CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - The BEST Creepypastas of 2024

Episode Date: February 7, 2025

►0:00 "We were good to them for so long. It made us forget what happens when we aren’t." Creepypasta►30:51 "Why My Father Was Terrified of Piano Music" Creepypasta►1:02:13 "I explored an abandoned wing of hell" Creepypasta►1:56:40 "Family_simulator.EXE" Creepypasta►2:34:51 "Why Did the Arctic Station’s Researchers Barricade Themselves Inside?" 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

I'm an old man nowadays, and the events described within this text took place a long time ago. Still, I haven't been able to move forward. Not really. Fragmented memories pop up from time to time. Images of that awful night sporadically haunting me. Seeing as I'm not long for this earth now, the grim reaper impatiently waiting, I figured putting it all into writing would make my mind. last couple of months more comfortable in some way. Growing up, he had a house like any other. It was red, the pigment of the paint originating from the iron mines further up north. The corners of the casing of the windows were white. A big plot of land surrounded our home and it included

a barn constructed in the same traditional style as the main residence. Miles of pine bordered the property to the north and fields of wheat and ride to the east. A small gravel path, no wider than an L, connected us to the outside world. If you haven't figured it out yet, we led a quaint an isolated life. But it was good. It was a good life. I apologize. I'm forgetting myself. It becomes less rare with age. I suppose you're wondering what I mean when I say. We. A family of four plus change. That's who we were. My younger sister, Ingrid, was a gifted artist. She would start a creative journey by making dolls at a straw and drawing on the walls, much to the dismay of our parents. In many ways, the spirit was unbound by the realities of life,

which I've always admired. My father was your typical farmer, seemingly always armed with his sickle. Most days he wore a hat made out of straw and jeans suspenders, so much so that some folk came to call him Kufusere, a direct translation of cowboy with ironic undertones. He was strong-willed and cared for his family. Despite the complex relationship we had, I realised. with time that he had to shoulder the burden heavier than any man should have to carry. Then, we have my mother, who was a kind and gentle woman, but she was never afraid to bring out her fierceness when haggling during intense negotiations. I remember one time at the local market

and she even managed to convince our nearest neighbour that the cow we were selling had magical powers. needless to say we ate well that week that may sound strange but such was rural life back then phase elves and trolls weren't merely folklore people gave gifts to these supposed forest dwellers

and asked them to bless the crops when the harvest turned out bountiful they would thank the beings and they didn't they would ask what angered them I reckon most of it boiled down to superstition, flawed ways of explaining the unexplained. The lone exception was that of our last couple family members. When Father spoke of them around us, he called them helpers, because that's what they were, most of the time. Whenever he thought we weren't around, when the late hour struck in darkness with creepers,

into our house. He would quietly call them Batar, a more fitting denomination. The word itself translates the goblin, but it doesn't feel right to call them that. Whites. They were the whites of the land. It was easy to understand as a child. In essence, they assisted us with menial tasks around the property in exchange for porridge, fruits, and pretty trinkets, which, my dear sister gladly crafted. Or rather, that's the story our mother told us when we were too young to know about the darker side of the arrangement. One day, Ingrid and I found ourselves deep in the forest. Tall trees older than our country rose towards the sky from mossy beginnings. Even though the sun shone bright, its rays couldn't pierce those ancient giants. We had been

playing something we came up with. Helpers and herders. It was silly, as any game conjured in the mind of a child. One of us started as a cow and the other as a helper. The cow would run buck wild due to a particularly bad case of mad cow disease. Of course, the distraught herder will be left with no other option than to seek assistance from the famous helpers. A gift to the imaginary helpers later, usually a pine cone fashioned into an animal, the cow would be cured. My sister moved empathetically, more so I thought. That was incredible, do it again, I said. I don't think that was me, she replied.

Turns out, we'd heard a real cow, which prompted an exploration. We moved through thick shrubbery. never minding the tiny scrapes from thorns unseen. The cow made another sound, but this time it was far closer. However, it was less of a humble moo and more of a piercing shriek. Poor thing was in pain. We huddled together on the ground and crawled into a bush. Through it, we saw the source of the sound.

The cow laid bloodied in the center of a circle made out of separate, stone. If memory serves me right, it was five or six. I won't go into much further detail about the state of the cow, but it was bad. My younger sister had never seen such brutality and led out a gasp. The gasp turned to sniffling, and sniffling turned to crying. I tried to hush her, but someone had already heard us. What followed was the berating of the century. Father had never been as angry with us as he was then. Since I was the elder sibling, most of it was directed my way.

He dragged me by the arm all the way back home while muttering furious nothings. My sister walked by his side, still in shock from the grizzly sight. I didn't listen to a word, he said, or shouted for that matter. All I could think about was my father standing over the cow, crimson draped sickle in hand, dancing a terrible dance. The blood and the white shimmer of the blade reminded me of our house. I never saw my father in the same way again. Later that night, when the initial emotion had simmered down, I tried asking some questions. Both of my parents were on the defensive.

but I soon wore them down. Apparently, I was finally old enough to know the secret of the whites. Mother took Ingrid upstairs. Father sent me down at a kitchen table, candlelight flickering in his face. What you saw? It was a sacrifice, father said. A sacrifice?

Yes, like the porridge we put on the windowsill, or the dolls your sister makes, but sometimes they demand more. Why? I do not know. There are many things we don't know about them. We know that they are intrinsically linked to this land because they have lingered here longer than any man. We know that they tolerate us, even help us, because we bring them gifts. We know that they respect us as long as we respect them and the land we borrow. He went on for a while, detailing the many tenets of living with whites. You weren't supposed to disturb their paths, for example.

A rule made more difficult by the fact that their roads were invisible and ever-changing. You can never deny a white or wish outright, but thankfully they weren't very demanding, usually, and it always came with the reward of a ploughed field or milked cows. As he continued explaining, I started connecting the dots. It was not possible for my aging father to run the farm all by himself. It was almost a miracle our family had prospered the way we did. Except it wasn't a miracle after all. He thanked me for listening and told me that I had prospered.

now was in the no, which meant more responsibility from now on. I was content with his answers and started walking up the stairs when a thought hit me. Father, what did they look like? He turned to face me quickly. His face looked almost drained of color. The flickering of the light highlighted his wrinkles in a way that made him seem much shoulder than he was, go to bed, son. A while after that fateful conversation, my mother fell ill. Tuberculosis, the doctor said, the white death. She spent much of a time in the hospital.

We visited her often, bringing small trinkets for her. My sister was inconsolable, and she entered into a deep sadness, spending many a day locked away in a room. This meant that my father and I had to do most of the work around the farm by ourselves. Early mornings and late nights for months.

It was taxing work, especially for a growing teenager and his elder. There were positives though. I would say I turned into a man around this time and I got closer to my usually distant father.

Also, We weren't completely alone. The whites were a godsend during this period, and much of my work focused on keeping them happy. Father eased me in, initiated me slowly. Sometimes I missed the mark, which would lead to tools or even cattle going missing. They could be mischievous, he had told me. Whenever my sins got too egregious, I would hear the pit of power. of small feet on the roof in the dead of night, windows being opened, whispers in a language

I didn't recognize from the woods, and always, just outside my field of vision, I would sense dark figures hiding. These unspoken threats felt drenched in hatred and spite, far removed from the benevolent beings my father had described. But I suspected they were capable of more than harmless pre-enched. And by the way my father had reacted when I asked about their appearance. He did too. Eventually.

I got the hang of things. The farm ran smoothly on the shoulders of two men and their army of hidden benefactors. Calculations were made, and we concluded that the annual harvest would cover almost all of our expenses for two years. the same time, my mother finally came home from the hospital. Ingrid was overjoyed. I never told anyone that I often snuck out at night, bringing lavish gifts to the whites. Ornate silver brooches I had stolen, golden earrings and bracelets. All of it went to the stone circle in the forest. I did not ask them for riches or a pretty girl to fall in love with. I just wanted to

my mother to survive during all my trips to the sacrificial altar. I never once did see them, but they provided nonetheless. I always imagined them the way tradition had painted them for me. A small, quite chubby, happy fella with a little hat on. Then again, as soon as their energy had befallen the farm, despite the many good things happening. I didn't dare imagine them. anymore. Our luck would soon run out. The first horror to rear its ugly head was the disappearance of mother. It was an ordinary day. My father and I woke up at the first crow of the rooster. A fresh layer of snow covered the path to the barn yonder, which made the trek difficult and miserable. I'd recently gotten a new pair of boots, two layers of leather,

and a thick layer of wall inside, but the cold still bit my feet. Father grimaced as we struggled against wind and snow. Today, you become a man, he said. What do you mean? I replied. Do you remember the cow? I shuddered, hopefully not noticeably. Of course I remembered the cow. Turns out, it was my turn to sacrifice a living being. At first, up until then it was always smaller things, dead things. Now I would have to take a life. We chose an older bull. He was sick and most likely would not last the winter either way. As far as we knew, he didn't eat them so the disease wouldn't matter towards the quality of the gift.

It made it easier. But not by much. I made my way through the forest with a leash, connected in one end to my hand and the other to Gunner. It was a weird feeling. Gunner had been alive longer than I. It seemed so much,

from the humble beginnings of our family to the discovery of the white. I remember wondering if he understood what was about to happen. When I looked into his eyes, I decided that he didn't. The ritual had to be performed in a certain way. I began by tying the leash to a tree nearby the circle and started covering the bull with ox tallow.

I removed a small pouch from my waist and dipped my fingers in its contents. Red ochre. I painted a cauld. kind of sign which my father had taught me on the forehead of Gunnar. If it was a letter, it was from a language I didn't know, or even had heard of. Not Latin, which would have been my go-to guess as far as sacrificial languages go. Not Swedish, not Sapni. A mystery.

A knife quickly moved across the throat of the bull. Before I had time to contemplate the morality of the situation. Guna laid in front of me. The red in the snow was too pronounced the bioka. Wood. I had decided to perform the kill quickly, not only for Gunnar's sake, but also for the whites. The most important step of sacrificing a living thing

was the dance. We had been up late many nights practising the moves. father had stressed the importance of doing it correctly. My movements were jerky, just as he had shown me. It felt as if I relived the moment in the bush watching myself. The dance was reminiscent of the final few seconds of life in an animal before death came. Or sometimes it even looked like the rigormorice after death. The dance was death in some sense, or at least close.

closely connected to it. I breathed a sigh of relief. The deed was done. But just as I turned around to start walking home, I caught a glimpse of a figure halfway hiding behind a tree, whispers in both my ears. A headache grew in my right temple. The white stepped out into the moonlight, and I saw them for the first time. Short. No taller than a meter. Its body was a shimmering mess of shapes that looked to be morphing constantly. The shape looked roughly humanoid, but it was clear to me I wasn't supposed to understand their form. Ferrofluid.

That's what it looked like they were made out of. Appalescent, glassy, active ferrofluid. I could have mistaken it for beauty. If it wasn't for the mascot war. At the top of the shape sat a white mask, with black rings around the holes for the eyes. The eyes were rather pale, glowing yellow, and they observed me closely. There was a hole in the mouth as well, positioned in such a manner that it looked like it was frowning.

And in the mouth were rows and rows of deathly, thin teeth, the white pointed at me. its arms starting to stretch. Sick! It simply said, or screeched without moving its mouth. I ran home, terrified when I finally got home. The house was in shambles. Furniture thrown around, shards of glass draping the wooden floor. Planks ripped straight out from the wall.

And my mother was missing. I found Ingrid, cat a tattered, tonic at the base of the stairs, and my father was comforting her. He gripped an axe tightly. Apparently, Ingrid had heard scratches on the door. She'd run to tell my mother, he told her to hide. She ran up to a room, crawled under the bed, and held her breath. She heard a loud noise and the sound of 20 feet tapping, a scream, and then silence. silence for two minutes she estimated then a maniacal cackle the whites crept around the house looking for ingrid he turned every stone in the house and came an inch away from getting her to they'd enter the room

she was hiding in at least three making a sound as if they were trying to smell her a long arm started feeling the underside of the bed and finally gripped my sister's this foot. As luck would have it, my father had heard the screams and into the house, swinging a torch and axe, just as the creature had found Ingrid. They scattered, some jumping out through the open windows, some seemingly disappearing into thin air. But no sign of our mother, this was new. They had never encroached on our home before. Sure they would make their presence known, through knocking on the windows and crawling around the edge of the forest. But never like this.

Maybe safety was no longer. Father got sloppy after that dreadful morning. I never said anything, but deep down I felt like he gave up. And I was angry at him for that. He still had two children to take care of. Even though I know he blamed me for it all. I do not know what I did wrong. Still to this day, we would last six more months on that farm.

It was dark out, but not in the normal sense. Some nights are darker than others, that I now know. In hindsight, maybe it was a sign. Pack your bags now. the hell out of these godforsaken lands. Alas, I cannot change the past. Father and I were eating a silent supper, some sort of stew with the cider potatoes. Before me sat a broken man, the marks of time chipping away at the marble.

Ingrid had, after her mother's presumed death, gotten into the habit of late-night walks. father had protested but she was relentless. The determination reminded me of mom. This particular July night, she burst through the door, giving my heart some trouble with keeping up. She looked distraught, horrified, but worst of all, sad. I disturbed the path, she simply stated. There were no questions. No.

How did you know you stepped on one of their roads if they're invisible? No, you'll just wait and see what happens. We all knew better than to think rationally about the whites. If Ingrid knew she had walked over one of their roads, she had done so. Father stood up. Getty things, only essentials. I need to release the animals from the barn. I do not want to give them anything.

for free, he said. That was a bad idea. He could just leave with us now. Why did he have to be so stubborn? However, there was no stopping him. Oh, how I wish I could have stopped him. He grabbed his jacket and sickle, slurped down the last of the stew in motion,

and ran out of the door. Ingrid and I started packing. I helped her with what constituted essentials only, or trying to pack mine and also my father's bag simultaneously. Some clothes and morinife my father had given me in one of the necklaces I'd stolen. That was it. The rest would be forever left behind. There was an invisible ticking clock hanging in the air. The dread in the air started getting thick. You could almost touch it. Where was he?

Ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty-five minutes. Something had gone wrong, and I had to go help him. I asked Ingrid to start the truck. She said she knew how. Then I was off to the races. I don't think I ever had or would ever again run that fast. I clenched my fist around my knife and started preparing myself for what I would face.

Funnily enough, I could have spent my whole youth preparing for that sight, and it wouldn't be enough. I entered the barn silently, and the barn seemed to respond with its own silence. No animals to speak of. He had managed to free them. But where was he now? I crouched and made my way through the building slowly. There were scattered hay and muck on the floor, but this was no time to be fancy.

A weird smell emanated from the furthest corner. It was subtle at first, then stronger, and finally nauseating. Rot. Death, I turned the corner, and I almost threw up. Against the wall, two meters up, was my father. His torso separated from his head and limbs. All of his parts were nailed towards the wood in a Jesus-esque manner. But the cross wasn't connected.

When I got a little bit closer, I saw that it was, in fact, connected by thin strips of flesh. A cowboy crucified. In my shock, I could only think about two things. How did the rot advance so quickly? And where were they? The answer to my second question appeared instantly. They materialised for nothing.

Some were hanging on my father, digging claw-like extremities into him, or covering him in ox tallow. Some were dancing beneath. Some were staring at me with empty yellow eyes. Tens of crystalline horrors descended upon my location in desperation. They stepped on each other, pushed each other to get to me.

It was the most ancient of instincts that told me to run. So I did. They were always just a step behind. It felt like they would grab me at any second, doing God knows what with me. I imagine the sharpness of their teeth. I imagine what they hid beneath that mask. In that moment, I felt certain that if a man ever gazed upon their unmasked face, he would go mad. I barely managed to get out of the barn before one of them tackled me.

It pinned me to the ground, and I slashed my knife at its body. The material of its body rapidly changed from solid to liquid form in the area I hit it. It floated in the air, not affected by gravity. Then it rematerialized the solid, attached to the white yet again. It had no effect. But he gave me a split second to slither out of its grip. I saw the headlights of her truck. I ran.

Where is he? My sister desperately asked. He's dead. Go! In the car, I noticed that much of what used him in my car was missing. A whole muscle. all writ, almost clean off. Someone must have been looking out for me.

I don't know how I possibly ran that distance in that condition otherwise. After a couple of minutes, I passed out from the pain, so there is that. I could never quite sleep well after that night. I could swear I started hearing their whispers everywhere, the sound of their feet sneaking around barely out of sight, but I never saw them again. We must have been tied to the land. Thank everything that is holy. Both Ingrid and I carved out good lives for ourselves, but we carry this with us wherever

we go. I do not know who moved up there after us. I pray they're still alive. I pray they figured out the whites and what they mean. otherwise God rest their souls My father was not an open book Those that knew him would call him a reserved man

Or a man a few words But to me He was like a man who had retreated Into his own universe A world that seemed filled with shadows in every corner A waking nightmare I would catch him sometimes at night just staring out the window, gripping the arms of his chair so tight, I thought his hands would start bleeding.

He would lean forward, almost falling out of his chair, as if expecting something terrible and incomprehensible to show up at our door at any moment. My father was a man clothed in dread. It's only something I came to realize as I got older. He hid it well. especially from my mother, not nearly well enough. Nothing terrified my father more than piano music. Whether it was heard in an elevator or on the TV, or being played in a shopping mall by a hobby pianist who wanted to impress onlookers,

whether it was classical or jazz, whether it was happy or sad, simple or complex. When he heard the sound of a piano, his eyes would bulge out of their sockets. His skin would go pale white. He would look around wildly, whipping his head back and forth like a dog wrangling with a bone. I never had the courage to ask him why he was so afraid of it. Why didn't I just ask him? But it wasn't the thing to be acknowledged in our home.

Fear is contagious. And the easiest way to come down with it is to talk about it. So, my father's fear lingered throughout our lives, untouched, like a piano there was never sold. It just hung in the air, playing its own silent music for years. My father passed away a year ago due to heart complications. I thought his secret died with him. But two weeks ago, I was visiting. visiting my mom and decided to go through my father's old belongings.

I guess I was feeling nostalgic. After some time I was about to head out when I saw it. At the bottom of a cardboard box that had been hidden in the corner of the attic, it was an unmarked envelope. Inside was a letter comprised of several sheets of paper. The writing on the letter was rushed and scratchy, but it was my father's handwriting. There was no mistaking it. What I read in that letter has haunted me for the past 14 days.

I've decided to share that letter right here and now, because I feel that in some way it may help me better understand it. Or maybe the truth is I just want someone to share my father's dread with. mother would not listen to me when I told her about the letter. She told me to burn it and to forget whatever it said. She scolded me like I was still a child. What you're about to hear from this point on are my father's words exactly. I have not changed nor altered any of it. I am transcribing it word for word. This is my father's story. In his own words, I will. wonder how many times I've attempted to write this letter, how many pieces of paper I have torn

up throughout the years, how many pens have gone dry, how many pencils snapped, too many, far too many. If I do have the courage to finish it, I wonder who will even read it? Maybe it'll be my dear Elizabeth. Maybe you're even reading it right now. I'm sorry for keeping this from you. I haven't been a good husband. You don't know all of me, not nearly all of me. That's a horrible thing to do to your wife. I hope you can forgive me, Liz. Or maybe. It'll be you, Jack, my boy. You saw me better than I saw myself. How many times did you catch me staring? I used to tell you I was daydreaming. If you were reading, if you were reading, this, now you'll know what I really saw those nights, what I heard. Or maybe it's neither

Elizabeth or Jack. Maybe it's you, Jonathan, or your mother. God help me if it is. Have you finally found me? I've seen you out of the corner of my eyes for the last 40 years. Or maybe if you're reading this, you're a complete stranger to me. Regardless, it's time I told this story once and for all, even if the pen and paper I'm writing with end up being the only ones who ever know it. In December of 1976, I was on my way home for the holidays. I was attending the University of Wisconsin, Madison. My parents lived in La Crosse.

It's only about a two and a half hour drive, but on my way I got caught in a snowstorm. A storm that came out of nowhere I mean really came out of nowhere Somehow I got turned around I have never been good at driving in snow If you're reading this Liz You know how true that is Remember the station wagon

God I nearly crashed it a hundred times Those were good days And days like those I barely ever heard the piano I at least convinced myself I couldn't hear it. But I'm getting ahead of myself. This was not a bad storm. It was one hell of a bad storm.

I've rolled back the clock in my head numerous times, wondering if there was anything I could have done differently. What if I had driven slower or turned into the slide? But I think in some ways, no matter what I did, that car was dead. to crash that day. And crash it, I did, straight into a ditch. All my attempts to get the car out of the ditch were futile. Snow was coming down hard.

This was no soft powder, but a cacophony of flakes and harsh sleet. Through the white storm I saw a house in the distance. It was the only building nearby, and I hadn't seen any cars on the road in what felt like forever. I got out of my car and walked towards the home. I was shocked by how deep the snow had become already, how unrecognizable the landscape seemed. I took one last look of my car, already being devoured by the snow, turning it into a sad, frozen white monolith in the middle of nowhere. I drew closer and closer to the home. Each step I took more tiresome than the last. Then I heard something that stopped me right in my tracks.

It was the sound of music coming from the home. It was the delicate sound of a piano. The music cut right through the harsh cold winds of the storm and went straight to my ears. The music was coming from the upper part of the house. There was a window to a room on the upper floor, but a curtain obstructed the view. Still, there was no question that the piano music was coming from their room. My eyes went from the top window to a window on the first floor. There was a woman standing in the window.

She was staring right at me with a bemused expression on her face. I waved to her nervously and then pointed back at my car. When I looked back, the woman was gone from the window. Moments later, the front door to the house opened, and I made my way up the porch steps. Can I help you? The woman asked, standing in the doorway. She still had that bemused look on her face. It's a little embarrassing, I said, but I crashed my car into that ditch down the road, and I can't get out.

Oh my, how awful, the woman said. please come in and get yourself warm i stepped inside and the woman shut the door behind me all at once the noise from outside was cut off the only noise now was the piano music coming from upstairs that and my chilled breathing that music i said rubbing my arms to get warm it's really lovely oh that's my son jonathan is a wonderful pianist. Please, do make yourself comfortable. I'll fix you some tea. An absolutely dreadful weather. Simply dreadful.

I sat down in the living room. It was a warm and cozy house. There was something underneath that made me uncomfortable. I did not understand it fully at the time. But looking back on it, I believe some part of me noticed all the little things they were off about the home. For one, there was no family photos anywhere to be seen,

and despite the warmth of the home, it had a bizarre, sterile smell, like that of an appliance store. The house looked lived in, but didn't feel lived in. Could I use your phone? I asked. The phones are out,

the woman said, bringing back two cups of tea. They won't be brought. back up until morning, most likely. Soon as they are, I will phone Harvey, my neighbor. He lives the closest. I'll have him bring his tractor and we'll get your car out of the ditch. Is there any way to get hold of him now? I hate to be a bother, but I was on my way to lacrosse to see my folks for the holidays.

I was hoping to get there by tonight. Upstairs, the piano music stopped. The woman took a large sip of a tea. looking at me over the cup with a faded green eyes. Then putting the cup down gently, she said. Macross? Goodness gracious. How on earth did you end up here in Dutchville County?

I got turned around. Dutchville County? I've never been through here before. Well, there's no helping it now. Harvey lives a spell away. Unfortunately, you'll have to wait until morning, dear. I'm terribly sorry. Your son, Jonathan.

How old is he? Twenty next month, she said funnly. Oh, well, could he... And again, I hate to be a bother. Could he help me try to push my car out? No, she said flatly. And there was no kind of bemusement in a voice now. Her eyes narrowed.

Jonathan cannot move all that well. Even if he could, and even if you did get your car out, the roads are terrible. You'll just be in another ditch in no time. You're perfectly fine to sleep on the couch tonight. Come tomorrow, Harvey will have you out, and you'll be on your way to see your parents. I realized. I guess it has to be that way then. I realized I had not taken a drink of my tea.

But looking at the cup, I lost all thirst. The tea looked like gross mud water that had been pulled from a gutter. For some time we just sat there in the quiet living room, with no music, a dreary silence took over the home. Where are you coming from, anyhow? The woman said, putting down a empty teacup. It felt as if an eternity had just passed. I go to school in Madison. Oh, how lovely.

What are you studying? Engineering. How wonderful. You know Jonathan used to love engineering as a boy, even more than playing the piano. He would always build things, little trinkets and gadgets and gizmos. But his condition made it impossible for him to pursue a higher education. He's been a homebody for years now. All he does is play piano day and night. He's really great at it. Oh, where are my manners? I should introduce you both. At that, she led me out the living room. We began to climb the stairs. As we did, a horrible feeling came over me. The one you might have when you were walking by a dark alley at night. The kind of primitive instinct that screams in the back of your head, screams, run, you idiot, run.

We reached the top of the stairs. The hallway was dark and lit only by a small lamp. We passed several rooms until we reached the door at the end of the hallway. The woman, and I realized at this point, I didn't even know her name, gently pushed the door open and said, Jonathan, there's someone here I'd like you to meet. The first thing I noticed when stepping into the room was a large piano that sat in the corner.

It was a beautiful looking piano and it looked out of place in the small room. A piano like that should have been front and centre at a concert hall. The fading light outside filtered to the bedroom curtain, giving the room a soft, ethereal look. I felt I was stepping into some kind of dream world. And then I saw Jonathan sitting on his bed. I froze. I wouldn't call Jonathan a doll. Exactly. He was too big to be a doll. But he was like a rag doll in a way. A human-sized rag doll.

Jonathan was not a living, breathing person. He was just an inanimate object, dressed up to look human. He wore sky-blue pajamas and had a mop of red hair. His cloth skin looked like it had been white once, but now had faded to a sickly beige color. He had two black buttons for eyes, though there were different sizes, the right eye being much smaller than the left. It gave him the appearance that he was always winking. I did what I could only do in that moment. I laughed. It was a hoarse, nervous laugh.

Don't you dare laugh, the woman said sharply. She wasn't looking at me now. She was staring out the window, one hand rubbing Jonathan's inanimate leg in a soothing gesture. Oh, how they loved to laugh. Once Jonathan was sitting on the porch, just minding his own business, when these horrible boys from town came in and began to harass him. I'll never forget the sound of their laughter as I chased them off on their bikes. Oh, but I got the last laugh.

Those boys loved to bike around a certain part of town. And one day, one of them went over some nasty gravel and hit his head. He's still in the hospital. Oh yes, I got the last laugh. I'm sorry, I said in a dry, panicked voice. Apology, accepted, the woman said, turning to me. She had a shocked look on her face. Then she gave me a shark's grin.

I thought then hit me like an arrow striking the centre of a target So chilling was the thought that I felt I might faint at any moment My body felt ten times heavier When the woman and I had been downstairs Someone had been playing piano music Someone else had to be up here Obviously Jonathan playing was out of the question Had to be out of the question

The thought of this grotesque rag doll being alive went against everything I believed in. I looked around the room for a radio or record player, anything that might have been playing the music earlier. But there was nothing of the sort. There was only the piano. Is there anyone else in the house? I asked. The woman gave me a knowing smile. and said,

"'Of course not. It's just Jonathan and I.' Jonathan continued to stare into the distance with his misshapen button eyes. For a split second, maybe even less than that. I thought I saw his head move ever slightly. I blinked and rubbed my eyes.

When I opened, Jonathan was as still as he had been and the woman was walking past me. I'll go fix your bed downstairs, she said, walking out of the room. You'll need your rest for tomorrow. Then, she was gone. Only Jonathan and I were left in the room that began to fill with an awful silence. So pervasive and relentless was the silence that it felt as if it seeped into every pore of my body. None of this could be real, I told myself.

