was a funny fella

hiding all that down there No, no, no I stammered while moving towards the parking lot We gotta leave, we gotta leave now There's something You plan on walking out of here Wheeler's hand was on my arm Looking concerned more than angry

Which gave me pause Whoever left you in the dirt Smash the hell out of your car He added that thing ain't going nowhere. Look, we'll give you a ride, but first things first, let's go inside and get a couple of your things. Dejected, I let them lead me back inside before I made a bee line to my room. I didn't do much packing, a single suitcase with everything I needed to get out of that damn place and back home.

I also took a minute to call my wife and let her know I was fine. My failure to call her at the regular time had led her to phoning the police. Without that, I don't know how things would have panned out. At the time, I was deeply thankful just to have her looking out for me, and all I wanted in the world was to get back to her and put an end to the whole weird episode. As soon as I was packed, I ran back downstairs where I found Wheeler, who was ready to enter Elijah's office. Keene went to get Taylor a short while ago, he said, getting tired of waiting, so you

just stay here while I go round him up. Before I could beg him to stop, he stepped inside and I raced after him, but I was too late. By the time I reached the stairs, the only sign of him was the light of his torch already fading. With him went the keys to the only working car in that place. I had no choice but to follow. As soon as I took the first step down, I felt that strange but familiar energy. Only this time, it seemed a thousand times more powerful. It thrummed through the air like a kind of vibration. sound seemed both muted and amplified. My footsteps were silent, but my breath was like thunder.

The effect was claustrophobic, like the world was closing in on me. By the time I arrived at the bottom, I'd already felt like it was too late to turn back. I nearly cried out when I saw that the great metal door was already open. No sign of the men. Fomeldehyde lay pooling on the floor where it mixed slowly with a puddle of fresh blood, although I had no idea who it belonged to. The tanks remained intact, which I was thankful for, but it troubled me to think of how that fluid got splashed around so violently.

And the lights I set up had been knocked over in what must have been some kind of struggle. And now they cast long and frightening shadows. Wheeler had never been more than a couple seconds ahead of me, and yet he was nowhere to be seen in that room. But I already knew that every question racing through my mind could be traced to a single place. Where had the men gone? What had caused such violence and mayhem? Why are my ears ringing? Why are my feet moving of their own accord?

What had Elijah found in the wilderness? What had changed those animals? What had spoken to me from the other side of a foot-thick steel doorway? What had compelled me to be drawn helplessly towards the strange and corpulent mist that rolled out of that black abyss and beckoned me deeper into the depths of the earth? The answer to every one of those questions was the same. And it was all due to the force that lived on the other side of that door. It must have surely affected the policeman in the same way it affected me.

I was no more than halfway across the room when it felt like I was actually falling towards an open vault. After I crossed the threshold, I seemed to lose all sense of time and self. God knows what it must have been like for Elijah all those years ago, lost in the wilderness. I don't know what it was he found. but I still think he was mad and naive to genuinely think it was anything to do with God. Even now, glimpses of the journey down echo in my mind like snapshots in the dark. I remember heat and light. I remember pale mist that curled around my feet, lit within by some impossible light.

I remember wandering vast caves larger than any stadium. But most of all, I remember the air and the way it crackled with skittish electricity. I could feel it across my skin like a gentle sunburn. There were buildings down there, and as I went deeper over what might have been hours or maybe even days, I saw the air filled with glowing mist so bright it was more like day the night. And it was in one of those buildings. I found my long-lost grandfather. Or what was left of him, I guess. Of course, I say that. But he was alive. He made noises, so he must have been alive. The building was enormous, larger than even the cave above. But poor Elijah had still grown to

take up nearly a third of it. He'd grown taller like he believed would happen, and I bet he was longer lived too. But I don't think the conditions of that cave had made him into something divine. If anything, he looked to me like he was breaking down, melting in slow motion. Made me think of the elephant's foot in Chernobyl. or something had also staked bits of him into place and tied some of his limbs to the vast rocky beams that supported the building ceiling. There was a touch of cruelty about it that I couldn't quite place at the time, but would later a tribute to the brands burned into his flesh

at semi-regular intervals. If he had a mouth, I've no doubt he would have begged me to kill him. but my mind was not my own at that time and I left that place and went back to wandering the mist in search of something I could not understand. I was merely compelled to go deeper towards some strange force that beckoned me onwards, working my feet and body like I was nothing more but a puppet. Eventually, during my journey, I heard a voice who was wailing and, sobbing, and he came screaming out of the mist and ran right into me. Something about the collision shocked both of us enough that it seemed to break the cave's effect on us. He looked as

surprised to see me as I was to see him, and for a brief moment we both lay on the floor and stammered desperately in an attempt to speak. Eventually, I managed to ask what the hell had happened, but he jumped on top of me and clapped a hand around my mouth. He held me there for a few seconds, his wide, terrified eyes imploring me to stay quiet. And then I heard the footfalls of a giant, and I felt its mind looking for us. And I caught glimpses of the world as remembered by that man-shaped creature, the content of its mind spilling outwards into me. I saw the great flood, the ark, a world with wondering seraphim and the great tannin, the behemoth and leviathan. But more than that, I felt a kind of seething contempt in his feelings

towards us, a burning disdain for the lesser race that had inherited the surface. I don't know how to fully describe it, but whatever that thing was, I don't know how Elijah could have possibly mistaken it for benevolent. Perhaps he had seen only what he wanted to. Perhaps it had read within him a desperate need to believe and use that to manipulate him. God knows what would have happened if Elijah had actually managed to fill that hidden room with people and open the door. Whatever lived within that cave would have had ten times the number of victims it had claimed so far.

Only Elijah's arrogance and obstinence had saved him from playing right into its hands. Eventually the creature moved away from us. I'm not sure how or why it couldn't find us. The spell at cast seemed to come and go, and in that moment the only thing I could be sure of was that once free, I had every intention of getting the hell out of there. Wheeler and I seemed to share this understanding because as soon as it was saved to, he let me go and the two of us wordlessly began to skulk back the way we came.

It wasn't as long back as I feared it might be, although it's still hard to be sure of the time. What I can be sure of is that it was a special kind of nightmare to leave that place. The mist made it impossible to navigate, and if it wasn't for the tracks we'd left in the strange wet ground, we would have been lost forever down there. Even then, we often got waylaid and had to take hours just to find our way back to the track. And more than once, we found ourselves forced to hide in crevices and caves as terrible things

drifted close in the fog, drawn perhaps by our scent or some other strange. force. But eventually we found ourselves hiking upwards at a steep and familiar incline with a mist thinned out almost entirely. By the time we were finally stumbling back out into the hidden room with the class tanks, I had managed to grow a fair bit of stubble, and I noticed that what was once fresh blood had now congealed into a dark, rust-colored brown. At a again Yes, we were down there for a good two or three days. I'm only thankful our memories of it were so broken. Wheeler almost immediately made a beeline for the exit, but I grabbed him and pulled him back.

The door, I gasped while grabbing the locking wheel and trying to push it shut. But I was weak, and it took both of us trying with all our might to finally swing it closed. Once the mechanism clicked into place, I tried to turn and run, but something in me gave out and I collapsed to my knees, where I began to heave and cry. Wheeler placed one hand of my shoulder and slowly pulled me back to my feet. What the hell was your grandfather up to out here? He moaned as we both limped towards the exit. God knows, I muttered.

And as I placed my foot on the first step up, I felt the deepest relief I've ever known flood through my body. Wake up, the voice was as clear as day. But this time, there was no pain. I looked to Wheeler to confirm that he'd heard it too, and sure enough, he was staring at me with a horrified expression. But the command made no sense, and it seemed to be distant, almost thinned. Was it the distance, I wondered, or the door? Elijah must have put the barrier there for a reason, but I couldn't be sure that was the only reason that the voice felt different somehow. But then I heard the sound behind me, and I realized why those words had been so strange.

The command wasn't meant for us. The glass tankers broke one by one, and Wheeler and I both turned to see the room flood with formaldehyde and slick, oily flesh. The smell alone was enough to make me recoil and cry out. But then I saw them. The creatures within. God, most of them merely thrust around. I don't know what that was. I simply don't know.

Something fish-like, I suppose. Screamed in an almost human voice and rolled around in the slick waters. Another thing was pulling apart its face with a starfish-shaped hand. One was just a pile of legs that wrapped around the central mass. But one of them was rising to its feet. Two yellow eyes glaring back at me from the dark. The iris is glowing with a sickly rage. It almost looked human.

Before I had time to react, the creature leapt at both of us and sent us both sprawling onto the steps where I hit my head. For a few terrifying moments, I felt myself being dragged slowly down into that disgusting liquid, with strange tentacles and insectile legs thrust violently for some kind of purchase. I remember something hairy and chitinous brushing against my cheek, and the disgusting sensation was enough to bring me back to my senses. When I looked over to where Wheeler was being pulled right beside me, it was semi-conscious and groaning, and I realized it was up to me to try and get us out of there.

I kicked violently at the strange thing pulling us. was smaller than I thought, a bit bigger than most children, but it held onto my leg with an iron grip. But my movement woke Wheeler, who, finally coming around, began to fight back. Both of us kicked as violently as we could, and seemed to enrage the monster that was fighting to pull us towards the door. With a strange hiss, it let go and turned towards Wheeler, lashing out with a single swipe of its hand. Almost immediately, there was an arterial spray of blood and a death rattle from the officer's lips that made my blood run cold.

For a few desperate seconds, the dying man seemed to fumble towards his belt and grabbed something in his fist. I hoped it was a gun, but instead his limp hand fell open and revealed a beaten old zippo lighter and his car keys. I don't know if he meant to, but in that moment, Wheeler, saved my life. I grabbed both items and ran as quickly as I could, reaching the steps and refusing to look back for even a second. I lit the zippo and tossed it behind me, praying to God that this final gambit would work. Something took a swipe at my back, a hot burning sensation,

followed by a warm trickle that ran down my legs. My final memory before I stumbled face first and hit my head again was one of light and heat, a blinding flash and a terrible wump that pushed the last glimpse of my consciousness aside and left me drifting in the dark. I never recovered from my time in Elijah's Museum and I never even made it to the car.

Police found me having crawled jubting. Just outside or the entire place went up in flames. The plume of smoke was what caught their attention, and when they arrived, I was soon rushed off to hospital. The death of Wheeler was attributed to a violent attacker, mainly in account of the damage to his body and they pulled it out of the fire. Not just burns, of course, but the slashed throat and damaged vertebrae. Taylor and Keane, while never recovered, were both considered victims of the same attacker.

For my part, I never contradicted this theory, but I never could quite bring myself to outright say some crazy addict was the reason for the fire and the men's deaths. Besides, I had my own issues to deal with. Third-degree burns over most of my back and damaged my spine that left me with severe nerve damage. It would be a lifetime of work just to get back in my feet, so the doctor said back then. As for the museum, I'm glad it went up in smoke, and I'm glad the explosion caused the caving down there. My memories of the cave itself are still quite fuzzy, of course. I've relayed as much as I can. We went down, we saw things, then came back.

The images the giants pushed into my mind. I'm still not sure how trustworthy they are. I still don't believe Elijah's interpretation of that cave was correct. I don't think the earth is only 6,000 years old or that the Bible is meant to be taken literally. But they say humans evolved over a million. million years ago. I guess there's a lot of history that got lost along the way. As for Elijah's theory, that the conditions of the cave would cause some divine change in humans. Well, I can remember him clearly enough to know there was nothing godly about what happened to him. And as for me,

the doctors keep scanning me. It was once every six months, then three, three, and three, Then I was being called into the hospital down near every other day, and now they won't even let me out in my room. They won't tell me what's wrong, or why I sometimes wake up to find my back itching like it's covered in a thousand ants, or why the last nurse who gave me a sponge bath ran out sobbing halfway through. They took me in for surgery a few days ago, and when I woke up, They'd amputated something from my leg, but they wouldn't tell me what.

I'm lucky my wife managed to sneak this phone in. It's the only communication I have with the outside world. I'd like to see her again, but I'm not sure I will. I guess I was down in that cave for too long, but I know it's getting worse and that I don't have much longer. The last doctor who came in wore a hazmat scientist. suit and I'm pretty sure when he left he was still coughing up blood. I wouldn't say we were evil, just bored.

18 years old, first semester of college, too cocky for our own good. Me and Derek mostly kept to ourselves. We weren't jocks or frat types. We just liked messing with people. And Jeremy was easy. He sat in the front row every class, always took perfect notes, didn't talk to anyone. Like, literally, not once did I hear the guy make small talk, even with professors. Just walked in with that same weird little leather notebook, eyes forward, no phone, no earbuds.

Who does that? It was like he was lopping as a 1950s honours student. Plus, there was something about him that rubbed people the wrong way. Not that they ever said it out loud, but everyone knew he was off. Like, he didn't understand how other people worked. He never got sarcasm, never reacted to jokes. If you bumped into him in the hallway and said, My bad.

He'd just stare at you like he was trying to decide what species you were. He was rich too. That didn't help. His parents owned Hartley Biologics, this huge farmer lab that basically funded half the scholarships on campus. They'd billboards all over town with pictures of babies and smiling doctors, clean white font, soft lighting, innovation from molecule to miracle. Jeremy didn't act like a rich kid though. No flashy clothes, no car. He wore the same, beat-up brown hoodie almost every day.

