CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - The BEST Creepypastas of 2025

Episode Date: January 25, 2026

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "The People Who’ve Seen the Butterfly Started Falling Apart" Creepypasta►45:36 "My Dad ate meat from a deer that walked on two legs. Now he’s acting kinda strange" Creepypasta ►1:27:48 "Don't Play The Whistle Game" Creepypasta►1:57:15 "I work in a prison for crimes you've never heard of" Creepypasta  ►2:41:08 "Fifteen years ago, we locked a classmate in a locker. He came back wrong" Creepypasta Creepypastas 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 web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"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 moved to Bellwether three years ago after my mother passed. It wasn't a decision so much as inertia. Her house was paid off, and I didn't have anywhere else to be. It was one of those towns where people wave when they drive past, even when they don't know you, where the diner staff still remember your order, even if you've only been there once. I'd been picking up work where I could,

substitute teaching mostly, sometimes weekend shifts at the library when the high school is flake. No one asked many questions. They liked that I was dependable. I liked that they didn't pry. There was a quiet stillness to this place, a hush that settled behind the curtains. Half the houses were empty. The other half held people who seemed to have calcified their routines. church on Sunday, groceries on Wednesday, yard work until the first frost, and then radio silence until spring.

Sometimes I think the town is like a snow globe someone shook a long time ago. Now all the glitter had settled and we were just sitting in the stillness pretending it was still beautiful. That's what made the painting so strange. They held the town's art competition in the converted church hall, same place we used for weddings, funerals, polling days and bake sales. You could still see the old crucifix outline on the far wall, faded where the sun used to hit it, before someone painted over it with a coat of beige.

I wasn't supposed to be judging. I felled in because the usual guy came down with shingles, and someone remembered I taught high school art for one semester. before they cut the budget. They said I had a good eye, which is a polite way of saying, I'm quiet and not prone to arguing.

Most of the entries were what you'd expect. Oil landscapes of fields following a Bob Ross tutorial, watercolor portraits of dogs that all looked like they were melting. A kid submitted a clay sculpture that collapsed in the box on the way in.

I liked that one best. At least it was honest. Then, I noticed the butterfly just hanging there. It hadn't been there before. Maybe it was snuck in during the bustle of the event. It was dead centre, no name or frame, just canvas. And a butterfly. I've seen photorealistic paintings before.

Hyperrealism, surrealism, digital rendering. This wasn't that. It wasn't just real looking. It was real feeling. That's the only way I can describe it. It looked like it had been pinned there while breathing, and the instant the brush touched it, it forgot how.

Its wings were open, blue so deep, it made black look loud. The body was textured in a way that made you think about words you had to be. used in years. Velvet, bone, oil. Nothing behind it, just a blank white void, like it had been painted onto the idea of a canvas instead of the thing itself. People started crying. Not everyone but most, just here and there. People sniffled behind me. A woman put a hand over a mouth, even the mayor, the one who always made a point to say how he didn't get art, stood with his hat in his hands, nodding.

I stood in front of it for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, trying to see what they saw, but nothing came. I felt fine. I wasn't moved like the others were. I felt outside it, like I never got the memo. Eventually, I muttered something. I think it was... Incredible work or nice piece. And drifted back toward the refreshment table to get some air. That's when I saw Alice. She was standing a few feet from the painting.

Pale, maybe 17. Hoodie with stretched sleeves, scuffed sneakers. She was motionless. Eyes locked onto the butterfly. She looked like she'd forgotten how to blink. I watched her longer than I should have. At first I thought she might have fallen asleep standing up. Then I thought she might be crying.

She wasn't doing either. Just staring with the same expression I'd seen on a man at his wife's funeral. Not grief exactly. But reverence, like something old was ending, and she'd finally accepted it. I cleared my throat as I approached. Hey, you're right? For a moment, she stayed silent, blinking slowly.

Then she looked at me, really looked and said softly. I didn't know it could feel like this. I thought I missed my chance. Then she turned back to the butterfly. and I just stood there, not knowing what the hell to say. In the days after the art show, the town fell lighter. That's the only word I could think of. There was no energy in the air, as if someone had gone around in the night

and loosened some invisible knot in everyone's chest. People who spent years avoiding each other were suddenly talking again. I saw two brothers, the Wickcombe boys, hugging in the middle of Main Street, like one of them had come back from war. Mrs Halpin brought a pie to her ex-husband's place, and he cried on the porch until she hugged him. The Henderson's, who'd barely spoken since Christmas, were holding hands at the grocery store, smiling like teenagers. Everything felt softened. The whole town had been washed in warm water. Kindness blooming everywhere, fast and quiet, like the way mould creeps into drywall, spreading before you notice it's there.

But I wasn't feeling any of it. I kept waiting for whatever hit everyone else to catch up with me, some sense of clarity or relief or even just a nudge. Instead, it all passed through me like I was made of glass. glass. Even Jacob was different, and he's about as stubborn as they come. I stopped by the garage one afternoon to say hi, and found him leaning back in a lawn chair outside the bay doors, eyes closed, smiling at the sky, as if someone was telling him a story only he could hear. Hey, I said, nudging his boot. You're right? He blinked like I pulled him out of a dream.

Never better, he said. Feels good, you know, like something finally broke loose. What did, I asked. He just laughed. A small, private laugh that made me feel like I'd miss the joke. When I asked him about the painting, he smiled again and said, It was something, wasn't it?

He looked past me like something across the street was calling him. I turned to look. Nothing was there. I walked home, feeling hollow. It wasn't just the painting that bothered me now. It was me. Why hadn't I reacted like everyone else?

What was wrong with me that I could could look at that thing, that thing everyone else treated like a revelation, and feel absolutely nothing. That question kept bothering me long after I got home. Later that evening, as I was locking up the school after a PTA meeting, I heard footsteps echoing down the hall. It was Alice wearing the same hoodie with the same distant stare. but this time her cheeks were flushed and her eyes had that shimmering look I'd seen on half the town. She stopped in front of me, breathing like she'd run all the way here. I didn't think you would choose me, she whispered.

Her hands were trembling, but she didn't seem scared, more like she was overwhelmed. I haven't even told her I love her yet. Who? I asked. She glanced past me, toward the doorway. Another girl, tall, blonde, one of the basketball kids was standing there, staring into the dim hallway, with the same dreamy, softened expression most of the town had been wearing. Alice didn't answer my question. She didn't need to. She just smiled, small and shaking.

and said again, I didn't think it would choose me. I started noticing the gaps. That's how it felt, like blank spaces in a song everyone else had learned the lyrics to. People would speak in low, tender tones, like they were sharing something sacred.

But every so often, I'd see someone watching from a distance, unmoved, out of step. Like me. The first was the man in the rusted car behind the hardware store. I'd seen him before, sure, just one of those forgotten fixtures you stopped noticing until you have a reason to. He never begged or spoke, just sat in the front seat of that sun-bleached Buick, windows fogged from the inside, watching the world pass. After the painting, the town shifted, softened like overripe forest.

root. But he didn't change at all. He just sat there, a statue in denim and dust. Once I passed close enough to catch his eyes through the glass. He was staring straight ahead, unblinking, as if waiting for a radio signal only he could hear. I raised a hand in an awkward half-wave. He didn't return it. Just kept staring. Then there was the widow, Mrs. Lorry, who walked the cemetery each morning before dawn, always the same path, the same three headstones, her husband, her son, and someone else I didn't recognize. Most mornings I saw her from my kitchen window, dark coat trailing behind her like smoke,

hands buried deep in her sleeves. After the butterfly showed up, I started watching more closely, wondering if, like everyone else, she'd stop to stare at strangers with those new, gentle smiles. But she didn't. She moved the same way, slow and ritualistic. She never looked up. I tried catching her eye one morning, brought a coffee in a paper cup. She didn't take it.

just looked at me like I was interrupting a conversation I couldn't hear. And then there was Nathan. He ran the post office, usually polite, efficient, and dry as toast. I didn't know much about him, beyond the story everyone knew. He had been alone his whole life, never found a partner in this small town. In the week after the painting, when couples danced barefoot in the park, and strangers confessed decades of buried affection. Nathan still walked his usual loop,

with male tucked tight to his chest, jaw-locked shot like he was keeping something from escaping. I thought for a second there might be something between us, some shared understanding, like warvets who never served in the same war, but still recognized the look in each other's eyes. I tried to speak to him once, a throwaway line about how strange everything had gotten.

He paused, nodded once and walked away. The others didn't speak at all, barely above the bare minimum for conversation. I wondered if this is how I looked the whole time I was here. To me, I was laying low, being inoffensive. Was I just as sour as the others not chosen? I kept one. wondering if it was a coincidence, or if we were all missing the same piece, something simple, something everyone else had that made them worthy of, whatever this was.

Eventually, I stopped one morning when I saw Mrs. Lorry sitting in the church pews. She wasn't praying, just sitting, facing the blank wall where the painting had been. I sat a few rows behind her, let the silence stretch. between us until I couldn't take it anymore. Why aren't you like the others? I asked. My voice barely carried across the empty room. She didn't look back,

just shifted a gaze slightly upward toward the ceiling beam. Because, she said softly, there's no one left for me. It wasn't bitter, wasn't sad even. It was just the truth. And suddenly, the space inside my chest felt colder than it had all week. It started with the lights.

People standing on their porches, faces lit by candles they hadn't held seconds before. I saw the first group from my window around midnight, six of them walking single file down Main Street. They weren't speaking, but they were humming something low and wordless. Not a melody I recognised. They sounded more like a memory, passed mouth to mouth. The next night, there were more. Couples holding hands, parents with children, teenagers moving like they'd rehearsed the steps in some school auditorium long ago and just now remembered the choreography.

They didn't look possessed. That's the part I kept coming back to. There was no glassiness in their eyes, no twitching or convulsing, no signs of strain. They looked, grateful, calm, like they were doing exactly what they were meant to do. Alice was with them. She walked barefoot through the grass, arms loose at her sides. Her face tilted up to the stars like she expected to be lifted at any moment. She looked so alive

It hurt to watch her I followed some nights Stayed far enough back to pretend I wasn't spying They never turned around Never acknowledged me Then on the fourth night I saw the dancers Middle of the town square

A man and a woman Twirling slowly in the pool of light Beneath the lamppost Their bodies close enough that you couldn't tell whose feet were leading. The man's shirt was soaked with something. I thought it was rain at first, but then I saw the dark streak trailing down from his eye.

Blood, a slow, steady trickle, like a tear that got tired. No one seemed alarmed. People walked past without blinking. One man even clapped, as if it were a performance. That's when I started writing it all down. Not for posterity. For sanity. I needed to make it make sense.

Dates, names, times, descriptions, how many people, what they did, how long it lasted. But the more I tried to track it, the worse it got. It was like trying to trace smoke with a pencil. I gathered all my notes, thoughts and theories, and went straight to the authorities. But, no matter how much I urged them to action, the sheriff just stared through me, a soft smile on his face.

I think what angered me was how sincere it was. He wasn't mocking me, gone to whatever was going on. Nothing added up. I stopped writing, and just watched. One night I saw Alice sitting on, alone at the edge of the pond, her reflection trembling in the water. I decided to speak to her. She looked up when I got close, smiled, soft and tired. Why are you doing this? I asked. Her smile didn't falter. She stood gently. Then she reached out and touched my cheek, not with pity,

but with something that felt like an apology. It must be so lonely, she whispered, to have no one worth blooming for. And then she walked into the dark. And I just stood there, still not understanding whether she was trying to comfort me. Or mourn me. I went back to the church looking for Mrs. Lorry.

I don't know why. maybe because she was the only one who ever answered me without smiling like she knew something I didn't or maybe because I still believed stupidly that there were a few of us left who hadn't changed and were still sane the doors were open candles lined the pews like centuries

wax pulled onto hymn books no one was reading I found a sitting in the same spot she always did back straight hands folded I sat beside her, close enough, that I could hear the quiet creak of her breath. She didn't look at me, not right away, just kept a gaze fixed on the far wall. I turned toward her. What is it? I asked. What does it want?

She smiled. That was the first thing that told me something was wrong. It wasn't bitter or distant. or hollow. It was radiant, lit from within, the way they all were once it touched them. Then she said, so softly I almost missed it. It finds what still aches, she whispered. That's all it needs, a wound you've grown used to holding. Her voice had changed too, in cadence, like it had been set to music I couldn't hear. She finally turned to. She finally turned to look at me, and for a moment I thought she might take my hand. But instead, she just said,

You never learned how to ache, did you? Then she stood, slow and graceful, and walked up the centre aisle, her fingers brushing each pew like a rosary. She had found the ache, and I was alone again. And now, I couldn't even trust the silence I shared with her. The others, the ones like me, had thinned out. The man in the Buick was gone. His car sat empty, door left ajar like it stepped out for a moment and forgotten where he was going.

Nathan had closed the post office early three days in a row. No one complained. I stopped by once and saw him through the backward. window, holding something small, but I couldn't shake the fact that it looked like a weapon. I kept wondering around like a tourist in my own life, watching, listening, wondering if it was too late to be chosen, wondering if I'd missed whatever subtle invitation had passed through everyone else's blood. One night, I found myself at the edge of the park, just beyond the lights. Couples walked barefoot in the grass. Teenagers sat in circles, head bowed, foreheads

pressed together. You could hear quiet songs, not full melodies, just threads of harmony, rising and falling in time with the breeze. I sat alone on a bench and tried to mimic it, the closeness, the warmth. I imagined someone sitting next to me. I tried to picture what it might feel like to have a memory that made your chest hurt in that beautiful, horrible way. But there was nothing there. It was like trying to start a fire with wet wood. Later, at the cafe, I ran into Maya. I hadn't seen her in years, not since she graduated.

She'd drawn quiet, strange things that made the other students nervous. Now, she was older, settled. But still had that look, like she was always five seconds ahead of the rest of us. She offered me a seat. We talked, lightly at first, then slower. At some point, I told her everything, not just about the painting or the others, but the hollowness, the fact that I've been watching all of it from the outside, like a man pressing his face to the glass of a house he used to live in.

She listened, really listened. Then she looked at me with something like sympathy, something like pity. I think you want to be in love, she said, but you never learned how. I didn't argue. She sipped a coffee, sit it down and added, And I think you don't want to be alone when it happens. When what happens, I asked, she silently looked out the window at the people walking in pairs, bathed in amber light, faces turned up toward a sky, I hadn't been able to look at directly. In days, it wasn't quiet anymore, not in the way it used to be.