The woman was playing a trick on me. Had to be playing a nasty trick on me. I once again looked over the room, hoping, nearly begging God to show me a radio or a record player. But there was nothing. I thought about approaching Jonathan, give him a real look over. But one look at that horrible, winking eye, was enough to convince me otherwise. I quickly turned and began to walk out of the room. Then I heard what sounded like something shifting in the bed behind me.

And I ran. Within seconds, I was down the stairs and out the front door. I knew it was suicide running out into that storm, but I couldn't stay in that house a second longer. The snow was so deep, it slowed my running, and for a horrible moment, I imagined Jonathan chasing. after me, gaining on me with terrible inhuman speed, his ragged old limbs moving in strange unnatural motions. I heard the woman yelling after me, yelling for me to come back. Then I heard two

horrible sounds. The first was that the woman was laughing. Even in the roar of the winds, her laugh was unmistakable piercing even i turned and saw her on the front porch she did in fact have a horrible grin on her face which now looked so much longer and paler than it had before her laugh was an awful cackle like thin ice breaking the second horrible thing i heard was the sound of a piano being played it was coming from jonathan's room My car was nowhere in sight, but it was no use to me now anyway. I ran down the road and eventually the woman's laugh faded, but not the piano music. No matter how far I went, I could still hear it. It followed me the way a bad memory follows you. I don't know how long I waded through the snow, but at some point I collapsed and thought for sure I was going to die.

Then I saw a light coming towards me. That light eventually turned into a tractor with a plow. There was a man driving it. He got out and began to say something, but I couldn't hear him. I was fading in and out of consciousness. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was the man standing over me, a horrible, concerned look on his face. The last thing I heard.

heard was piano music. I woke up the next morning in an unfamiliar bed. For a horrifying second, I thought I was back in that woman's house, maybe sleeping in the very same bed as Jonathan. But that wasn't the case. I was in an unfamiliar room alone. Sunlight was shining through the window, and I could see that the storm had stopped. I had the floorboards, crew. I heard the floorboards creaking outside the room. And again, for a horrifying second, I thought the woman would appear in the doorway, smiling, cackling. Instead, it was the man I'd seen driving the tractor. Good, you're awake, the man said warmly. How are you feeling? Where am I? I asked, ignoring his question. You're in my house. I found you running

down the road last night. What were you thinking? My car broke down. Are you with that woman? What woman? That one that lives down the road from where you found me and said nothing at first. He just stared at me. Then he said in a pensive voice, the woman that lives down the road from where I found you. Are you with her? I said. I gripped the bed sheets as if my life depended on it. No, I'm not with anyone, the man said, putting up his hands. I live here on my own. I relaxed my hands.

I need to call my parents. I was on my way to visit them when my car broke down. Bones in the kitchen, you're welcome to use it. When you were out, I was plowing the roads. I saw a car, your car, I gather. We can go there when you're ready and get it out. I've already got most of it plowed out truthfully. If you saw my car, then, you must have seen the house nearby.

That's the house where the woman lives, with the son, Jonathan. He's not... The house where the woman lives? The man said again, in that deep, pensive voice. Yeah, you must have seen it if you saw my car. Why don't you call your parents? Then if you're up for it, I'll take you to your car. He gave me a reassuring smile, then got up to leave.

Is your name Harvey? I asked him. He turned around, and the smile on his face dipped into a questioning frow. Is it? It is, he said. How do you know that? The woman, she told me about you and your tractor. Is that right?

For a moment. Harvey said nothing. His frown deepened. Call your parents, and then we'll get going. He left me in the room with the sunlight as my only company. My parents were relieved to hear my voice. I didn't tell them about what I saw in the woman's house. That already was starting to feel like a bad nightmare. I told them that my car went into a ditch

and that I spent that night at a kind stranger's house and that I would be in Madison later that day, hopefully. I got into the tractor with Harvey, and as we drove down the road, I was shocked to see how much of the road had already been cleared. The storm had been so awful the night before, and the snow had been so deep. Now, it barely looked as if it had snowed.

Eventually, we came upon my car. Harvey had told the truth He had gotten most of it out of the snow already He killed the engine to his tractor And both her eyes went in the same direction We were locking at where the house was Or where it should have been There was no house there now

At least not what I had seen last night Instead There were the remains of a house The roof was gone and part of the floor was completely caved in. Bits and pieces of the home jotted out like the jagged teeth of some ancient monster. Is this the house you were speaking of? Harvey asked. His voice was soft and empathetic. I don't understand, I said.

I was here last night. I was in there. It wasn't like this. Son, that house has been abandoned for years now. There was a woman who lived there, but that was a long time ago. What happened to her? It was a long time ago. You couldn't have met what happened.

She took her own life, Harvey said. As he spoke, we both stared at the wreckage of the home. After her son died, it was a son. It was a terrible accident involving some of the boys from town I don't know too much about the details I was young myself back then I just know that it was ugly business

and that she blamed one of the boys for her son's death that boy ended up in the hospital sometime later I don't know much else like I said it was ugly business but that house has been abandoned for years

no one lives there No one could live there. Just look at the state of it. So you were just pulling my leg right. You couldn't have been in there last night. Tell me you were just pulling my leg. I stared into Harvey's eyes, which were now threatening to spill over with tears,

and saw that the old man was in fact terrified. Yeah, I was just pulling your leg, I said flatly. someone from town told you my name his voice thin pleading someone from town put you up to it someone in town told me your name

someone from town put me up to it Harvey led out a sigh well you got me good son oh boy yeah you did now let's get your car out it did not take long for Harvey and I to get my car out and running We shook hands and I thanked him for his help

As I was getting in my car And Harvey was getting in his tractor We both stopped At the sound of something horrifying It was coming from the abandoned home It was piano music Delicate, melancholic piano music

We stood there and just listened neither of us acknowledged it. Then, after a moment, we got in our vehicles and went our separate ways. I never saw or spoke with Harvey again. But I've heard the piano music every night since. I'm hearing it now as I write this letter. God help me. I'm hearing it now.

That's the end of my father's letter. I still can't. I can't quite believe what I've read, that my father really wrote these words. At least now, I understand why my father spent his life looking over his shoulder, what he saw in the shadows. Since reading his letter, I've had this idea in my head of driving up to Dutchville County and tried to find the house that haunted my father every step of his life. But I'm terrified of what else's.

see and what I'll hear. Whoever had carved the door relished in the anatomy of suffering. It was a two-story tall slab of copper set directly next to a cavern wall. Its surface carved with a vast and complex bas-relief that worried the eye. A clawing, confusing mix of human bodies sprawling upwards in a mound of flesh. many glancing horrified over their shoulders while fleeing something out of frame and out of sight thousands of them

starved and wretched with gaunt faces and sunken eyes jutting ribs and distended bellies there were rumours that they moved but only when you weren't looking less than a week after its discovery they brought it down with explosives we didn't really know what we'd found at that point although I'm sure a few of us, particularly the religious, had their suspicions.

The door was wrong, all wrong. It just shouldn't have been there. Natural caverns don't go that deep in Britain, not a thousand metres. As scientists, we should have been excited. But we all agreed the door was repulsive. Staring at it too long induced a powerful urge to feel. flee, an ancestral memory may be, the same way our bodies know to avoid things that crawl and slither, things that rot and buzz and stink of death and decay. They never told us how or why they found it,

nor why the project was classified, only that we had to figure out what was on the other side. When the charges finally blew, they went off like giant firecrackers. a string of them that ran down the gateway. One by one, deafening booms that shook the entire cavern. I was left blinking dust out of my eyes as great machines lowered the door, now free of its couplings to the ground. Looking back, some details come easier than others. The air that wafted out was hot and dry, and I was not surprised.

That seemed intuitively correct. Whether I'd admitted to myself or not, the fact was I'd been thinking of the door as a gateway to hell pretty much since I'd first laid eyes on it, and my mental image of hell was oddly medieval. I expected some great big stones, something reminiscent of an ancient castle, rattling chains, the wailing of the damned,

the stench of sulfur. God, even little red devils with horns and pointy tails, but I hadn't expected shelves and books. That was the first real thing we saw. Shelves, lining the walls that had been dug directly into the same rock as the cavern. Shelves that rose far above our lights, so that when we looked up there was only darkness and dust, but no limits to the end. endless row and row of shelving. Every last inch covered in books.

There were no gaps, just dust and tattered spines of random sizes, leather, fabric, paperback, faded pastels and gold leaf letters in alphabets both familiar and strange. And it wasn't just the walls. The floor was littered with random head-high piles of books, all stacked up, like some tired librarian had gotten fed up of finding room for them. They made a labyrinth of the place, obscuring corners and doors. And the forward team, myself included, progressed carefully along the stone passageway,

listening and looking carefully for some signs that would make sense of the place. There must have been thousands of books, and that was just in the first hallway we explored. Whenever we took one out, we found paper so thin it was nearly translucent, and often inked with strange shapes and letters I couldn't recognize. Otherwise, it was gibberish, not that we studied them too long at that first day. Whenever I took one, I returned it quickly. Lifting them up, I always had the strangest sensation that I was doing something wrong. something inappropriate, and I didn't like the space they left behind on the shelves.

A gap like a missing tooth. The darkness within swirling like deep waters. Safety in that place felt like an illusion, and touching the books was at risk of shattering it. I don't know how else to put it, except I didn't want to do anything that might draw attention to me. It was as if we were extremely conspicuous. There were no sounds but those we made. Our own breath, our own footfalls, the shuffle and scuffle of our every movement. We could even hear each other's heartbeats,

the discordant but bump of several people's chests being beaten like a broken drum set. And every now and again, a racing. A steady increase in the beat's cadence as we turned a blind corner, or lifted a book just to see what it contained, or looked up at the shadows above us. Each of us kept having false starts because there was always this expectation that you were going to see something. Soon, any second now, squeezed between two books or dangling overhead. It took more than six hours before that corridor opened up, and when it did, we were dumbfounded. We emerged into a vast and terrifying mezzanine made of ancient rock, overlooking a chasm with no visible bottom.

Just floor after floor filled with shelves filled with books, millions, billions, and all along those distant walls and stories were little openings that led to more corridors like the one we just emerged from. so many that it was like staring at a roughshod beehive to look up or down or anywhere was to be faced with more books than anyone could read in their entire lifetime we took our first break on that mezzanine while radios didn't go very far in that place we'd had the sense to carry enough wire to allow for a hard connection and while using that we contacted the main research site

and updated them on the situation We were to keep going for another six hours and turn around. A day, no more was the plan. Even that felt like too long. I wanted to leave. I wanted to confirm that somewhere was a doorway that would lead back to reality because ever since I'd entered that place, it felt like I'd entered a nightmare, a place where reality was plastic.

I told myself it was simply the scale of it all, the weirdness. But it was more than that. The very air down there felt thin. There were six of us, three scientists and three soldiers. The soldiers responded to the situation with silence and an alertness that bordered on paranoia, constantly scanning the dark with a rifle-mounted lights, flicking the beam from one high up shelf to another.

Fidgeting, exchanging dark looks. In a way, I was thankful, but it put me on edge too. And I couldn't relax at all for the first half of our little break. I guess it was natural that the scientists got talking. This was partly to fill the quiet, but also partly to try and convince ourselves we were excited about the implications of this find, whatever those may be. Rewriting history, archaeology on a new level, that kind of thing.

It didn't take long before we convinced ourselves to take a closer look at those books. I'll admit, it didn't come easy, but we did a pretty good job of convincing ourselves that we weren't really afraid. We started slowly, taking one book down, opening and then quickly replacing it. But then, with false bravery, we took more, and more came down, until each of us was sat cross-legged, with several books stacked up on either side, waiting to be read. I remember at some point I must have grown tired and looked up from my own pile, because I noticed Dr. Ashling muttering quietly as she traced some words with her fingers.

What have you found? It's Latin alphabet, she said. First one I actually recognised the letters for. German maybe? None of us were linguists, so we were simply doing our best. But upon hearing bay mentioned German, one of the soldiers came over and looked at the open page. Germanic, but not German, he said.

You speak it? He nodded. My father is German, and I don't know what that is, but it isn't German. Is any of it familiar, Beyer asked, while handing the book to him? After a brief nod from his CEO, Lieutenant Michael, he took it and began flicking through the pages. I think this is the word for death. A sort of rough misspelling maybe. This one is...

I guess it's a bit like wanting, desire. I don't know. Not all the words seem like they're in the right context either. So there are a variety of languages and alphabets, but as of yet, nothing we can make sense of. What about you? Any luck? Bayer asked me. And I look down at the book currently open in my hands.

Some kind of sibilic, maybe, I shrugged. I'm no linguist. We definitely need Dr. Sellers on the next expedition. I'm sure he could offer some insight. What about you, Dr. Rosenstein? The third doctor in our group, a little bald man, had been sitting quietly the entire time we spoke. The third scientist in our group, a little bald man had been sitting quietly the entire time we spoke, frowning. and one of several books that lay open before him.

I assume he was just curious, like Bayer and I. Grant, I said, trying to get his attention. Hey, Grant, have you found anything? His silence unnerved me. He wasn't just captivated. Sweat was prickling his forehead, and veins bulge the longest temple. He had gone pale, and his eyes were wide, and his lips cracked and dry. The soldiers, picking up on the same strange signals I had, stood a little more upright.

Dr. Rosenstein, one of them asked nervously. Doctor, can you hear us? The nearest soldier reached out and placed the hand on Grant's shoulder, and the little man looked up at us like he hadn't even realized we existed until that moment. At first I thought he was relieved, the way he was staring at each of us, with a dumb grin on his face. But I soon realized something wasn't quite right. Oh, he said with an anxious laugh.

Oh, right, of course. His eyes started between us. Of course, sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you. Right, I said. Well, we were just talking about the books. Bayer thinks hers might be in a kind of German or Germanic language. He nodded like this made perfect sense. Yes, I imagine so, he replied, while looking around the shelves that towered over us.