Derek and I started off small. Just dumb things. Swapping out his pens, hiding his bag during lunch, calling him weird and embarrassing nicknames. He never said a word back. He didn't even look at us half the time. Just kept walking, notebook clutched to his chest like it was worth more than his spine. annoyed Derek more than anything. The way Jeremy acted like we weren't even there, it was Derek's idea to check his locker, said it was a social service, whatever the hell that meant. Mostly, we were

just bored between classes and Jeremy was always gone for lunch, probably hiding somewhere with that stupid notebook of his scribbling equations or drawing alchemy symbols or whatever weird stuff he was into. The lockers weren't even locked. There were those old metal ones with a padlock loop, but most people just used the built-in latch. Jeremy's was wet shut with a pencil eraser. Like, he really thought that would keep anyone out. Derek popped it open with a single pull.

Inside, books, all stacked perfectly. Notebooks, a couple of proteins. bars in a Ziploc, no decorations, nothing to allude to the fact that a human was using this locker. It looked more like a filing cabinet. What kind of psycho keeps the locker this clean? Derek muttered, flipping through a binder. Does he sleep in here too? I was the one who found the paper, folded and tucked behind a textbook. Looked like a grocery list at first, but then I opened it up. and realized it was directions.

Turn left at the red house, into the tree line, walk until you see the broken fence past the creek, wooden cabin north-facing door. Just that, and at the bottom scribbled several times. Make sure not to forget, Derek leaned over my shoulder and squinted. Dude, what the hell? I grinned. told you he was up to something

Derek took the paper and held it like it was radioactive you think this is like where he goes to play wizard or something who knows what that kind of kid gets up to in his little hideout in the woodsman Derek's nodded weird little freak

we were still laughing about it while we walked into chem lecture Jeremy was already there front row as always writing something in that ugly brown notebook. We slid into the row behind him. Hey, Jeremy, Derek whispered. No response.

You forget something. Jeremy didn't turn around, just kept writing. I tapped the back of his chair with my foot. We found your directions, man. You know, red house, broken vents, secret elf cabin. What's out there, your moon crystal? He froze, pen mid-stroke, his shoulders locked up. And for a second, I thought he might actually say something.

Derek leaned in, voice louder. What do you even have in there that's so important? He reached over and snatched the notebook out of Jeremy's hands. Jeremy spun around, eyes wide. Don't, he started, but Derek. Derek already had opened it. He flipped to a random page and squinted. This humun...

Dude, what is this? This homunculus has shown prom... Jeremy screamed. Not yelled. Screamed. High and sharp, like we just lit him on fire. He lunged forward and ripped the notebook from Derek's hands so fast and nearly tore in half.

Derek toppled over, and Jeremy just turned and ran out of the room, clutching it to his chest like a wounded animal. Everyone in the room went silent. I felt the heat in my face. Jeremy had, by all means, just embarrassed us. Derek sat there for a second, jaw slack. Then he blinked and said, did he seriously just do that to us?

I shrugged. Guess we hit a nerve. He looked at me. Then at the door Jeremy had vanished through. Dude, I said. Let's go to his little hideout. Derek frowned. What?

Yeah, let's see what he was so adamant to hide from us. I said confidently. The walk started off easy. Once we spotted the red house, a little squat place. with peeling paint and a rusted mailbox, we turn left like the direction said and stepped into the tree line. Branches curled overhead, thin and brittle. Everything underfoot was damp, patches of old leaves and broken twigs all softened by rot. It wasn't raining, but the air

had weight to it, heavy with moisture, cold too. An early autumn kind of. of cold. We followed the directions carefully, as carefully as we could from my memory, and Derek's groans. The path got clearer, the deeper we went. At first, I thought we were just making good time. But then I realized the ground had been worn down. Something or someone had been walking this way a lot. The grass was crushed flat. No fresh prints. But the path was obvious. Fifteen minutes in, we spotted it through the trees.

The cabin. It sat hunched at the edge of a shallow clearing. Small, weathered, crooked just enough to make your head tilt. A single square window at the front clouded with grime. Derek slowed down behind me. This the place? I didn't hesitate. You see any other cabins nearby?

The door wasn't locked. I pushed on it and the hinges gave a low, drawn-out creek. Inside, it was dark. No windows on the sides, or, if there were any, they were blocked off. We clicked on our flashlights and stepped in. Jeremy. Derek called. You home?

No response. The air was stale and the cabin was one room, mostly empty. It was a wooden shelf against the left wall, lined with a few closed boxes. A workbench beneath the window, scratched and stained, but white clean. An old sink in the corner, a kind with a hand pump. Well, nothing. an ear looks fun, Derek muttered, shining his light across the floorboards. I was about to respond when my beam landed on something at the back of the room.

A square cut into the floor, barely visible from the way the boards lined up, and a heavy iron-runged trap door set within the hinges and a recessed handle. I stepped closer. There were scuff marks around the edge. some smudges of dirt and other details that made it easy to assume that this hatch was used frequently. Derek stepped up beside me and whistled low. Guess this is where the real freak show starts? I reached down and pulled the handle and listened as the door opened.

Cold air drifted up from below. The hatch opened with more effort than I expected. My arms shook by the time it finally gave. The air that came up wasn't foul, but it was cold and dry, with a faint hint of chemicals I couldn't name. We stared down into the narrow stairwell, wood at first, then concrete, no railing. The flashlight beam stretched just far enough to catch the bottom steps. Derek hesitated behind me. Are we even sure this is his cabin?

He asked. You're really going to act scared now? Who else would it belong to? I said as I stepped down. Each step creaked and flexed under my weight. Once we had the concrete section, the sound changed. Less groaning wood, more hollow echo. At the bottom, the paper.

passage flattened out. We stopped in front of a steel door, tall and wide enough to belong in a fallout shelter. It had no markings, just a bolt lock across the centre and a long horizontal handle beneath it. I slid the bolt free. The metal resisted. It squeaked halfway, then gave. I raised my voice Jeremy, come out freak It echoed down the hall behind us and disappeared No reply I looked at Derek

And the best words he could muster up Were a shrug and a dumb expression I gripped the handle and pulled The space beyond wasn't big But it was dense maybe 20 feet across, maybe more. The flashlight beams skated over cold surfaces, steel counters, scuff tile, tall metal shelving units packed tight with containers and glassware, beakers and clips adorned the area. None of it looked abandoned.

The dust was minimal. The floor was clean. This place had been used recently, maybe even today. There were two doors at the far end of the room, plain, no labels. My eye caught a set of glass cylinders built into the side wall, some empty, others too murky to see inside. One of them held something pale, or maybe just sediment. Derek stepped beside me.

Does this not look like a lab? said. I nodded slowly. I guess it kind of does. We walked further in, boots soft on the tile, flashlights cutting through the dim, and still, no sign of Jeremy anywhere. We approached the two doors on the other side and chose the door on the right. It wasn't locked, just a pushplate and handle. The hinges groaned as it opened, and a lot of the door. The lights fell into the room beyond. It was colder in there. In the centre of the room stood a surgical table, stainless steel, tilted slightly, fitted with

shoulder restraints and a dark drain beneath it. A folded towel sat at the edge, stiff with something dry and reddish-brown. To my left was a tray of instruments, scalples, clamps, scissors, neatly arranged. all clean. IV bags hung from an aluminium stand in the corner. Two of them were full. Another lay collapsed on the floor. Above the table was a surgical lamp

with three segmented arms, frozen mid-adjustment, aimed down as if expecting someone. At this point, we both knew we were in a place, we had no business being in there, but we had gone too far to turn back. Neither of us wanted to wuss out. Derek moved closer to the stack of boxes.

His parents really let him play scientists in the woods. I looked around the room and said, it does look like some extreme kind of roleplay to me. Derek went quiet for a second, then, dude, I can't wait to tell everybody about this. especially now that, I said, as I moved closer to the stack of boxes Derek was standing next to, they were cardboard and stamped in blue. Hartley Biologics

Derek saw them too. His flashlight hovered over the logo for a second. We know we have the right person. Derek gave out a half-hearted chuckle and turned back to the hallway. Let's check the other room. Maybe that's where he is. The second door was heavier than the first. I had to lean my shoulder into it to get it moving.

The hinges protested the hallway. We stepped in. The first thing I noticed was the glow, a soft green light humming from the far wall. It cast everything in a low aquatic haze, flickering faintly with movement. of tall cylindrical parts lined the walls, maybe eight feet in height, two feet across. Each one was filled with a thick liquid, not water, something heavier, slightly viscous, almost gelatinous the way it moved. Shapes floated inside them, some small, some large, all of them indistinct bloated silhouettes.

I couldn't tell if they were alive or just suspended there. Some were curled in on themselves. Others just hung. A few parts were empty. One was cracked. I stepped closer, watching the surface of the liquid as it rippled faintly beneath the green light. Derek stood behind me, silent. I muttered more to myself than anything.

Now this doesn't look like role play. Maybe this actually belongs to his parents, Derek quipped. We didn't hear it right away. The room hummed with low power, not machinery exactly, just the background noise of his system still alive, shuffling. From the far end, just beyond the last row of pods. slow at first like something dragging across the floor a wet movement almost muffled we stopped

Jeremy Derek called out his voice echoed against metal and glass we know you're there no response the shuffling continued like it knew where it was going accompanied by a low rustle sling, almost moist sound, something between breathing and licking.

We began walking toward it, running on nothing but pure, unadulterated confidence. A flashlight shook a little in our hands. Derek's beam flickered, stuttered, then steadied again. The sound grew clearer. Now, it was easy to identify the sounds of scratching, licking and breathing. I stopped walking. My throat was dry. I could sense something was wrong.

Jeremy? I whispered. Still nothing. But the noise didn't stop. It was coming closer. Still no footsteps. I raised my flashlight a little, focusing toward the back row of pods where the green glow was weakest. Then something moved.

It came from around the far side of one of the large cylinders. I thought it was a person crouched low to the ground, crawling. But then it rose. My flashlight caught the shape full on. I froze and it did as well. It stood upright, but barely. spine bowed forward, forcing the thing into a permanent hunch. The legs were too long, digit-degrade like a dog's, with tendons visible under paper-thin

skin. Feats played wide, four toes, clawed, human in shape, but not in function. The arms hung low, longer than they should have been. ending in nails, they looked more like cracked hooves than claws. Its skin was uneven, mottled grey and pale brown, dry in some spots and slick in others, like parts of it had dried out while the rest kept growing. Tufts of coarse hair clung to the back of its neck and spine, patchy and unclean. One shoulder looked almost normal, human muscle, familiar shape. But the other was swollen, bunched with asymmetrical tissue, a mass that pulled slightly

when it moved. Its face was pointed, stretched forward into a narrow snout, but not quite long enough to be animal. The skin there was tight, almost translucent, pulled too hard across a skull that didn't match. Its eyes were wide set and cloudy, rimmed in red. were no eyelids. And then the jaw opened, not down, but out. The skin around its mouth split in four directions, revealing a dark gullet and rows of teeth

had spiraled inward rather than back. It sniffed the air once, quick and shallow. Then it came at us. Derek screamed as it collided with him, knocking him backward into the side of the table. He hit the floor hard, flashlight scattering across the tiles. The thing dropped on top of him, hands slapping the ground for balance, mouth opened wide enough to split the skin at the corners. I didn't think. I just grabbed the nearest thing I could find.

A metal rod leaned against the wall and swung it. at the creature's side. The hit landed and it shrieked, not high-pitched, deep. It rolled off Derek and stumbled sideways, knocking into one of the pods as it flailed. The glass cracked, then gave way. Green liquid spilled across the floor, thick and slow. Something inside the pod hit the ground with a heavy slap, curled, pale, switching. It looked like a combination of an anteater and a human. It twitched again, then moved,

arms dragging its body forward like it didn't understand how joints were supposed to work. Derek scrambled to his feet. His shirt was torn, shoulder bleeding. We turned toward the hallway, but another pod cracked, then another. Hairline fractures spiderwebbed across. the glass, and one of the smaller ones burst outright, releasing something lean and fast that landed in a crouch and snapped his head toward us. Then it sprinted. We ran. The first one grabbed at Derek's ankles, nearly dragging him down.

I turned and swung the rod again, catching its arm with a solid thud. It didn't scream that time, almost like it was getting used to the sensation. Derek kicked himself free and we bolted across the room knocking over trays, kicking carts, anything to slow them down. Behind us, another pot exploded, more liquid, more movement. Derek tripped as we hit the edge of the room. His foot caught on a cable or a pipe. I couldn't tell and he went down hard, arms out to catch himself.

I spun around, grabbed his jacket and started yanking him up. But one of the things was already there. It came from the side, fast and low, hands slapping the tile. Its skin had a stretched, waxy look to it, thin hair spouting from its scalp in random clumps. It didn't look at me. Just grabbed Derek's leg and started pulling backward with sharp, jerking motions, like like a dog trying to tear off a limb. Derek howled.

I dropped the flashlight, gripped the rod in both hands, and sland it down across the thing's arm. It didn't let go. It just hissed, turned its head to me with that split-jawed grin. We were right next to the door. I dropped the rod and grabbed Derek with both arms, dug my heels in, and pulled. We moved maybe a foot, but that was all we needed. I let go of Derek, then grabbed the door and shoved it open.

