CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - UNDERRATED 2024 HORROR STORIES You May Have Missed During This Hectic Year of Chaos

Episode Date: February 8, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "I heard the last words of the woman in the woods" Creepypasta►24:49 "Why were the posters in the abandoned mall watching us?" Creepypasta►1:00:55 "The animals sought refuge in my house during a blizzard" Creepypasta►1:22:10 "I'm an Uber driver for one client, but he pays well" Creepypasta►1:44:54 "Someone dumped a door on my garden. It opened" Creepypasta►2:46:13 "I Took a Job as a Park Ranger  I Was Given a Strange List Of Duties" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

My hometown of Cedar Creek, Colorado, had a woman who everyone loved to hate. Her name was Miss Gatlin, and she was both my elementary school's janitor and the scapegoat for all unfortunate events around our town. The Cedar Creek elderly despised her for having a son out of wedlock, and the town parents scorned her for giving said son too much freedom, a parenting style which had supposedly led to his death at the hands of our town's eponymous river. As for the children of Cedar Creek, we didn't care at all about social conventions or parental negligence, but we all agreed that Miss Gatlin was an ugly lady, and that was enough to warrant our cruelty. My best friend at the time was a curly-haired menace to society named Isaac, who, by 50s, grade, had established himself as a ringleader amongst the neighbourhood boys.

He did his best to inconvenience Miss Gatlin, though his pranks did little to rattle her. If we spread rumours about her poor hygiene just within earshot, Miss Gatlin didn't bat an eye. If we released bugs inside a janitorial closet, she'd calmly sweep them outside. If we stuffed rotten food inside a locker, she'd clear. clean it out quietly and without complaint. Our usual tricks never worked on Miss Gatlin, and all of us unimaginative kids were stumped by how to best a woman whose job it was to clean up messes of all kinds. In my last year of primary school, Hanukkah fell a week and a half before we were dismissed

for winter break. All of the Jewish children thoroughly enjoyed showing off their gifts to the rest of us, had to wait an eternity for our presence. Thanks to Kempossible Spy Kids and Totally Spies, every kid in Cedar Creek was obsessed with espionage, so Isat's gift of a SpyTech Kit for Kids made him even more popular than usual. Most of the kit was cheap plastic junk, but there was a small spy radio that seemed very well manufactured. It consisted of an earpiece and a button-sized microphone that was supposedly capable of transmitting audio up to a radius of five miles.

Isaac, myself, and the rest of our crew spent most of the week before winter break running around town and testing the capabilities of the device. The audio quality was surprisingly good, although the earpiece of microphone could only be separated for about three miles before the sound became too distorted. to understand. It was a novel concept for a few days, but after a while we grew bored of playing walkie-talkie. Isaac wanted to use it for its intended purpose, surveillance, and he had the perfect target in mind.

On the last day before winter break, Isaac and I glued the button-sized device to the back of an old brooch we had found in his sister's jewellery box. We covered it up with a strip of velvet and then glued on the pin and catch. And by the time we were done, you couldn't tell anything was amiss. We put it in a small white box, which we put in my backpack for later. We determined that I would be the one to deliver it, given Isaac's reputation as a prankster. After school I found Miss Gatlin in the staff break room. She barely looked at me as I walked into the room.

I noticed along the far wall of the break room, a wall of cubbies, each one marked with the name of a staff member. All of them were filled with gifts and letters, presumably from parents or other employees at the school. All of them, that is, except one. can't be in here, kid, Miss Catlin said to me in her gruff voice. I know. I swung my backpack onto my stomach and fished around for the box. It had gotten a little banged up in my bag, but I figured she wouldn't really care. I procured it and held it out to her. But I wanted to give you this before the break. She stopped packing up, turning fully towards me. For a long time, she just stood there, staring suspiciously at the box.