Lots of languages, I'd say. And then, without really missing a beat, he added, They are sins. Group fell into silence, as each of us tried to make sense of what he just said. In the meantime, he stood up and stretched, like it was the most natural thing in the world. What are you on about? I said once it became clear he wasn't going to elaborate. It's fairly obvious where we are, he said, while leaning forward and eyeing us darkly.

And these books are a list of all our sins, one for each of us. So there will be bugs in German, both contemporary and historic German, like the one you found, Dr. Ashling. But there will also be books in Russian and French and Arabic. and Chinese, not just contemporary tongues either. Ancient Egyptian, Phoenician, Babylonian, Aramaic, Latin, and of course, lost languages, ones that we never found but existed anyway. All of them, all the transgressions of the world are right here, recorded in the sinner's original tongue. By now, the soldiers had stepped a little closer, and Bia and I were sharing deeply worried locks. Grant seemed to be in the middle of breaking down, speaking frantically and anxiously,

convinced of his own meaning, or not really saying anything of sense. Grant, I think we need to go back. The real fun thing is that I think you'll find books in languages that don't exist yet. He blurted, this isn't just a record of sins in the past, but all of them, every last one. even the ones we haven't committed yet. Grant, I'm going to have one of the men go back with you. If that's okay. I think you might not.

These are mine, he said, or gesturing to a book in his hand. All of them. He laughed. Not just the things I did. Petty transgressions. All recorded with names and places and even little diagrams. But there are even sins I only ever thought. things I

wanted to do and he added while giggling hysterically since I've yet to commit he flicked through the pages at random and giggled maniacly at something only he could see

although there aren't many he cackled as he turned to the final page tears welling in his eyes just one actually the last one the last sin I'll ever commit. Grant, I said, I think you...

Before any of us could react, he dropped the book and took a running leap over the nearest edge. This is the way we came, right? Bea stood at the threshold of a corridor, a light-tracking wire that snaked into the darkness. That's the cable we carried in here with us, one of the soldiers said. But...

The young man looked over to his CEO, Lieutenant Michael, who had a compass in hand and didn't look happy. It's not the direction we came, the older man said. We came south, so we need to head north. That would be this doorway. He nodded at his second corridor, embedded in the rock wall. This has to be the way, Bia said. I trust this cable a hell of a lot more than I do a compass. us, anything could be interfering with that thing.

Besides, we know the cable leads to HQ, because it's working. We spoke to them only a few minutes ago via this wire. It has to lead out of here. That makes sense, I added, but I marked the way we left with a piece of chalk, and that mark is over here. I pointed to a third doorway. Damn, Michael muttered. regardless, I vote wire, Bear said.

I trust it the most. It's a physical connection. I guess I vote wire too, Michael I did. Me too. But what do we do if we're wrong? I asked. What does that even mean? Did something move the wire or the door?

We all went silent for a few moments as we contemplated this. When nobody offered up an answer, I eventually grabbed my backpack and holed it up. I guess we don't have much of a choice either way, I said. Do you really think there's a book in here for everyone? Be asked, and it was the first any of us had spoken in a few hours. So far, we had all been walking, fixated on the gloom ahead and behind us, watching carefully for some sign that our fevered imaginations were right to suspect something

lurking in the dark. Grant seemed to think so, I said. Then what are the odds he picked out his own book? I mean, if he's right that there are, what, a hundred billion books or so? More, I replied, if he's right about the library containing future sins as well as past. Pretty slim odds then, she added. What are you thinking? If he did find it here, I don't think it was a coincidence, she said.

Up ahead, one of the soldiers came to a sudden stop, fist raised as he muttered something to the others who knelt and lifted their rifles, aiming at the dark. What is it? I asked. You don't hear it, Michael called back. All of us stopped and listened carefully, straining to pick out the dark. some meaningful sound from the white noise of blood rushing through our ears and the thumping of her own hearts. Sure enough, it was there, a gentle rustling. Without speaking, all of us moved as quietly as we could along the corridor until we came to the source of the strange noise.

A door, one that hadn't been there on our way in, left ever so slightly ajar. Rifle raised, one of the soldiers used the barrel to nudge it open a little further. Oh, damn, he said, his voice loud enough to send echoes down the hall. The sound came as a shock and Michael pulled him back, ready to admonish. When we all saw what had been waiting on the other side, another corridor. Only this one had shelves, lined not with books. but severed heads, desiccated, pale and gaunt, row after row, all sitting neatly next to one another, evenly spaced, their skin paper-white in the harsh glare of our light, and all of them

with cloudy eyes, and they were speaking. Sotavoce, little whispers. They muttered in a discord of wet lips, no breath, no lungs, only the action of robbery jaws to sound out syllables and consonants that were lost in the rustling cacophony. The sound was horrific, wet and dry and deeply unsettling, as it worked its way under my skin, until I felt the strangest urge to lash out at the heads. but curiosity overrode disgust and I approached one, winting briefly when it fixed me with its cloudy eyes, but I didn't stop. I got close enough to see every detail of its flaking skin, its roomy eyes glaring at me with such strange emotion. For my own sanity, I reached out and picked it up, noting with disgust how the

stump of his neck left mottled brow fluid on the shelf behind. I guess I just wanted to know if it was fake, but its skin was cold, and his brow furrowed with anger at my touch, and as soon as it was in the air, every other head stopped their muttering and fixed me with such foul expressions, I quickly put it back down again, relieved when the murmuring resumed. Still, its eyes did not. leave me. What the hell? B whispered. What is this? Michael asked as he scanned the upper shelves with his torch. On and on they went, as far as we could see. What the actual hell is this?

Slowly. A strange thought began to form in my head. Blink, if you can understand me, I said, while kneeling down to look at the head I'd picked up. Everyone else in the group suddenly stopped what they were doing and turned to see the result of my little experiment. Blink. Okay, okay, okay, okay. I repeated while trying to calm myself down. Right, once for no, twice for yes. Do you understand?

Blink, blink. Right, okay, uh... I looked to the others for suggestions when B-piped up instead. said, Are these books a list of all our sins? Blink, blink, blink. One book for one person? Blink, blink. So, what are you?

She asked, and this elicited a scathing look from the severed head. Yes or no questions, I told her. One of the soldiers, the youngest one, the one who helped translate the journey. and stepped up and spoke. Is this hell? he asked. Blink, blink. Is this your punishment?

He added. Blink. If this isn't the punishment, he said, What is? All the heads stopped them muttering and began to emit the strangest noise. Their faces twisting upwards and warping into grotesque parodies of joy.

while their mouths moved up and down in a particular sort of rhythm. When I realized what they were doing, I felt a terrible sensation of cold dread creeping down my entire body. They were laughing at us. There was no door. The wire slipped through a tiny hole at the base of a wall that blocked off the corridor. All of us were stunned into silence for minutes, until at last, Lieutenant Michael shook himself free from the shock,

and issued an order. Davis, get H.Q. on the line. One of the soldiers knelt down and began to remove the communication set from his backpack. Within a few seconds, it was set up, and he was speaking into the headset. H.Q. Can you read me? Over? Uh, I can read you. Well, I guess the wire still leads to HQ, I said. Try checking the wall for seams.

Michael told me, see if it moves, hidden hinges or something, I don't know. Then turning back to the soldier with a headset, tell them we've encountered an obstacle, and we want them to send another team in to get us. Oh, and tell them to bring explosives. If this thing opens, I said, while running my hand along the edges, I can't see how, it's pretty solid. Unlike every other wall we'd seen so far, this one was made of red bricks,

but that didn't mean it was somehow mobile either. It seemed as sturdy as any brick wall I'd come across. Well, it came from somewhere, B cried, while trying to peer through the hole the wire disappeared through. Damn it, I can't see anything. HQ, the soldier said, we're going to need some assistance. There's an...

An obstacle. Over. Roger that. What's the obstacle? Uh, a wall, he replied. Tell the next team to bring explosives. Over. A wall?

Just send the team ASAP. The soldier cried. Our way out is blocked. Over. Well, I can confirm we are en route to your position. Just one question. H.Q replied. What's that, over?

The young man replied. Why do you keep saying over? Suddenly, the voice changed. It began to titter and giggle. At first, quietly, then louder and louder, like a mean kid laughing at a prank. The cruelty and his high-pitched voice made my skin crawl, and I was about to snatch the handset myself and begin demanding answers. When there was the strangest sound,

A heavy grinding, like stone turning against stone. Before I could even ask what it was, B fell backwards from where she crouched and quickly leaped up into a standing position and ran off into the dark like a maniac. The effect on the group was chilling, and I stared back at the wall, desperately trying to understand what I'd seen. Williams, go get her! He barked at one of the soldiers before turning at me and crying, What the hell is her problem? I... I don't know, I stammered.

Christ, Michael hissed, before snatching the handset off the confused young soldier. Listen, he growled into it. I don't know who you really are, but you need to get someone in charge, right? And sound again, loud and heavy. The grinding of heavy... rocks being moved, and tiny stones came raining down in a cloud of dust. Something up there had disturbed them, and we all stood in silence as they plinked off our helmets. Is it just me? Michael said, while looking towards the wall, or is it somehow closer?

Hard to say, I replied. I don't... the wall moved. A sudden and terrifying lurch forwards, one that startled us all and made me trip over my own feet. Terrified, I scrambled backwards from it as fast as I could, while the handset continued to radiate that malicious laughter. I think we need to go, I said, in as calmer voice as I could manage. The wall moved again, and this time it did not stop. The young soldier with a handset did not react fast enough. It came forward so quickly that it had him within seconds and knocked him to the floor with a heavy thump

and then it rolled over him as it was. Well, if you're anything like me, as a child, you might have wondered what happened to someone who got caught in an escalator at the very top. I'm sure you know what I mean. Light was so poor, so I still don't really understand what happened, only that there was a lot of blood. And while it was quick, it was not quick enough, because when the wall was about halfway

up his spine, I could still see the pain registering in his eyes. And that was the last impression I had before Michael grabbed me by the collar and practically threw me back the way we came, and we ran, plodding one foot after. another. I don't know how long it went on for, but it was as if time seemed to stretch on in the way that only pain and tedium can induce. There were moments where, as I struggled to force one foot in front of the other, I wondered if I'd actually been running for days, not hours. There was no real way to mark the passage of time, only monotony. Books went by in a blur. The floor was featureless stone.

the rhythmic sound of my feet lost all meaning, and behind me, the wall, ever advancing with a horrible sound of grinding rocks, promising pain and nothing else. The only thing I could actually focus on was the exhaustion, and that was self-defeating. More than a few times, I wondered if I should just give up, and to this day, I still have nightmares

where I'm being chased down that corridor. It wasn't a quick pace, but he was quick enough, and there were no other routes except ford, and therein lay the torture of it. Behind me was death, moving, at a brisk jog, and ahead of me was nothing, just darkness broken by erratic motion of a torch, and the entire time,

which I would later realise was a good two hours, The only thing I could think was when am I going to lose this fight, when am I going to collapse, or give up? Imagine my relief when, up ahead, I heard a familiar voice cry out. What is your problem, lady? And when I saw them, the young man held me by her shoulders while she tried to drag him through an open door. That was when I remembered the little corridor with a severed heads. Not exactly the kind of salvation I was hoping for, but it'd have to do. Together, Michael and I grabbed both of them and threw us all through the opening.

Seconds later, far too close for comfort, the entire corridor we'd been running through went pitch black. The wall overtook our positions, and we were left panting and exhausted on the floor, where thousands of severed heads looked at us in annoyance. When we looked back the way we came, we saw that nothing but pulsating flesh, a wall of it, hot and sticky, and threaded with sickly blue veins. I don't know what the wall was, but something about the meat behind the stone made me think of hungry coral. It was a trap, Michael hissed as he inspected the horrible mass. I don't know how, but we were led down the wrong. path. It'd swap the cables or something. I don't know, but we were lowered down there like rats.

Where's Davies? The other soldier asked. He's gone. Michael said. What? The older man gestured to the wall of meat behind us. Whatever the hell that thing is, it got him. It looked like a wall, but it could move, and it just steamrolled him. Thanks for the warning, by the way. he growled at B, but she showed no sign of understanding him. Instead, she was sat on the floor and shaking, clearly in a state of shock. Where now, sir, the remaining soldier asked, and Michael grimaced. Where do you think? He spat before gesturing at the route forward.

The only direction that's available. The heads made for strange companions. They followed us with their eyes, but did not stop their muttering. It was grating to say the least, a noise you could ignore for maybe an hour or so. But pretty soon, the papery rustle of their ancient lips was the only thing you could focus on, no matter how hard you tried to push it out of your head. At least navigation was simple. Forward.

The only way to go. We walked for about six. six hours before we took our first break. The corridor was wide, but we stayed away from the heads and slept in a row, head to feet, while two of us stayed on watch, six hours each. I decided to stay up along with Michael and B, and the other soldier tried to rest. B had barely come out of shock during the journey, speaking a little towards the very end. She told us, in a broken way, what?

she'd seen while kneeling by the wall. Teeth, she said, and a face, although she wouldn't, or couldn't, elaborate on those two statements. I was left with a sense that she had seen something

that had come down close to leaving her completely insane. Even as it was, I doubted she had a full recovery in her. She almost looked like a different woman, baggy-eyed, thinning hair, or maybe it was just the conditions down here. Michael didn't look too great either.

I had to assume I looked pretty rough too, especially after that run. It had exhausted me, broken me, not just the physical exertion, but the nightmare of it. The reason I'd elected to stay and watch first was because I didn't want to sleep. A part of me was worried I'd just.

just dream about being back in that hallway, running from the moving wall, and I didn't want to revisit that place ever again, not even as a dream. There were moments where I came so close to just giving up. I don't think I'd ever really experienced despair like that before, not the kind where you feel your knees buckling and your neck turned to rubber as your head bows. It must be what people stranded at Seafil when they lose their strength that keep treading water. So instead, I stayed up and tried to ignore the muttering of the heads. He even tried talking to Michael, but he didn't have much to say.