The stillness of a town half forgotten, where dust settled in windshields and dogs barked at nothing. Now, the silence felt intentional, sacred, like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the next note in a song they'd only heard in dreams. They'd started looking up more. It was subtle at first, heads tilted just slightly toward the sky, as if something faint was humming above the clouds. But now, people sat in fields at night, eyes wide open, mouths part, couples lay naked on blankets, fingers threaded together, whispering things I couldn't hear. They said they were ready. I found drawings scratched onto the bark of trees, crude spirals, insect wings, symbols that look like musical notation but didn't follow any rhythm I knew.

Behind the library, someone stacked bones in a perfect spiral, bird bones maybe, or squirrel, squirrels, or something that once spoke. A few houses at windows open, and candlelight flickering like hearts beating in sink. I passed one porch where letters were being burned, one by one, into a metal basin. Love notes, I think, or maybe confessions. No one seemed afraid. Except me, I found Jacob outside the old book. grocery store. He was standing still, head tilted back, his hand resting gently on the car

handle, like he'd forgotten he was there. Jacob, I said too loud, come with me. He blinked slowly, then smiled. That same warm, distant smile everyone wore now. Come where? Away, I said, just out of town, anywhere, a day even, just to see if it breaks whatever this is. His smile didn't falter, but his eyes showed signs of mourning. Please, I said, I don't know what's happening, but it's not right, it's not. He stepped forward and put a hand on my shoulder. There was real pain in his face, sorrow of something I had no knowledge of, like I was in the wrong for thinking this.

You're not being punished, Darren. You're just... Not part of it. That hurt more than I expected. Because there wasn't a drip of malice. It was pure truth. And truth doesn't bruise. It carves.

He turned and walked back inside, leaving me with nothing but the sound of insects buzzing. in rhythm, I swear I'd never heard before. That night, I walked to the edge of town. There's an overlook where the grass gives way to gravel, and you can see the train tracks disappear into nothing. That's where I saw them. Two people, a man and a woman, sitting on a guardrail.

I recognised them both. Neither had changed. They were like me, always had been. watching things from the outside. They weren't speaking, just holding hands, like it was the last rope tying them to something real. Then the woman began to cry, not from pain or fear,

from relief. And the man, he smiled, just barely, but it was the start of a smile that comes from surrendering to something beautiful, you were once terrified of. I watched heart-hammering

as they began to succumb to the phenomenon. And for the first time since this all began, I felt something split in me. Grief. Because, whatever they were becoming, it was never meant for me. It happened just before dawn. I hadn't slipped.

Not in days, really, just drifted in and out of hours like a body floating on cold water. I've been walking the town again, hoping the movement would give my mind something to grip. But when I turned onto Main Street, I knew something had changed. They were standing still. All of them that changed, frozen mid-step, mid-conversation, mid-breath. A couple sat on a bench, foreheads touching. A teenager stood on a porch with a book half open in her hands. The mayor was parked at a stoplight, door ajar, his head tilted toward the sky.

None of them moved. Their eyes were wide and wet. The expression you see in old church paintings, mouths parted just slightly, as if they were hearing something so beautiful, they couldn't survive the same. sound. I stood in the center of the square, surrounded. The air felt thick, like it was vibrating just out of tune with reality. My ears rang from the pressure. Something was happening. Something was here. They looked up. Every single one of them, in perfect unison, tilted their heads toward the sky. Not in panic, but in recognition. Whatever they'd been waiting for

had finally arrived, and then they began to bloom. It started with a shiver, a ripple through the crowd like a breath held and released at once. Shoulders loosened, mouths parted, ice softened, something pulling at them from somewhere very far away. Then the first tear opened. I saw it happen to a man near the fountain, a thin, perfect line splitting down the centre of his chest, as gentle as if someone had unsipped a coat. There was no struggle, no gasp, his skin just...

Parted. The flesh eased back on its own, curling outward. Muscle followed. It slid out in long, warm ribbons, thick, glistening strands peeling away from bone like silk loosened from a spool. Each sheet slowed downward with soft, wet sounds, layering itself at his feet. His heart sat exposed for a moment, pulsing like a bright stone. Then, it softened too.

Around me, the rest of the town began to open. I could hear it, that quiet peeling, that almost tender separation of skin from the living thing inside. It didn't sound violent, more like fruit being opened by steady hands. A woman's face split along a jawline, a child spine pushed free in a slow arc, vertebra by vertebra. A man's arm shed their muscles in draped sheets,

leaving the pale gleam of bone beneath. None of them screamed. They didn't even flinch. Their tendons stretched like strings being pulled-taught, then snapped with little pops, playful in how small they sounded compared to the enormity of what was happening. Fingers loosened from knuckles,

cheeks peeled from skulls, ribs unfolded like petals. There was no blood, not a drop. Everything emptied itself cleanly, quietly, as if their bodies had been waiting for this, as if the machinery of being human had turned off its alarms and unlocked all its doors. And through all of it, their expressions. God, they looked euphoric.

A woman whose eyes were already clouding over, smiled like someone had just told her she could finally go home. A teenage boy leaned into his friend as his sternum opened, and they both laughed, breathless and relieved, before their laughter dissipated. Couples held hands as their bodies melted. parents strode their children's hair even as their own faces fell away. Some closed their eyes, others raised their arms to the sky as if embracing something descending toward them. No one ran, no one begged, no one tried to stop it. They welcomed it. Spines collapsed into soft white powder, skulls folded inward like drying paper, bones folded inward like drying paper, bones.

crumbled at the slightest breeze, becoming dust before they even touched the ground. I stood there and watched it all, watched the town peel itself open and spill into the air like light escape in a cracked shell, and something in me twisted, painfully, not from the horror, but from the unbearable truth threading through every smile, every sigh, every peaceful surrender of the body. They... were happy. Every single one of them,

happy in a way I had never been. And suddenly, I understood I never could be. And that, more than the skin and the bones and the dust swirling in the dawn light,

was what shattered me. Then, Something rose from the centre of the stillness. A shimmer at first, like oil and water, like air warping over pavement on a hot day. Then wings, massive, translucent, veined like stained glass. A body that flickered between forms I couldn't hold onto, not long enough to name. Eyes like multifaceted mirrors. A head that never stopped turning.

It wasn't the butterfly. fly from the painting. That had just been a door. This was what had been waiting behind it. It rose from their remains, built from them somehow. Not their flesh, but what had been inside it. Love, familial, partnership, desire. All of it, shaped and refracted into something too beautiful to be real. It flew, soundless, weightless. It drifted over rooftops, trailing sparks of gold behind it, like the last light of a dying sun. It passed above me and did not touch me, didn't even pause.

I stood, I shouted, I'm here, I said, I'm still here. It didn't slow. I saw that. I watched. I understand now. Still, nothing. I dropped to my knees, coughing in the dust. My hands trembled, flecks of bone and ash clinging to my skin like snow. I tried to cry, but the tears didn't come.

I tried to pray, but my voice was hollow. I tried to plead, but I had no one to plead for. Just... Me. and for the first time it hit me all at once, all the quiet years, all the nice dinners, all the polite, acceptable small talk, all the chances I'd had

to love someone, to ache for someone, to need, and how I'd missed every one. I collapsed into the ash completely from emptiness. I whispered into the remains of a thousand, open hearts. I'm still here. I'm still me. Why? And the dust stirred around me, just faintly. And I heard it from inside, like something had cracked open in the back of my skull, just wide enough to let the words in, because there's nothing in you to transform. And then the wind blew, and the ashes of the ones I never knew how to love. scattered into the morning.

They found me three days later. I was still sitting there in the square, half buried in ash. It had settled into my hair, into the folds of my clothes, into the cracks of my palms. I don't think I moved the entire time. Maybe I slept. Maybe I didn't. The days blur when there's no one left to tell you that time is passing. When the rescue crews arrived, boots crunching through what used to be neighbours and classmates and people I borrowed jumper cables from.

I didn't react. A man knelt in front of me, asking questions. My name, if I was okay, what I remembered. But his voice was muffled, sounding like he was speaking from underwater. I kept staring at the ground. The dust shifted every time I breathed. little clouds lifting, swirling, falling again. If I stared long enough, I could almost imagine faces in it.

Not their faces, just the impression of all the love they carried, hovering for a moment, before dissolving again. Eventually, someone asked, What happened here? I thought about lying or saying I didn't know. But the truth rose in my throat before I was. could stop it. They were loved, I said. My voice cracked. That's why they got to leave. The man frowned at me. To him, it was nonsense. And maybe it was, but it was the only thing that made sense to me anymore. They weren't killed. They became something they had always been

reaching toward. And I... Didn't. In the days that followed, they kept me in a hospital, an hour out of town. Clean sheets, tiled floors, a window that looked out over fields that had never known what happened in Bellwether. Nurses came and went. A psychiatrist sat by my bed and tried to get me to talk about trauma and mass hysteria.

But every time I closed my eyes. I saw them. Alice's smile, opening like a second sunrise, Jacob lifting his head to the sky as if greeting an old friend, the way couples held each other as their bodies unspooled into light. They weren't afraid, they weren't alone, they weren't left behind. That last one hurt the most. Because somewhere beneath the same,

the horror and the dust and the quiet, gnawing loneliness. Something else had taken root to me, something I didn't want to name. I was jealous, jealous that they had someone, anyone whose love reached deep enough that it could echo into whatever came next. I didn't. And that was why I remained. People will keep calling me lucky, they say I survived, that I was spared. But every night, when the lights dim, I lie awake in that hospital bed and wonder about the truth of it, the sharp, aching contradiction.

If they're gone and I'm alive, I have another chance at love. But if I never had it to begin with, if no one ever found, felt that way about me, if I never felt it toward anyone, then is it even possible with this second chance? And if I did somehow learn to live this feeling, would I be whisked up into the sky, or was that all just a one-off? Some mornings, I hope the answer will come. Other mornings, I hope it won't. Because the world feels wrong with this knowledge. Too quiet, too flat, like someone drained all the colour, or turned off the part of the sky that used to watch back. And sometimes, when I'm honest with myself, I wonder whether they were the lucky ones.

The ones who got to bloom, the ones who got to go, the ones who weren't left behind to figure out how to start loving in a world, that suddenly feels too big, too empty. and too late. But I'm still here. I'm still me. Maybe that means something. Maybe. It means nothing.

At all. The party was two weeks ago. I stole a few beers when the adults weren't looking and shared them with Lucy Sitkins away from the crowd. She drank hers greedily as we sat beneath a bow of a lovely, tree, speaking low so no passers-by could hear. Every time we whispered, we tilted our faces a little closer and closer. There was a moment when I thought she was going to rest

a head on my shoulder, as she told me about how she wanted to be a vet, and my heart skipped as I debated putting my arm around her waist. It was all cut short when a father, Larry, stood in front of everyone in the party and forced the beer can down his throat. I didn't see it. I only heard the cries that had us both sitting upright beneath the branches. By the time we got back to the party, the adults were escorting the kids away, and ambulance sirens were fast approaching. Dad was there, and he told me to take my little sister home.

The grim and frightening look on his face made me forget Lucy and the smell of beer on her breath. I try hard to remember if she ate from the barbecue. Sometimes I think she didn't. Other times I swear I can picture her biting into a burger, and it's so vivid I think it must be a memory. It's moot either way. I'll never see her again. I felt a little gross when I went into school the next day

and asked around if the stories about a dad were true. When my father got home the night of the party, he hadn't spoken to me or mom. He just went to bed and didn't tell us what happened. Come morning, I saw some of the older kids by the school gates and overheard them talking. The details made my stomach churn, but I wanted to know more. I didn't want to act all excited about something terrible, but this felt like the kind of thing people would be talking about for years.

Larry Sitkins had swallowed a beer can. shoved it down his throat like a damn bog and strict wreath in an egg. At least that's how one kid described it to me. There was more, of course. He'd praised Satan before slitting his own throat, gotten drunk and fallen hard onto the ground while chugging a beer, tried to catch the can mid-air. Someone had punched him mid-sip.

There were lots of variations on what happened and how, but there were only theories that got turned into rumors. A lot of us were just trying to make sense of it. Larry was a pretty run-of-the-mill guy. He was a landscaper who made lame jokes at kids' birthday parties. It was about as nondescript as they came, at least as far as a bunch of teenagers were concerned. We got halfway through the day

before Mr. Straub shut the bleachers on his neck. It was in front of the cheerleaders. There were ambulances again, crying girls and boys and even some of the teachers. Most of them just looked confused, except for Mr. Straub. I managed to catch a glimpse of him as I jogged over to find out what all the screaming was about. He looked empty of all thoughts and emotions, and his head sat at a crooked angle. I figured that was how people must look when dead, but apparently he'd been like that during the act.

He'd walked up, perched his neck between the slatted benches, and hit the remote button to slide the bleachers closed. Whole time, he was just slack-jawed and stupid locking, even as the metal mechanism crunched vertebra in cartilage. I late to learn Larry had been like this too, when he killed himself. He was getting ready to pop the tab on a fresh beer when he simply stopped, looked up to the sky, then forced the whole thing down his throat in a single world-shattering moment. I didn't know it back then, but there were others just like Larry had missed the strobe. A barista in a coffee shop steamed half the skin on her arm while keeping eye contact with the guy in the drive-thru. A doctor at the local clinic used a biopsy needle to inject air straight into his own heart.

Lots of people shot themselves, but not one of them aimed for the head. That's a weird touch if you think about it. These people obliterated their torsos or limbs with high-powered rifles at point-blank range. No reason offered. Just a vacant expression as they deleted bits of their bodies and left nothing but ragged stumps. There was no school the next day, which was the only real clue I got about how panicked the local authorities were. Wouldn't be long before the national authorities joined in on the panic. too, but that would come later.

That morning, my parents left the house at 9.30 for a meeting at the town hall, and they dropped me off at my grandmas on the way. I waited for them to leave before I told grandma I was heading out. It was a hot day, and she only nodded her approval as she sat reading with my sister. She hated seeing me play video games, and always encouraged me to go make my own adventures outside. I had no plans. Didn't even want to see any of my friends. I thought a lot about Mr. Straub's face as I crossed empty farmer's fields and walked into

the woods. I'd been to an open casket funeral once. It was for Father Dennis who'd christened me as a baby. Not that I remember anything about him, except his stony face resting gently in the soft white folds of his casket's interior. That seemed so long ago, and so sterile, that the thought of it was a bit sad, but not a whole lot else. But Mr. Straub's face had frightened me with his swollen lips and bulging eyes, alive one moment and dead the next, with only pain to separate the two. And yet, he looks so bored hanging there from his own broken neck, still wearing those ridiculous red shorts he always had on,

no matter the weather. It took time to recognize that seeing a dead body had freaked me out. I felt like it shouldn't have messed me up as much as it did, and I guess that's why there was a little bit of anger mixed in with all those thoughts in my head. It's also why I pushed on through the woods until the trees began to thin, marching in the humid summer heat until my t-shirt was soaked and my legs ached. I wanted to feel tired, wanted it. so the only thing I could think of were my throbbing handstrings and sunburnt forehead. It ended when I reached the tracks. Shaggy rocks and boulders rose steeply on the opposite side.