Setting her bag down, she took a few steps forward and grabbed the box out of my hand. She gave it a slight rattle, and then opened it slowly. When she saw the brooch, she gingerly took it out of the box and turned it around in her hand. Then she paused again, looking between the glittering, fake emerald. and me. It's not new, sorry, it used to be my mom's, I told her. Going off the script, Isaac and I had conceived to add more authenticity to the handoff.

She doesn't wear it anymore, but I thought you might like it. Miss Catlin kept staring at me, her expression unreadable. I have expected her to chuck it into the garbage bin in the corner of the room. to my relief, she gave me a single nod. Thank you, she said, and pin the brooch onto a cardigan carefully, like it was a precious gem and not some cheap hunk of plastic. I gave her a smile that she did not return, and then she she shewed me away. Isaac was waiting for me in the woods outside school. I flashed him a thumbs up and he slapped my back twice and congratulations. He pulled the earpiece out

of his backpack and held it between us. I put my ear next to the speaker and was delighted when I could hear movement. The sound was slightly more muffled now by the velvet backing, but the audio quality was still really good. We heard the sound of snow crunching under Ms. Gatlin's feet as she walked herself through the woods home. We listened Gidley. for a few minutes and race back to my house to celebrate our success with hot chocolate. Since we had the attention span of two ten-year-old boys, we forgot about our triumph until just a few minutes before Isaac's mom came to pick him up. When I remembered, I pulled out the airpiece, which we had decided would live at my house

since it was closer to Miss Catlin's and listened. More than last year, but not as much as a little. the year before last. What do you think about that? Do you like it? Can you feel it? I see. Me personally, I've loved it since I was a little girl. It falls so prettily. What the heck is she saying? Isaac asked me, as if I had any clue. The better question, in my mind at least, was who the hell was she talking to? She had no kids or husband. and didn't have any friends as far as I knew. I don't know, I said.

She's talking about snow, I think. Though the question, can you feel it, seemed an odd thing to ask anyone. We sat there listening to a talk for five minutes straight. I'd never heard Miss Catlin talk that much in my life, even though I'd seen her most days since I was only five years old. Looking back, I'm not entirely sure what we had expected, but it certainly wasn't a monologue of that length.

We strained our ears listening for another voice, but heard nothing. Maybe she's skydoh frenzic? Isaac volunteered. I had no idea what that was, but I trusted his authority. His mom showed up to take him home, and I turned the speaker off to walk him outside. After that, every once in a while I would turn the speaker on and listen. It seemed that no matter the time, be it early in the morning or late at night, Miss Catlin was always talking.

She talked about all kinds of things, everything from clothing to stocks to the weather to politics. Sometimes she prayed, talking so quickly and quietly that I could only make out one at a of every five or so words. She apologized often and spoke constantly of a promise. Sometimes when I turned on the speaker, all I heard was sobs, and sometimes the conversations were so strange that I couldn't make heads or tales of them. A young woman smiled at me today at the grocery store. Isn't that just the sweetest thing? I felt like it's been so long since someone smiled at me like that. Yes, I know she was just doing a job.

Probably doesn't even know my name. Oh, how hard this has been. How lonesome. But I'm so very close to the finish line. I won't break my promise now. A few days before we returned to school, Isaac and I made the trek over to a house in an attempt to figure out who she was speaking to.

I'd seen a house a few times. before and each time I was taken aback by how small it was. Isolated and weathered. A home stood at the edge of the southern woodlands on a large plot of land, off of a street with very little through traffic. I remember standing on the side of the road with Isaac, staring at the little shack-like house, which must have only had room for a bedroom, a bathroom,

and maybe a tiny kitchen. There's no way anyone else lives there, Isaac said, after a while of standing and staring. We were too far away to peering through the windows, but we were also too afraid to venture any closer. She's either a witch, or she's just some sad, ugly old lady who went crazy from having no friends. Isaac got bored quickly, so we left not too long after that. After we had made our way partway down the street, something compelled me to turn around and give the house a final look. When I did, I saw the unmistakable shape of Miss Gatlin standing on the porch, staring in our direction.