I could tell losing Davis back in the corridor had bothered him. Hell, it bothered me, and I hadn't even known the guy. But I swear to this day, I can still see the look on his face as Rock met flesh and his legs and hips just disappeared In the end I had only these kinds of thoughts

For company And lots And lots of time So It probably shouldn't come as too much of a surprise That I eventually fell asleep It wasn't for long Ten minutes at most

but it was enough time for me to wake up and see something drag the sleeping soldier's body into the darkness of the nearby shelf, his head lolling unnaturally to one side. The movement was gentle, quiet, but clumsy too, like a child pulling a rag dollily out of a box. I looked over to Michael and saw he'd fallen asleep as well,

so I nudged him with my foot and he woke up with a sort of lazy start only when he looked at me confused for a few short seconds before slowly registering the look of terror on my face that he seemed to realise what was happening I'm not sure what I expected him to do really

but he was the leader and well armed and I didn't want to be the one who had to figure out what to do next possibly because there was a part of me tempted to just sneak off, to leave the young man to his fate, maybe even be, if it just meant I could survive a little bit longer. In truth, I was relieved when Michael leapt into action immediately. I didn't want to be a coward. He jumped up and grabbed the young man's foot,

and I ran over and grabbed the other leg, and together we tried to pull him back. I didn't mention it to Michael, but the way the soldier's body felt when I grabbed it, the muscles were too relaxed, too heavy. I don't know how to explain it, but if you ever end up in the unfortunate situation of moving a corpse, you might know what I mean. A living body supports itself, a dead one. It's just meat and water and somehow feels so much heavier for it. He was dead.

Still, we fought on. At some point, B must have woken up, realizing what was happening and joined in. I remember her trying to reach into the shelf to grab hold of the dead man's arm when she suddenly flew backwards, landing with a hefty thud against the shelf behind her, and knocking a few of the severed heads on their little stumps. Whatever was in the dark was clearly frustrated. It wanted its next meal. and it wasn't going to let us stop it.

Slowly, a long, inhuman arm reached out and took a hold of the body's groin. It's strange-handed fingers that split at the knuckle one, two, three times. A terrifying effect, especially given how much each one moved on its own. A dinner plate monster of a hand attached to a live and muscular forearm devoid of hair.

The second I saw it reach out in my general direction, I let go of the leg and fell backwards. Michael continued struggling for a while, even taking out his pistol and firing a few shots into the dark. But in doing so, he left only a hand to cling onto his comrade's corpse and lost his grip. With almost no effort, the body disappeared into the shadow, and we were suddenly down to three. What the hell? What the hell? What the hell? He screamed. I wanted to say something, maybe even something to comfort him, or maybe an apology for falling asleep.

But then again, he'd fallen in asleep too. I didn't know what I was meant to do. I was in shock, and it was settling deep into me. When B said something from where she remained on the floor, her voice quiet, but oddly insistent. It isn't over. That hand re-emerged, carefully, deliberately. It placed itself on the floor, revealing more of the pale flesh that powered it,

and then came another and another. And then its head emerged slowly from the dark, and fixed me with eyes both black, bulbous, and far too numerous for anything that can be called human. And his mouth, a beard made of dirty fingers, grey and bluish, long rancid nails, hundreds of them squirming like mandibles of a hungry spider. Michael opened fire, but he might as well have been shooting hay for all the effect had had. The bullet struck with a wet thwap, but no actual damage.

The creature knocked him aside with pure contempt and pulled the rest of itself out into the corridor, where I saw it had no legs, but instead relied on several long arms to suspend itself between the walls of the corridor, like a kind of spider. One of these arms reached out and grabbed B, and by the time she started screaming, it was already too late. Blood trickled from her ears, and there was a sound like a branch snapping. Her entire body went limp, and the monster dropped her where she fell to the ground. A grotesque, misshaping face, glaring at me with accusatory eyes. The lieutenant screamed as he fired yet again. But then that thing seized him like it was nothing but a doll and lifted him,

squeezing so tightly he dropped everything he held, his gun and torch hitting the ground with a loud rattle. Help me! He screamed while reaching out for me to grab him. Jeez, shoot the thing! I ran forward, crouching down in the hope of avoiding its many arms. Already, Michael was being squeezed so tight that blood splurted from his mouth, and I could tell that the monster was having fun, reveling in his torment.

I reached out and picked the gun up from the floor as Michael let out another desperate wet cry for help. But for some reason, my hand stopped mere inches away. I hesitated. Michael's blood was dripping down. I could hear the crunching of his ribs. In my most shameful moment, I grabbed the torch and ran. And Michael's cries followed me, screaming, screeching, whimpering, sounds of breaking bones and tearing paper, sounds of torture and torment that somehow seemed to last forever. I emerged from the corridor, alone.

It took me a few seconds of stumbling on my failing legs to realize that the monster had given up on the pursuit. And then a few seconds more for me to recognize I was back on the mezzanine. Terrified and exhausted, and contemplating if it was worth trying to escape if it meant having to spend another second alive in that place, I fell to the floor.

and began to sob. Maybe, I thought, it was time to take a dive off that ledge, just like Grant had. What on earth are you doing here? I whipped around to see an old man in robes, staring at me like an impolite intruder. Without meaning to, I began to laugh. My sanity, it was fair to say, was on its final legs. Hmm, he said, while leaning aside to get a look down the long corridor behind. Now, why did you go down there? I wanted to answer, but couldn't quite bring myself to do anything

except laugh and gasp for air. I think you really ought to go home, he said like a teacher, admonishing a child. This place is hell, I cried while rocking back and forth my knees. Yes, he nodded. Yes, good for you. This is a small part of hell, one that has a slight overlap with Earth, if I remember. I'm assuming that's how you got down here. The door.

What happened to your friends anyway? He added. I looked back the way I came and pointed. Oh, he sighed. You know, I left your books out specifically so you'd find them and figure it out. and I know that bold fellow worked it out. So once you knew this place was hell, why did you waste another second sticking around?

I shrugged. Not quite sure what I was meant to say to that kind of thing. We got way laid, I gasped, misled. Fair enough, he replied. Probably you should have done more to make sure you got home safely. That's partly my fault, although I won't apologize. You went to this place. Didn't you see the door?

What part of that was inviting? You have to take some of the blame. I wanted to mount a defense, but I didn't really have one. When it became clear, the only thing I could do was sob and mutter. The old man's body language softened, and he reached the hand out.

Come on, I'll take you back. What about the demons? I asked. The old man frowned. Those weren't demons, he snapped. This place is defunct. Mortal souls were meant to demonstrate repentance by wondering the near eternal halls in search of their book.

Only when they found it were they allowed to move on. The whole thing didn't quite work out. 86 quadrillion books. Takes a tad too long for the average person to find theirs. So this entire wing was abandoned. And now there are only sinners left behind. That thing was never human, I cried, while pointing at the corridor I'd emerged from. Nobody's soul looks human, he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Least of all, the sort of person who gets sent to hell. This isn't the place for people who eat meat on Friday or cover their neighbour's ox. It's for the cruel and the malicious, cowards and opportunists. A lot of people in this place have souls that have more in common with Anglers, fish and trap-door spiders than their fellow man. And it's not a condition that gets better after several thousand years either. The soul changes, twists, and so do their physical forms. And what about you? I said as I reached up and took his hand. Why do you look so normal? He said as he helped me up. That's because I built this place. And the last thing I can remember

as he gripped me by the shoulder was the sudden and painful sensation of heat we woke up in our respective quarters we all six of us i still don't fully understand the mechanics i tried asking the others how they made it back but they weren't in a state to answer questions b was catatonic screaming and clutching her head in the hospital like she still remembered the way that thing crushed a skull like a grapefruit. The soldier who fell to the wall was left paraplegic, even though medical tests couldn't identify a single reason why. Psychological, they said. The other soldier, the one had been dragged into the shelves was comatose. I don't know if he recovered, but he was alive. And Grant was left in a permanent psychotic state.

compelled to write on any surface he could over and over again, sin after sin, desperately trying to rewrite the very book that had driven him to madness in the first place. Michael tried very hard to kill me. He had clear memories of being left to die in the dark. I'm glad they caught him before he managed to wring the life out of me with his bare hands. I never found out what happened to him after several men managed to pry his hands from around my throat. Despite everything, I hope he managed some kind of recovery.

The door disappeared. Thankfully, with no one on the other side. I know they were planning future expeditions. It is for the best, that kind of thing can't happen again. They have no idea what's waiting for them. in a way, I probably could have convinced myself the expedition never happened. Some days, even now, that's what I sincerely hope can happen. There was no physical evidence, nothing.

We appeared in our beds completely nude, save for a note stuck to my chest. And is this final little touch that stood out to me a stern confirmation of everything I'd experienced. Return to Sender. Six mortals. Five were damaged in transit. Bodies were repaired to the best of my ability, but I was never good at that kind of thing. Mines are another matter entirely.

Could not help myself in one case. Left fellow mortal to die in the dark, didn't seem very sporting. Don't let anyone say I lack a sense of humour. Otherwise, no harm, no foul. Howl. Best wishes. Me, my heart sank when I heard them read it to me. It confirmed my deepest worries. No one had been very honest with me since I'd arrived at the hospital.

They'd kept me bandaged up, so it wasn't easy to tell. But after I heard that note, I finally found the courage to reach up and remove the thick wads of fabric. Then, with shaking fingers, I finally touched my eyes, or rather, the empty sockets, where they used to be. If you've enjoyed this story and others from this great author, Christian Wallace, who's produced some of the best stories for this channel, please consider checking out his book in the description and pinned comment below. I wish I could say that my parents' death had meaning, but they died for a good reason. But they didn't. I was only 11 years old at the time.

A drunk man, racing home to catch his wife cheating, blindsided them on a turn. My parents didn't die heroes. They didn't die for a grand purpose. They died because someone took them from me too early. This was the first time I felt real, raw grief. The memory of when I was told, The moment it happened is snapshot in my mind like a burn that never heals. The way my gut sank like the dip of a monstrous roller coaster,

the pit left as my child's self-realized the permanent nature of it. I can even still feel the tingles in my fingers as the shock set in. The words played in real time, but my body felt slowed. Breathing became manual as my vision tilted over and over. I was not emotionally ready for this. I was barely emotionally handling school. So then being taken so callously left me empty for longer than I'd like to admit. After their passing, my grandparents moved into my parents' home with me.

They packed up their lives and tried to pick up where my parents left off. Four years they tried to connect with me. But I was emotionally unstable. I resented them for trying to take their parents'est. place. Their love hurt me in ways they couldn't win. They tried to coddle me during and after the funeral. For four years they tried to break down my walls, but the walls I built held strong. I sank myself into the last connection I felt I had with them. Games My father was a software engineer, so he spent a lot of time on the computer, and to my mother's

dismay, he dragged me into the digital world early on. I couldn't get the hang of using a mouse and keyboard. I think my hands were too small at the time, so he bought me a console. We would huddle around the TV and play all the best co-op games he could find. While snooping for presents one Christmas, I even found a stack of games magazines, red marker circles around games that specifically mentioned local co-op. This is how he always managed to find the perfect game for us every time. I skimmed over this in the moment, having not found the presence they heard so well.

But looking back, my heart breaks, knowing how much care he put into this hobby of ours. However, there were times I'd catch him playing games on his own. He was a PC gamer born and bred, so that was where I'd find him playing solo. but he never seemed to put the same energy into finding new games to play. Rather, I'd always see him playing games of pixels and numbers, simulation games from his era of gaming. I'd ask to play too, but he'd always tell me I was too young for these kinds of games, and that when I was older, he'd show me how to play them.

There's always welled mixed feelings of annoyance in the moment and anticipation for that time to come. But eventually, games lost their luster. No matter how much I played, trying to honour them in my mind, I was now playing solo. Not seeing the screen split with another player alongside me was a constant reminder of the pain. I was almost exclusively brought up on split-screen co-op experiences.

I was never into playing without my dance. dad. But that's when it hit me. My father would play solo, but he'd play those weird pixelated simulation games. So, I had it in my head that to enjoy those types of games would make me the adult I idolized him as. But I didn't know where to start. He never talked about them, saving that for a time that would never come. His computer was locked, a password that was forever lost, so I had to find these games myself. I took to the best resource I knew of to solve the greatest mysteries on Earth. Google, I put in buzzwords of what I could remember, simulation games, indie, single-player,

old, and press search. These words were not very specific, so it yielded a wide variety of of stuff, and after hours of scaring each page, I found a forum post about a game someone had made. Even though it was made in recent times, the screenshots they used to advertise it had that retro style I was looking for, but it wasn't just how it looked. Something else drew me to this game, above all the others that had a similar vibe. Its name

Family Simulator It boasted an extensive game system that you had to manage To keep up an ideal family Something I wouldn't have gone for opting to lean towards shooters But it was this dichotomy That made me take the plunge

The instructions were fairly simple For my first time not just popping in a disc It ran through an EXC file That did all the decisions for me As the green bar filled, a certain wave of emotions overcame me. My father had always kept me from these kinds of games, always thinking I'd prefer the modern titles he kept up with. So this really felt like a chance to connect with them post-mortem,

no matter how little it was. I launched the game. Initially, I was met with a black screen and then a studio logo screen. An image of a heart came up alongside the words, Famco. Most likely the game creator trying to get their name out there. Nothing flashier significant, but charming for something probably made by one person. The title screen faded, followed by a basic text box. A little line flickering, beckoning me to start writing.

The question was simple. Tell me about your life. I thought for a moment. I had been asked this a lot by counsellors, my grandparents, and kids that never cared about me before they heard the news. A gesture I dismissed at face value with a blunt, I'm fine.