Only other ways to go were left into town or right into a dark tunnel, its mouth bristling with ivy. At least the air coming from it was cold. So I took a second to stand and catch my breath, feeling the sweat cool and evaporate as the wind billowed gently out of the darkness. I wasn't stupid though. I paid close attention in case I heard the sound of any passing trains. And when I didn't hear one, I raced off the tracks as quick as I could.

It honked as it came past. Another day I might have worried that I was going to get in trouble for playing on the rails. But all I could really think of was the thing I'd seen lined up. by the tracks. It had been lit up by the train as it came roaring out of the tunnel, not far from the entrance. In the strange silence after the train had gone, there was only the dim light of the setting sun to see inside the tunnel, and everything looked the same. All clothes, broken bottles, discarded crates, trash strewn around wherever it found space.

But I knew what I'd seen in the harsh white light. light of the train's passing beam, and it was a hell of a lot more than garbage. I'd seen a man. He was lying face down. They'd even been a hand, bright and pale, like the moon in the night sky. I was sure of it. I didn't know what to do, not right away. I was afraid and didn't want to go inside, but I couldn't pretend I hadn't seen anything either. I tried shouting to them, if someone down there heard me, they gave no sign of it. Wasn't until I stepped into the darkness and let my eyes adjust that I confirmed there really was a man lying down in there. He was draped across the tracks, and he didn't have any legs, and judging by the way the bloodstains

had turned the color brown, he'd been there for him. for a while. Hell, half a dozen trains must have gone right over him, thinking he was just an odd bit of cloth or something. That's if they saw anything at all. In that time it dried out a little. He wasn't a mummy or anything, but the blood on his stumps and coming out of his mouth looked more like jelly than corn syrup. I was sobbing by this point, crying hard as I tried to make sense of what I was meant to do, while also feeling like all of this was terribly unfair on me. There was a moment where I could almost feel myself wanting to be a kid again, a proper one,

little, one who doesn't have to do things, one who can get upset and scream and run away. I'd only just started to appreciate how badly I'd been messed up by seeing Mr. Straub, and then God went and dropped that kind of nightmare into my lap. Teeth stained black with blood and open eyes that looked at nothing. It felt like a nightmare, not just the moment with a body, but everything else too. Everything since that beer beneath the tree had felt like it wasn't part of reality anymore, but nightmares end. I was outside, gasping, vomiting, crying my eyes out.

When I heard something shuffle in the tunnel I'd just run out of. Part of me thought that a sound must mean someone was alive and close by, and that meant I wasn't alone. Another part of me thought something else entirely. It was the part of me that took over and stopped me crying and making any more noise. My mouth turned dry as a desert, and all of a sudden I was no longer hot all over. But cold, freezing cold, and my legs were backpillar. tailing away from the tunnel with short, quiet steps. The noise persisted.

It was the shuffle of something getting dragged over gravel and old plastic bags. It had a rhythm to it that was slow. The word that springs to mind is one I got taught in biology class a long time ago. Locomotion. Something down there was moving. It was moving towards me. It sounded slow. and broken and feeble, but that didn't matter.

Somehow, even though I knew it wasn't completely insane, I just knew what was going to come out of that tunnel. I knew it the way the rabbit knows the wolf or the ant knows the spider. But still, when I saw him crawl out of the dark and into the light, I screamed so loud I'd have a sore throat for the next few days. It was the man from the tracks, and even though he moved, he was not alive. I tried telling myself that he couldn't have been dead because only living things move. But that was nonsense.

He dragged his bloody, legless torso with one working arm, while the other lay dislocated across his back, the fingers of both hands curling as he heaved himself along. And that face. That same empty gorking expression, just like Mr. Straubbs. He wasn't alive, he was a dead thing, and that made him some kind of impossible monster. I turned and ran screaming through the trees. The whole time I could only think of the thing that was behind me and was trying to close the distance. It didn't matter that it was slow, didn't matter that I ran for over an hour,

didn't even matter that I wasn't sure if I knew my way home or even running in the right direction. All that mattered was putting one foot in front of the other until there was nothing left inside me. Time turned funny. Seconds moved into strange staccatoes until eventually I collapsed on legs made of rubber. Then I dragged myself into an old hollow tree to hide. and that was where I lost all consciousness. When I woke up, the sun had set and it was dark. I vomited some, then found my way back to the beaten path

and stumbled achingly through the cold night air back to my grandma's farmhouse. Dad was sick. My grandma screamed something to this effect at me as she held down his right arm, while my mother tried to grip his head in her blood-slick hands. He resisted with dumb determination. My little sister cried, watching the scene like a shell-shocked soldier. There was grunting and sobbing, and suddenly, a bang.

Then a puff of plaster rained down onto my head, and everyone began to yell and shriek a little louder. Dad? Had a gun. That was what my grandma was trying to wrestle out of his hands. She held a knife and that's why there was blood But I didn't know whose it was I wasn't sure what she was planning to do with it Until she tried to use it to cut his trigger finger off

The scuffle resulted in another bang and a window exploded outwards I finally ducked and grabbed my sister rushing her into another room But there were three more explosions And each one broke something inside me By the time I heard my name name being called, I was half-death and twitching at things that weren't there. My sister pleaded for me to come back, her pink fingers grasping for me as I put her down. But my mother was shouting for me to come help, and I wanted to keep my family safe.

She told me to get something to tie that up while she and my grandma used both arms to pin each of his wrists to the ground. His hands bled weakly, as my grandma used every inch of a strength to simultaneously pin him and stop the flow. He thrashed beneath them, his movements languid and easy, but I could tell it was a struggle for them to keep him down. As I ran to the garage, I saw the gun on the ground with dad's severed finger nearby. I kicked it out of reach before returning shortly with the rope my grandma used to tie the garage door open during hot summers. Mom tied the knots. My grandma tried talking to. My grandma tried talking to. to my dad, and it was one of the few times in my life I saw her as the woman who'd once changed

his diapers. She was so soothing and tender, and her constant muttering that everything would be okay. Seems so fragile. She was scared for him. Mom just did everything in her power to wrestle some safety out of the moment. Only once his arms was secure behind his back, and she was confident he wasn't breaking free, did she stand back, but her hands behind her, and then immediately hunch forward and sob. Call an ambulance, my grandma told me, and she walked into the other room to get my sister.

Before I got on the phone, I briefly hugged my mom who didn't seem to notice. I risked a glance at my dad, who didn't look at anything at all. Dead eyes glazed vacantly at nothing, as he fought to free his arms. When he finally looked at me, it was no different to how he looked at the floor or the wall.

I didn't go to school the next day either. Some men from the government came to take Dad in the morning and Mom ordered me to my room when they arrived. She asked them a thousand questions, but their replies were short and stern. All I managed to overhear were a few muffled phrases Please stay put, ma'am. Someone will be in contact with you shortly.

When I ran to my window to look at them walking down the drive, I saw that they all wore masks. One of them saw I was staring. I thought he was going to wave, but he didn't. There was a biohazard symbol on their clothes. After they left, Mom focused on making dinner and looking after my sister. She kept me close the whole time, barking anxious questions whenever I tried to leave the room. Where are you going? Just the bathroom?

Oh, okay then. It felt like she was painting normality into tissue paper, desperately afraid of breaking it. I tried my best to seem like I was okay. Last thing I wanted was to feel like some kid who needed his mommy. We mostly just talked about mundane things. but it was hard for both of us. The only time the atmosphere seemed to change was when she asked me something strange

halfway through dinner. Did your father, when you both went hunting a few months back, what did you do to the meat? I don't know, I shrugged. Dad took care of all that. Why? The men who took him asked a whole bunch of questions about it.

Then, with a fragile smile, Have you done your homework? They told me your teacher would send you some assignments online. Just like that, the thin pretense of normality came back. But I was left with a wriggling feeling in my stomach. It didn't go away as the evening marched on. In fact, it only grew worse until I found myself in bed, rolling from side to side and thinking about mum's question.

The men who bundled Dad off hadn't seemed like the kind who messed around. They must have had some idea of what was going on. So why ask about the meat? On some level, I knew the moment she'd asked me why it was relevant. Dad loved to hunt and he always brought meat to parties and barbecues. Wasn't it obvious? He'd brought something back from the woods, hadn't he? I hadn't gone hunting for a long time, nearly three months.

Every time he'd asked, I'd refused, and I think he knew why. On the very last trip, Dad shot three deer, but we only took back two. One for us, one for the town barbecue. The third he shot, but we left it on the forest floor, because by the time it had died, I was pale and shaking, and even Dad couldn't keep the tremor out of his voice. Neither of us had expected the deer to stand on its hind legs and walk towards us like a man.

Its gate, a heavy, broken thing, as it lumbered over the forest floor. And it had kept coming, even after Dad shot it six more times. One of the rounds struck it in the head, but still it shambled forward on two misshapen legs as his brains painted the ferns in pestilent grass, When it finally fell, even Dad had gone pale, and in the silent aftermath, I had to go off and be sick in a bush.

After that, we cut the trip short. Dad walked me gently back to the truck where the two deer was shot and trust earlier that day lay waiting in the pickup. I don't think either of us even remembered they were there until later. He'd still ask me if I wanted to head out with him each weekend, but he'd still ask me if I wanted to head out with him each weekend, but he never seemed surprised when I made some excuse. The only time we talked about it was not long before the barbecue when he drove me to school one day.

He didn't deal with it head on. He skirted the topic. Sometimes dear get sick, he told me, a little like old folks do. Remember Grandpa? He got real scary towards the end, didn't he? Well, dear get sick too. But we don't have to worry.

worry. Same way you couldn't catch what Grandpa had. Well, we can't catch what the deer have. Us humans are safe. Just an uncomfortable part of nature. It had come out of the blue, or at least it seemed like it. I figured it was Dad's way of trying to get me back on board with hunting. I knew he liked me going with him. I'd liked it too, at least until I saw that deer walk toward me on two legs. But lying in my bed that night after Mom had gone to sleep I started to wonder if maybe he hadn't really been trying to convince me Maybe he carried a little doubt in himself about something he was going to do What if he'd been trying to convince himself?

It was okay Too dear I tried remembering what they'd been like I hadn't shake them after we got in the truck Why would I? Seemed as normal as any others as we'd tie them down, but I hadn't really been paying attention either. I'd been hunting since I was seven,

helping Dad was automatic to me, and to top it off, I hadn't known what I was meant to be looking for. I squirmed beneath the sheets and tried so hard to remember every detail of that trip. Most of all, I tried to remember what the first two deer dad had shot were like.

They'd gone down so quick. They'd seem normal. But Grandpa had been sick with Alzheimer's a long time before he got scary. And I had to figure the same could be true for those deer. Who was to say the one on hind legs was the only sick creature in the woods that day? I couldn't have forced these thoughts out of my head with a crow bar. At some point, I accepted I wasn't getting any sleep that night, and I settled down to the same.

torture myself some more until I realized it didn't have to be that way. Dad had an old freezer in the shed and he sometimes kept meat in there. Not for long and usually not for eating. He'd use it for things he'd wanted to skin or tried to make a trophy out of it, which he rarely did since Mom didn't like that kind of thing in the house. But if the deer weren't in the freezer in the kitchen or the garage, then they might be in the shed. and if I did open up that chest and saw two deer bodies in there

that meant whenever was going around and making people her themselves couldn't have come from our little hunting trip I snuck out of my room as quiet as I could mom was on the phone with my grandma and she was crying I stopped briefly by a door and listened to see if maybe they knew something I didn't but after she started talking about how scared she was I just felt bad and moved on. At least it meant she was too busy to notice me creeping down the stairs.

I never liked the shed at the end of the yard. It was rarely used, even by my dad, who kept the lawnmower and some old junk in there. It wasn't the kind of place he kept food, but I had this feeling he didn't keep these deer with the rest of the meat he got from hunting. As I opened the back door and looked over the shadow-covered yard, I found myself thinking about the tunnel and what I'd seen back there.

With everything that had happened since, I'd done a good job I convinced myself it had never really happened. The man with no legs, who dragged himself out of the darkness, had become little more than a half-remembered nightmare, a moment out of time that was incompatible with all logic and reason. But suddenly, it was back with me. all the emotions and thoughts that race through my head as I'd stared at his rotten flesh and glassy eyes

The walk to the shed wasn't easy I fought the urge to turn around the entire way there Each step was like walking on feet made of lead At the door I paused with my hand poised by the lock The house seemed so distant behind me And I became painfully aware nobody knew I was alone and out in the dark. Inside was nearly pitch black.

My phone helped me light it up a little, but I didn't touch the nearby switch in case Mom saw it from a window. Cobwebs hung low from the ceiling, and shadows crawled across the floor and walls as I moved closer to the freezer. The entire time I kept expecting something to happen. I even imagined that deer,

rising from beneath the lid, pushing it open to stand unnaturally tall on its hind legs where he looked down at me with the same dead eyes I'd seen in my father. The thought scared me so bad, I nearly hyperventilated myself straight into a panic attack, but before I had time to really worry about any of that, I found my hand on the freezer's latch. I pushed it open and looked inside.

The misty vapors cleared to reveal a pile of meat and fur and crusted with ice. There was only one head visible, but I so badly wanted confirmation that there were two animals in there that I took a deep breath and reached in to try pry some of it loose. Some of it came away from the sides

with a sound like duct tape, but no matter how deep I rooted in that mound of bone, antlers, and rock hard flesh. I couldn't see a sign of the second deer. Her dad really served everyone sick, meat, was that why Larry Sitkins and Mr. Straub and all those other people had killed themselves? The thought made me feel ill. I slammed the freezer shut and walked back to the door in a daze,

trying with all my might to swallow the painful weight that settled in my gut. I had one foot outside when the freezer door rattled against the latch. The entire world spun around me. my heart sank and my skin froze in the sensation that was grown increasingly familiar. I turned to face the sound, both hands braced against the door, and watched as the latch slammed into the lock once more. The light inside the chest came on for the briefest moments, and I glimpsed thrashing fur and teeth. Then it happened again and again,

and each time I saw bits of hoof and bone, and strange musculature that frightened me so deep I fell down onto my ass and didn't even realize. When the latch finally gave way, the lid flew open and stayed there. Light poured out of the box, and I waited, breath held, for that thing to emerge, to come roaring out of sight and bear down towards me on unnatural legs. But nothing happened. The silence stretched on for what seemed like an eternity, until at last there was a crash louder than any before and the entire freezer rocked back and forth and slowly fell over. The deer, or parts of it, fell out with a hard, wet thump.