I turned away and grabbed a hold of Isaac's arm. She's watching us, I whispered to him. His eyes grew wide. Damn, he said. Should we run? No, that'll look suspicious. Let's just keep walking. We walked until we were out of eye shot.

And then we ran all the way home. I'm not quite sure what spooked us so badly. But for some reason, even when I was back in the safety of my own home, I couldn't shake the feeling of eyes burrowing into my back. And soon they'll all be coming back. It's hard seeing them sometimes, knowing my Oliver was among them once. Sometimes I think I see him. At least it'll get easier soon.

Thanks to you. By the time we went back to school, my friends had grown bored of the spy gear. I volunteered to return Isaac's speaker, but he said it was practically useless now, since we couldn't retreat. of the microphone. Surprisingly, Miss Catling continued to wear the brooch every day. It was always pinned to her non-work clothes, so the only time she was unbogged, as Isaac put it, was when she was in her janitorial outfit and my school. Seeing her guard the brooch so carefully, it made me feel kind of bad.

Was that the only gift she had gotten for Christmas? Was it the only gift she had got to? in the past decade? Maybe she wasn't a witch, or crazy. Maybe she was just lonely, and had learned to cope by talking to herself. Months passed. Isaac and Company,

finally coming to terms with the fact that they would never get the rise they were looking for out of Miss Gatlin. Moved on to terrorizing the Comergenly Old Man who lived across from Cedar Creek Elementary and was always yelling at kids for one reason or another. I was happy for Miss Gatlin.

One day, in March, I found a sitting on a bench at the edge of campus during lunch. I took a seat next to her, not expecting much. She took one look at me, then fixed a gaze back at this sad-locking sandwich in her hand.

What do you want? She asked without looking at me. Nothing. just wanted to sit here. She picked at the sandwich. We're not friends, kid. I know, you don't have any friends. That's right, she nodded.

Maybe one day, though, I said. And to my surprise, she laughed. I didn't realize she was capable of laughing. She looked at me properly for the first time in our brief conversation. and I noticed that she was smiling. It was an unpracticed smile, but a genuine one.

Yeah, she said, maybe one day. Miss Catlin packed up and headed back to the school building after that. She left a bag of mini Oreos on the bench next to me. I think she did it on purpose. I grew accustomed to checking up on her every now and then, listening to her conversations with herself. Sometimes it almost felt like she was talking to me. Looking back on it now,

I realized what a little villain I was, and what an immense invasion of privacy I was committing. I wish that I could take it back now, especially considering what happened next. Friday, May 17th, marked the 10-year anniversary of Oliver Gatlin's death. I kept an eye on Miss Gatlin throughout the day,

but she didn't seem any more dejected than usual. Maybe things were finally looking up for her. In any case, although I hadn't checked in on her for a while, I decided that evening to see her she was doing. My parents were gone for the week, and I was only allowed to stay at home alone if I stayed inside the whole time. So, I had nothing better to do.

Not long after sunset, as I lounged on the floor of my bedroom, I turned on the earpiece. Miss Gatlin was talking to herself, as always. But there was something strange about her tone. She sounded more excited than ever. Almost there, almost there, almost there. She repeated those two words over and over. until at exactly 1144 p.m. She let out a sound that I understood years later to be a cry of triumph.

It is done, it's done, Dark Angel, thank you, thank you, ten years of solitude and it was worth every second. Now Angel, bring him back, bring him back to me. What was she on about now? Were those song lyrics or something? I strained my ears, listening for another person out of habit. But of course, it was only Miss Gatlin's voice. After a moment, her cries of happiness faded, a voice taking on her confused tone. What do you mean?

No, I... That can't be true. I kept my promise. I followed every rule. I let no one in, kept no companions, made no friends. I kept my wish of secret. as he told me, my angel, I... I sat up slowly, the building terror in a voice, putting me on edge even from miles away.