They should have known the answer, so I felt insulted each time I was asked. After a while, while my grandparents were withdrawn about asking this, seemingly respecting my decision of maintaining distance, and yet, for some reason, that frustrated me too. But looking back, I'd never truly thought about the answer above a simple no, much less answered it honestly. I'd kept all of this inside, and it finally bubbled up to a point, the straw that broke

the camel's back. I started typing. All the frustration, sadness, envy, jealousy, all of it was being shoved into this game. Time blurred while I hashed out my rant. I was putting my soul into this answer for the first time ever. It felt silly, even in the moment, knowing I was going at it into some indie game of pixels and text. I didn't know why I was given this game so much information. about myself, but it felt good to get these feelings out somewhere where I knew I couldn't be

judged. I could just say my peace and not hear hollow rhetoric about hope and healing, and it felt good. The black box, a silent listener that I needed. Something that wouldn't pity me, but would just listen. I hadn't even gotten into the game and I was exhausted. I had tied out everything I missed about my parents, how I dearly missed the meals my mother would make, my father had taken me out to a field just to throw a ball around, how he'd show me neat tricks that would have me barely laughing, the way he would get up five hours before any of us to tell us that he woke up early, only to go back to bed a few minutes after informing us. I miss staring at the watch I gifted my mother, with my dad's help, of course, that my mother

adored when we went out for special occasions, the way they treated me, how much I loved them, how much I missed loving them. Every single minute detail was handed over. The game accepted the information with a satisfying ding sound, and I was sent to another menu. This time, character creation. Now, I've never been the creative sort, so I blatantly just made myself. I name myself Alex, set brown hair and brown eyes, a simple white t-shirt and jeans. I was also prompted with adding personal details, like my birthday, number of friends, and my likes and dislikes. What I didn't expect was the choice of a family. It wasn't as in depth as the character creation itself, only a couple of presets.

Preset 1 was a woman with red hair, a simple crop top and a little crop top. some shorts, the man not too dissimilar from my own outfit. Preset 2 was, they looked like my parents. It sounds crazy, but it just felt like them. The models were just a mashup of simple pixels, but they carried so many of their characteristics I grew to recognize in them. The jovial look my mother wore on a near constant basis. My father's stoic stature that exuded the confidence that he was always,

trying to pass on to me. It was uncanny. I was at a bit of a loss. I know I missed them, but I didn't realize how much I still miss them. Even after four years. I mean, for a second, I'd been convinced that these were my parents in some way.

The game was something I was looking to sink some time into as a distraction. But now, it fully captured my attention. I accepted all the settings and the game loaded up. It played a scenic shot of the house before fading to me in a room with the family. But as soon as I spawned in, I was shook with a loud bang. I jumped a little in my seat and my heart raced at the fright. Alex, go to bed.

You have school tomorrow. Those games are going to make. you sick. It was my grandmother on the other side of my door. I always had my door locked, so this was how she would communicate with me. I checked the time and it was already 2am. As much as I hated to admit it, she was right. But sleep didn't come easy, with my curiosity swirling around my head about this new game. Perhaps I was mistaken. But the thing I had seen as the game had just loaded in was too much to be a coincidence, surely. It couldn't have been a mistake.

The setting was a near perfect rendition of the house I grew up in. The house I was in right now. The more I thought about it, the more excuses I made to cope. How the game replicated these things so perfectly? But it was the room that was what I couldn't. explain. I saw a dining room, but the details were too familiar. The shade of wood on the square dining table, the layout of the cabinets, the door that led to the kitchen. It was almost entirely the same. It could have been coincidence. My house was a common suburban build, with similar

layouts in the rows of houses near me, but it was the layers of coincidences that had me stumped on an explanation. I breathed a sigh of relief as I realized that I was the one that handed details over. Perhaps I really had given the game too much information. This thought didn't entirely settle me, but it eased my mind enough to get some sleep. I rose out of bed with a heavy groan. I looked over my clock and bolted awake, seeing that I missed my first. alarm. I quickly got up and rushed my morning routine. As I boarded the bus, I prepared

mentally for another grueling day of education. School was meant to be an escape, at least that's what I was told, a place where you kick back with your friends and get into little adventures, all while building your future. For me though, that couldn't be further from the truth, I was an outcast, no small fault of my own, and I refused to socialise. I couldn't. When I started high school, it was not long after the incident. My only thought was, if only I could speak to them one last time. This floated in my head as my peers attempted to make conversation with me. By the time I realized I'd made myself a loner, The clicks were formed and I was labelled as a quiet, weird kid.

A prime target. For harassment. Arriving at class, I was reminded of the grim reality I was facing. The thing I dreaded for a week. Group Assignments I attempted to weasel myself into a group. But of course, Jonathan and his buddies ensured that I would achieve no such thing. The truth was that,

Jonathan was just as insecure as I was. But the difference was that he projected his much louder than anyone else, and I was the conduit for his emotional baggage. The teacher saw me alone and exclaimed that whoever had no group would take a test instead. He spoke like he was talking to the class, but it was obviously just about me. I sat in the corner of the classroom away from everyone else. But instead of getting on with the test, I started to dwell on the game again. I could easily chalk everything down to coincidence. But what if it wasn't?

Could I speak with them again? The notion was absurd. Thinking my parents was somehow in that game was an impossibility. But with so much unresolved, there was an irrational part of me that wanted to believe, it was true. I bombed the test with how distracted I was and school couldn't end any sooner. But I knew it wasn't over yet. Jonathan had a knack for finding blind spots from authority. Somehow he'd always catch me alone, despite my best attempts at staying within eyeshot of people. Though this sometimes didn't even help when other kids would just turn a blind eye to his outbursts.

The only constant was me. A slap here, a slap there. I'd learned to ignore them, but in my already emotional state, I ran crying. When I got home, my eyes had already run dry. As I entered through the front door, my grandmother greeted me. How was school today, honey? She soothed. Despite her soft tone, the sadness quickly turned.

to frustration. I shrugged her off with a blunt. It's fine, and I ran past her. Rushing past the kitchen, a glint caught my eye. A watch? I didn't have time to check. I needed to get back on the game. I slammed my door shut and latched the bolt. I booted up the game and was loaded in. It was me in my own house with my parents. And it was everything I had always wanted. My pixelated character walked over to my mother, and as I got close to her, a black square appeared. Press enter to interact. How is school today, honey? Popped up, followed by a box I could type in. This question again. I'd grown to hate this question. The people I'd asked this never seemed to actually care about my well-being, more so.

just going through the motions of conversation. But I felt safe opening up in this game. The disconnect helped me disassociate from judgment before, so I wanted to try it again, even if to just vent privately. This is where the game became my escape, another reality where everything was as it was always meant to be. Jonathan keeps bullying me. The kids in class despise me, and I can't even muster up the effort.

to stand up for myself, because in all honesty, it's the path I chose. I miss you, Mom. I wish you were here to guide me, to comfort me. As soon as I sent the message, she instantly responded. I see, sweetie, Mom is here for you. Your father and I missed you so dearly. The MPC responded. I felt warm.

Those were the words that I'd been craving. a craving that my grandparents, no matter their efforts, could never satisfy. The dialogue option disappeared, and with it, so did my ability to interact with her. The sadness lingered over the fact that the interaction was so short, but I wanted to see more. I decided I would take some time and explore the house, and maybe see if I could interact with a father too. I walked down the corridor of my childhood home towards my father's office. A prompt appeared asking me if I wanted a knock on the office door, and I accepted. He called to come in, and the screen faded out, and back in to us in the office.

In reality, it was now a room full of boxes still unpacked from my grandparents moving in, but here the room was back to life. My father sat at his desk, which spanned the majority of the small office's width. This time, the conversation began without a need for me to initiate any prompts. The words of my MPC father flashed across the screen. Hey champ, everything alright? No text box came up for me to type in. Instead this time, I was met with two choices.

Yes and no. After the talk with the mother, I was feeling a lot better, so I chose the first option. That's great to hear, Champ, he responded. This made me smile. Though he would cycle through nicknames and titles to call me, Champ was sometimes one of them. It might have been added as a cliche, but even as a coincidence, it still made me happy. Then, the NBC asked me if I wanted to play ball with me. him. Even though I knew it was all virtual, there was still a small excitement at the idea

of playing ball with my dad again. The screen faded to black and we were in the yard. We passed the ball around for a few minutes, the game looking like nothing more than a PowerPoint presentation animation. But in its own way, it was endearing. Sleep became easier this time. For the first time in recent years, I was fulfilled, as if I had felt parental connections again, even if only virtually. Still, some unease set in as I contemplated the legitimacy of the interactions I just had, if there was simply the execution of basic code or something more. In the moment, I was absorbed with trying to connect to my parents, but lying in bed, I was debating whether feeling satisfied emotionally from a bunch of pixels was healthy.

The next morning, as I rushed through the house to catch the bus, I noticed my father's office door was slightly ajar. I'm not a superstitious person, but that room was not in use by my grandparents or myself. It was, for all intents and purposes, a storage room. I gently pushed the door open, and the first of the first. first thing I noticed was that the boxes had been rearranged, as if whoever had moved them needed space for something. Then I saw it, a ball laying in the middle of the room. The move boxes could be explained away, but the ball being there made my head spin with questions. It looked uncanny

to the one I'd just seen in the game, not identical, but too close to be written off. The call from downstairs had me pull away from the scene. I was already running late and the bus wouldn't wait forever. I gave the room one more look before leaving. The snapshot replaying in my head the whole day at school. Another arduous day of school. More isolation, more pointless assignments, more Jonathan. Getting home couldn't come any faster.

When I got home, I tried going straight to my room, but was stopped. My grandmother deliberately placed herself in the way of the stairs, making sure I couldn't get past without hearing what you wanted to say first. Alex, we worried about you. We thought giving you space to heal would help, but every day you've just shut yourself in your room. I know you miss them.

We miss them too. My grandfather stepped around the corner and joined aside. He wasn't on his feet much in his age, having waited for my grandmother to start as he joined. How can you know how I feel? You're not my parents, I yelled back, my emotional bottle bubbling. To my surprise, this didn't elicit anger from my grandparents. Rather, their faces turn soft. Look at us, we're old. You don't think our parents are gone too, but you're forgetting something. They were your parents, sure. However, they were our kids, our daughter and son-in-law.

We loved them, and every day we hurt without them too. My grandmother soothed. We raised them good, and we can raise you good. You just have to let us in, my grandfather added. I soaked in what they said, but I closed it off. It wasn't the same. It would never be the same. So, with my eyes welling, I just ran to my room and locked myself in. After sulking on my bed, I was left with silence. I hated being with my thoughts, so I turned to the noise I used to drown them out. The game, it loaded in, and I was back with my family. My mother greeted me, and I welcomed this much better than how I felt cornered earlier.

However, instead of a conversation, she simply told me to wait where I was. So, my character sat at the table. My father came in and said some comments about work, something he'd always do, regardless of if I understood what he was talking about or not. But I didn't mind. It was always nice to hear him talk. Soon my mother came back in. Her outfit had changed. a more fancier apparel.

Instead of normal house clothes, she wore a red dress and her hair was made up into a bun. Her arms were bare, which is how I spotted something that stood out. In the game, it looked like a few red pixels with a yellow dot in the middle,

unmistakably a watch. And my heart was in my throat. It was uncannibal. Annie to the watch my father and I had gotten her for a birthday, red band with a gold face. It really was them. My eyes bawled hard trying to take this in. We have a surprise for you, she said, and I knew what it was before I saw it, because I smelled it.

The smell of cake wafted in, and I instantly recognized it. A black forest gatto. The cake she always made me for my birthday. In the game, she pulled it out and set it on the table. Candles already set on top. I checked the date on the bottom right and completely forgot what day it was. I hadn't celebrated my birthday since they passed. My grandparents tried to, but I always dismissed it.

It was hard to think of my birthday as a celebration without my parents. A jingle played to the tune of the birthday song and confetti flew around the room. My parents looked elated as my character blew out the candle, something I wouldn't have been able to do in my current heaving state.

But the smell lingered longer than I thought. At first I thought it was my emotions getting the better of me. But there was the unmistakable smell of cake in my room. Happy birthday, son, they both exclaimed. We want to take you out for your birthday. Our treat, my mother said.

Pick any place you want. Where do you want to go? My dad asked. A text box appeared, prompting me to type in an answer. I contemplated the answer. My first thought was KFC. I know it's cheap junk food, but for some reason.

reason, it was a bit of a family tradition, though it might have been an indicator of our financial status. But I thought about it more, deeper than what the game was asking me. Where did I truly want to go? Well, the answer would be to be with my parents, so I typed in the place that everyone had told me where they went. Heaven. That's a wonderful choice, son. They experienced. I exclaimed, grab your thing, son, let's go there, my dad said. Then the screen faded to black. Then crashed. My heart raced.

No, no, no, no, no, no. I muttered to myself, at nauseam. I slapped the side of my monitor, knowing damn well it wouldn't do a thing. I was so close. My heart was set on the idea that I'd somehow see them again. But in the silence, I started to think about it. What if this was something they were telling me?

The last thing they were telling me. I liked the game. To get to where I needed to go. Something had to end. Life is what needs to end to get to heaven, the place I wanted to be, to be with them. I looked around my room, then remembered something. When they passed, I snuck into my dad's office and took his old letter opener. A drinket he'd show off to me to open mail.

He sometimes let me use it myself, which my mother didn't approve of. It was too sharp for a child to be playing with. But, as I slid it out of my drawer, hidden away from my grandparents, I looked at it. Would it get the job done? I put it down. This was ridiculous. I tried to talk myself out of it,

but each rationality was answered with retorts. I was unhappy. I had no friends. I had no family. I was alone. So why not join them? Even if it didn't work, it would put me out of my misery.

I stared at the blade, deep in thought. And was ripped out of it with a loud bang. Alex, can you get out here, please? Here was my grandmother on the other side of the locked door. The shuffling footsteps I could hear catching up must have been my grandfather.

They had no idea what I was up to. There was no way for them to know, so they must have been just bothering me. My eyes returned to the knife once more, the thoughts coming back. Yet I was ripped from it yet again with bangs, more of them this time. If you don't want to come out, can you at least let us in? This was new.