Bits of his chin and face shattered on the hard-packed ground, sending little shards of meat and bones skating across the floor on melting streaks of blood. Some of them even reached my feet. The thing inside moved with the sound of snow crunching beneath your feet, its thick neck and broken head twisting side to side, scanning the shed's interior with faulty eyes. I've never seen anything move like that, not before or since. This was worse than the man in the tunnel, worse by a thousand times. The deer was still mostly frozen,

but some impossible force was making the crystallized water in its own cells, and the result was skin that rippled like tissue and muscle that cracked and crunch as they tried to flex and contract. It lifted its head and tried to scream. The breathy sound that left its fuzzy black lips made my heart start skipping beats or my bladder entered. I couldn't help it, couldn't stop myself. and when I looked down and saw pieces of melting flesh starting to writhe and wriggle, I tried with all my might to stifle the cry building up in my throat, but it escaped as a desperate, high-pitched wine.

The deer turned its head towards me with a violent swing, another breathy shriek, and then it began to thrash its stiff and frozen legs in a terrifying attempt to get closer. To say it had a predatory look, would be inaccurate. Anyone who's seen a predator in action knows that nature is mostly indifferent when it kills. A bear tears into its prey with the same dull look of someone opening their McDonald's. Predators don't hate the things they're hunting. But this thing, I could feel its hatred, its malice. It was nothing like what I'd seen in my dad's eyes or even the eyes

of the man in the tunnel. But it had spent months in that box. hadn't it? This was the disease when you skipped three months ahead. Anger, hatred. Geez, I couldn't even say if it was going to eat me. That's what you think when you see a zombie, right? It's going to try and take a big bite out of you. But this frozen clump of hair and meat and brain lips dragged itself across the floor with an expression like murderous rage. The luck of someone ready to to beat another living thing to death, using its own hands if it had to. Unable to face it a moment longer, I dragged myself back onto my feet and fled, shutting my eyes as I entered the cold night air.

I made it three steps, before I slammed into my dad. It was like I'd run full speed into a tree. I bounced back and hit the earth, pain flowing at my coxics as my father. loomed over me. He felt cold for the brief moment where we made contact. My mind blocked out the sound of something hideous scrambling in the shed behind me, and the entire world narrowed until it was just the face of the man who raised me, looking down with pale, dead eyes. Dad? He swallowed, then briefly examined his hands. I think I'm dead, he muttered, almost as if he was talking to himself.

When did I die? I pulled myself up and grabbed his hand. He was cold, but his pulse was still racing. I could even see the veins in his forearms throbbed sickeningly. Dad, are you okay? Dad? Dad, are you okay? They told me I'm sick, he said,

his eyes gazing vacantly at the empty space behind me. I think they're right, but there's more. He looked at me, the intensity of his gaze so powerful that I let go of his hand and took a step back. For the first time in my life, I was scared of him. I'm not alone in here, he said, his voice pleading for help. Slowly, his expression twisted into a little. grotesque mask of agony and desperation.

Oh, geez, it isn't just me in here. I tried to move, but he was a big man, and his arms wrapped around me like steel bands. Dad, I cried, struggling to pull myself loose, as he sobbed louder and louder. Dad, geez, you gotta let go, there's... The shed door burst open. I managed to turn around just enough

I could see what came out. and I felt an urgent terror crawling on my flesh. The deer had pulled itself loose from the freezer, and now it stood in the doorway and two legs. Its body looked all wrong in that posture, like when you twist the limbs around on a doll, probably not far from the truth thinking about it. Dad didn't react, but I began to scream as the nightmare coalesced around me.

My father gripping, holding me in place, as that horrible thing lurched towards me on two legs. It moved like claymation or a puppet show gone wrong. But it was quicker than I feared. As each step brought it closer, I found myself losing what little control I had. I started to scream, started to shriek. I beat at my father with my fists,

but he didn't budge an inch. My clenched hands just bounced off his strong shoulders, and it was like I was trying to hurt a punching bag. I started to swear to, started to scream things I thought were bad, then worse, then so bad, I'm not even sure I can blame other people for putting those words in my head.

I told my dad I hated him, called him the worst names under the sun. All that commotion got the attention of others. Neighbors' light started coming on. My mom emerged from the back door, wrapping a robe around herself, and she squinted at us in the dark. What the hell is going on?

She cried and she stumbled towards us. But when she saw that deer, she started screaming too. I don't know why, but I thought that other people appearing would help somehow. That as two, three, half a dozen people came stumbling into open lawns, peering over waist-eye fences, it had stopped the slow but inevitable onslaught of that monster. It did no such thing. I had to listen to the confused shouts and cries, or gesturing and begging for help. The entire time, the sound of the creature over my shoulder getting closer and closer.

Meanwhile, my hands tried to pry away my father's thick arms, but each time I got leverage, he simply flexed and his grip tightened around me. He was muttering something the whole time, but I couldn't hear it. Finally, my mum screamed and ran swinging an old rake at the space behind me. I heard the impact, the splintering of the wooden handle. Then she stumbled backwards and I had to twist to get a look at the deer that was now just six or seven feet away, the spokes of a rake still sticking out of his face. The monster looked right at me and opened its mouth and I swear to God he was going to talk.

But right then, someone shouted, For the love of God, Alice, get away from that thing. Alice was my mother's name, and she fell to the floor just seconds before an explosion broke the night, silencing all voices and shattering the deer's head like a crystal ball hitting the ground. My heart raced so fast, I thought for a moment I was going to die. Then I looked down at Dad and finally heard what he'd been mumbling this whole time. It's in us and it wants us.

It's in us and it wants us. It's in us and it wants us. There isn't much left of Dad these days. I got to visit a couple of times. Fat lot of good it did. As far as I'm concerned, he died that day in the kitchen when he first tried shooting himself. They're treating us in this special hospital. Mom was real upset that visitations are limited, but...

I think it might be for the best. Her and my sister tested clean. Most people did. I didn't. Mom snuck me this phone a couple weeks ago, and I've been using that to write. Funny thing is, one of the orderlies saw me on it a few days ago and just laughed.

I think that maybe the government aren't too worried about this story getting out. At first, I didn't really get why, until I started actually putting all this down into writing. Got to the part where that half man came out the tunnel, and I realized, no one's going to believe me. Still, I got a try,

partly because I want to protect people. Whatever this disease is, it's a hell of a lot more than some twisted prions, and I think the government knows that. Dad certainly did. Most infected did too. That's why they killed themselves. They want it out.

The voice that comes with this illness is like... It's like if your brain is just words in a book, and then someone dip that book in a full can of used motor oil. You just want to give in, hand it all over. It wants your body, so whatever you do, you don't fight. That's worse. Give it up. In hindsight, we should have let Dad kill himself.

what he went through was well it was probably a lot worse than the others who got to die I sometimes think about going into his room with a pillow but security is pretty tight around him as for me

infection is still in its early phase it takes everyone differently and for me it's taking quite its time I think it's because of my age Still, I can sort of feel it under there, growing. I think it's why I'm writing this. It wants me to.

The sickness, it lives out in the woods, way, way out, in parts of the soil where the sun hasn't shown in millions of years. It's old enough to remember a time you could walk from Appalachia to what's now called Glasgow. And it's been fumbling around out there, in the brains of deer and other things. The sickness tells me this, tells me it's learning about this new world,

tells me about how mine tastes. But most of all, it tells me, it's getting closer. Camp Grinlow shut down the year after our last summer there. I remember the envelope arriving at the house, the way my mom read it twice before setting it down. That was it. No more summer.

I met Max and Annie there. We were cabbing three our first year, packed in tight with five others, none of whom we talk to anymore. We weren't friends right away. Max never shut up. He had a comment for everything and laughed hardest at his own jokes, which I found annoying. Annie was a nerd.

She knew all the counsellor's names by day two. One night, Max and I snuck out during rest hour to pull a prank on cabin seven. Annie caught her slipping out and followed. We got halfway there before a flashlight beam caught us across the clearing. Max bolted, I froze. Annie stepped in front of me and said she had dropped a bracelet somewhere near the trail and we were helping her look for it. The councillor bought it and we didn't get written up.

Then, we became close friends. After camp, the three of us kept in touch, we borrowed our parents' phone, sent letters, and eventually got our own phones. For a while, we barely saw each other. Then we ended up at colleges close enough to take a train. After that, it just stuck. Max found a clip of drone video of the camp on a hiking channel and saw you. sent it to our group chat.

The place looked gutted. Most of the cabins were collapsing, and the docks were reduced to their frames. My stomach dropped. All the things that made the place feel alive. Campfires, night hikes, the games we played. We're gone. My phone buzzed with a message from Annie. I kind of miss it.

He missed cold showers and sunstroke. Max replied. I missed what it was like being there, she wrote, with you two. The chat went quiet after that. I typed something and deleted it. A few minutes later, Max replied with, We should go. Annie replied, seriously?

Yeah, why not? One night, camp like we used to. I thought Max was messing around. Then I thought about it. and didn't hate the idea. We'd had fun there as kids, so why wouldn't we now? Going back as adults felt strange,

but also kind of exciting. Can we just do that? I asked. Yeah, why not? We've still got tents, still know how to build a fire. Bring some marshmallows, tell stories, play the old games,

he replied. There was a long pause. Then Annie sent. Fine, but if it rains, I'm sleeping in the car. And that was that. As I pulled up, I noticed Annie. Her car was already pulled up off the gravel loop when I arrived, parked just far enough from the overgrowth to keep her tires clear.

She was out of the car, arms crossed, lips pressed. I waved through the windshield, parked beside her, and stepped out. The air was cool, and there was a slight. white breeze that blew through. You're late, she said, not looking up. You're early, I grinned. She gave a half-smile. Maybe I just won the race here.

The trees are crept in closer than I remembered. The old sign that used to say Camp Grinlow in thick green letters was just a frame now, dangling splinters. Annie strolled over to the pit where the bell used to hang, poking at the weeds with a foot. You check the cabins yet? I asked. She shook her head. By myself, no way.

I figured we'd do it together. Ten minutes later, we heard the crunch of tires and Max's car rounded the bend. He parked crooked and got out, already chewing gum and wearing a huge grin. Took the scenic group, he said,

slamming the door. And by scenic, I mean, I stopped twice because I thought I saw a bear. One was a stump. One might have been a bear. He brought the tent, right? And he asked. He patted the trunk. And snacks, and an old speaker.

He looked around, nodding slowly. Weird how it feels smaller. It's not, I said. We're just bigger. Speak for yourself, Mack said, adjusting the way. band of his shorts. I peaked in eighth grade. We know, Annie joked. We started toward the fire pit, catching up on each other's weak. The trail was still there, but the trees leaned in low, branches low enough to catch his shoulders. Annie walked ahead of us, eyes on the ground,

stepping over roots. To the left, the mess hall looked worse. The windows were gone, and it was missing a door. It was strange seeing it all like this. When we were kids, this place felt permanent, like it would always be waiting for us, just as we left it. But now, the building sagged under their own weight, paint stripped by years of weather and abandonment. When we reached the fire pit, it looked almost untouched. The benches had sunk a little, but were still there. The Stones were scattered but familiar, scorched black the way we remembered. Still here, I said. Max dropped his bag beside a bench and stretched his arms overhead.

Not bad. I thought we'd be pitching tents in a field of used needles. We stayed silent for a moment, letting it sink in. Max broke the silence first. All right. Who's up for some marshmallows? He pulled a bag from his pack and tossed it on the bench. I dug out some skewers we brought and passed them around.

And he knelt near the fire pit, clearing away old ash and leaves, and we got the fire going fast. The wood was dry enough, and the smoke drifted upward in lazy streaks. We roasted in silence at first, letting the heat take the edge off the air. Max burned his first one entirely black, and proudly ate at him two bites. Annie laughed at him and methodically turned her over the flame until it browned perfectly.

You guys remember that game? I asked. Statues and songs? Max's mouth was full, but he mumbled something that sounded like a yes. Annie nodded, her eyes were on the fire. I don't remember who made it up, I said.

Oh, Count of you. "'Cancelor Reed?' Annie piped up. "'Of course you still remember his name.' Max rolled his eyes. The rules started coming back in pieces. One person stood at the end of the field with their back turned, humming a tune. Everyone else had to move toward them. If they caught you moving when they turned around and the hum ended, you were out.

"'You used to cheat,' Annie said, jabbing a skewer in. of Max's arm. Please, I played to win, Mack said. It's called having tactics, pushing people, tripping them, whatever it takes.

You pushed me, twice, she whined. Both times you deserved it. You were getting cocky. I was eight. Exactly, you needed humbling. You didn't win, though,

I added. I won once. No, you didn't. Annie and I said in unison. and Max held up his hands. Look, just because my brilliance wasn't appreciated, doesn't mean it existed, Annie said. We laughed for a second, and it was like we'd never left.

The fire crackled low, dipping into the quiet. Max leaned back, looking up at the darkening sky through the trees. Annie picked at the edge of a marshmallow bag, folding and unfolding the plastic in a light, Then came a familiar tune. But this time, it was a whistle. Annie sat upright. Okay, I know you hit your speaker, Max.

Max tilted his head. You're kidding, right? That's not me. Seriously? I asked. You didn't cue something up on your phone? He held it up. Battery's almost dead. Been saving it. We all turned toward the trees where the sound had come from. The tune came again, the same rhythm we'd been talking about.

Max gave Annie a look. You didn't rig something, some timer or remote thing? She scoffed. Do I look like I brought a fog machine too? You brought back up marshmallows, he said. Anything's possible. He looked from one to the other, then grinned. All right.

When do you plan this? Fess up. Annie snorted. If I went to that much effort, I'd be filming your reaction. Then it's you, Max said, pointing at me. You've been quiet. Not me, I said. I figured it was you. We stood there for a moment, the whistle drifting through the trees again. Should we play? Mag said with a smirk. We might as well. Annie raised an eyebrow. You're serious?

What, are you scared? He grinned. No, she hoffed, brushing past him. I just don't want to humor your prank. We stepped into the clearing. It hadn't changed much. The same wide circle that funneled into a straight part, into the trees. It was marked with half-barried stones, grass-pressed low in patches.