The creature's grip didn't loosen, so I did the only thing I could. I grabbed the edge of the door and slammed it into its arm. Once, twice. On the third hit, I felt something give, a crunch of bone and cartilage. It let out a gurgling wheeze and retracted fast, skittering back into the shadows and all fours. Derek crawled through. I followed, grabbed the handle and pulled the door shut behind us. The bolt barely slid in before something slammed into the other side.

We ran up the stairs, boots slapping against concrete, lungs burning. Behind us, the pounding started again, dull thuds against the steel. By the time we stumbled back onto the road, the sun was nearly gone. The light was turning that strange colour it gets right before dusk. Everything was washed in grey, the trees casting long shadows across the pavement. I couldn't feel my legs anymore. Derek was limping, holding his side. and both of us were covered in dirt, blood,

and something that smelled sour and metallic. We didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. I didn't even know which road we were on, just that it wasn't the one we came in on. A hundred yards later, a small, one-story house sat tucked behind a split rail fence. There was a man out front,

pushing a rusted mower across the patch of grass, He stopped when he saw us. At first he didn't move, just stared. Then he turned the mirror off and came towards us. You boys all right, he asked. Then he took a better look at us. Come on. He brought us inside, sat us down at his kitchen table.

Clean place. Smell like burnt coffee and old wood. He handed us a towel. then a phone. When the dispatcher answered, I didn't tell them about the creatures. I didn't mention green fluid or split jaws. I just gave the address,

told them we'd been attacked, told them someone needed to come fast. They said help was on the way. I hung up and finally looked at Derek. He hadn't stopped shaking. They came in under an hour, two cruises at first, then a full team once the officers got a good look at the place. We didn't go back to them.

They told us the stay put. EMTs checked us over while more cars arrived, unmarked ones this time. Waiter, I saw the footage on the news. They showed the cabin from the outside, lit up in blue and red, officers moving in and out, officers moving in and out. The anchor called it a disturbing discovery, said authorities were looking into a suspected, unauthorized research facility connected to hardly biologics. What they didn't show was the basement. I heard about it later during questioning. The steel door had been forced open.

Inside, they found a lab, just like we described. operating table surgical equipment, dozens of shattered pods. But no creatures. They questioned us for hours, separately, then together, and back and forth. Eventually, someone confirmed what we already knew. Jeremy had been picked up that night, found at home. Calm, cooperative, said he didn't know anything about a cabin. He was arrested, but no charges stuck, and everybody in the town knew why.

His family was already spinning the story before sunrise. I was in a hospital briefly, but they let me out the next morning. No broken bones, just bruises, a gash across my arm and a mild concussion. I walked out under my own power, but I didn't feel right. couldn't tell if it was shock or something else. I didn't hear from Derek for days. He was still in the hospital. Puncture wounds, fractured wrist, some nerve damage and a messed up ankle.

He couldn't stand without help. They said it might take months for him to walk properly again. Might not ever be the same. I visited him once. He wouldn't look at me. Just stared out the window and kept clicking the morphine button, even when I knew the dose had already maxed out. After that, I didn't go back. A few days later, I got a call from the detective who'd interviewed me the night of the raid.

His tone was clipped, professional, almost tired. He told me the charges against Jeremy weren't moving forward, said the family had lawyer. already working overtime, claimed we broke into private property, roughed up their son, trashed a remote site used for authorised research. Jeremy's statement said he'd been targeted, that we were jealous, that we fabricated everything. The official report mentioned structural damage and chemical residue, but no mention of anything that breathed, nothing about the pods, nothing about the bodies,

not even a word about the metal door. They buried it all. I found the ad while half asleep hunched over a greasy diner booth, stealing Wi-Fi from the subway next door. I've been scrolling through Craigslist for hours, past the usual flood of, make $500 a day from home scams, and I need a strong man to lift my mattress posts.

That night, My bank account was sitting at $32.11. Rent was due in four days. The ad was buried between someone offering tarot readings and another listing that just said, Free Dirt. Caretaker needed. 72 hours only.

No experience necessary. $5,000 flat. No fluff. Just that single line followed by. Patient must not fall a side. sleep under any circumstances, all equipment provided. Do not contact us after the job ends. I read it three times. I even closed the tab and reopened it, expecting it to vanish or change into something ordinary. But it stayed exactly the same. There was an email address, nothing more.

I clicked reply and sent a message with one line. I'm interested. The man told me to meet him at a small cafe off a quiet corner of town. It was one of those places with mismatched mugs, hand-painted tables and coffee that tasted burnt no matter what blend you ordered. He sat at the far end near the window, a black notebook in front of him and a cup of tea that had already gone cold. He stood up when I approached and shook my hand.

He introduced himself as Raymond. He wore a dark, well-fitted suit with a cuff-link shaped like a spiral. I couldn't tell if it was a symbol or just a rich person flourish. You came quickly, he said, motioning for me to sit. I asked who I'd be caring for. He hesitated before answering. My mother, Marjorie, she's very ill. He stared at me.

for a long time after saying her name, then continued. She has an unusual condition. Nothing contagious, I assure you, but it's neurological. You won't have to feed her, bathe her, or administer medicine. Just keep her awake, engage her, talk, play music, whatever it takes. The moment she falls asleep, it could. Werson. I nodded, and he exhaled. She was a brilliant woman, he added, taught literature, used to run a little bookshop downtown

before it burned down. She is not herself anymore. She has these spells, fugues, hallucinations, night terrors. They come for her in a sleep. He slid a heavy manila envelope across the table. Inside was a thick binder titled Protocol, a black key fob, a prepaid visa card, and a separate envelope with the address scribbled in sharp handwriting. He also included a list of items that had already been delivered to the property, blackout curtains, noise machines, stimulant supplements, and a medical grade LED therapy light. I asked why he couldn't be there himself. Raymond looked out the window for a few moments before speaking. She didn't want me to be the one, said it will be too hard on me.

I've watched the suffer for years. I agreed to honour that. He turned back toward me. Three days. You'll stay in the house the entire time. No visitors, no calls. She has... sensitive reactions to outside stimuli.

Everything you need is in the binder. Follow it exactly. He slid a phone across the table, cheap and prepaid, with one contact saved. Ah. Only use this if things go completely wrong, he said.

Otherwise, you won't hear from me again. After the conversation, I had my doubts, but Raymond had already given me a debit card and a phone, so I didn't have much to lose. My first destination was the local grocery store. I'd never even tried staying up 72 hours, so I was in dire need of some energy drinks. The house sat at the top of a steep hill on the edge of town, wedge between two long abandoned properties. I wouldn't have noticed it, if not for the number painted faintly on the mailbox in flaking gold.

The pathop was cracked, grass growing through every seam. A row of wind chimes hung silently from the porch, though there wasn't a breeze in sight. Inside, everything was quieter than I'd anticipated. No birdsonged through the windows. I noticed that every clock in the house had stopped. One at 1203, one at 315, another at 424. The windows had thick, boarded nails over them from the inside, sealed tight. Light came from tall standing lamps in every room, all of them humming faintly.

Marjorie sat in a faded recliner in the living room. beneath a painting of a forest that had no path through it. Her body looked smaller than it should have been, curled in on itself, skin like parchment, pulled tight over brittle bone. Her hands trembled on her lap, but her eyes were sharp,

vivid, and almost too aware. She didn't speak at first. Just watch me cross the room, the way you might watch someone approach your hospital bed with a needle in hand. I introduced myself and explained why I was there. Her mouth moved a little, but no sound came out.

I assumed she was mute. I was halfway through, unsipping my duffel bag, when I heard her voice. Quiet, dry, but laced with something that caught in my chest. I heard about you from rain. and, she said, I hope I won't be too much of a bother for you. Her voice didn't match her body. It wasn't weak, not completely. It had something else in it. Resignation, maybe loneliness. I stood there for a second, not sure what to say. Then I just nodded and smiled. It's no bother, I told her.

I'm here to help. She smiled back. The next 72 hours would be the longest of my life. The first few hours passed. I set up the equipment just as the binder instructed. One of the tall lamps flickered at the edge of the living room, but I didn't touch it. Raymond had underlined several warnings in the protocol.

Do not move the lights. Do not unplug anything. Do not let her close her eyes for more than 15 seconds. I double-checked the countdown timer I taped above the kitchen threshold. 71 hours and 44 minutes to go. Marjorie surprised me. She was sharper than I expected. Thoughtful, sometimes even funny.

She told me about a book she tried to write in her 30s. Something about a lot. lighthouse that only appeared in dreams. She asked where I grew up what music I liked if I believed in anything after death. She didn't speak constantly, but when she did, she spoke with a stillness that made every word feel chosen. She didn't complain when I read out loud or when I played soft music. Her favourite was the cello, said it reminded her of something. Not sad. exactly, more worn out. As midnight approached, I noticed her start to fidget. Her hands wrung the blanket across her knees. Her gaze darted to all the corners of the room.

Do you mind turning that one on too? She asked, pointing to a lamp I hadn't noticed, took behind a dusty bug shelf. I turned it on. She nodded, but didn't thank me. After a while, She started whispering under a breath. I leaned closer, thinking she was asking for water. But it wasn't that. Her voice moved through the same sentence again and again, barely audible. Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me. It started around 2 a.m.

I had stepped into the kitchen for just a second to heat up water. When I came back, Marjorie's eyes were closed. Her head tilted toward a shoulder, breathing slow. I panicked, rushed over, clapped my hands called her name. She jolted upright with a gasp that echoed through the room. Her eyes were wide, filled with fresh panic. I didn't mean to, she said. I didn't mean to. I just... Please don't let it out. Before I could ask what she meant, I noticed the lamp beside the bug shelf had gone out,

completely dead. I touched it and felt a thin line of heat coming off the base. Something else caught my eye. The shadows in the corners had shifted. They seemed to ripple ever so slightly when I looked directly at them. They didn't retreat with the light. they moved when Marjorie blinked. When she closed her eyes again, even for a moment,

the darkest part of the room pulsed like they were breathing with her. I lifted the edge of the rug beneath her recliner to fix a frayed corner. That was when I saw them. Thin black streaks burnt into the hardwood, curving into spirals. It wasn't smoke damage. I looked older than the wood itself, buried into the grain. Marjorie reached out and grabbed my wrist. Don't look too long, she said.

It notices when you pay attention. I wanted to leave the room, just to breathe. But I stayed. I pulled a stool closer to her chair and sat beside her, rubbing my face with both hands. She leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling. If I fall asleep, she whispered, it gets out. It's always been with me since I was a child. It waits until I slip.

And then it starts clawing. She didn't say much for the next hour. Just stared, glassy-eyed toward the blank television screen. I tried to distract her with conversation. but she ignored me. Then, out of nowhere, she began speaking again, this time to herself more than to me.

My mother died in that same chair, she said. She told me the truth right before she passed, said it lived in her dreams that it would move up to me next, said I would understand when it happened. And I did. I woke up screaming that night. I couldn't even remember what I dreamed.

But it was there, in my head, at the foot of my bed, in the seams of the walls. A voice wavered, but she kept talking. I never had children. I never wanted to pass this thing on. I thought if I just stayed alone, if I just endured it, then it would die with me. But I was wrong. It grows stronger.

I feel it every time I close my eyes. Her hands trembled, not from age, from fear. I could feel it in the air. I have kept it trapped by never really sleeping, never letting it root itself deep. But I'm no longer the young, strong person I was before. I've grown old and weak, and it knows. It's watching me lose.

She looked up at me then, her eyes shining with tears. I just do not want this to curse anybody else. I didn't know what to say. I reached out, unsure if she would take my hand. But she did. Her grip was frail but steady. She wept out of grief and exhaustion. I stayed quiet.

I haven't known peace in so long, she said. Just the waiting and the struggling. She didn't ask for comfort, didn't want to be told it was going to be all right. She knew better than I did. Outside, the wind picked up for the first time since I arrived. One of the boards on the window creaked. Something in the walls shifted, too slow to be the house settling. Marjorie didn't flinch.

She just whispered again. Stay with me, and I did. The following day passed without a hitch. The energy drinks were working, but I could tell sleep was starting to creep in. However, the second night was worse in every way. My head throbbed from the constant buzz of the standing lamps and caffeine. My vision swam in and out of clarity. Every blink felt heavier than the last, like my own body was rooting for failure.

Marjorie hadn't slept either, not for more than a few seconds at a time. Her eyes were bloodshot, her eyes were bloodshot, avoid. voice more brittle than before. She had started to mutter nonsense. Sometimes it sounded like poetry. Other times, her words strung together with a logic and made my stomach tighten. She spoke in voices that weren't hers. A deep, guttural tone slipped out once, so low I felt it in my bones. Then later, her mouth twisted into a wide grin, and she giggled with the voice of a little girl, are you scared yet? she asked, or what I thought was her. She didn't remember saying it. By 3.30 a.m., I had started to hear things upstairs. There was no second floor, just an attic I had not

dared to check. The footsteps weren't horrid or loud, but they paced back and forth. I knew better than to call out. Three minutes later, every light in the house shut off at once. The buzz died, the air turned cold. I didn't move, couldn't. The only sound left was Marjorie's breathing, slow and uncertain, and the soft creek of wood under something heavy. She looked at me through the...

darkness. Her face glowed faintly in the absence of light, not from any lamp or candle. Her eyes had taken on a sheen, faintly reflective, barely visible, like something was seeing through her. Marjorie closed her eyes for a single moment, and before I could think to wake her up, something caught my attention. The thing appeared above us, clinging to the ceiling, like it had always been there. Its limbs didn't bend in the way they should have. There were too many of them, long and thin, like someone had built it out of smoke and bone.