They never tried twice. The door acted like a voicemail. They'd say their message and leave me to respond to it or not. Let us in. Those words lingered in my head. I always went to them. but I never let them in. This was my space I'd carved out for myself

and I used it to keep everyone out. This was the choice I had. Go through with a plan to see my parents or see what they wanted. And it was the hardest choice of my life. The silence of the room weighed down on me and my breath shallowed. Could I make it quick?

How painful would it be? Would I actually see them? But the lingering thought was if I could do it with my grandparents on the other side of the door. So I went with a second option to see what they wanted. I hid the knife and slowly unlocked the door.

Stood outside were my grandparents. Big grins on their faces. Happy birthday, Alex. they said enthused. I didn't know how to respond, and they continued. I know you don't like to celebrate, but we have something special for you. Come with us, my grandmother said. So I did.

My mind too foggy to do otherwise. They led me to the kitchen, and in the middle sat a cake, an exact replica of my mother's Black Forest Gatto. This opened me up. What, how? How did you? Why? I was too stunned to form a question.

Too many of them flying through my mind. Remember, Alex, she had to learn it from somewhere. Making this cake for your mother was a tradition that started with me. She said proudly, I got something for you too, Alex. My grandfather weised. the walk from the stairs taking the wind out of him. He hobbled over with a box, wrapped in a red ribbon.

I looked at it, not having any idea what they could have gotten me. They didn't know me, not in a personal way, to not get me something generic. But I couldn't not open it with them watching me. So I slipped the ribbon off and looked at what was inside. It was something that made my head light from shock, needing to have to sit down after seeing it. It was a watch with a red strap and a gold face. My mother's watch. Is this?

I started, not having the energy to finish asking. Yes, after the investigation, the police held on to it for evidence. It took a while to get it back, but when not, I did. I had it restored to give you on a special occasion, my grandfather answered. I have something else, too, my grandfather added. He built his arm from behind his back and pulled out the ball I'd seen in the office, like the one my dad used to have when he played with me. I've been practicing some tricks in the old office. Bet you didn't notice. I'm not as good as the old man, but he showed me some of the basics.

He smugly announced. He twirled it around and tried to catch it as it span, but it caught his knuckle at a funny angle and bounced wildly away, almost hitting the cake. My grandmother's friendly demeanour dropped as she shot him the dirtiest look at almost ruining the cake, which made me do something I thought I'd lost the ability to do. I laughed. It poured out of me.

years of pain leaking as joy took its place. Here they were. They were not my parents, nor could they be. However, they knew that and loved me all the same. They were never trying to replace them. They were just picking up where they left off. And I realized that I didn't have to be alone. and from then on, I always let them in.

The snow under our boots crunched sharply as we trudged towards Station Polaris, the isolated Arctic research outpost where we were sent to investigate. The wind howled relentlessly, biting through our thermal suits and filling the air with a low, mournful wail that matched the stark emptiness of the frozen landscape. This wasn't the place for mistakes, but the station's sudden silence had dragged us here, hundreds of miles from anything resembling civilization. The research station set up to collect data in the Arctic went quiet, so we were sent to investigate. It could have been the result of the power going out, a problem with a communications array,

or an encounter with wildlife, so we had to prepare for anything. We set off equipped for a long mission with supplies to last us days. The station loomed ahead, its angular structure almost blending into the stark white surroundings. Solar panels glinted dully under the weak Arctic sun and the wind turbine blades creaked as they turned sluggishly. The comms array stood tall, perfectly intact. From the outside, everything seems. seemed functional, yet we all knew that no one had heard a word from the researchers in weeks. Inside, the facility was eerily pristine. The lights hummed softly and the heaters were working perfectly.

Supplies were neatly stacked in the pantry and the living quarters were immaculate. It felt like the crew could walk in at any moment, but the air carried a stale weight as though the building itself had been holding its breath. Then, we found them. Their bodies were huddled in the secure lab. The thick steel door latched from the inside. It took us a full hour to breach it, cutting through the locks with a plasma torch.

When the door finally swung open, the scene was haunting. Four researchers were slumped against the walls, their gaunt faces frozen in twisted expressions. of fear. Their lab coats were rumpled and stained, and deep scratches marred the walls and door. A few words were sprawled on the inside of the door in what looked like dried blood. Don't open. Their hands, roar and bloody, suggested desperate attempts to claw their way out, or maybe to keep something from getting in. The food stores were untouched, and the

air recyclers were working perfectly, yet the cause of death was clear. Deidration and starvation. They'd locked themselves inside and never left. Cabin fever? Eliza, our biologist whispered, her voice trembling slightly despite her usual calm. Maybe they thought something was out there, I replied, glancing nervously toward the hallway. We found out, each of us taking a section of the station to begin our work. I focused on the comms array, which appeared functional but was inexplicably offline. The software log showed no errors, as if someone had deliberately disabled it. The station's pristine condition clashed violently with the madness of the locked lab.

Every door swung on oiled hinges, every panel gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and even the smallest tool was in its proper place. The perfection of the setting only made it feel more unsettling, the dichotomy of the situation painting a grim mystery to be solved. Then there was the feeling. It wasn't something we could measure or explain, but we all felt it, a subtle, pervasive wrongness. The air seemed heavier inside, charge for the air.

energy that made the hair in the back of my neck stand on end. Even the wind outside seemed muted, as though the station absorbed every sound. It didn't help that the Arctic stretched endlessly beyond the walls, a blank canvas of snow and ice that could swallow us whole if we made the wrong step. But it wasn't the landscape that had me glancing over my shoulder. It was the silence inside. Something about it. it felt alive. I tried to focus on my tasks, but my mind kept circling back to the locked room, to those faces frozen in terror. What had they seen that drove them to such desperation? And what if it was still here? The question hung in the air like frost, unanswered, and growing

colder with each passing moment. The first few hours at Station Polaris were chaotic, a frantic attempt to make sense of the fragmented research left behind. Environmental readings from the station's sensors were erratic, subtle rhythmic vibrations in the air, logged at precise intervals. These weren't seismic in nature. The station's ground penetrating radar showed no signs of tectonic activity. Instead, it was as if the air itself pulsed with energy, but only fleetingly. Every time we tried to pinpoint the anomaly, the readings vanished as quickly as they'd appeared. This doesn't make sense, Eliza said, pouring over the data console. She tapped at the screen, frustration mounting. It's like the equipment's playing tricks on us.

Could be interference from the storm outside, Mark offered, the team's communication officer, though his tone lacked conviction. He'd already noticed the radios crackling with faint static. Still, he wasn't ready to alarm us with the implications of it. The strangeness escalated within hours. While conducting inventory in the common area, Eliza froze midstep. Did you hear that? Hear what? Mark asked, glancing up from the checklist.

There was knocking from the other side of the moment. main door, Eliza said, her voice wavering. Mark walked at the door, shining his flashlight into the white expanse beyond the narrow window. Nothing but a swirling void of the Arctic night greeted him. It's the wind, he said, though he didn't sound fully convinced. While exploring, I returned from inspecting the living quarters, pale as ice. I swear I heard my name. I muttered, but it wasn't you two, was it?

No, Eliza replied quickly, her eyes darting to the shadows, flickering under the fluorescent lights. And I heard something else. Each of us reported hearing different sounds, muffled sobbing, distant tapping, voices murmuring indistinct words. None could verify what the others heard, and no auditory signals appeared on their monitoring equipment. The incongruity heightened the unease, as if the station itself were conspiring to disorient us. While searching the primary lab, I found a compartment hidden behind one of the equipment racks. Its lid was engraved with strange, almost geometric patterns, unfamiliar to any of us. Inside lay a crystalline object about the size of a grapefruit.

refracted light in unsettling ways, casting disoriented, shifting shadows on the walls. What is this? I murmured, reaching to touch it. Careful, Eliza warned, but curiosity got the better of me. As my fingertips grazed the object, a sharp jolt rippled through my hand. I pulled back, cursing. The room seemed to hum for a moment. before falling silent. Did you feel that?

Mark asked, rubbing his temples. He described a faint whisper, barely audible, that lingered in the back of his mind, like a half-forgotten memory trying to surface. The object's presence deepened our sense of foreboding, attempts to analyze it proved fruitless. No material analysis equipment on site could identify its composition, and it emitted no radiation or heat signature. It was completely inert, yet profoundly wrong.

Eliza suggested the previous team might have unearthed it nearby. Still, there was no mention of the object in the research logs. Whatever this is, she said, it isn't supposed to be here. Later that evening, we gathered in the comms room to send an up date to the logistics crew. Mark activated the satellite relay waiting for the encryption sequence to process. The screen displayed a reassuring green connection icon, which flickered and then went black. Not now, he muttered, rebooting the system. Static hissed from the speakers, followed by the faint hum of a transmission. For a brief moment, the green icon reappeared.

only to be replaced by garbled static and a faint rhythmic pulse. Mark tried to readjust the signal gain, but it was futile. Is it the storm? Eliza asked, but Mark shook his head. We've transmitted through worse weather. This feels deliberate. The equipment continued to falter throughout the night. By morning, the comm system had failed into.

entirely. I worked furiously and attempted a hard reset but achieved nothing. We're on our own, I finally admitted. As night descended, the whispers became louder and more insistent. Eliza tried to sleep but was jolted awake. She said it was a voice, a clear commanding whisper that seemed to come from inside her room. open the door, it said. But when she bolted upright, her door was shut and the room empty. In the mess hall, Mark sat alone, staring at his radio. He swore the static was speaking to him,

patterns emerging in the crackles. Don't you hear it? he asked when I entered. Hear what? I asked. But before Mark could respond, the main hallway lights flickered, casting jagged shadows across the walls. For a split second, we all felt it. A crushing presence, like something immense and unseen, was bearing down on us. The sense of being watched grew unbearable. By now, none of us doubted the previous researcher's writings on the door. The whispers gnawed at the edges of our sanity.

Looking at the others, I was the steadiest among them, and I finally addressed the elephant in the room. Whatever's happening here, we can't stay. If we're not careful, we'll end up just like them. The air inside the station felt heavier with each passing hour. I couldn't shake the feeling that the walls were watching us. Eliza paced back and forth near the common area. her footsteps echoing unnaturally loud.

This place is all wrong, she muttered, glancing at the reinforced windows. Mark stared out at the snow through one of the thick panes. Nothing but white, he said softly, almost to himself. No movement, no sign of life. It's just nothing. I sat at the console, scrolling through the fragmented logs. There's nothing here that explains the last team's behavior, I said, no seismic anomalies, no animal sightings, no storms, just normal readings. I felt the words catch in my throat because nothing felt normal here.

Eliza stopped pacing to turn to me. Then what drove them mad? They scratched the doors to pieces, barricaded themselves inside and starved to death. That doesn't just happen. I had no answer. That night, the station woke us with sounds. It started faint, scratching on the far wall, just loud enough to break through the silence.

I sat upright in my bunk, heart pounding. At first I thought it was the wind. Then came the banging, sharp and deliberate, like something heavy, striking metal. Eliza, did you hear the wind? that? I whispered, grabbing my flashlight. Yeah, she said, her voice trembling. It might just be, I don't know, ice shifting. Mark had already slid out of his bunk and was standing in the doorway, staring down the hallway toward the source of the sound. That's not ice, he said flatly.

The banging came again, this time louder. closer. I jumped, my flashlight being jittering against the wall. We gathered in the common area, clutching whatever we could find. Eliza grabbed a fire extinguisher. I held a wrench. Mark had his flashlight gripped like a weapon. The noise moved, circling the station.

It came from the walls, then the roof, then the floor. Each sound was precise and deliberate, like it was searching for a weak spot. It's testing us, Eliza said, her voice barely above a whisper. It's trying to find a way in. When dawn came, if you could call it that in the Arctic, the banging stopped. The station fell silent, but the tension in the air didn't fade. Mark suggested we checked the perimeter, and see if something left tracks.

But I immediately vetoed the idea. We don't know what's out there, I said. It could be anything. Like what? A polar bear? Mark snapped. Polar bears don't knock in patterns, Eliza shot back. Whatever it is.

It's not an animal. We barricaded the doors and windows. Every logical part of me knew we were trapping ourselves inside. but I couldn't bring myself to suggest otherwise. The noises, whatever was out there, had made that choice for us. The second night was worse. The scratching became relentless scraping, like claws dragging against the walls. The banging came back, harder and more chaotic, shaking the station to its core.

It's going to break through, Eliza whispered, clutching the fire extinguisher. like a lifeline. Mark sat at the console staring at the monitors. There's nothing, he said, his voice shaking. The camera show nothing. It's just us out here. Then what the hell is making that noise? I demanded trying to keep my voice steady. I don't know, Mark snapped, slamming his fist on the console. The banging immediately responded, echoing louder, sharper, almost angry. We all froze.

It heard that, Eliza said softly. It heard him. By the third day, we were all exhausted. Every step felt like trudging through wet cement. Eliza slumped in a chair, her face pale. I can't think straight, she said. Her voice barely audible. Yeah.

Mark agreed, his head in his hands. I need more sleep. It's like my energy is just gone. I rubbed my temples, trying to fight off the pounding headache that had been building all morning. The artifact. I didn't want to admit it,

but I knew it was somehow involved. It could be the artifact, I said finally, putting the idea out there. We should throw it outside. Mark muttered, and risk leaving the station, I asked, do you hear that? The banging had started again, now accompanied by a low, almost mechanical groan. A third night, everything reached the fever pitch. The station shook with the force of the banging,

and the scraping became a deafening screech. Eliza dropped to her knees, covering her ears. It's in my head, she screamed. It's in my goddamn head. Mark grabbed his flashlight and bolted toward the far hallway. We can't just sit here and wait to die. I'm going to kill it. He shouted. His flashlight beam cut through the darkness, landing on the door at the far end of the station.

The banging stopped. Mark, don't. I started, but he was already at the door. His hand trembled. as he reached for the handle. The silence was deafening. It's quiet, he whispered, his voice cracking. Eliza and I rushed forward, getting ready to grab him.