Max rolled his shoulders. like it was warming up for a race as we walked forward toward the sound off in the trees. Then the whistling stopped and we froze in place, grinning like idiots. Annie glanced over her shoulder and mouthed. Still got it. Max had one foot lifted in the air. This is weirdly fun. A second later, the whistle started again and this time we spedwalked.

Max bumped into me while trying to get ahead. Annie was already a few strides ahead of both of us. Her braid bounced off her back with each step, arms pumping like she was taking it way too seriously. Max laughed and tried to catch up. She's going to win, I said. Not if I reach her. Max said under his breath, speeding up to get behind her.

Grinning, Max reached out and shoved Annie just enough to throw her off balance. As she tumbled forward, the music stopped, and Max froze with his arms stretched out. Max, she screamed, stumbling forward as the whistling cut out. Her body seized, her knees locking, neck jerking upright. Her spine twisted so violently, we heard it pop. Her vertebrae bulged against the skin. Her arms flung outward like she was being yanked.

and a wet crack snapped through the air. Her body fell limp on the ground. Annie? I called out, horrified. Max remained frozen. The grin on his face melted. I didn't push her that hard, he stuttered, eyes frantic. Then the whistle started back up, like nothing had happened. We both rushed forward, dropping to our knees. Her body was curled unnaturally, one leg twisted onto the other, arms spayed out ahead of her.

Her face was frozen mid-breath, eyes wide, mouth half open. Max's hand hovered near her but didn't touch. She's not, I started, struggling to find my words. What the hell is happening? Max sputtered. I leaned over, pressed my fingers into her neck. But there was no pulse. I didn't know what I was expecting. She's dead.

The words felt like they didn't belong to me, as if it wasn't real. Max backed up, shuddering. Maybe she... Hit something, he said, looking past the body, scanning the dirt for a rock or a branch or anything, desperate for anything to prove he didn't hurt her. She didn't hit anything. I looked at Max, felt my throat tight, and you pushed her too hard.

His head snapped toward me. It was a joke. No, it wasn't, my voice shook. You killed her. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. I watched it land on him all at once. The guilt, the weight of what he did. His jaw clenched.

He looked down at her again. and backed away, like distance would undo it. You always had to win, I spat. Even now, the whistling stopped again. We both froze instinctively, breath stalled halfway in our throats. Annie's body was inches away, broken and bent. I couldn't look directly at her. I could hear Max swallow hard, chest barely rising.

His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles paid, The air buzzed with pressure. I felt it in my spine, in the tension creeping up my neck. Every second stretched longer than the one before. Then, the whistling returned. Same melody, same distance, carried on the wind like none of this had happened. My breath came out sharp, and Max broke. He took two steps back, fists in his hair.

Fists in his hair, eyes wide, like they were trying to blink away what we were both seeing. No, no, no, no, no, this can't be real, he began. His voice pitched higher than I'd ever heard it, word spilling out faster. She was fine, I swear to God, I just, we were messing around. I didn't push her that hard, he turned from me, walked a short circle, then spun back. His mouth moved like he had. more to say, but nothing came out. His shoulders dropped. Then he hit his thigh with the side of his fist so hard and made a dull thud. She laughed when I burnt the marshmallow. I was going to

give a grief for it later. He looked at the clearing, then at me, and then up into the trees. We were supposed to hang out this weekend. That's all. Not this. He swallowed, wiped his face roughly with both hands and took one glance at Annie's body. Then he turned and said, Screw this, I'm not doing this. Max, no, he snapped. I didn't hurt her, I swear. He turned and started walking back toward the campfire fast.

Just as he stepped over the stone edging, his body arched hard like something yanked upward from his spine. The twist was fast. and his feet lifted from the ground as his back contorted violently. There was a low crack, then a snap. Max's arms flailed once, then dropped. His legs folded in on themselves. He hid the ground.

I screamed, still crouched over Annie. He landed face down, limbs crooked. From where I sat, I could see the base of his neck bent too far. I blinked hard, stared through the flickering light at the edges of the fire where his body lay, crumpled in slack, and realization washed over me. He hadn't killed Annie, the way she fell and twisted. There was no way that he did that, especially since he met the same fate as soon as he left the game boundaries. Fear sent pinpricks of electricity through my body and an ominous fear. feeling washed over me.

Whatever this was, it wasn't natural, and it had something to do with the game and the whistling. If I wanted to survive, I had to play. My hands, my back, my legs, all of me trembled. When the whistling started back up, it scraped across my nerves. I could still hear Annie's voice in my head, Max's laugh. The bodies weren't even cold, and I was already thinking like I was the only one left.

I pressed my hands into the dirt and begged myself to keep breathing. This was real. This was happening. And I had to finish it. I held my stance. Every part of me wanted to run, to curl into myself, to scream. But the rules were clear. I couldn't move. It stopped, and it felt like the paws dragged out. My knees were tight.

I blinked once, slow and dry. Then, the whistling started up again. I forced myself up and started to take shaky step after shaky step. The distance between me and the whistling shrank. I could make out a figure in the dark distance, its arms hung low and closed. its sides. The space between us was still wide. I didn't know how many rounds there would be, or how close I had to get, but the thought of making it all the way forward, reaching

out and placing a hand against the thing's body, felt impossible. But that was the rule. You reach the host and touched them. That's how you won. That's what I had to do. The rhythm carried me forward again. I moved with it, one step at a time, every shift of weight deliberate, every breath matched to the space between each whistle. I was getting closer now, the thing ahead at shape. The dim glow of the campfire passed through uneven slits carved deep into its chest, casting faint beams into the undergrowth. Every time it exhaled, a thin column of air passed through those and the whistle came with it. I felt it scrape along my spine.

My eyes kept drifting to the lines of its body, the exposed ribs, the stiff posture, the way it stayed fixed in place, like it was waiting for me. I tried not to think about the final rule, that I'd have to touch it. Then, my hill struck something, maybe a root or a stone,

buried just enough to catch the edge of my foot. My balance pitched. My arms shot forward, but I was too slow. My ankle rolled underneath me, and I landed hard on my knees and hands. Pain searched up my leg, the ground pressed into my palms. The whistle cut out. My vision blurred. My ankle throbbed in sharp pulses.

But I stayed frozen, arms shut out. shaking from the fall, dirt and rocks pressed into the raw skin of my hands. Every second that passed made my chest tighter. I could feel the pulse in my neck hammering against the stillness. I started to imagine my death if I failed. What part would break first? Would it twist my head like Maxes or tear through me the way it had Annie? And then what?

Would anyone find us here? Would it be days later, after the cars sat too long in the gravel pulling? Would the ranger's office even bother to look past the sign? I thought about my parents. I thought about Annie's mom. I thought about the three of us walking to the mess all on our first day. All of us sunburned and trying to act cooler than we were. Max had carried a plastic lightsaber in his bag and pretended it was an accident.

Annie had rolled her eyes and corrected the name. of all the councillors when we got them wrong. That first week, we had barely spoken, but somehow we'd ended up here, years later, together. And now, they were gone. The whistle started again. I clenched my teeth and tried to push myself up. A spike of pain ran through my foot, white-heartened deep.

My ankle had twisted in the fall. badly. I put a little weight on it and felt the strain in my joint. I would have to limp the rest of the way. I'd have to keep perfect rhythm, stay completely still and make it to the thing on a busted ankle. I blinked the sweat from my eyes, swallowed hard and started forward again. The pain made it harder to time my steps. Each pause left more weight on the ankle than I could stand. But I kept moving. I had to. The distance between us was maybe 30 feet now, maybe less. Every whistle came with a fresh jolt of dread. But it also meant I was still playing, still alive. That counted for something.

I kept my eyes low, trying not to look at it again. The way it stood so still, waiting. Each breath it took, dragged through his chest. like wind through loose pains. A few more rounds and I'd reach it. If I could hold my balance, if the ankle didn't give. I moved again, half step, weight, another. The whistle stopped.

I froze with my heel halfway up, struggling to settle it flat without shaking. The muscle in my leg seized. I could feel it trying to twitch, trying to collapse under me. I let my heels sink gradually, waited for the whistle to return. The sound of my pulse louder than the crickets of the wind. The whistle came again. I moved, one step, then another.

My ankle buckled slightly, but I caught myself. I was close now, ten feet, maybe less. The shape stood tall, still, arms set close to its sides. Every breath it took Pushed another note into the air I stopped Weight on one foot And stared

I could almost see its hands Long fingers curled slightly inward My hand was slick with sweat I wiped it against my jeans Braced myself And stepped forward again And again Five feet

Three Close enough to see the the seams between its ribs, the way the skin held taut around the frame. There was a smell like warm metal and moss. I felt it in my throat. One more step. I didn't want to see it any clearer than I already had, didn't want to remember its shape when I closed my eyes later.

I kept them open one last breath, then shut them tight, and reached. My fingers landed on something solid, and the whistle stopped. I stayed frozen, hands still pressed forward, every nerve wound tight. My chest hurt from how hard my heartbeat. The pain in my ankle flared, steady and sharp. Minutes passed with no sound, no whistling. But I kept my palm planted where it was, resting against it. But finally, I grew up.

impatient, curious, so I peeled my eyes open. The thing was gone, and I was touching a tree. It took a few seconds for it to register that it was just a trunk, tall and rough and solid, nothing strange about it, no gaps in the wood. At first I hoped I had imagined it all, but my ankle still screamed hot and deep. And when I turned around, limping slowly, dragging the weight of my body behind me, I saw the truth. The fire still burned low, the shadows flickered, and the bodies on my best friends were right where I'd left them. Annie's twisted spine, Max's bent limbs. The firelight danced over their skin like it didn't care what had happened.

like this was any other night. I collapsed just outside the circle, legs giving out beneath me. All at once, the emotions I had shoved into a corner to stay alive came crawling back, flooding my chest and throat, too fast to stop. Then I sobbed from the terror,

from the pain, from the sick throb of loss that settled into the center of my chest. I cried for Annie and Max for the marshmallows we didn't finish for the game we never should have played I cried because I lived Being a prison guard

Isn't easy You have to maintain control Control of routine Of unpredictable people Of yourself In a normal prison There are so many factors to consider gang affiliations, smuggling, fights, and occasionally escape attempts.

A lot of people think the job is about strength, about control through sheer force. And yeah, maybe in some prisons that works. But not here. I work in a prison that's above a normal prison. The place people send things that can't go anywhere else, things that aren't supposed to exist. Some of them used to be people. Some of them never were.

Some of them? No one knows what they are. Not really. Scientists try to study them. Administration tries to classify them. But at the end of the day, we're all just keeping them locked up and hoping that's enough.

My job is to make a make a lot of. sure the vault stays closed, and I do this through a strict routine and following my guidelines to the letter. When you get started here, there's one prisoner that every new person gets assigned. The phaser. Peaking into his cell, you'll see a man, mid-forties, looking ordinary as ever. However, periodically, he will flash with a bright light and blink to. another section of the cell. He was caught toying with teleportation technology,

and from the lack of usage in this facility, I can imagine it's still far from being perfected. He's a reminder of the consequences of dabbling too much into the unknown. It would be oddly relaxing to watch, if it wasn't for the horrific screaming during and after he blinks, though sometimes it's just muffled sobs when his exhaust. so it's not too bad to watch then. Sometimes he's lucky and he doesn't blink for a few hours or even a day. But some days are bad when it's just non-stop. With how unpredictable and unstable he is, sometimes he just disappears.

The empty cell will alert us if he's gone too long and someone is sent to investigate. He never actually leaves the cell. leaves the cell. Not once has he ever teleported out of the room, let alone the facility. Whatever they line the walls with is effective. However, it's what we do that is observed. When I was alerted, I waited outside and observed, noting down any anomalies until he blinked back. But some of the more proactive new recruits, ones looking to prove themselves rushing, armed ready. The lucky ones get the scare of their lives and the man blinks back in with a sudden flash scaring the hell out of the green recruit. Wherever the phaser goes, whatever he sees

must be horrifying. I would have thought he simply blinked forward in time, delaying when he appears to us in the facility. But the look in his eyes after a delayed blink tells a thousand stories, ones which he'll never share. The unfortunate outcome is when a guard stands where he appears. Without fail, contact with a blinking entity, even if just brushing his arm as he blinks back always favours the one who blinked. The guard simply bursts into a huge red mist.

Since getting cleaners inside is an impossibility, the phaser has to clean it up. Looking back, this all feels like a test to see if a guard is ready to handle the oddities contained here. A litmus test for new recruits. Being too passive can lead to catastrophe. Being too proactive can also lead to catastrophe. Sometimes even a middle ground can be detrimental. You're tested every day with your split second decision-making skills.

And it feels like this is how they gauge us on our response. The phaser is one of many prisoners dangerous by circumstance, a repercussion of dabbling too far into untreaded waters, and being eternally punished. However, some prisoners are dangerous by choice. In society, we've heard of people pushing themselves into great feats. Arches who can hit a bullseye, then split their arrow with a second one. lifters geared to the max, hauling weight that matches large vehicles. But what if someone took it further? Prisoner X has a laundry list of protocols.

To simplify it, he essentially turned his body into a living weapon. Chemical, biological, technological, mentally, he dabbled into every extreme to make himself the most dangerous person alive. Through multiple surgeries, the scientists here have removed a large portion of his internal weapons and contingencies. However, he still has many that simply cannot be undone. His skin is nigh unbreakable, hardened through means which our scientists are still trying to figure out. Prisoners often have a running theme of not talking, so there's still a lot unknown to us.

But this makes him resistant to tasers and fire, our go-to for prisoner subjugation. Instead, we have to periodically drill a small hole into his neck, not an easy feat with how thick his skin actually is, and put on a collar with a reinforced syringe filled with enough sedatives to put down an elephant. However, we still need bodies to escort him from his cell to where he needs to be. To say he's resistant to authority is an understatement. One time he tried to make a break for it. He waited for the cusp of when he needed re-drilling.

His skin had hardened for his neck to resist the needle just enough for him to knock it away, head down just tackling the wall to alter its angle. It took almost three full squads to finally subdue him, many casualties taken. his arms eternally being bound, he was still proficient in killing in many other ways. I was fortunately on a different shift, but the deaths up to security and increased how often he was drilled. Luckily, not all prisoners are strictly evil. Some are here for being too aspirational.

One man sits in a cell, low security and minimal luxuries. which is a lot compared to the many others living conditions here. We call him the tinkerer, because the self-imposed title of Technomancer was too ridiculous for us to use. At first, he was a menace. Nothing too threatening, but he would tinker with anything he could get his hands on.