It watched Marjorie with a stillness I couldn't match. It didn't breathe, it didn't twitch. Its head tilted slowly as her eyelids began to droop. The edges of its body glimmered faintly in the dark, a suggestion of shape, a ripple through the air. I tried to shout, but the air caught in my throat. All I could do was reach for her hand and squeeze. She gasped awake, eyes wide and wet,

and the thing above us twitched once, then receded slightly. It didn't disappear. It just shrank back toward the corner where the ceiling met the fire. wall. Marjorie stared into the black with me, watching it crawl higher into the dark. That's what it does, she whispered. Though I'm surprised you can see it. Her voice was her own again. We sat like that for a long time, silent except for our breath. The air felt thick, heavy with a presence I couldn't name. The shadows were heavier now.

The floor beneath my feet pulsed faintly with the rhythm. Around 4 a.m., the house changed again. I dozed off, only for a second. My head dipped forward and snapped up with a jolt. Marjorie was still awake, but her expression had changed. Her eyes were unfocused, and her lips moved slowly. I can give you peace, she said. No more pain, no more nights alone.

You want out, don't you? I can get you out. I didn't reply. I just shook my head. Her face contorted again. You've always wanted more, she said, more than what life gave you. you. I could make people listen. I could make you known. The voice was wrong. It wasn't Marjorie

anymore. It was deeper, older, and filled with something that didn't understand what it meant to be human. You want money? Done. You want fame? Easy. You want to be remembered? I can make you the only name they speak. I stood up. I felt sick, dizzy. The room was spinning, but I grabbed the edge of the chair and forced myself steady.

Madre's hands shut out toward me again. I didn't pull away. I knelt beside her. No, I said. She stays awake. She finishes this. We both do. The shadow.

Rhythed at the edge of the room, recoiling like a tide forced to retreat. I stayed beside her, holding a hand, reading anything I could find. I told her about my mother, about the first time I snuck out of school, about the time I broke my arm falling out of a tree. I didn't stop. When my voice gave out, I played music through my phone and let her rest ahead on my shoulder. She didn't speak for hours, but as the sun crawled toward the horizon, she smiled. A real smile.

A tired one, but real. No one's ever helped me carry it before, she said. That smile broke me more than anything else in that house, because I knew how rare it had to be. She closed her eyes for a second. I nudged her gently. She stirred. Still with me. For now.

On the last day, Marjorie's body had started to give up. There was no other way to describe it. Her words slurred and dragged. Half her sentences faded out before they ended. Her hands clenched and unclenched the blanket draped over her legs. each movement slower than the last. She coughed hard enough to double over, and when she wiped her mouth,

a thick streak of black fluid clung to the back of her hand. It smelled like iron and burnt oil. I moved to help her sit upright again, but her eyes caught mine with a quiet, trembling urgency. In the drawer, she said, barely more. than a breath, hallway table, right side, bottom. I did what she said. My legs were trembling under me as I crossed to the hallway. The shadow shifted again when I moved. They didn't follow me, but they watched. I could feel it behind my ears, the quiet judgment of something

waiting for the final piece to fall. The draw stuck a little, swore, stuck a little, swore, from age. I yanked it harder and it came loose. Inside was a dusty leather photo album, cracked down the spine. I carried it back to her and sat on the floor beside her chair. We opened it together. The pictures were faded but intact, black and white shots of a young woman in a flowered dress standing near a broken fence. Marjorie. Her eyes were brighter then, her mouth softer the edges. She stood with a woman I assumed to be a mother, tall and stiff, a distant look etched permanently across her face. The two of them stood apart in every photo, never touching. The mother always near the shadows.

There were no children in any of the images, no friends, no wedding dress, just the same woman, aging slowly across decades, always alone. She pointed to one photo with a shaking finger. It showed her sitting on the floor in front of a boarded-up window. There was a shape behind her, just barely visible through the gap in the slats. Long fingers stretched vertically, holding on from the outside. No face, no body, just the idea of someone watching. It showed up right after this was taken, she whispered.

I tore the film up that night, buried the negatives. But it didn't matter. I stared at the photo and felt my jaw tighten. My voice cracked when I spoke. How did you live like this for so long? She smiled with her eyes closed. I didn't live. I waited.

I've almost made it to the end. I'm almost. Her voice faltered again. Her jaw trembled. A wet sound gurgled deep in her throat. She tilted her head back and drew in a sharp, rattling breath. The countdown in the kitchen timer hit 59 minutes, 12 seconds. I think it's time, she said.

I feel it in my ribs. I knelt beside her. My hands wrapped round hers, cold and papery. Thank you, she whispered. I can feel it coming. Her head leaned back and her eyes fluttered shut. For the last time, the house went still. Not just quiet, but completely still.

The air stopped moving, the walls no longer creaked. Even the wind outside held its breath. I reached for my phone, hands shaking, and dialed 911. I gave the address, said there had been a little bit of a phone. a death, tried to explain but couldn't find the words. They asked if I was alone. That was when a body cracked. It started with a small pop at the base of her neck, then a spine shifted. Her shoulder blades rolled unnaturally forward. Her wrists twisted sideways and bent backward. Her jaw fell open, too far, her head lolling as if disconnected from the rest of her.

I dropped the phone. The operator kept talking. I heard her asking me to respond, but I couldn't. I was frozen. Then, Marjorie moved. She rose slowly, joint snapping as her limbs unfolded the wrong way. She dropped to all fours and stayed there for a moment, her breath low and rattling. Her face curled into something that looked like a smile, but had no warmth. She launched forward. I barely rolled out of the way in time. I hit the floor hard and scrambled to my feet. She moved faster than I thought possible, limbs jerking as if pulled by strings. Her nails clawed across the hardwood, tearing through the rug and into the boards beneath.

I ran down the hallway and the door slammed behind me. One by one, every door on the house slammed shut with a thunderous bang. The walls groaned and seemed to stretch. A hallway that had once led to a linen closet now spiraled to the right, deeper into the house. I stumbled into a bedroom I didn't remember being there. The furniture inside was nailed to the scene. kneeling, gravity had twisted. Behind me, Madri laughed, not with her own voice, with several.

Some shrieked, some crooned. One voice matched mine exactly, calling out in a perfect imitation. Help me, she said in my own voice, I'm still here, please don't leave me. I slammed the door and backed away. The floor thudded as she crept closer. Her feet didn't land with weight. They landed with intent. I shoved myself into the closet and pressed the door shut.

My breath tore in and out of my lungs. I could hear her sniffing outside. A slow, deep inhale. Then another closer. I bit my tongue to keep from sobbing. Then I remembered the phone. The cheap, prepaid phone Raymond had given me. I dug through my pocket, fingers slipping and pulled it out.

The screen was dim. The contact still read. Ah, my thumb hovered over the button. Then I pressed it. The closet door creaked open a few inches. Her fingers curled around the frame. They weren't hands anymore. The bones had shifted under the skin, forming long, hooked points that scraped softly across the wood.

I couldn't breathe. I pressed my back to the far corner of the closet, phone still clutched in my hand. The line went silent. No voice, no answer. Then the sound of breaking glass filled the house. A window shattered from inside the room, not splintered or cracked, completely obliterated. Wood crunched, a gust of air swept through the walls and pulled the shadows backward. Heavy footsteps echoed across the floor, not the skittering limbs of whatever Marjorie had become.

I shoved the closet door open and stumbled out. Raymond stood in the middle of the hallway, shoulders. squared, dressed in the same dark suits from the cafe. There wasn't a scratch on him. His eyes were locked onto the thing wearing Marjorie's body as it came bounding through the hallway ceiling, limbs bending around the corners. He raised the weapon that I had no words for. It didn't look forged or manufactured.

It looked grown, smooth and bone-white, with grooves that shifted and rose. rotated along the barrel. Each ring pulsed as if alive. He fired once. The sound it made didn't belong to this world. It was soft at first, like someone dragging stone across wet cloth. Then it expanded into a shriek, deeper than sound, something that made my ears ache and my eyes blur. The creature twisted in mid-air. Marjorie's body convulsed and peeled backward, limbs retracting, face collapsing into itself. The thing inside her screamed as it pulled away from her skin, unraveling in ribbons of smoke and bone. It dissolved into thick black mist that clung to the ceiling before vanishing into the boards. Silence followed.

Real silence, not the kind we had suffered through all night. This was absence. The room exhaled. I collapsed against the wall. My legs unable to hold me. Raymond approached calmly and knelt beside me. You did well, he said, his voice steady, almost tired. We needed her exhausted.

fully exposed. It can't hide anymore. You weakened it. I stared at him, throat raw, body trembling. He opened his jacket and pulled out a sealed envelope, thick, heavy. He handed it to me. The full five, as promised, no taxes. I didn't take it right away. My hand shook as I reached. for it. My eyes drifted to the hallway behind him, where nothing remained of what had been Marjorie, not even Ash. This wasn't just about mercy, Raymond said, standing. It was containment. He turned toward the broken window, already reaching into his pocket for something else. A small metallic object that blinked red once before going still. I pushed myself up.

Who are you? I asked. He paused at the edge of the frame, silhouetted against the dark outside. He looked back over his shoulder, and for the first time, I thought I saw something behind his expression. You should get some sleep. He said, I've been driving for a food delivery app for a little, over two years now. Nothing glamorous, just one of those apps where you tap a few buttons, grab a paper bag, and drop it off at someone's doorstep. Quick money, if you don't mind the gas prices, and the occasional stress-induced ulcer. I treated it like a side hustle,

deliver a few burritos, maybe a boobity or two, and be home by midnight. But after I got laid off from my last real job, it became my main gig. The shift never technically ends. You just drive until your body gives out or your tank hits empty. Most of it's what you'd expect, fighting for decent tips, cursing at building numbers that don't exist, or walking up five flights of stairs for an order that says, leave at the door, do not knock in all caps. Some instructions get stranger than others.

I once had a guy asked me to leave his sushi, quote, in the shadow of the mailbox. Someone else left a note that said, if the front door opens by itself, just leave the food and walk away. Do not acknowledge her. I left that one on the welcome mat and didn't even look back. I wasn't about to find out if it was a prank or not. A lot of us drivers talk. There's an unofficial group chat we use.

Nothing huge. Just a few hundred regulars who post about traffic, bad restaurants, and weirdest stuff the app doesn't warn you about. Loose dogs, fake addresses, customers who try to pay cash and then grab the food and bolt. Some drivers even swap screenshots of creepy houses or instructions that feel off. Most of us chalk it up to trolls or lonely people looking for attention. But there are certain addresses that come up in conversation more than others. Once they make everyone go quiet.

You learn pretty quickly which places to skip and which ones to never ask about at all. There's one address that kept showing up more than any other. Same house, same street, always be. boosted, always ignored. Every time I opened the app late at night, there it was, highlighted like some cursed loot drop, promising three times the usual payout. Ten bucks turned into 30, 30 into 50. And still, no takers.

The first time I noticed it, I asked in the group chat. I dropped the pin, said something like. Anyone know what's up with this place? A reply came through. Don't. Seriously. The message came from a guy named Craig. I met him once when we both happened to be picking up from the same Chipotle.

Nice guy, bit twitchy. I remembered him because shortly after I'd seen him there, he stopped posting altogether. Quit delivery work completely, according to someone else. in the chat, said the job was frying his nerves. I figured it was just burned out. We all get there eventually. Then one night it was slow, dead slow. My tank was half empty, my wallet even worse.

Rent was due at the end of the week and I was already rationing breakfast into two-day intervals. The address popped up again. triple pay only a few miles out clean order i stared and tapped except i told myself if craig did it and lived the tell the tale however cryptic then so could i the guy was clearly a little paranoid there's no way that a house that is on this app and has been on there for as long as it has is dangerous you spend enough time dropping off food to people who treat you the way you would treat a vending machine with legs and it starts to mess with your head. The order came from a local burger spot I knew well. I'd picked up from there a dozen times before, no issues.

Fry's double cheeseburger, large drink. Everything was packed up tight in a stapled brown bag. I almost didn't think about it again until I was walking out the day. door and one of the line cooks called out behind me. Did someone finally take it? The cashier looked at the receipt, then looked at me. Be safe, man, he muttered. I delivered to a lot of weird places over the years. Half-finished basements that smelled of mold, RVs parked illegally behind gas stations, one guy who made me leave a pizza on top of a tree stump. But this place felt different, for whatever reason.

The neighbourhood looked like it had been tacked onto the edge of the city as an afterthought. The road was clean and newly paved, but once I turned off it, the asphalt gave way to gravel, then cracked concrete. The street signs were faded, barely legible. Every mailbox I passed looked like it hadn't seen a delivery in years. tilted rust street one even dangling by a single screw my GPS stopped giving turn by turns and just dropped a pin no house number just a blinking blue dot and a note that said you've arrived i slowed the car to a crawl and finally spotted it wedged tightly between two larger houses like it had been squeezed in

after the fact. It was narrow, with peeling siding and no numbers on the door or curb. The porch light blinked in a lazy, irregular pattern. A set of wind chimes hung from the awning above the door, clinging together, even though the air was completely still. No visible motion inside, no shapes behind the curtains. But I had that prickling sensation in the world. the back of my neck, the kind you get when someone's staring at you from a second-story window.