Don't open it, I yelled, hit a trap. Mark hesitated, his hand still inches from the handle. Then the banging resumed louder than ever. As if mocking us. We stumbled back to the common area, the sounds chasing us, feeling the station. With chaos, the station wasn't just falling apart. We were. By the fourth day, the noises had escalated to a maddening cacophony,

banging, scratching, and now an eerie, rhythmic thumping that echoed deep within the walls. The air inside felt like he was pressing against the wall. my skull, and every glance exchanged among us seemed to carry unspoken accusations. Mark and Elisa sat opposite ends of the common area, glaring at each other. I stood between them, exhausted from trying to keep the peace. We can't keep doing this, I said, my voice haulsed from days of shouting over the sounds. We need to work together, but we're not going to make it. You want to talk about working together?

Eliza snapped. Her eyes blazing. Mark's the one who almost opened the goddamn door. I was trying to figure out what we're dealing with. Mark shot back, slamming his fist on the table. Sitting here, hiding, isn't solving anything. Enough, I barked, slamming the wrench I've been clutching onto the table. The sound reverberated through the station,

momentarily drowning out the noises. For a brief moment. moment, everything was silent. Then, as if in retaliation, the banging resumed, harder, angrier. Mark stood up. You said it was the artifact. If it's causing this, why haven't we gotten rid of it? Because it's the only thing keeping us alive, she yelled back. You think these noises are bad? Imagine what happens if we just throw it out there with whatever's out there. It must want it. I turned to Eliza, raising my hands. We don't know that for sure, but right now we can't risk...

The crash of shattering glass cut me off. My heart stopped as I turned and saw Mark standing over the console, a chair raised in his hands. He'd smashed the screen, shards of glass glittering on the floor. Smoke rose from the panel as sparks danced across itself. surface. What the hell are you doing? I shouted, lunging for him.

I grabbed his arm and yanked him back as the equipment groaned and fizzled. He wasn't doing anything, he screamed, his voice cracking. It wasn't calling anyone. It wasn't helping. It's just another useless piece of junk, like all of you. Smoke poured out from the console as the last of its lights flickered out. The satellite uplink was fried, and the backup comms were destroyed. We were completely isolated now, with no way to call for help or even confirm if rescue

was coming. You've doomed us, Eliza shrieked, her voice shaking with rage and panic. She shoved Mark, sending him tumbling backward. Do you even understand what you've done? I did what I had to, Mark spat, clutching the chair like a shudder. shield. None of this was working. We're on our own whether you like it or not. Now we can finally focus on the here and now. I stood between them. My body tense, my mind racing. We needed that console. Now we have nothing left. Mark turned to me. His face pale and

eyes bloodshot. Nothing. We've had nothing since we've got here read. The noises aren't stopping. The artifact isn't doing anything. And now we're just sitting done. Lux, you want to die locked in here like those researchers? The words hung in the air like frost, chilling us all. As her Eliza's face crumble as the gravity of our situation sank in. Mark lowered his chair, his rage deflating to quiet despair. But it was too late. The noises stopped.

For a moment, the station fell into an oppressive silence. the kind that made my ears ring. Then came a sound worse than any banging or scratching. A low, gutural moan, vibrating through the walls and deep into my bones. It's trying to get in, she whispered. It's going to break through. No, I said firmly, though my own fear was clawing at my throat. It's not going to get in.

It hasn't gotten in yet, and it won't be. now, we just have to hold out. Why do you keep saying that? Mark demanded, stepping closer. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot. You don't know that. For all we know, it's already inside. It's not inside, I insisted, my voice rising. But it will be if we start losing it like the last team did. Mark froze at that, his face darkening. You think we're like we're like Them? he hissed. You think we're just going to sit here and starve ourselves to death like they did? Mark, calm down, I said, stepping back. No, he shouted. You're just as bad as they were, refusing to face the truth. There's something out there, and if we don't deal with it. The lights flickered

again, and the temperature plummeted. Frost began forming on the windows, creeping inward. The artefacts glow pulsed erratically, casting wild shadows on the walls. The banging reached a fever pitch, drowning out Mark's words. Mark lunged for the artifact. If we're going to die here, I'm not going to sit here and... Eliza tackled him before he could reach it, both of them collapsing to the floor in a heap. The wrench fell from my hand as I rushed to pull them apart. for the moment my fingers touched Mark's arm.

I felt it. The same draining sensation I'd felt near the artifact. Only stronger. Stop it! I yelled, yanking him back. He shoved me off, breathing heavily, but didn't move toward the artifact again. The groaning noise didn't stop. It pulsed through the station.

Mark and Eliza clung to each other, as if their sheer presence could hold the station together. I stayed where I was, ripping my wrench, my mind racing to make sense of it all. But then I noticed something odd. My coffee mug. It sat on the table, untouched since the morning. But the liquid inside was perfectly still. No ripples, no trembling surface.

"'Elysa,' I croaked, pointing to the mug. "'Look at this. She didn't move. Her hands pressed to her ears. Mark shook his head, his back pressed to the wall. "'Not now, Reed. We need to figure out how to survive, whatever the hell that is.' "'Elyza, Mark,' I said louder, standing up and pointing more firmly at the mug. "'The sound—' It's not real." They both froze, looking at me like I'd lost my mind.

What are you talking about? Eliza said, her voice tight. You can feel it. I grabbed the mug and held it up. This should be shaking. Everything should be vibrating, but nothing in this room is reacting to the sound except us. Mark's eyes darted to the mug. And for a moment, doubt flickered across his face.

But it was quickly replaced by defiance. That doesn't mean anything. Maybe the noise is coming from inside. Maybe the whole structure is shifting. Then why haven't we felt a single tremor? Why are the vents still circulating air without a hitch? My voice was growing louder, fueled by desperation. The noises are in our heads.

Whatever is causing this, it's keeping us trawerect. us trapped here. Keeping us afraid. Eliza shook her head violently, her fingers tightening around her temples. That doesn't make sense. What about the artefact? The noises started after we found it. How can you say this isn't real? It is real, I said, but only in here. I tapped the side of my head. It's making us paranoid. It made the researchers paranoid. It made the researchers paranoid enough to lock themselves in that lab and starve to death, and he's doing the same thing to us. Mark stared at me, his face pale but resolute. So what? You think we should just open the door and stroll outside? Let whatever's out there finish us off? Yes, I said,

surprising even myself with the strength of my conviction. That's exactly what we need to do. If we stay here, it will wear us down until we're like them. Those bodies aren't warnings. They're proof of what happens if we don't get out. Eliza backed away, her eyes wide. You're insane. You want to open the door to whatever's been banging and growling? You want to kill us all.

No, I want to survive, I shouted. If we stay here, we end up like them. Don't you see? The sounds, the artifact? It's all a trap. It's making us seal ourselves inside, just like they did. Mark stepped forward, his fists clenched. And what if you're wrong?

What if we open that door, and whatever's out there tears us apart? How are you so sure this isn't just cabin fever or some kind of environmental thing? I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. Because, I feel it. The moment I realised the sound wasn't real, it stopped for me. The whispers, the banging, I don't hear them anymore. But you do, don't you? It's still in your head, pushing you to stay.

Liza was trembling, her back pressed against the wall. Even if you're right, Reed, we can't take that chance. We're not opening that door. Mark stepped between me and the entrance. His stance rigid. You're not going to let that thing in. You want to go out there? Fine.

But you're not dragging us with you. The tension in the room was unbearable. The air thick with fear and mistrust. I gritted my teeth. My gaze shifting between them and the sealed door. The banging started again, or at least I assume so from how they reacted, as if it knew what I was about to do, making them more defensive and ready to hold the line at the door.

Get out of my way, I said quietly. Mark shook his head. Over my dead body. Eliza's hand grits my arm like a vice. He's right, you don't know what's out there. I shook her off, my mind racing. What I do know is whatever's out there hasn't broken in. Not yet.

And if I'm right, then we've been locking ourselves in here for no reason, just like the last team. You're gambling all our lives and some theory? What if you're wrong? Mark stepped closer, blocking my path to the door. His body was trembling. I might be. I admitted, my voice cracking. But look at us.

We're not going to survive him much longer anyway. The power's unstable, with lost coms, the colds creeping in. If we stay, we die, Mark's jaw tightened. Better than opening that door and letting whatever's out there tear us apart. Eliza stood behind him, wide-eyed, shaking ahead. please read, don't do this. Their fear was palpable. Their desperation infectious.

And yet, so was mine. The scratches, the banging. None of it left any evidence. Every sound vanished into the void, leaving nothing but frayed nerves in its wake. I glanced at the faint blood stains near the lab store where the previous team had met their end. They hadn't opened the door.

They'd listened to the whispers, and they died because of it. I stepped closer to the door, heart hammering in my chest. The control panel blinked steadily, a quiet rhythmic reminder that I held the power to end this madness. Or, to doom us all. You're insane, Marcus. I heard him lurched forward and felt the impression. as he grabbed my shoulder and yanked me away from the panel. I twisted out of his grip, shoving him hard enough to make him stumble. The sound of his boots scraping against the floor

echoed loudly in the still air. He caught himself and turned back to me, rage flashing in his eyes. Don't make me stop you, he said, his voice trembling. I stared him down, my hand creeping back toward the panel. I don't think you can. Mark lunged at me again, this time with more force. I managed to sidestep him, slamming my back against the wall near the panel. Eliza cried out behind him, her voice cracking as she begged both of us to stop. But the door's blinking red light held my focus.

I swung my arm out, swiping the control panel with the heel of my hand. The red light blinked once, twice. And then, turned green. No! Mark roared, diving at me. But it was too late. The sound of the lock, disengaging, was deafening in the eerie silence. The door shuddered, its seal was releasing with a hiss of escaping air. Eliza screamed, scrambling to grab Mark, who was clawing his way toward me,

as if to undo what I'd just done. I brace myself, every muscle locked in anticipation. The noise inside the station didn't stop. It collapsed. The incessant banging, scratching in whispers vanished instantly, replaced by the howling wind and the Arctic suffocating stillness. The transition was so abrupt, it felt like stepping from a nightmare. into nothingness.

No shadowy figures, no claw marks, no monstrous forms, just the stark, blinding white of the snow, and the faint howl of the wind. I exhaled, my breath fogging the air in front of me. It's empty, I whispered. Mark froze midstep, his face a mask of disbelief. Eliza slumped to her knees, her hands covered. covering her face. For a moment. We all stood there, staring into the unbroken expanse of snow.

The silence was crushing, not a single sound echoing back from the icy void. There's nothing, I whispered, my words stolen by the wind. Mark looked at me, his face pale and drawn. You don't know that, he muttered. weakly, his voice hollow. I stepped toward the open door, the cold biting into my skin. Then, why did it stop? He had no answer. Neither did I.

Eliza stepped forward, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her face was pale, her eyes wide as she scanned the empty expanse. So what? We imagined it, all of it? No, I said, my voice trembling but resolute. Not imagined. It was real, just not the way we thought. Mark snapped.

You don't know that. He could be hiding. You could have killed us. His voice cracked, roar with anger and fear. We don't know what's out there. We don't... He faltered. His gaze drawn to the stark, unbroken snow.

The reality began to sink in. The artifact, dull and inert in the corner, caught my eye. His presence felt heavier now, an ominous void sucking in light and reason. I gestured toward it. It was never out there, I said. It was always here. That thing, whatever. wherever it is, wanted us locked in, panicking, tearing each other apart, and we almost gave

it what it wanted. Mark's face twisted in denial, but Eliza's expression softened. She looked back at the artifact, her brow furrowing. The other team, she murmured, her voice almost lost in the wind. That's why we found them like that, with no sight. of escape. I nodded, grimly. I stepped fully outside, letting the Arctic cold claw at my face, grounding me in its unrelenting reality. Behind me, Mark slumped into a chair, shaking his head in disbelief.

Eliza stood at the threshold, her expression, a mixture of relief and devastation. Mark remained inside as we brought. began to salvage what we could, avoiding our gaze. His distrust was palpable. There was nothing I could say to ease it. We were alive, but we'd barely escaped with our sanity intact. The whispers didn't return, but the artefact remained in the corner of the lab. Every time I looked at it, I felt a faint unease like it was still watching, waiting. Even though the Arctic wind roared around us, the silence inside the station had never felt louder. Evacuation finally arrived two days later.

A helicopter's distant hums sliced with the icy silence, the sound alien after the oppressive stillness we had endured. By then, we'd clear the station of what we could. notes, data, anything that didn't feel tainted by the artifact. Mark stayed withdrawn, barely speaking a word since the door had opened. He avoided looking at Eliza or me, his eyes lingering on the artifact, as though it was still whispering to him. I caught him pacing in front of it late at night, his face blank but his movements frantic,

like he was arguing with himself. As a group, we decided to hide the artifact away from the facility in an unmarked location so that even we couldn't find it. We had witnessed what it could do in the most remote location from civilization. We didn't dare imagine what it could do in a populated area. When the research team arrived, they asked about the station's state. I told them we had lost their equipment and that the previous crew had succumbed to madness. I didn't mention the artifact and neither did Mark or Eliza.

Back at the main base, I tried to write my report. Facts, observations, timelines. I stuck to the tangible, but the words felt hollow. How could I describe something so intangible, so invasive, without sounding insane? Eliza sat across from me, staring at her own blank page. She sighed and leaned back, her eyes hollow. Are we supposed to pretend it didn't happen? she asked. I didn't answer. I didn't know how.

Mark refused to leave his quarters. He hadn't spoken since we boarded the helicopter. His door remained locked, the faint hum of his portable radio, the only sign he was inside. I wondered if he still heard the whispers. Back in civilization, I tried to move on. Eliza transferred to a quieter project in a warmer climate, far from the Arctic. Mark disappeared entirely. Rumors floated among colleagues. He'd left the field, joined some obscure sect or simply vanished. None of them felt right.

none of them felt wrong and me i stayed i couldn't let go of what we'd found or what had found us i researched phenomena like it buried in obscure archives piecing together scraps of folklore and fringe science each time i read about strange sounds mass paranoia or unexplainable events my thoughts return to the artefact to the whispers to the door