Guards found their coms missing from their belt, only to have a strange signal beam out to everyone's radios. Our PDAs would have strange bugs only to find a signal was sent to disrupt them though there were many anomalies on a near constant basis some potentially catastrophic when it fell into the category of technology shenanigans it was easy to know who the corporate was

often we'd storm up to his cell subdue him and search the area and each time we'd find the makeshift array he'd made with the scraps he'd found and destroy it, giggles coming between his grunts as a guard held him down. Something we noticed, though, was that when he did play with his tech, he would happily stay in his room and tinker. This gave us an idea. Periodically, we'd bring in a broken piece of technology, a laptop, tablet, phone, etc. Obviously, we'd bring in a broken piece of technology, a laptop, tablet, phone, etc. Obviously, we'd remove anything that could cause issue, parts that could access the internet,

or simply remove a key item like the CPU. From here, we'd bring it to him under the guise that we wanted it fixed, and he'd tinker with it for days, sometimes weeks. When he'd finish, we'd search his room in case he held any parts, often finding them, and unbeknownst to him, destroy it all. We once booted up a fixed laptop he given us, adding back in the CPU and battery, only for it to be an almost completely different device, set up for functions we couldn't even comprehend, the brainchild of the madman of technology.

But we kept up this routine, because doing this satiated him. This wasn't on any of the books. We guards often found our own means through on-ground observation to come up with makeshift routines to make our lives easier. However, one guard didn't get the full memo. He saw the tinkerer as the guy that fixes things and brought him his phone that wasn't turning on. Despite the facility being deep underground, jammed up to the max for any outward signal

by locationing technology. In hours, a nuclear code was sent and almost worked in setting off multiple missiles. A nuclear warning was even sent out in Hawaii, which outwardly was reported as a false flag, but we were close to a real catastrophe. The guard was swiftly dealt with, and the tinkerer was banned from fixing tech for months. But he wasn't unhappy with this. time we checked on him, he still giggled about it, thinking about what he did. This tied him over until he was eventually allowed to fix broken tech again, with much more restrictions

from then on. There's one prisoner which I like being put on shift for. Causes no issues, needs no maintenance. Just need to keep an eye on him and note down any anomalies, which there are never any of. This is because he's stuck in a perpetual state of stasis. The story goes that a strange signal was picked up in the basement of a residential building. When a filled-up team was sent to investigate, they found him in this state, frozen in time. Around him was an array of strange tech, computers linked together in complicated ways and a bulking machine. mostly destroyed. Due to him not being able to cooperate in any sort of questioning, it was up to the investigation team to piece together what happened. And boy, did they find

a strange story. Through logs on his computer, they discovered that he had, in fact, found the first legitimate means to travel back in time. Very illegal. We have a few prisoners detained for even attempting to start that project, but he might have succeeded. Somehow he cracked the code and put together the haphazard machine that lay destroyed around him. But it's what he did with it, which is possibly the strangest thing I'd ever heard. Instead of going back to make riches, change a mistake in life, alter history in a groundbreaking way, visit a prolific historical figure. or hell see the dinosaurs.

He instead went back in time to kill his own grandfather. Guy was obsessed with the grandfather paradox. It's strange how genius level intellect has a correlation with absolute insanity. We only know this from going through the logs on his computer. He detailed his plan and specifically who he was after. won Charles Vernon.

We check the database and a match was found. Charles Vernon had died in the late 1940s no record of kids, which means if it was his grandfather, he had successfully killed him and stopped a parent from being born, causing him to become a paradox. However, he didn't simply disappear.

Despite all, all the information we could find, so much more is left a mystery. It's inconclusive whether the state he's currently in is because of the paradox, a side effect of time travel, or self-inflicted after getting the answers he wanted. It's also unknown what happened to the machine, whether it was a one-time use kind of deal, or something he set up so that it could never be used after him. we're working hard on freeing him. He studied a lot and tests are always being ran

on whether we could reverse the condition he's in. Because throughout all the logs there is nothing on how he built the actual machine. So the scientists are hoping to unfreeze him and prying this information out of him one way or another. The science is above my pay grade. However, I sometimes imagine. imagine what could have been done if one went back with ambition. Though someone going back

with chaotic intentions would be a terrifying thought. Maybe that's why he never documented how it was made or why the machine was destroyed. A large amount of duties are sectioned off between different squads. What this means is that duties I've mentioned, which are in my rotation, may infrequently or never show up for other squads. We have no idea how the criteria for this is made, whether it's some inner system of threat level or group-based competency. God knows what kind of demons others deal with, but hopefully I'm in a good rotation.

But one duty, which is universal between all groups, is playtime. For this duty, I dressed up in civilian and civilian. tire, very young-coded, and drove to a town called Smallhaven. Now the facility is located remote from any civilization, so this town itself isn't a town per se. It's actually an entire level of the facility, widened enough to create a dynamic functioning town and tall enough that a realistic skybox could be made. In the town is an actor, playing their part 24-7, never-breaking character, all for one prisoner.

A child, she lives with a family, though they are technically actors, knowing that the town isn't real. They are her biological relations. All in all, she lives the perfect life, goes to school, plays with friends, visits, extended family, which were also moved into the facility town. The reason for her detainment is simple. If she gets mad, she goes nuclear. Not in a hyperbolic way.

She has enough internal energy to flatten entire countries, plural. It's too big of an explosion to contain or isolate, even if set off remote, From the furthest point of land, dead set in the middle of the largest ocean, the tsunamis would devastate large portions of continents in all directions. We can't get it to space without risking hitting levels of stress that would set her off before exiting the atmosphere. So she's stuck in this facility, under the guise of having moved to a nice little town to start fresh. There are contingencies set in place to make sure she's still. to make sure she never leaves. The outer limits of the town are all abandoned factories or run-down ghettos,

all designed psychologically to make them undesirable to go to. Though abandoned might be the wrong turn to use, considering how many trained snipers are stationed there around the clock, all armed with long-range sedatives. Even the ghetto's population are all trained militia. scary-looking people to deter her wandering through and armed the teeth with contingencies. She once wandered close to the outer limits with no escorts nearby. It was reported that she wasn't trying to make a break for it, but they still implemented a failsafe.

She was subdued and when found by her parents, she was told she fell asleep wandering too far. Luckily, she bought that, and there hasn't been, an incident since. She has no idea what is truly going on, and when I was selected for playtime duty, it was my job to check on her. How this duty works can be complicated.

With how closed off the town is from the real world, getting information reliably to and from Smallhaven is difficult. Every so often, a guard has to roll play into town to check on things. Sometimes we're an out-of-town councillor sent in by the school administration to check on all the students. Sometimes for travellers, car having trouble, so stuck in town for a few days. Seeing a new face also keeps up the facade of the town's legitimacy, hiding the fact that it is cut off from any real civilization. My shift, however, was different.

This was the first drafted long-term visit, and I was lucky enough to be the first participant. Despite working in a facility in which you're physically tested every day, with some guards covered head-to-toe in unsightly scars, I've been relatively untouched, though there are given items to look after ourselves, in which I do the bare minimum. I guess I just have to admit it. I have a serious case of baby face. This hasn't been an issue, but it must have been noticed because it tied directly into my assignment. I was sent in as a new high school student

finishing off the last part of the year. I was given a strict schedule to shave and make sure I blended in. Alone I would stand out as slightly older, but amongst the crowd, I blended in well enough. The education departments were mixed through all years, segmented between elementary and high school, so despite being years apart in the schooling system, I was able to observe the prisoner on occasions. In class, I was instructed that I did not need to participate in learning unless observed by the prisoner, which never came up.

And so I used that time to take meticulous notes on anything I observed. I learned her name was Emily and that she got on well enough in school. However, there was a planned event. Since I was new in town, Emily's parents invited me over for dinner, keeping up the facade of a friendly, welcoming town. Alongside me was an actor who posed. as my mother. I handed over the envelope containing the script to my mother and we studied it together for hours to make sure everything lined up. My mother played a single parent and I had lived

with my father for most of my life. However, she came back into the picture through letters and I had decided to reach out and live with her for a bit to mend our relationship. A believable story and one that was so small it would be hard to poke holes in. We drilled the script, adding information for us to sink up with in case anything else came up. The meal went well. Because it was under the guise of meeting new people, we managed to detail their family life in a public setting. Overall, they reviewed well, and I noted how stable everything seemed. However, unexpected, to Emily's parents, my mother pulled them to another room to crack open a bottle of wine, something the kids couldn't participate in. This left Emily and I alone for an in-depth review

away from the pressures of keeping up appearances with her parents. This is something we struggled with in previous reviews, since leaving a child alone with an adult stranger was something hard to set up. Since I was perceived as a youth, rather than an adult, I was to extract any useful information with this precious time frame. It started slow, regoing over icebreakers, but this time in a more personal way, asking how she really felt about life, about school, about her parents. She opened up more than at the dinner table, all of which was positive. The small haven project was still going strong. However, Emily went quiet after a while, with a deep look of contemplation on her face.

Rather than pry, I let the silence hang, letting the pressure of social cues ease her into opening up. However, rather than throwing some thought-provoking question back, she threw a curveball straight into my face. I know it's all not real, she said plainly. If I had a drink in my mouth, I'd have spat it out. Huh? Oh, what do you mean? I stuttered back.

I'd been composed before this, in control of the conversation, following my orders to the letter. However, this was fearing so off script that I spat out a question, hoping to steer things back to normalcy. I mean, it's a simulation right? This town, it's all a facade, no? She muttered. I froze. My first instinct was the gaslight the hell out of her.

Make it feel crazy for even thinking that even though she was 100% right. But then a spark in my head told me that if I argued against the point, this could cause unease which could turn to frustration, anger, something I was instructed over and over to never cause. So instead, I probed. What makes you think that? I asked, curiously. I know something's inside me. Something I don't understand. Something no one understands, she said solemnly. me. She was to never know about a condition. It was theorized that the stress of keeping it in check could trigger her, like being constantly conscious of needing to breathe. She carried on in my silence. I know everyone's an actor, pretending to be part of this town. Even my parents. They're my parents,

I know that, but they keep up a facade. This. was dangerous, and it was getting worse with every word she spat out. She knew too much, but there was no denying the conviction in a voice. She was certain. There was no going back now, so instead of trying to contradict it, I went for the answer I desperately wanted for myself. How do you know? I asked. Not some setup to flip the narrative.

I needed to know. Did someone talk? Did she sneak out without people knowing? This information was vital. Whatever is in me, this energy. It's changed. At first I heard buzzing. My parents thought I was sick, pulled me from school for a bit.

But then it like... performed into words, but they weren't from people's mouths. It was from their heads. There, when all hopes, I could reverse this. She could read minds, as if this couldn't get any more terrifying. I wanted to ask so much. My mind jumbled with so many questions. I couldn't even stutter the first lines of a question.

However, she picked up on this. Of course she did. She could hear everything I was thinking and answered before I could say anything. Don't worry, I don't mind it, she said with a hint of glee. I coughed to clear my throat. What do you mean? I asked. I needed confirmation. This town, this life, I don't mind it. My parents are here, my family are here. They love me.

I know that for a fact. That's the one thing that isn't a lie. They're doing this for my safety, so... I don't mind it, she said, matter-of-factly. I eased up at this, just accepted the situation. With everything in the open, we ended up just chatting the whole time. talking like real humans, something she probably lacked and hadn't had in a long time. Just before the parents came back in, she told me to keep a new developments a secret,

something which I agreed to. Besides, she'd know if I lied with absolute certainty. Since then, I've been the first reoccurring volunteer for playtime duty. The story evolved that I have reconnected with my mother and live in a split custody between them. My actor mother is now family friends with Emily's parents, and so we have a reason to see them when I come to town to visit. And Emily and I have developed a bond which is valuable to the prison. Playtime gives me a much needed reprieve from the hectic nature of the prison, but I'm always kept busy. lately I've been put on feeding duty the prisoner is the man in the hole his cell is simple nothing extra is fitted to hold him at least what we can see despite his strange quirk

he never leaves his cell though it's sometimes hard to tell no one in my team has ever fully seen him every time we visit his cell, there's always a new hole somewhere. On the floor, wall, even ceiling. The location is always random. This is despite whatever is logically on the other side. Beside his cell is another unoccupied room. Under and above are other levels of the complex, yet the adjoining rooms are never disturbed. The holes look almost cartoonish, rubble piled up around the hole or the edges frayed up in an exaggerated manner, but the hole itself is unnatural, dark regardless of how a light source is pointed at it. When he speaks, it echoes like it's far deeper than what

should be possible. They're closer to dimensional holes, and when a new one appears, the previous one is gone, not even a single scratch to indicate any wrongdoings. We only know he's in there because he will chatter to us when we bring in this food, though we're always just instructed to leave it on the floor and leave. Studies have been done to figure out what the holes truly are. Items, cameras and people have been sent in to investigate. but whatever enters never leaves. If connected to a tether, it is severed upon entry and swiftly lost.

So, for the time being, it is just a management and observation job. One time we thought he escaped. A routine inspection was sent with catering to deliver. However, no hole was found. It was reported and as the backup team was dispatched, the guard found where he was. Giggling was heard from behind, and when he turned, he saw the edges of the keyhole frayed out. Little giggles could be heard from the tiny void. God knows how they do it.

But the external team have an uncanny ability to detain these wild individuals. They are either hyper-elite individuals formed to make a god squad or piled up with enough tech to take down civilization as we know it. Either way, they get results. However, there's one prisoner which is an exception. Frank. Because rather than being detained, he simply turned himself in.

We still don't know where he's truly from. When asked, he gives a different answer each time, always in a sarcastic tone. But there are theories. Some are basic, like some form of extraterrestrial origin. Some think he's some sort of genetic freak, given god-like abilities through the genetic lottery. The most interesting to me is that it's from a higher dimension, fourth or fifth maybe. away, it's incomprehensible what he can do.

Teleportation, flight, spontaneous combustion. If you can name it, he can probably do it. Because of this, he's detained in a cell. Nothing can hold him. Trust me, we've tried. So he just wondered the facility looking for things to do. The guard once tugged the last donut, and unbeknownst to him, Frank suddenly decided that he wanted it. Now, if Frank had asked, the guard probably would have given it to him.

However, Frank skipped the altercation entirely and went straight for retribution. Frank turned the guard's head into a rose. From this, we discover that having a rose for a head is getting a rose for a head. guaranteed death, though it's technically unconfirmed since we only have a sample size of one. When medical had a look, it was intricate. It wasn't just the simple swap. The roots of the rose had blended seamlessly with the veins and arteries of the neck extending down throughout the body.