I scanned the house once, then again. The windows were dark, the blinds drawn tight. I sat in my car for another moment. I would be lying if I said that all those messages in the group chat hadn't done a number on me. I was definitely feeling anxious. But I grabbed the bag, and stepped out into the silence. The instructions were blunt and impersonal. Leave on the porch. Do not knock. Do not wait for acknowledgement.

I'd seen worse. I'd set the bag just to the left of the welcome mat, careful not to block the door, took the confirmation photo, uploaded it and marked the order as delivered. As I turned to leave, I half expected something to happen, but nothing did. No creak behind me or so much as a breath, just the wind chimes tapping lightly above my head.

I walked back to the car, slid into the driver's seat and waited for the payment notification. It came through clean, full fare and tip included, more than I expected honestly. I pulled away, relieved, drove a few blocks, parked near a gas station and cracked the window, planning to eat something before taking another order. And that's when the app pinged a new delivery on the same address. Triple pay again, I hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. Then I accepted it. If I'd done it once, I figured I could do it again.

It wasn't like anything bad had happened. The house was weird, yeah. But weird didn't pay rent, and I was behind. The pickup was fast, one neatly packed brown bag. I made sure not to forget anything, checked twice. The receipt was stapled to the top of the new instructions printed in bold. foot back door, do not use front entrance. So, I drove back.

Same street, same dying streetlights, same wind chimes knocking together in the still air. I followed the gravel driveway around the side of the house. The grass was knee high and busted plastic chair laying inside near the back porch, half-sunkin into the ground, making it clear that it had been. there for years. The back door was unpainted and had no handle, just a latch on the inside, akin to something from an old cellar. I set the bag down gently, snap the photo, and hit complete.

The payment came through almost instantly, tip included more than the last one. I got back in the car and drove off. I was getting tired and it was already way too late. That night I went to bed without overthinking it, slept harder than I had in weeks. The next morning I rolled over, checked my phone as always and opened the app out of habit and the address was there again. No driver assigned to it. It had already been sitting in queue for 20 minutes.

double pay this time, no takers. So, I took it. The hours in that day blurred together real fast. Each time the address popped up, I accepted it. Sometimes the pay was higher, and sometimes it was the normal amount. Yet still, it was so easy and uncomplicated that I felt like I had just struck gold. But the instructions also kept changing. Do not ring doorbell.

Do not make eye contact. Place food on porch and step back six feet. Use gloves. Say nothing. I started joking with myself about it. I told myself it was some eccentric shut-in. Maybe an older person who didn't trust the outside world. The bags were never moved, however.

Every time I came back, the food I'd left earlier was still there. The containers still sealed, the receipt still stapled. Some of them had gone soggy from the morning due. I counted 11 bags stacked on the front porch, all of them from me. That was when something in me shifted. And I started wondering, What if the person inside was dead? What if the app was just said to auto order?

Schedule meals nobody ever cancelled. What if they had family who didn't check on them? What if I'd been delivering to a corpse? The idea borrowed into me. That night, when the order came through, I didn't hesitate and didn't really care how much they were paying. I had to check if the person in. inside was okay. When I stepped onto the porch and placed the bag besides the others, I didn't walk

away. I reached for the front door as anxiety was trying to burrow a hole into my stomach. I knocked three times. Food delivery, I shouted. No answer came. And so I decided to take matters into my own hands. I opened the door with a painful groan. and stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind me the moment I stepped through. I didn't even touch it, didn't hear wind or pressure or anything that might have caused it. It just closed, smooth and silent. Then I heard the deadbolt slide into place with a low mechanical clunk.

I turned around immediately, heart jumping into my throat. I tried the knob, nothing, it didn't even rattle. I jiggled it harder than put my weight into it to no avail. I also tried getting the deadbolt unlocked at least, but I failed every time I tried. Are you serious? I muttered, half laughing but with no humour behind it. I pulled out my phone. No bars, not a single one. The little spinning circle on the screen felt like it was mocking me.

Of course. Hey, I called out, raising my voice a little. Hello, food delivery. Silence. You would think every single home would have some sort of ambient noise. But this one didn't. Just dead air and a deafening silence. I waited for a few more seconds.

trying to listen out for any movement, or maybe even someone calling out to me from deep inside the house. But there was nothing. I didn't want to go any farther, but I told myself it was probably an old person, someone hard of hearing. Maybe they fell, maybe they had a stroke. Whatever the case, all I wanted to do was leave and call the police or the ambulance. I stepped forward with a full intention of getting out as soon as possible. The entryway opened into a short hallway, carpeted in a faded brown that was matted down in uneven patches, like certain spots had been stepped on too many times, and others not

at all. The walls were yellowed, maybe from smoke, maybe just time, and the air smelled faintly of ammonia laid over something harder to name, like meat left out too long in warm room. The ceiling looked weird, strange marks have been left in the material, circular holes dotted the entire surface. I took another step, shoes sinking slightly into the carpet. The floor creaked beneath me, slow and high-pitched. Hello?

I tried again. I don't mean to intrude, I just, your door locked behind me. I reached the end of the hallway and leaned slightly to peek into the kitchen. Pale tile, mostly clean, a few dark stains near the sink. The fridge was humming and the little green light on the microwave was blinking 12 o'clock like it had never been set. The place wasn't messy, but it didn't feel. lived in either. It had the hollow too quiet energy of a model home, something built to look like

someone was there. I hovered there for a second, right at the edge of where tile met carpet, trying to figure out what to do next, that's when I heard it. A noise from deeper in the house, a sort of raspy breathing. I leaned in just enough to get a clear of view. down the hall. That's when something moved. It wasn't loud, definitely not a crash, but I felt it more than heard it, a sudden fast shift low to the floor. I caught just the briefest flicker of pale skin sliding out of sight around the corner,

like something had darted across on all fours. I jerked back instinctively. a cold jolt ripping through my chest my heel slid across the linoleum and I nearly went down I caught myself against the wall palm slapping into the dry wall

with a dull thud but I barely noticed my heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might choke me for a second I didn't move just stood there frozen in place the air in my lungs too tight to let out.

Something was here, and it wasn't sick, and it wasn't human. I started backing toward the front door without thinking. Each step light, careful, like I didn't want the floor to know I was leaving. My eyes stayed locked on the hallway. I didn't even blink. The doorknob was slick under my hand. I twisted it hard. I felt like a kid checking the fridge every five minutes to see if anything has changed.

I kept tugging and pulling, each tug making a sound that pierced the silence. Then I heard it again. That sound. But this time it was softer, wetter, the steady drag of something moving along the floor. It wasn't coming from the hallway anymore. It was coming from the kitchen right behind me. I turned around slowly and saw it. It was crouched low behind the kitchen island, half-shadowed, but close enough now that I could make out its shape.

The thing was down on all fours. Bare, chalk white skin stretched tight over a long, rail-thin frame. Its limbs were too long for its torso, and they bowed slightly, like they had too many joints. Its fingers, if that's what they were, scraped along the floor in slow, deliberate arcs, each tipped with yellowed, cracked nails that curved like splinters. Its head moved slowly, swaying side to side like it was sniffing, but it had no nose, no eyes, just the sunken face was. with a slack, wet mouth hung wide open, as if it had been caught mid-scream and then forgotten

how to close it. I froze for half a second, maybe less. It didn't lunge or make any aggressive gestures. It just inched forward with that same awful calm, dragging its body across the tile with a sound like wet towels sliding through broken glass. It was close enough to reach me if I hesitated. I didn't. I sprinted, angled my shoulder and drove straight into the kitchen window with everything I had.

But it didn't give. It cracked, spider webbing beneath the impact, but held. My arm folded wrong, pain shooting through it like an electric wire. I dropped hard, the breath knocked out of me, my back slamming against the cabinets with a dull wooden bang. I gasped for air, vision swimming, and when I looked up, it was already there. The thing was crawling toward me, fast now, faster than it had any right to move. Its limbs clacked against the tile. One of its arms flailed blindly, catching the helm of it.

my jacket. The sound it made, somewhere between a gurgle and a rattle, was directed at me. It didn't just want to hurt me. He wanted to feed. Nobody had stepped foot in this house for God knows how long, and I was the first one it had seen. I kicked hard, my boot connecting with his chest. His skin felt soft, almost spongy, but underneath was some something solid. The thing recoiled slightly, but didn't stop. Its hand lashed out again, skimming my knee this time, nails grazing skin. I felt warmth, but I didn't check. I pushed myself up with a grunt, got my hands under me, and surged forward with everything I had. I slammed into it head on, my weight driving into its chest, and for a moment I thought it might

hold its ground. Its limbs curled around me like cables, one of them wrapped around my forearm pulling tight. Adrenaline surged through me as I pulled against it with everything I had. My elbow smashed into what passed for its neck, once, twice, until it let go just enough for me to shove it sideways. It crumpled onto the floor, limbs tangling beneath it like a sack of broken sticks. Still running on whatever adrenaline I hadn't burned out in the scuffle, I doubled back toward the window. The crack I'd made earlier was still there, spied across the glass like a frozen explosion.

This time I didn't brace myself. I didn't aim. I threw my whole body into it. The glass gave with a sharp staccato burst. It came apart all at once, not with a clean. break, but in a thousand small shards that cut through my sleeves, my forearms, the side of my neck. I didn't feel it right away, just the sensation of air hitting exposed skin as I spilled through the frame and landed hard in the patchy, uneven grass outside.

The fall knocked the wind out of me again, but I scrambled to my feet without thinking. Blood was running down my arms in thin, erratic lines, and my shirt stuck wet. against my ribs, but I didn't stop. I didn't check behind me. I just ran. I don't remember the drive home. Not really. Just fragments. My hands slipping on the wheel from blood. The streetlights looked brighter than the sun as I drove in the days. By the time I made it back home, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely open the first aid kit under the sink. I tore it apart trying to find gauze, tape, anything to make the bleeding slow down. I didn't try to explain it to myself.

Not anymore. I wasn't going to sit there and rationalize what I saw, or what it tried to do. I called the police. Not 911, just the local station. I told them I delivered to a house and found someone inside. Maybe someone dangerous. I said I thought there might be a breaking or someone in need of medical help. I didn't know what I was saying.

I just needed someone else to go there. They sent a car. I waited by my phone for over an hour, hands bandaged in layers of gauze and paper towels. When the call came, the officer sounded... annoyed. He told me the residents. was an elderly woman, lived alone. The cop asked me if this was some sort of internet trend.

This house has been called in for things for months now, yet the police never find anything. He asked me why I felt the need to make a false report, warned me that filing again without cause could result in charges, suggested maybe I was overworked. I didn't argue. I just apologised, hung up and sat there. In the dark.

The next morning, I did what I always did. I opened the app. And there it was. Same address. No number, just the pin. Same block behind the strip mall. Same flickering porch light in the preview photo. Triple pay.

Order, waiting to be picked up. I've been homeless for a while now. long enough to know which places are safe and which ones aren't, and which ones will get you stabbed in your sleep. I move around a lot, keep to myself, and never stay anywhere too long. That's how you survive. The city is full of tent cities, makeshift little neighbourhoods of the forgotten and unlucky. Some are worse than others.

You don't stay in the ones run by the guys with glassy eyes. and twitchy fingers. You don't set foot in the ones that stink of chemicals, urine and death. But every now and then, you hear whispers about a place that's different. There's one under the overpass on the outskirts of town. I heard about it a few weeks back. No fights, no cops, no trouble. Nobody knows why, but people who stay there don't leave. They don't. They don't Don't come back into the city looking for change. They just settle into that little tent city. And that's it.

Supposedly, they're all happy there. I wasn't planning on going. I don't like places I can't walk away from. But that night, I didn't have a choice. The rain came fast, thick and freezing, soaking me to the bone within minutes. I've been hanging around downtown, near one of the busiest streets, keeping my head down and hoping for scraps when they came out of the bar. A group of them, loud, drunk, laughing.

Those kinds of people don't take kindly to people like me. They started with insults. Hey, get a job, asshole, that kind of thing. I kept my head down and kept walking. Don't engage, don't make eye contact. It's a rule, but when you're the weakest thing on the street, there's always someone looking to prove something. One of them shoved me from behind, hard.

I hit the pavement, gravel dug into my hands. I could have stayed down. Maybe they'd have laughed and walked away. But I made the mistake of trying to get up. The first kick caught my ribs, the second my shoulder. A third, I don't even remember. Everything blurred together. A boot, the taste of blood, the sound of rain hammering the street, drowning out my own ragged breath.

Then a voice, enough, man, let's go. And just like that, it was over. They were gone, back to their warm bar and soft beds, their lives. And I was left in the street, bleeding. into the gutter, shivering like a dying dog. I pulled myself up, one arm wrapped around my ribs. I needed to find shelter. The usual spots were taken.

Under the bridge near Maine, the alcove behind the abandoned gas station, the empty warehouse that still had half a roof left. Even the beat-up places, the ones with rats biting your sleep were full. That's when I remembered. The tent city, I hesitated, rain pouring down on my face. Something about it felt wrong, but I was out of options. My ribs ached with every step, and by the time I made it, I was lightheaded from the cold and the steady loss of blood.

The first thing I noticed was how neat it was. Tent cities aren't usually this, organized. They're messy, thrown together from whatever scraps people can find. Tarp's tied to fences, cardboard stacked into walls. This place wasn't like that. The tents were perfectly spaced, set up an even rows, all facing the same direction, like soldiers standing had attention.

No signs of fights or scrawled out warnings on the ground. I stood. at the edge of the camp, unsure whether to step forward. I felt eyes on me, not unfriendly, just watching. Then a woman, thin, middle-aged, bundled in a ragged coat, stepped toward me, pulling something from her sleeve. She pressed a dirty, dry cloth into my hand. For the bleeding, she muttered, then walked away before I could thank her. A man followed, silent as a shadow. He handed me a bottle of water, gave me a single slow nod, then turned and disappeared into his tent. No one asked me who I was. No one asked

what happened to me. They just helped. I sat down near the entrance of an unclaimed tent, pressing the cloth against my split lip. The pain was dull now, a steady throb in a steady throb beneath my bruised ribs. I tipped the water bottle against my mouth and drank half of it in one go, my body grateful for something clean. Rough night. I turned my head. A man in his mid-forties was sitting on the ground a few feet away, watching me.

He had a half-smoked cigarette in one hand, rolling it between his fingers. I hesitated before answering. I wasn't used to people talking to me. You could say that, I muttered. He nodded, took a drag, exhaled slow. Yeah, same here. Read. That was his name.

I learned it a few minutes later, after he scooted a little closer, and offered me half of a protein bar he'd scavenged earlier. I took it. We sat there, chung in silence for a bit, just listening to the rain pattering against the tents. We were both new here, both sizing up the place. Where you from? He asked eventually. I swallowed a bite, white to my mouth.

Nowhere that matters. Reed gave a dry chuckle. Yeah, that sounds about right. I didn't push him for details. but he told me anyway. Medical debt. That's what did him in. He had a wife, a daughter.

Then his wife got sick. The bills piled up. He took out loans, maxed out credit cards, tried everything. She still died. And the debt didn't die with her. His daughter was better off without him, he said. Staying with family, he hadn't seen her in years. I told him a little about myself, but not much, just that I ran from a bad situation.

No family, no real ties, just surviving. Neither of us felt sorry for the other. That's not how it works out here. We just got it. We lapsed into silence, watching the people around us move between the tents. The people here are weird, huh? Reed muttered. I nodded.

Yeah, real weird. The rain finally let up sometime after midnight, leaving the camp eerily quiet. The only sounds were the occasional shovel of feet and the distant hum of the city. Reed and I sat near our tents, watching the camp move in its strange, silent rhythm. It wasn't just their behavior that unsettled me.

It was the way they navigated. around the centre of camp, avoiding it without looking like they were avoiding it. I looked at the centre of the camp. At first glance, it looked like any other patch of ground. Dark, packed earth, damp from the rain. But the longer I stared, the more I realised something was off. The soil was loose, uneven in a way that suggested it had been recently disturbed. No weeds, no scattered trash, nothing settled into it.

I nudged Reed with my elbow and nodded toward it. You noticed that? He squinted at the dirt, brow-foring. Like, I don't know, like something that was put there or taken out. A quiet rustling made me glance up. An older woman stood a few feet away, just watching us. Well, I thought she was watching us, but it turns out she was looking at Reed. She didn't say anything.

Then, as if deciding we weren't worth the effort, she turned and walked away. Neither of us spoke for a long time, but I knew Reed felt it too. Her behaviour was the clear sign of an unspoken warning. I woke to the sound of movement. The camp was in full motion. Shapes emerged from tents, figures stepping into the cold, heads bowed. They moved with purpose but without urgency. Reed stirred beside me, sitting up and rubbing his face.

His breath was visible in the cold air. The hell is this, he muttered. I didn't have an answer. People were gathered around the fire pit in the centre of the centre of the of camp, the same spot we'd been staring at earlier. The flames flickered weakly, barely alive, but no one made a move to stoke them. They simply knelt. Their bodies angled toward the smouldering embers, hands resting in their laps. Reed gave me a look. What do we do? He whispered. But if we left now, they'd notice.

We were the only one still sitting near the tents. If this was some kind of tradition, we should at least try to fit in. I don't know, man, I whispered back, but I'm not about to be the only one sitting this out. Reed exhaled through his nose, clearly frustrated. But after a moment, he followed my lead. We shuffled closer and knelt with the rest of them, lowering our heads, doing our best to blitz. blend in. Then, the muttering started. At first, I thought it was the wind, a low vibration rolling through the air. But as it grew, I realized it wasn't coming from above. It was coming from the

people. A low, rhythmic humming pulsed from their throats. Just a single, deep note stretched out for long, breathless moments before shifting into another. I didn't understand it, but I could feel it. The sound buzzed in my chest, unsettling in a way I couldn't explain. Reed and I exchanged glances. Neither of us spoke, but I could see the question in his eyes. I did the only thing that made sense to me at the time. I opened my mouth and mimicked the sound.

The fire pit shuddered. I thought it was my eyes playing tricks on me, the glow of the dying embers warping the ground, but then the dirt moved. It sank. A deep, wet-grown rolled from beneath the soil like the earth itself was exhaling. The pit caved inward,

not suddenly but slowly collapsing in on itself like something deep below was pulling it down reed stiffened beside me his breath going shallow i didn't dare move then something broke the surface bloated wet and shuddering the thing pushed itself free from the sinking dirt its surface was slick and glistening, but patches of dark, wiry hair or fur clung to it in irregular clusters, sprouting like weeds from raw, ruptured skin. Beneath it, veins bulged and throbbed, pulsing in a low, sick way. As it expanded and pulsed, the smell radiating from it made its way to us. It was overwhelming, a putrid wave that clawed its way up my throat. throat. I gagged. Reed's body jerked beside me. He covered his mouth, his eyes wide and horrified. The thing quivered, then split like meat being pulled apart by invisible hands. And inside,

something moved. The shape within was rising, twisting against the tight, fleshy walls, trying to push free. A slick tangle slithered out, glistening in the firelight, dripping with some thick, amber-colored fluid. Then another, then another. My breath caught in my throat. My body locked up, every muscle screaming at me to move, to run, to tear my way out of this nightmare. The thing in the pit continued to unfold itself. slick tendrils sliding out, curling in the air like they were testing it.

The stench was unbearable, heavy and rotten. My vision blurred as nausea hit, bile rising in my throat. I stumbled back, hands digging into the dirt. My legs felt like lead, but I pushed myself up, heart hammering. A hand clamped around my fist. I turned, and there she was, the old woman, the one who had been watching Reed earlier. Her eyes were cloudy, but there was no blindness in them. Stay, she murmured, her fingers tightened around my wrist.

It only takes one. A shiver shot through me, my stomach twisting into knots. Everyone Was looking at Reed I lost my breath I turned my head Just enough to see him still kneeling He saw it too

All those eyes locked onto him His lips parted slightly Wait Confusion flickered across his face Then fear Reed scrambled back on his hands. His eyes darted between the people kneeling around their pit. The face is unreadable, not participating.

The thing in the ground pulsed again. It's mass shifting and stretching. Wait, wait, what the hell is this? I just got here. Reed stammered, voice cracking under the weight of sheer panic. His hands were raised, shaking. as if to show them he wasn't a threat, as if that mattered. His gaze locked onto mine, desperation in his wide, bloodshot eyes,

silently begging me to do something, say something, stop this, I couldn't. The moment stretched, silent except for the soft, wet noises coming from the pit. Then, with terrifying speed, the tendrils, lie. fast forward. Two large burly men stood up and made their presence known. Reed tried running, but they caught him. I watched as they dragged him toward the creature and pinned him down right next to it. A tendril punched through his shoulder, sinking deep with a sound that was both a rip and a squelch, like wet fabric being torn apart. Reed screamed, body jugged. Looking violently as the muscle around the wound convulsed, trying to force the thing out,

but it was already burrowing deeper. His legs kicked against the dirt, twisting, his free hand clawing at the tendril embedded in him, trying to pry it loose. The second one, wrapped around his throat. The moment it tightened, his scream cut off, replaced by a grotesque, bubbling wheeze. His hands clawed at the slick, pulsing coil, strangling him. His nails dragging across its surface, but finding no grip, nothing to hold onto. The thing lifted him slightly off the ground, his feet scraping against the dirt, his body

shuddering like his brain was firing off every last desperate command to escape. But the tendrils just kept pulling. He dragged him forward into itself. His clothes stuck to its wet, pulsing mass the second he made contact, as if something beneath the surface had latched onto him. He tried to kick off, tried to push away, but the creature's flesh was sticky, sucking him in, pressing against him with a crushing force that made his ribs groan under the pressure. His lips peeled back, bearing his teeth in an agonized.

grimmis, as he felt it starting to take him. He was being absorbed. His skin started to pull, to stretch, to sink into the folds of the thing's body. It didn't eat him, didn't consume him the way an animal would devour prey. Instead, the flesh of the thing in the fire pit parted and pulled around him, pressing in all sides, smothering him in a thick, pulsing mass. His body began to fold, not in the way a person collapses, but like those animations people made of what it would look like being pulled into a black hole. His back

arching unnaturally, his ribs cracking apart, his joints popping one after the other as his limbs twisted at horrific angles. His eyes were still moving, his mouth was still open, his body was breaking apart. But he was still there. The smell changed. The acreed stench of rock grew thicker, but there was something else underneath it now. Something worse.

It was the unmistakable, gut-wrenching stench of meat cooking from the inside out. Something inside the thing was heating him, poiling him alive beneath its bloated surface. Reed started making a noise, a bubbling sound, thick and wet, rising from deep inside his chest, like his lungs were filling with liquid. His head jerked forward as if he was trying to cough. But instead of air, a thick stream of amber-colored colored fluid dribbled past his lips.

His lips moved, but no words came out. Just more of that wet, bubbling sound. And then, with a final sickening crack, his head tilted all the way back. His face disappeared beneath the thing's pulsing flesh. And Reed was gone. The thing retreated back into the ground, and people started making their way back to their tents. The woman from earlier approached me. This time, she showed proper emotion.

She apologized, but said that now, I had no choice. I could never leave again. But the camp would take care of me. The next morning, the camp was unchanged. The sun rose over the overpass, washing everything in dull grey light. People moved about their routines, stretching stiff limbs, adjusting their tents, heating scraps of food over makeshift stoves. A few murmured quietly, but the voices were flat, absent of emotion.

No one spoke of reed. His tent was gone, his belongings were missing. His spot by the fire pit where we had talked was just bare ground. There was no sign he had ever existed. The fire bit itself sat cold and undisturbed. The ashes from the night before were still there, untouched. The earth with a monster had surfaced, where Reed had been pulled in, crushed, folded into something unrecognizable. It was now smooth, packed tight.

I sat by my tent, staring at it. I barely slept, maybe an hour, maybe less. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it. Reed's body twisting, his mouth open, bubbling sounds rising from deep inside his chest, the way his bones had cracked, how his body had been swallowed whole. I pressed my knuckles to my mouth, swallowing back nausea. The stench of burned flesh and wet decay still clung to my senses. I could smell it, taste it, like it had embedded.

itself inside me. That night I lay awake, staring at the fire pit. Memories looted over and over in my mind. Reed's face, his voice, his screams. My hands clenched, nails dug into my palms. I needed to do something, but if I tried now, they'd stop me. I stayed. Not because I believed in it, but I needed to stay long enough to figure out how to escape this place, long enough to understand what I was up against, to learn their patterns, to see if they were vulnerable. So I watched, I listened. I learned their rituals, their quiet way of moving, their unspoken rules. When they knelt at the fire pit, I knelt too.

When they hummed their strange rhythmic tones, I mimmered. I mixed them, forcing my voice into the same lifeless melody. At first, my presence was tolerated, a stray dog lingering where it didn't belong. But the longer I stayed, the more they accepted me. And soon, I found myself inside the inner circle. They gave me tasks, starting small. I was assigned to collect supplies, ration out water, mend the fragile structure of the camp.

They watched how I followed orders without question. I never hesitated when something was asked of me. I let them believe I was sinking into it, that I was dissolving into the same mindless devotion they all carried. So to them, I was no longer a risk. The older ones began to notice. I caught them watching, murmuring, in approval. when I followed orders without question.

A few of them even started speaking to me. Not much, but enough. I started speaking with the elders, the ones who had been here the longest. They spoke of time as though it had no meaning, as if this place had always been here. One of them told me that the city above was young, that the steel and concrete

with just a thin layer of something much old, The land beneath had existed long before men had carved roads into it, long before they built towers of glass and metal and pretended they were in control. The thing beneath the dirt was older than all of it. They didn't call it a god. They didn't even have a name for it. The part we saw in the pit was only a fragment, a piece of something buried deep, something stretched out by. beneath the land, its body sprawled like a great root system. What we fed it was enough to keep it satisfied here.

But there were other places like this across the world doing the same things we did. I was given roles in the ceremonies. First as an observer standing at the edge of the fire pit as they conducted their nightly rituals. Then I was made an assistant. I played my role well. I helped choose the sacrifices, walking the camp in the days before a ritual, feeling the weight of their silent gazes as I picked the ones who would not wake up in their beds the next morning. Sometimes they knew.