Now, why did Frank turn himself in? Well, that question has another tangent. to really put things into perspective. See, this facility is hidden. Hidden hidden. So many layers of secrecy on top of more secrets, along with people eliminated along the way just to make sure this place isn't known about, isn't able to be found and isn't able to be tracked.

It would take generations of descendants to follow all the trails in order to be found. in order to find this place, sifting through so many dead ends and false leads. So when Franks strolled up to the front door, it was a big deal. Frank's reason for doing all this is the only thing he said that I believe. He was bored, and what sounds more fun than to mess around in the most secret advanced place on earth? To him, this was a playground, and we were his new playthings. At first, he was an issue.

His mischief often got people killed. When curious about a prisoner, he'd released them just to see what they could do. When we were doing important procedures, he'd disrupt them just to get a rise out of the staff. He once flipped gravity in the whole facility just to see what would happen. God knows who decided on the solution, but whoever did deserves only the best in life. See, what got him to fall in line was to hire him as a guard. Now, he's not really a guard, not in the structural hierarchy sense. He was given a special title, a uniform and a list of duties.

However, the duties are a placebo. replacing the blinker fluid in a car kind of thing. But whenever he finished the task, grand praise is given. We found that making him feel important and blowing up his ego keeps him too preoccupied to cause chaos. He's always awarded employee of the month, despite that not really being a thing here. He's given an office with a fancy door plaque, which I'm pretty sure he does nothing with. And at the end of every month, he's given a large paycheck with a bonus if he does well, which he gets every time.

We're not even paid for this job. The paystubs he's given are just printed pieces of paper with some made-up letterhead and lots of numbers. But he eats it up, acting grateful, talking about how he'll treat his family when he gets some time off. He doesn't have a family here, by the way. I'm pretty sure that with a thought he could turn the entire complex into a block of solid gold. He has no use for money. There aren't even shops here. But the whole charade just works.

So we never put a pin to his happiness balloon. And it's came in handy a few times. There are a few guards he's taken a liking to. He had a stint where he acted like a sitcom character and chose a few guards at random two, I assume, be side characters. The friendship was entirely one-sided, but with enough improv he was satiated. However, one of the side character guards was having an issue. While detailing a prisoner, they slipped their bonds and was about to cause mayhem, usually

a death sentence in here, when suddenly Frank came in and swiftly put a stop to the situation. Right now, he's not an issue. However, I fear that one day he'll tire of this role and he'll switch back to causing mischief. Or worse, a lot of prisoners scare me. In fact, that could be an understatement. Every day our lives are put on the line during the most menial of tasks. However, one prisoner simply worries me. If a prisoner loses their life here, all that is lost is potential discoveries.

They are both held captive for the safety of the world and studied for the betterment of progress. There's one prisoner here, which, if incapacitated or worse, could spell the end of the world as we know it. The first prisoner, I've not been entirely truthful, more of a lie of a mission. I speak of this building, call it a facility and such, but in reality, the building itself was an anomaly that made this whole project possible. A building, semi-sentient and fully self-sufficient. It was a smaller building at first, but its unnatural properties were soon discovered. When built upon, each room tethers itself to all others in a conscious way.

If we want a room to be a cell, we have to build it as such. Even when we use the simplest of materials, its function is enhanced to what the room is is desired to be. It's difficult to grasp. I don't fully get it myself. I'm paraphrasing from what I piece together from the technical jargon I was fed. But it's how I've come to understand things. Its heart, if you could call it that, powers the whole facility, producing more than enough

power for all the containment cells, along with the many experiments running within the structure. This was all kept under wraps. We didn't know any of this until issues started coming up. Lately, concrete has been crumbling in the far reaches of the building. Cell doors aren't locking as tightly as before. Fortunately, the prisoners haven't fully grasped how strained the building is, but with enough force, escapes are possible. We have set up measures to keep things in check, but it's through staff and this introduces

a lot of elements of human failure. When observing the degradation myself, it's always in the lowest levels of the compound or the furthest reaches of a floor. I have a theory that the building is strained, bloated beyond its limits. We are constantly adding more floors, more rooms, more functions, and whatever this anomalous building is, is finally struggling to keep up, but we cannot stop. Every day there is an influx of new prisoners, fresh from the external team, threats that cannot be left unchecked in the outside world.

They need to be put in containment. This is the only place that can hold them. The prison started as the first anomaly, the first prisoner. But when its term has ended, it could spell danger when everything we've collected gets out. Greg had always seemed untouchable. He was the type of guy who could talk a cop out of a ticket or drunk and half conscious, somehow get the same cop to drive him home. So, when his sister called me crying, struggling

to get a word out, I thought something had happened to their mom. When she finally managed to speak, I had to ask her to repeat herself. It turned out that the police found Greg's body in his apartment after his boss called in a wellness check when he didn't show up to work for two days. The responding officers broke down the door and found him in the living room. They wouldn't let the family see the body. From what his sister had heard when she had caught the officers on break discussing the scene, his limbs were twisted, his spine curved like someone had wrung him out from both ends, and his eyes were gone.

Whoever had done it was sadistic beyond belief. There was no forced entry, or weirdly enough, signs of a struggle. The case was being ruled. suspicious, but that just meant they didn't have a clue who was behind it. Despite having a wide net of friends, Greg's funeral was small. Only a few people made it in person. Jamie hugged me outside the church. Her eyes were red and a makeup had started to smear, but she still looked the same, sharp, blunt, unapologetic. The others were there too. Raff and Lex.

We all grew up together. Back then, we used to joke that we were stuck with each other for life, and for the most part, we were. Sure, we drifted apart for a few years during college, but we always ended up circling back. But now Greg, a part of us, was a closed casket and a photo on an easel. The priest mumbled his way through a handful of generality,

though I didn't really listen. I kept looking around the room, half expecting Greg to appear at the back and make some sarcastic comment about how weird it was to watch people cry over you. For a moment, I thought I saw movement near the exit, but my brain had been playing tricks on me since the night I got the call.

After the burial, we stood in a loose, uneasy circle in the parking lot. None of us seemed ready to go home. Then Jamie brought up that night at the lake, when Greg fell off the dock trying to chug a beer upside down. We laughed. Then we stopped. The laughter felt wrong. I still don't get what the hell happened, Raff muttered. Nobody knew how to respond. Our silent grieving was interrupted by a man in his late 40s, wearing a plain suit with thinning brown hair.

He moved with a kind of tired professionalist. that told me he'd been doing this a long time. He stopped just outside our circle and introduced himself. Detective Harlan, sorry to intrude. His tone was respectful. You were Greg Sutton's closest friends, right? We all nodded. I was wondering if I could ask a few questions.

I understand today's not ideal, but I found people tend to remember important things. things in the hours after a funeral, brings things into focus. I know you people have already been interviewed and questioned. I'm aware that none of you are deemed to be suspects, but... Jamie crossed their arms. Go ahead. Did Greg have any enemies?

I'm aware you've been asked this question before. But are you absolutely certain there's no one from the past? Someone who held a grudge. Maybe something that didn't seem serious. but could have been taken the wrong way. No, Raff said immediately. Everyone liked Greg. I don't mean dislike.

I mean resentment. Anyone he wronged, even by accident. We looked at each other. I could tell we were all thinking the same thing. No, I said finally. Not that we know of. He nodded slowly. Understood.

Did he mention anything strange recently? Unusual messages, people showing up where they shouldn't. Anything like that? Me shook our heads. The last question. Does the name Danny mean anything to you? There it was. His tone hadn't changed, but I felt my chest tighten.

I glanced around. Everyone held the same expression as me. No. Amy said, doesn't ring a bell. The detective watched us for a moment. I could tell he didn't buy it, but he didn't press. He thanked us, gave us his card, and walked off towards his car. As soon as he was out of earshot, Raff led out a shaky breath.

Danny Truilo, I said, a name I hadn't said her loud in over a decade. Danny had been in our class from sixth grade until the middle of sophomore year He was a thin kid with a quiet voice and thick glasses He was always hunched forward like he was trying to disappear He didn't fit in And we didn't let him To make it simple

We bullied the kid The last time we saw him We did something that was supposed to be funny A dare. Raff said he couldn't fit. Jamie said we should find out. It was after school and the hallway was empty. Greg blocked the nearest stairwell while I held the door.

Danny fought harder than I thought he would. He cried, screamed and begged. It only made us more determined. I remember the heat of his shoulder press against mine as we forced him into a locker. I remember the sound of metal slamming. shut, the way it echoed and his fists pounding from the inside while we walked away. I don't know how long he was stuck, maybe until the janitor came in the next morning, maybe longer.

After that, he was gone, and that changed something in all of us. The school didn't make a big deal of it, which in hindsight was to be expected. One of the guidance counsellors said he transferred. Some whispered that his parents pulled him out after a breakdown. There were rumours about his mom showing up in tears at the principal's office, demanding to know what happened. We didn't face any consequences. And we stopped thinking about him.

Until now, I don't think it means anything, Raff said. Could be a coincidence, someone with the same name. Jamie frowned. He said Danny, not the full name, sure. Could have been any Danny. But why on earth did the detective bring that name up in the first place? What if it was him, though?

Lex said. Raff rolled his eyes. Geez, don't start. I'm serious, Lex said. He said the name right after asking if Greg had any enemies. That means something. Raph snapped. You really think some kid we bullied 15 years ago came back and twisted Greg into a goddamn pretzel?

Ralph softened a little. We were bad, yeah, but we were kids. I don't feel good about it either, he continued. But that doesn't mean we jumped to wild-ass theories. Greg's dead. That's horrible enough without spinning it into a revenge fantasy. We don't even know if Danny's alive. Jamie exiled through his nose.

Look, if it turns out something more is going on, we'll talk to the cops. Right now, we'd sound insane. You want us to bring up a kid we bullied 15 years ago in a murder case? I shook my head, no. Exactly. We agreed not to bring it up again. We went home, each returning to our separate houses under the glow of streetlights and the silent orbit of patrol cars.

I lay in bed for hours with the covers pulled up to my chin, staring at the ceiling and reminiscing. The next day, Raff and I were at his place, sitting on the couch of the television on, though neither of us was watching it. A game was playing, but the volume was low, yet neither of us had the energy for small talk. We hadn't seen Jamie since the funeral and didn't talk about Greg anymore. Not because we were already moving on. but because we didn't know how to carry the weight of what happened. It sat between us like a third person in the room.

We were speaking about some things, trying to crack the silence that loomed. When we were interrupted by an incoming call on Raff's phone, his mom, he answered it on speaker. Raff, she said, and a voice cracked halfway through his name. Something happened at Lex's apartment complex. He sat forward, slowly, eyes narrowing, already braced. What do you mean? Someone's dead, she said.

It's bad. Have you not seen the news? They said... She couldn't finish. We both stared at the phone. Raff asked for details. She didn't have many. He hung up without saying goodbye, then turned to me, pale and still.

We need to go. would check up on Lex. On the drive to Lex's place, Ralph drummed his fingers on the steering wheel the entire time, a nervous tickied had since middle school. By the time we pulled up to the complex, it was blocked off with police tape. Flashing lights turned the lot into a mess of colour and shadow. An officer out front was talking to a reporter. She asked if he was related to the Sutton case. The officer said they couldn't comment. The reporter kept pressing. She mentioned a name we weren't expecting to hear.

Lex. We got back in the car without saying anything. We drove straight to the police station. Raff ran two red lights. I didn't stop him. Our silence had turned heavy, and there was less shock and more fear now. We walked through the glass doors, and we met with a sound of voices, paper shuffling, and phones ringing. The front desk officer looked up, recognized us somehow, and nodded us through without much hassle.

Jamie was already there. She sat in one of the waiting chairs near the front, arms folded, foot tapping. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun and looked like she hadn't slipped. Her face went stiff when she saw us. I heard already, she said, did you? Raff nodded, yeah. I wanted to contact you guys, but I was in such a rush to get to the police station. I was so scared after finding out I...

Jamie stood and walked down the hall with us. I already told them we need to talk to Detective Halen. He's in a meeting. This wasn't a coincidence, I said, and I hated how thin my voice sounded. This person is clearly targeting. our group. Danny, Jamie said, biting down on the word. You think it's him? I don't know who else it could be. We waited. Eventually, Harlan came out of a side hallway. His eyes moved across the three of us before settling. He didn't look surprised. He waved us into a back room

without a word. Once the door shut, Jamie spoke first. We lied to you, about Danny. The detective nodded slowly. I figured. Ralph stepped forward. We knew him a long time ago. We went to school together. His name is Danny Truilo.

What happened? We bullied him, I said. Hard. It wasn't teasing. It was full on cruelty. We pushed him out of that school. Maybe out of his mind. We locked him in a locker and left him overnight. Then, he was gone.

The detective took a breath and rubbed his jaw. You didn't mention that. No, Jamie said. Because, well, we didn't want to bring him up. We thought we were all being weirdo conspiracy theorists. You think he's doing this after all these years? He was the last person we ever heard. I said.

Danny going away changed us. We felt guilty. He looked at the table, then back at us. We've had that name at both scenes. Danny, no other traces or clues. Whoever did it definitely knew Greg and now Lex. If you're saying this person might be Danny Truillo, then that gives me something to go on.

We'll start pulling records and see what we can dig up. If you think your targets, I'll make sure patrol stay in your area in case this person comes back. Find him, Ralph said. Please. After we left the station, I couldn't sleep. I kept picturing my dead friends. I waited until morning and then started calling around. The high school secretary remembered me.

She didn't remember Danny, not until I gave her his last. name. I lied and told her it was for an old alumni project. She gave me the principal's name from that year and said he'd retired, but might still have some information on him. I contacted Raff and Jamie about it, and we all tried getting as much information as we could. Later that day, Jamie sent a message in the group chat, and she told us she drove to the local records office. She had a hard time, but apparently she managed to get something. Danny's parents were found dead in their home less than a week after he moved. Both bodies showed signs of massive internal trauma, blunt force and tearing.

No weapon was recovered and no one was arrested. The case was marked undetermined and closed after eight weeks. The report was cold and clinical. He was relocated to a state facility, new residents sealed per court order. That was it. There was no trace of him after that. It was as if he disappeared completely. I stared at the block of text on my phone.

My hands were shaking, but I didn't notice until my phone started to slip from my grip. I used to think guilt was something you felt in moments, right after something happened. or when someone confronted you about it, but it wasn't like that. It spread. It pushed into your ribs and your spine and made it hard to breathe. I knew what we did to him was cruel.

I knew that for years, but I never thought about where he went or what came next or who he had become to survive. Jamie came over the next night. I heard a knock and felt a flash of panic in my chest before I saw her through the pea pole. She was holding two coffees in a tray and a fast-food paper bag.