Sometimes I could see it in the way they carried themselves, the way their hands trembled when they reached for their food, the way their shoulders hunched inward like they were trying to disappear. It didn't matter. No one ran. They all went to the pit the same way. I try my best not to be the one that would drag the victims out to the pit, but sometimes that duty was handed to me.

I gathered what I needed in pieces, spread out over months. A sturdy can, old and thick, something that would shatter in sharp pieces. Scraps are metal, jagged and sharp, meant to tear through flesh. scavenge chemicals. A makeshift grenade. Crude but functional. It wasn't perfect, but it would do the job. That night, a woman had been chosen.

I'd seen it in her before they even told me, the small shift in her breathing, the way her hands barely touched her food, the vacant focus in her eyes. She knew. She was lucky that way. She reminded me of Reed. Not in the way she looked.

Reed had been hard-edged, years of suffering chiseled into his face, while she was younger, softer, like she had once belonged somewhere else. But it was in her eyes, the way she stared through me, past me. She didn't fight. No one ever fought. When I volunteered to be the one to take her to the pit, No one questioned it. I had been here too long for them to doubt me now. I had done my part, played my role, led enough people into the pit without hesitation.

I stood beside them in the dark, humming their song, feeding the thing beneath us. They trusted me completely. She breathed, shallow and steady, as they took her arm in my hand. Her skin was warm. pulse light and steady beneath my fingers. She didn't pull away. She walked where I led her, quiet and obedient, just like the others before her.

The camp gathered around us. We walked through them, through the ones I'd knelt beside, the ones who had stood with me as the fire burned low, the ones who had whispered the old stories into my ears. My breath felt thick in my chest, the weight of the grenade in my pocket was heavy burning against my skin my heartbeat thudded in my skull this was it there was no backing out now my fingers wrapped around the fuse up close the thing in the pit was worse than i'd ever let myself see there were mouths or things that almost resembled them gaping slashed open gorges lined with plaited with plaiters pulsing ridges of flesh, but no teeth, just folds of wet, sucking muscle, layered over one another like the gills of rotting fish.

They twitched, flaring open. And his eyes, if they were eyes, were scattered unevenly across its surface, shifting slightly as they swayed, never focusing, but always aware. With one violent shove, I threw the woman aside. Gasps rippled through the crowd, a sharp inhale that cut through the heavy quiet of the night. She hit the ground hard, rolling to her side. Her face twisted in confusion, but I was already reaching into my pocket, yanking out the grenade. My fingers tightening around my lighter.

The pit reacted instantly. The ground pulled apart like splitting skin. A thick, wet noise rolled from the darkness beneath as the creature reared up, sensing something was wrong. The thing in the pit wasn't mindless. The tendrils last forward, fast as striking vipers. I lit the fuse, my breath ragged, sweat rolling down my back. I was too slow.

I knew it in the same moment I saw them coming for me. There was only one way to make sure this worked. I lunged forward and thrust my arm, my entire arm, into the largest of its gaping mouths. Grenade still clenched to my fist. The second I made contact, it latched onto me. The flesh around the mouth sucked inward, a suffocating, muscle-bound vice, wrapping around my arm, locking it in place. It burned, not like fire, but like something alive was crawling into my skin, burrowing, spreading.

I felt it move inside me. Vane surged outward from where it held me, black tendrils creeping beneath my skin, forcing the way up my forearm, borrowing into the spaces between muscle and bone. I screamed, as it pulled harder, yanking me toward. its body, trying to make me whole. My fingers locked around the grenade. My bones started to bend. Joint popped.

My elbow snapped backward. My wrist buckled under the impossible pressure. The pain was all-consuming, a raw, electric agony that tore through every nerve. I lost a part of my vision. My body convulsed. My legs nearly gave out beneath me. It was trying to crush me into something small enough to fit inside. Then, the grenade exploded.

A shockwave ripped through my body, sending blinding heat up my arm. Or what was left of it. Tearing through flesh and muscle, shattering bone in an instant. The force tore me away, sent me hurdling backward, crashing into the dirt, my body skidding across the ground. The creature shrieked, not in sound, not in anything I could hear with my ears, but inside my skull, a raw whale that shattered my thoughts, a wordless, agonized scream that was neither human nor animal, nor anything that should have existed in this world.

I couldn't breathe, but I felt it dying. The pit convulsed, buckling inward, flesh rupturing, splitting open, spraying thick black fluid in every direction. The mouths gaped wide, sucking at the air, trying to cling to life, trying to pull something, anything into itself to stop what was happening. It was collapsing. The earth cracked beneath it, the pit caving in, the body deteriorating, turning to something wet and broken and undone.

I tried to move, but I couldn't. Everything went black. The world came back in pieces. A steady, rhythmic beep, the distant murmur of voices, white light pressing against the backs of my eyelids. The sterile weight of blankets tucked around my body, pinning me down, holding me in place. the unmistakable smell of antiseptic.

I was alive. I tried to move, but my body refused. My limbs felt heavy. A deep, dull ache pulsed through my side, my chest, my skull, radiating outward. My throat was raw, my ribs tight, like they had been wrapped in iron. I turned my head, and that's when I felt it. Or rather, didn't. My right arm was gone. I couldn't see it, couldn't feel it, but the pain was still there.

A deep phantom weight, like something was still holding onto it, still digging into my bones, still trying to pull me back down. The sensation crawled up my shoulder, a hollow twisting emptiness, nerves firing into nothing, reaching for a limb that no longer existed. My left eye wasn't there either. I lifted my remaining hand, fingers trembling, and felt the rough edges of a thick bandage covering half my face. Underneath, my skin pulsed, tender, stitched, swollen. The socket was empty.

The room was silent, except for the beeping of machines, the sound of fabric rustling as I tried to shift my weight. I could hear footsteps outside the door, voices too low to make out. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed. Normal life, the world continuing. I should have felt relieved. I should have felt something. Instead, I just felt tired. I let my head sink back into the pillow.

Nurses pass by the door, their voices drifting through the half-open gap. I force myself to listen, let their words seep in. They said it was an accident, a fire, some kind of explosion. Out by the overpass? Yeah, no one found anybody's, no traces of anyone living there, just a... A pause. Just a hole, my fingers curled into the sheets. The tent city was gone.

The people, the elders, the silent faithful, vanished without a trace. A slow exhale left my lungs, long and steady. I let my eye drift shut, exhaustion pressing me deeper into the mattress, pulling me under. For now, it was over in our part of the room. the world. But if it wasn't, someone else will have to stop it. I moved to New Maple in early spring, right as the snow banks along the curbs turned to slush and the neighbourhood kids started trading sleds for bikes. The place was filled with people who waved from their porches and jogged with dogs that didn't need leashes.

Quiet, unbothered and polite. I told myself I was ready for quiet. I'd taken a job teaching art at the local high school and the rental. An aging two-bedroom with creaky stairs and yellow siding was the best I could afford without roommates. I told people I'd move to focus on my work to get out of the city. That part was true. The part I didn't talk about was the slow disintegration of a relationship I'd spent too many years in

and how silence had started to feel safer than conversation. The Averys lived two doors down. I noticed them on my first walk around the neighbourhood. The house had blue shutters and a deep green lawn already trimmed to perfection. Tulips lined the path to their front porch in a ceiling. single, even row. I saw Mrs. Avery trimming them with garden shears one morning, her white sun hat covering most of her face.

She didn't look up when I passed, only nodded. It took a week before she spoke to me. You're the one who moved into two-one-four, aren't you? She asked as I carried in groceries, the old Duncan house. She stood on the sidewalk with her hands closed. clasped in front of her, her voice soft but precise. Her smile stayed on her face the whole time we talked. She introduced herself as Marion, and when I gave her my name, she repeated it twice. Then she invited me over for lemonade. I said yes, because it felt easier than saying no.

The inside of the home smelled faintly of lemons and wood polish. It was so. It was so. It was spotless. The cleanliness in there felt permanent. Every surface had been dusted, every frame perfectly aligned. I noticed photographs, small ones lining the mantle, larger ones on the wall near the stairs. A girl with brown hair and a bright, wide smile. That's our daughter, Emily, Marion said when she caught me looking. She disappeared. She placed a glass of lemonade in my hand and asked if I wanted a cookie. Mr. Avery, whose name, looking back, I realized I never learned, joined us a few minutes later. He was taller than his wife, thin, with a neatly pressed collared shirt and an easy, practiced

way of folding into conversation. They were charming in the way that old couples are. I stayed for over an hour When I left Marion pressed the Tupperware container of cookies into my hands and told me to stop by any time I didn't plan on going back but the next week she appeared on my porch with a pie

then came the dinner invitation then another over the next month the visits turned into tradition they always served too much food and insisted I'd take home the leftovers. We played cards or watched an odd movie on DVD. Sometimes I'd find myself helping Mr. Avery move something into the garage

or fix a loose shutter. I didn't mind. It felt good to be wanted somewhere. They had a way of making me feel needed without ever saying it outright. Then the small comments began. You have a laugh. laugh, Marian said one night as we finished washing dishes.

Emily's laugh used to carry through the whole house. Another time, Mr. Avery handed me a book from their shelf. She loved this one, used to read it out loud on the porch. I smiled, said thank you, and took the book home. I told myself it was harmless. A grieving family seeing pieces of their daughter. daughter and a young woman nearby. It was a compliment, that's all.

Then, after dinner one night, Marion handed me a folded sweater. I found this while going through the linen closet, she said. It used to be Emily's. I think it would look just perfect on you. It was soft, cream-colored, with slightly stretched sleeves. The scent of lavender clung to it. I hesitated for half a second, but she was already draping it over my arm. Her hand stayed there, resting lightly on my wrist.

You don't have to wear it now, just keep it. It'd make me happy. I nodded and thanked her, told myself I'd return it later. I never wore it. Just folded it into the back of my closet where it sat behind a box of winter scarves. By then, I had already stopped telling people how often I was seeing the Avery's. I'm not sure why. Maybe I was afraid of how it would sound, or maybe part of me already knew something wasn't quite right.

I just didn't know how far it would go. It was a Sunday evening when they asked. Dinner had been roast chicken, peas and soft bread rolls that marion brushed with melted butter. I'd brought over a cheap bottle of red wine and we drank it in mismatched glasses while the sun tipped behind the trees outside their living room window. They weren't watching anything on TV.

Marian had turned on an old stereo that played instrumental jazz at a volume just low enough to barely notice. She waited until I had finished eating, then reached for my hand. Her fingers were covered. cool and dry, but steady. Across the table, Mr. Avery cleared his throat. We wanted to ask you for a favor, she said. I looked between them, unsure of what they meant.

Tomorrow is Emily's birthday, she continued. She would have turned 17. Mr. Avery nodded. His hands folded in front of him. We started a tradition just last year, just a quiet evening, a remembrance ritual, I suppose you could call it. Marion gave a small smile then, the kind that didn't reach the eyes. We thought, if you were willing, maybe you'd help us with it this year. I didn't answer at first. She kept holding my hand. It wouldn't be much.

Just sit in a place at the table. a passage from a journal, maybe wear one of her favorite dresses, that's all. Mr. Avery reached across and rested a hand on his wife's shoulder. She began to cry, not loudly, which made it even sadder. It would mean so much to us, he said. People do strange things when they grieve. I said yes. The next day they dressed me in pale blue. the fabric thin and neatly pressed. It was already laid out in Emily's room when I arrived,

draped over a bed like it had been waiting. I changed in silence. The dress fit me perfectly. Downstairs, the table was set for three. One plate at the head, one at the left and one at the right. A single white candle burned in the centre. Marian stood by my chair, smoothing the shoulders of the dress as I sat down. On my plate was a folded piece of paper.

I read the words out loud. It was a passage from Emily's journal, something about a favourite season, the way the air smelled before rain. I read it twice at Marion's request. After that, we held hands. Mr. Avery began to hum, a slow droning melody. Marion joined in, barely above a whisper. There were no words, only the sound of their voices moving in and out of tune with each other. They stopped humming and began eating.

I followed their lead. The food was thick and oddly sweet, some sort of casserole I didn't recognize. The texture was soft, but not in a pleasant way. My stomach tightened after a few bites. Still, to be polite, I cleaned the plate. Afterward, they insisted I stay a little longer, just to talk. I nodded along with their stories, most of which seemed pulled from moments that no longer belonged to anyone.

Mr. Avery kept referring to things we had all done together, times I knew for certain I hadn't been there. He spoke with such conviction that I stopped correcting him. Marion stood and clasped her hands together. You've been such a light for us, she said. We've been thinking, maybe it would be easier for everyone if you stayed the night. gestured toward the stairs, we already made up a room for you. I didn't respond. I stood, forcing a smile, and told them I had an early morning. I walked toward the door. Neither

of them followed. They only watched, Marion still smiling, Mr. Avery with his head slightly tilted. I reached for the door-knob. The world, tilted sideways. The last thing I remember is the taste of metal in my mouth and the floor rushing up toward me. I woke to the sound of Birdsong. For a moment I thought I was home. Not my new place, but the apartment I'd shared with my sister before the move, the one with the crooked blinds and the peeling wallpaper in the kitchen.

The morning light had that same watery yellow hue stretched across the floor like someone had poured it from a glass. But the room smelled different. There was no scent of old coffee or laundry detergent. Instead, the air was stale, perfumed with something powdery and floral. I turned my head and saw the wallpaper. Soft pink with tiny green leaves printed and even, even rows. The bookshelves sat beneath the window filled with worn paperbacks and dusty trophies.