Her hands were shaking slightly. I let her in and we sat in the living room with the TV off. I keep hearing him, she said after a while. Greg. I nodded. Yeah. I am. I haven't slept since they found legs.

I'm scared to close my eyes. I feel like something is watching me when the lights go off. I told her I felt the same. We laughed for a second. The laughter came quick and shallow, with no weight to it. We sound crazy, she said. Probably are, I replied. Then we went quiet again.

The conversations after were short and awkward. but it felt good to be in someone's presence. I'm sure that's why she came over in the first place. We parted ways shortly after that. She texted me the following afternoon. The police approved it. I'm going into protective custody. They're placing me in a secure prison unit.

It's the safest place they've got. I called her immediately. She didn't answer. Ten minutes later, she sent a voice message. I'm sorry. I can't keep doing this. I'm losing my mind.

Every sound at night makes me flinch. I barely eat. I'm scared I'll end up like Greg and Lex, and I don't want to die screaming. This place is safe and... You guys should probably do the same. I texted back that I understood. I told her we'd miss her

and that I'd stay in touch however I could. She replied with a thumbs-up and a broken heart emoji. Later, Raff and I sat together in his living room. He'd packed a duffel bag but didn't know where he wanted to go. He said he didn't trust any systems meant to protect people. I didn't argue. I felt the same, and we decided that we wouldn't be going into anything like protective custody. He ended up crashing in my couch that night.

We made a deal to stick together for now. We had each other, we had a weapon, and we had police patrols circling the block. We tried pretending life could go on. Raff kept sleeping on my couch, and I stopped logging into work entirely. We stocked up on groceries, though most of what we bought stayed unopened.

I didn't say it out loud, but we both believed Jamie was safer than us. She was supposed to be the one that made it. The call came from the detective, not the news. He didn't speak right away. I remember his breathing more than his voice. He came to the speaker like he'd been running or pacing. When he finally said her name, my legs buckled.

I sat down on the floor next to the coffee table, or raft stood frozen by the door. They found her that morning. dead in her cell. Her body was destroyed, and somehow there were no traces. The prison surveillance system had failed overnight. All footage from her wing was blacked out between 302 and 3.17 a.m. Three guards were found unconscious outside her unit.

And again, that name. Danny, Raff and I sat in silence after the call ended. He put his head in his hands. I could hear him whispering to himself. He didn't cry, but he shook hard enough that the glass on the table rattled. Detective Harlan came to the house later that day. He looked like hell. Look, he said, voice low.

I understand you boys don't want to be placed in police custody. Not after what just happened, but... I say this as a friend, not a friend. not as a government body now. Pack your things and get the hell out of here. We didn't reply, but he continued. I've got nothing to go on, he said solemnly. We're increasing patrols.

I've pulled favors for federal assistance. But this person, who he assumed is Danny Truillo, is skilled to a degree I've never witnessed in my life. The things happening at these scenes don't make sense. I've seen 20-year veterans vomit at what was left to that girl. He shook his head and stood. We'll keep a car outside. But if I were you, I'd damn it all to hell and go as far away as you can.

After the detective left, Raffinai decided to follow his advice. I brought up a plan, said we could go west, stay with my cousin, disappear until this all blew over. We wanted this case solved. We truly did, but we were too scared. Raff said going west would still mean being close. Jamie was in a maximum security location and Danny somehow got to her. We packed our things, decided we'd start the following morning, drove until we reached the coast, and then decided from there.

I woke to the sound of something pounding that night. It took a few seconds to understand. understand what I was hearing. My mind was still fogged with sleep. I sat up and reached for the gun instinctively. I'd replayed what if situations hundreds of times my mind already. The pounding came again. Three dull thuds somewhere on the other side of the house. I called out to Raff. No answer. I moved toward the hallway, keeping the gun raised. I tried not to think about why the air smelled sour, I try not to think at all. Raff, I whispered.

Still, nothing. I reached the door to the guest room and stood outside it. I could hear something moving on the other side. A wet dragging sound, like wet meat pulled across the wood floor. My fingers closed around the door knob. I turned it. and pushed. The door opened slowly, hinges creaking loudly.

The smell hit me first, rot and bile. The room was dim. The blackout curtains kept most of the light out, but there was enough from the hallway to make out shapes. Raff was on the bed. Oh, what was left of him. His body was bent in half, his spine cracked backward.

One arm had been torn, cleaned off, and tossed against the wall. His jaw hung open from one hinge, the tongue swaying beneath it. It, on the other hand, was hunched over him. The creature looked up when I stepped inside. Its skin was tight and grey, pulled so thin I could see every bone beneath it. Sores ran up its back and neck, leaking a dark yellow fluid that clung in thick strings. Its arms were long, ending in hands that dragged down to the floor. Each finger tipped in what looked more like bone than claw.

Its chest heaved with uneven, wet breaths. It didn't move. I raised the gun and emptied the clip into its torso. Each shot hit, but it didn't fly. fall or seemed phased at all. It stepped toward me like the bullets had annoyed it. I turned and bolted down the hallway. Behind me, the door exploded.

I felt pieces of it bounce off my back. The thing was moving faster now. I could hear its feet slapping the floor. I reached the bedroom, slammed the door, and locked it. I grabbed the dresser and pushed it in front of the frame, then the bookshelf. My breath came too fast, my chest clamped down in waves. I could barely see straight. I dialed 9-1-1, but before the operator could even pick up, glass burst behind me in an eruption of sound and wind.

It came in all at once, the window imploding inward, spraying shards across the room. hands grabbed me from behind one clamped around my wrist the other gripped my shoulder the next thing I knew my feet were off the floor and a voice was barking into my ear move

he dragged me through the broken window frame and I hit the lawn hard my shoulder slammed into the dirt I rolled tasting blood in the back of my throat behind us the bedroom door cracked open. Get up, the man said. He bawled me again.

We ran through the yard, past the collapsed garden bed, over the gravel path that tore up my souls. My legs moved on instinct, powered by nothing but fear. I didn't even know what was going on anymore. There was a car parked two houses down. We got to it, and the man yanked the door open and shoved me inside before climbing in after me. He started the engine without hesitation.

It sputtered and groaned, but it roared to life. We peeled away from the curb. I turned to the man behind the wheel, heart pounding. What the hell was that thing? I asked. And who even are you? He looked over at me, slowly. His face was worn down to the bone. Deep creases were carved across.

his cheeks and forehead. His eyes, darker than I remembered anyone's eyes being, watched me for a second longer than felt comfortable. It's me. Danny, he said. My mind refused the process what he just told me. This man couldn't be the same kid we stuffed into a locker. This man looked like he'd walked through deserts and lived in parking garages. His beard was wild, patchy around the jawline, thick, in the middle. His voice carried gravel in every word. You're Danny Truillow. He nodded. Before I could respond, he spoke again. I just want to say, I forgave you, he said. A long time ago, I wanted to speak, but I let him continue. I used to lie awake every night, he said. Back when I lived at home, I used to pray to anything that might have been listening. God, demons, shadows on the ceiling.

I didn't care what it was. I just begged for something to take them all the way. Everyone who hurt me. My parents, the kids at school, anyone who made me feel smaller than dirt. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. And one night, after you guys stuffed me in a locker, I was more adamant that something answered than ever before. And something did answer.

He stared ahead again, eyes glassy, expression still. He wasn't recalling it like a memory. He was reciting it, something he told himself so many times the words had become carved into the inside of his skull. The first ago were my parents. I found them in the living room. My dad's back was snapped in half. My mom, she looked like she'd been folded into the carpet.

The police said it was some kind of freak collapse. They moved me into a home two towns over, and that should have been the end of it. But it wasn't. He finally looked at me again. He kept going. Every name I had ever whispered in anger, every person I wished Harmon, every curse I made with tears in my eyes. It hunted them down, one by one.

Sometimes years later, sometimes across the country. His voice dropped lower. You were the last, because you were far. That's it. You lived too far, and it took time. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know he would last this long. he said.

I thought it would burn out or turn on me. I tried to keep ahead of it. I really did. I moved every six months. I tried attacking it. And every solution you could think of, I've probably tried it. It didn't help.

I'm sorry about Greg. I'm sorry about Lex. Jamie, Raff. I tried my best. The car sat in silence for a long time. Danny's story drifted through the air like a bad smell that wouldn't leave I turned toward him

my voice catching before it escaped my throat How do we stop it He didn't answer right away He reached between the seat and the center console And pulled out a dented metal thermos He unscrewed the lid and took a sip The smell that rose up was sharp and chemical My stomach turned

I've been preparing for years, he said, testing things. I don't know if it's alive in the way you and I are, but it reacts to pain. I've harmed it before, so it can die. How? I've built something that might work. Ammunition soaked in a mix I've been tweaking for the better part of a decade. Silver powder, industrial salt, lye, iron fillings, and a few other things.

He reached into his pocket and took out a single round. The casing shimmered, not with polish, but something deeper, something buried in the metal. He held it between his fingers with care. I created the first version of this bullet a few months ago. I hit it, and that was the first and only time I've ever heard it make a sound. My throat was dry. How many of those do you have? Three.

And that's enough. Maybe. I leaned back, mind racing. Every instinct in me was telling me to run, to take whatever car I could find and disappear into the back roads until the fuel ran out. But there was nowhere left to run. I'd seen what happened to people who tried hiding.

What do you need from me? I asked. Danny looked over, his voice quieter now. It needs bait, and you're the last name left, I nodded. There was nothing else to say. We made it to an abandoned house eventually. The porch leaned toward the dirt. We drove in under the moonlight and killed the engine a few hundred feet back to avoid drawing attention.

Inside, the house was worse. The walls were covered in pages, scribbled diagrams, symbols, names, ingredients. Half of them I didn't recognise. The other half made my skin itch. There were dozens of shell casings lined up on the cracked bookshelf, a single mattress laying in one corner, soaked through with old sweat. Danny opened a chest in the back. and pulled out the weapon.

It was a hunting rifle, heavily modified, with wire wrapped around the barrel and scratches etched into the stock. He held it like a man holding a relic, not at all. I'll take the shot, he said. You stay in the centre of the room. Try to distract it. We waited. Hours passed, the moon drifted.

Every sound may my mind. muscles twitch. I sat on the floor with the empty gun from my house across my lap. It was useless now, but I couldn't let go of it. At some point, the wind died. Danny raised the rifle without a word. The door exploded inward. It moved through the door, leaving no trace behind. His chest rose and fell in quick jerks, pus spilled from the holes in its shoulders. His head tilted as it found me. Danny fired. The creature shrieked.

A high, rattling sound, cut straight through my brain. It reared back, smoke rising from the impact point. His chair steamed. The flesh there blistered and peeled. It lunged. I ducked behind the table while Danny reloaded. The thing threw the couch aside and slammed its clawed hand. into the floor I'd been seconds earlier.

Wood split open. I rolled and kicked out at its ribs. It didn't flinch. Danny shouted and fired again. This time it hit the spine. The thing screamed again, louder, and twisted in itself in mid-air. His body started to collapse inward. His torso folded over its own shoulders, cracking like ice under pressure.

It swung toward Danny. I moved before I could reach him. I grabbed the fire poker from the hearth and jabbed it into the side of its skull. Its head snapped to the side, black icer spilling around the wound. The stench hit hard, my eyes watered. Danny raised the rifle one last time and fired into its throat. That did it. The body froze, its limbs turned.

Then, bent inward, collapsing against its own weight. A low moan echoed through the room. Then it fell apart into ash. I dropped the poker and stood, coughing through the smoke. Danny leaned against the wall, one hand pressed to his ribs. The silence after the creature fell apart pressed on the inside of my skull. My ears rang, not from the volume, but from the vacuum that followed it.

Dust drifted to the air where it had been. Danny dropped the rifle and slid down the wall. His knees gave out first, and he ended up sitting on the floor with his back to the crumbling drywall. His breathing was uneven, and he had one arm pressed against his ribs. I saw a line of red seeping through his shirt, trailing down from beneath his elbow.

He looked up at a little. me through strands of sweat-drenched hair. We did it, he said. I nodded. I didn't have anything to say. My throat was raw and my chest ached. Danny motioned for me to come closer. I stepped over to him.

He reached behind and pulled out a revolver. He didn't lift it toward me. He held it between his knees. I need you. you to shoot me. I stared at him. What? In the side, nothing vital, enough to look real.

I took a step back. Why would I do that? Because the police are going to need someone to blame. They're not going to take this story and put it in a report. You know that. He tilted his head and met my eyes. his voice stayed calm. You shoot me.

Tell them I lost it. Tell them I killed your friends. Came for you next. You fought back, barely survived. I take the blame. It's over. And you go home. That's insane.

You saved my life. His gaze didn't waver. I crouched next to him and grabbed his arm. There has to be another way. There isn't. He pressed the gun into my hand. No one's going to believe what we saw. You know that.

You can barely believe it yourself. I can see it all over you. What we kill didn't leave proof. There's no body or explanation you can give to the cops. They'll think you snap too, unless you have someone to point to. I'm not doing this. Danny leaned back and let his head rest against the wall. His eyes closed for a moment, then opened again.

If you don't do this, they'll keep digging. You'll end up locked away. Worse, blamed for it. They already think I'm a ghost. Make it real. I sat there, gripping the revolver, feeling its weight press into my palm. You don't owe me this, I said. He didn't answer.

I raised the gun slowly, hands trembling. I aimed at the soft space below his ribs. Do it, he said. I pulled the trigger. Danny groaned and slumped sideways, one hand clamping down over the wound. Blood poured between his fingers and darkened his shirt. He didn't scream. He didn't even fall fully.

He slid until his shoulders hit the floor. Then gave me a small nod. Call them, he said through his teeth. Tell them it's over. I did. The sirens reached us 20 minutes later. I stood outside, blood in my shirt, hands raised, gun on the ground. They moved fast, weapons.

drawn, shouting commands. I gave them the story Danny told me to give. The detective didn't argue. Danny was loaded into an ambulance under heavy restraint. I never saw him again. The press latched onto the narrative, a local tragedy, a case with decades of history. An unstable man allegedly traumatized by years of bullying returned to take revenge. authorities called it a revenge spree rooted in trauma and delusion.

The public swallowed it whole. I was left empty and hollow. Everyone that surrounded me was now dead. I spent a few months organizing funerals and accompanying grieving parents and siblings. I would later find out that Danny died in custody, wounds. from the bullet I had given him. I wrestled with that for a while. I had killed him twice,

the first time in a locker and the second time with a bullet. And I don't know which one. I regret more.