There were dolls on a wooden rocking chair in the corner, a small white desk, a full-length mirror with a lace shawl draped over the top. And on every wall photographs and a child's drawing. Dozens of them framed and arranged with obsessive precision. They were all of her, Emily. Her face stared back at me from every angle. School portraits, birthday parties, candid shots in the yard. Her eyes always locked with the camera, always smiling. I sat up.

The sheets tangled around my legs. I was still wearing the dress. My skin itched beneath the fabric. I reached for my phone. out of habit. My pocket was empty. I checked the nightstand, nothing. No phone, no charger, no keys. My coat was draped over the desk chair, but the pockets had been turned inside out. There was no clock in the room. The silence crawled in behind the birdsong and pressed down on my shoulders. I opened the door. Mr. Avery stood on the other.

the side, holding a tray with toast and a glass of orange juice. He didn't flinch. His face was smooth, his expression unreadable. Good morning, sweetheart, he said. We thought you might be hungry. I stepped back into the room, heart pounding, trying to keep my breath steady. He followed, placing the tray in the desk beside the glass lamp. I wanted to ask what happened. and I wanted to ask why I had woken up there, why I couldn't remember falling asleep, why I was still in Emily's clothes. But when I opened my mouth, nothing came out.

Mr. Avery folded his hands in front of him and gave a small nod. Your mother thought you might need a little extra rest after everything last night. You always get a little overwhelmed when things get emotional. He looked at the wall, at one of the pictures. We understand. I forced the words out. Where's my phone? What are you people doing?

He didn't answer at first. Just looked at me with that steady, practiced gaze. You know you're grounded, Emily. No phone until we talk about what happened. Until you're honest with us. My skin went cold. He turned and watched. walk to the door. Before stepping out, he said, almost absently, we'll be downstairs when

you're ready. Just come sit with us when you're feeling more like yourself. He closed the door softly behind him. I rushed to grab it, grab the knob, twist it hard. It wasn't locked, but I wasn't ready to leave yet, not without a plan at least. I just. I just. I just check the window next, the latch had been painted over. When I tried to slide the pane open, it didn't move. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the door for a long time. There was no yelling, no threats, no locked chains or screaming alarms, just that suffocating sense of stillness.

I could hear Marion's voice echoing through the walls. She was humming a tune. She sounded happy. I was waded out and scared, and frankly, I couldn't wait to report them to the police. I'd spent a lot of time with the Avery's, so I knew what they did, and when they did it. And so, I waited, until the mower started. It was an old push model, loud, uneven, and it took a minute to warm up. From the window, I watched Mr. Avery roll it across the backyard, the blades chewing up patches of tall grass he had let grow just long enough to look natural.

His back was turned. Marion wasn't in sight. I moved fast, quiet at first, then reckless. I slipped out the room and crept down the stairs barefoot. My shoes were gone, so I wore Emily's floor. flats from the closet. They pinched my toes, but I didn't stop. The house was still. No clocks ticked, no footsteps echoed, just the rising whir of the mower, steady and sharp. At the front door I reached for the lock. It clicked open easily. The deadbolt hadn't been set. For a second,

I thought maybe this would be easy. Maybe they had let their guard down. I opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. The grass felt cold through the thin soles of my shoes. I didn't look back. I moved quickly past the porch, through the side yard, past the rose bushes that edged the Averyst driveway. I heard the mower stop. Then his voice.

Emily, I didn't answer. I broke into a run. I made it halfway across the lawn before he tackled me from behind. My knees slammed into the ground. One shoe flew off. His arms wrapped around my waist and he dragged me backward, his breath hot and uneven in my ear. I screamed in hopes anyone would hear me. Enough, he snapped, enough of this.

I screamed again, raw and useless. He pulled me through the doorway and up the stairs. My hands clawed at the walls, trying to find something to grab, anything that might catch. He threw open the bedroom door and shoved me inside. I hit the floor hard, my shoulder cracking against the leg of the bed. You don't get to run away from us, he said. He stood over me, chest heaving, face flush. I could smell the sweat on him, mixed with something sour.

He raised his hand. The slap rang in my ears for a long time after he left. When he shut the door again, the light seemed to change. The sun had begun to set, and the room filled with shadows that stretched toward the corners like stains. I stood, legs shaking, and picked up the nightstand. It was heavier than I expected, painted white with floral knobs, one drawer still filled with old birthday cards and dried out pens. I dragged it to the window, raised it above my head, and slammed it against the glass.

The first it only left a mark that was nothing but cosmetic. The second didn't even do that much. By the fourth strike, my arms burned. I let the nightstand fall to the floor and sank beside it, chest rising and falling too fast, the glass mocking me from above. I didn't hear anyone approach. A door creaked open behind me. Emily, Marian said gently.

I turned to face her. She stepped into the room in a pale blue sweater and slacks. Her hair was pinned neatly behind her. her ears. She held a silver brush in one hand and a smile never wavered. I thought we could spend some time together, she said. Before I could speak, I saw movement behind her. Mr. Avery stood in the hallway. He wasn't sweating anymore. His face had gone still, calm again. In his right hand was a pistol. He held it with both hands low against his stomach, but aimed in my direction.

I opened my mouth, but Marion was already crossing the room. Why don't you come sit? she asked. She sat on the bed and patted the space beside her. Mr. Avery gestured with his pistol, and so I sat. Marion reached out and began to run the brush through my hair, the bristles snagged on knots. She hummed softly under her breath, something tuneless and repetitive. You always loved this, she said. You used to sit just like this when you were little, remember?

I felt the first tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. I tried to hold back, but they came fast. soaking into the collar of the dress. Marion kept brushing, her voice crooned. You're going to feel better soon. All that confusion is going to melt away. We'll take care of you, like we always have. She kissed the top of my forehead and kept brushing,

even as my shoulders shook. Days passed like this. Mrs. Avery came into my room every night, accompanied by Mr. Avery. Always the same routine. She came into the room every evening with Mr. Avery right behind her, always carrying the same pistol tucked under his arm or slipped into the waistband of his jeans.

He never raised it again, but he never put it away either. It was there to keep the lines drawn, to make sure I didn't forget who I was supposed to be. She would talk about memories I didn't have, cry over milestones I'd never reached. Sometimes she'd sing to me in a low, breathy voice, humming half-finished lullabies and whispering that I'd always be her baby. I didn't argue anymore. I played along.

I smiled when I was supposed to. I held a hand when she offered it. I responded to Emily. It was the only way to stay. stay safe. Until the night, I reached my breaking point. I'd been staring at the wall across from the bed where they'd hung a frame I hadn't noticed before.

Must have been slipped in when I was in the bathroom. A drawing done in pencil of a small white house with a porch and two stick figures standing in the yard. At the bottom, the signature. age seven. Something about it opened a door in my chest I hadn't closed fast enough. I stood and tore it from the wall, then the next photo, then another. I didn't stop. I tore the bed sheets apart and kicked the rocking chair over. I pulled open the drawers of the desk and dumped them onto the floor. I had destroyed most of the room. The mattress had been flipped, the curtains

torn from the rod, I had kicked open the closet doors and thrown every hanger to the floor. My arms ached, my throat burned from yelling, though no one had come to stop me. Maybe they were letting me tire myself out, or maybe they were waiting to see what I would do next. I sank to the floor beside the bed frame, heart still pounding, tears dried on my face. I didn't know what I was hoping to find. Some crack in the walls, some hidden clue that would explain what had happened here before me. I didn't expect anything real. That's when I found the notes.

They'd been tucked behind the desk, wedged between the back panel and the wall. The corner of the paper had just barely peaked out, visible only from where I'd collapsed. It wasn't hidden in the way someone might hide a side. secret. It was forgotten. I crawled toward it. The notes were thick and worn, the pages soft from handling. A floral cover faded around the edges, with the name Becker written across the front in blue ink. Not the loopy curated signature I had seen of her old school work. This one had been written fast, probably while crying. first entry was dated 14 months ago. I wanted to start this off by saying that my name

is Becca, not Emily. Marion gave me this journal, told me to write down whatever she told me to. When she left the room, I ripped a couple of pages out. I needed to get my real thoughts across somewhere. They took me. I don't know how to write that any other way. I keep waiting to wake up to hear my alarm and crawl back into real life. But it's not coming. I went to see my old piano teacher. That's how it started. I'd posted about it on Facebook and Marion must have seen it. She was there when I came out, smiling, saying it had been too long. Then Mr. Avery showed up. I thought it was weird, but I didn't panic. Not until. I got into the car, not until the doors locked. My hands trembled as I turned the page.

They told me my parents didn't want me anymore, that the world outside was dangerous, and they were the only ones who could protect me. I screamed. I cried so much I couldn't see straight. They started keeping me in the room for days at a time, said I needed to calm down before I earned privileges. Entry after entry blurred into each other. weeks of isolation, meal slipped through the door. The silence, the slow removal of her name. They started calling me Emily. That's their daughter's name.

She died when I was little, I think. I found a photo once in a box in the closet. The girl in the picture wasn't me, but they said it was. I told them no, but they didn't listen. The more I argued, the more time they kept. me locked away. Mr. Avery hit me for the first time three weeks ago. He apologized after, said he didn't want to, but I provoked him.

Marion gave me ice in a dish towel and told me to stop resisting. She said the sooner I accepted that I was home, the easier everything would be. Some entries were scribbled and hard to read, with a pen pressed so deep it tore the paper. Others were neat and almost detached, like she had given up on being heard and wanted to leave record. One in particular caught in my throat. I miss who I was, my name, my friends, my real mom. I think I'm forgetting what a voice sounded like. I keep trying to say my own name out loud when I'm alone, but it sounds fake now.

They keep telling me I'm Emily. They tell me I was never anyone else. The final entries were short. They said we're going to the lake soon to start over somewhere quiet. I think they're going to kill me. If anyone somehow finds this, please tell the truth. I was Becca Harper. I was 16.

They made everything up. I clutched the notes to my chest and sat there in the wreckage of the room they had once given her. A shell of a bedroom meant to erase someone and replace her with a better version, a more obedient version. They were doing it again. I was still staring at the notes when I heard a knock at the front door. I immediately perked up. In all my time spent here as a prisoner, I hadn't heard someone knock on the front door a single time. It was a hard knock, not Marion's gentle tap, not Mr. Avery's soft call for dinner, a firm, practice fist against wood. My door swung open. It was Marion. Before she could even question

me about the state the room was in, she ushered me to come to the front door, claiming we had visitors. Mr. Avery was already there, gun tightly bound to his waist. He was always ready now. He opened the door with a smile. Two officers stood outside, one older, square-jawed, the other younger, sharper eyes. The older one spoke first. We're falling up on a missing person report. Young woman, mid-twenties, moved into 214 last month.

You know anything about that. Marion beamed. Oh my, we thought we hadn't seen her in a while. Miss Avery turned to me. Emily, you are quite well acquainted with her. Come say hello. I walked to the doorway. Marion reached for my hand and held it in both of hers.

Introduce yourself first, sweetie. My mouth opened. Nothing came out. The order officer tilted his head slightly. studded my face, his eyes narrowed just enough to suggest he saw more than he was letting on. I tried again. I'm... She was gone for a year.

She just recently came back and... Mr. Avery said quickly. It's been a hard week. The officer didn't move. I'd like to speak with her alone, if that's all right. There was a pause. Marion blinked. Mr. Avery didn't speak, but his smile faltered.

Of course, she said. She just needs some air. He led me down the walkway. We stood at the end of the driveway. I leaned in and whispered, barely able to push the words out. It's... It's me. They kidnapped me.

He has a gun. Please don't make a scene. I think you'll kill us if you did. do. The officer didn't flinch. He only nodded very slowly. Then he smiled. Thank you, Emily, he said, loud enough for the others to hear. Everything seems fine here. He walked back to the porch. The door shut. And they left. Marion and Mr. Avery seemed to be satisfied. They must have assumed that I had told them I was their daughter, or something equally as sick, falling for their own delusions.

I went back to the room and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for what would come next. That night, I didn't sleep, or rather couldn't. The raid came late into the night. There were no red and blue lights flashing through the windows, only doors being broken and voices is shouting. A battering ram cracked the front door in half, footsteps thundered through the house. I huddled in the corner of Emily's room with a lamp still on, waiting for it to end. One officer rushed straight to my room, helping me up and escorting me outside. They dragged Mr. Avery out after. He screamed and fought, wild eyes flashing under the hallway

light. She's mine, he shouted. You don't understand. She's mine. Then Marion, sobbing, her sweater stained and her hands shaking. Emily, Emily, tell them, tell them the truth. Don't let them take us from you. Don't let them hurt your family.

I didn't answer. I watched as they were taken from the house, kicking and wailing. reached for me as she passed the bedroom door. I took a step back in disgust. Later at the station, I told the officers everything. I told them about the notes and everything I'd read. And with that, Becker's case was reopened and her family finally got the closure they so desperately needed. As for me, I never quite recovered. People imagine. Imagine that once the danger ends, you can breathe again, that the worst part is over and done with. That's not how it works.

You leave the place, but it doesn't leave you. I still shower with the door cracked open. I still flinch when I hear that name. I still dream in that room. The pink wallpaper, the press dress, the soft brushing of a voice. behind me, telling me, I'll be better soon.