And then she asked the question, that still haunts me to this day. What do you mean I had an audience? There was a moment of silence, and then the surefire sound of the velvet backing of the brooch being ripped away. I could hear a breath, sharper and clearer than ever before, as she repeated a single word. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, she withdrew for the microphone, her rapid breaths replaced by what sounded like a front door being thrown open with a bang. There was no more noise from the microphone. I remember standing up in my bedroom, not quite understanding.

what had just happened, and not quite knowing what to do next. Something told me that I should go downstairs and make sure that the doors were locked, so I told myself to man up and force myself down the stairs to the dark first floor. I made my way around the whole house, checking the doors and windows. Once I was done, I just stood there. Somehow I knew she was coming, and that there was nothing I could do to stop it. I thought I was hearing the wind, but as it grew louder, I realized I was hearing wailing. I heard it long before I saw her, that gut-wrenching cry, that sound that I had previously heard

only pale imitations of in movies where her mother loses a child. Standing in the darkness of my living room, I watched the sprint from the tree line towards my house. Her mouth was wide open, her eyes glazed over and her body dressed in a white nightgown. She looked and sounded like something out of my worst night terrors. I dropped to the floor and crawled away from the window, taking cover behind a couch. Why? She held, her moaning voice rising and forth. as she ascended the steps to my front porch and slammed a fist against the door.

Why? I needed to get to the phone, but the house phone was right next to the window, and I was petrified. She hit the door so hard I was afraid that the hinges would give away. How could you do this to me? I climbed a hand over my mouth. She couldn't possibly know for certain that I was in the house. Could she? The origin of the wailing shifted as she rounded the wraparound porch, the heavy knocks of a fist against the door, giving way to the thudding of her shoes on the wooden porch floor. I stuck my head around the couch and saw no one at the front window. But when I looked at the side, I saw a face hovering inches from the glass. I screamed at the top of my lungs as a fist came into contact with the glass, shattering it.

I was so horrified by the rain of blood-speckled glass that I almost missed the sight of the shotgun scabbard, strapped to a torso. Certain I was about to die, I screamed at her to go away, to leave me alone, and she screamed right back at me, asking me questions I didn't understand. Dogs had begun to bark at the commotion, and my next-door neighbor's porch light turned on. Please, just go away! I shrieked as I finally found my footing and raced to the phone. I grabbed it from its holder and started the type 9-1-1 as I decided whether or not I should risk running up to the neighbour's house. When I looked at the broken window though, she was nowhere to be seen.

The wailing had rescinded, growing fainter and fainter, until I couldn't hear her at all. I stood there, dumbly, until the sound. faded entirely. My hand shaking. She was gone. I was sure of it. Should I still call emergency services? After that moment, I heard another fainter sound and recognized the static e- audio immediately as the transmission from Isaac's spy gear. I raced upstairs, still clutching the phone and grabbed the speaker from the floor where I dropped it. I pressed it against my ear, listening to the faint sound of a familiar voice. I hope this was worth it, kid, it said calmly and coldly.

I hope you and your friends can laugh about this. I heard a bang. And then, I heard nothing at all. It took two weeks for the police to find a body. A final resting place was deep in the woods, under a thick shroud of junipers, not far from the banks of Cedar Creek. As a face was mutilated beyond recognition, her body was identified by the shotgun lying beside her. They say that, although she was covered in enough blood to entice every animal within a three-mile radius, her corpse was untouched by the beasts.

Even the insects seemed hesitant to feed and the fungi slow to grow upon a body. As though even the lowliest creatures feared contamination by the lonely woman in the woods, they did not find a brooch on her person. It all started when I was 16. It was Halloween and my friends and I had all had a bit too much fun pushing each other to do something dumber and dumber. We'd snatched a bottle of red from my parents' stash and passed it around when one of us came up with the idea to check out the old mall by the freeway. The place had been closed a few years prior and none of us had been there more than a couple of times

as kids, but we figured it could make for a good story. The five of us crammed into a car and made our way out there, blasting music as we went along. God smash. P-O-D, PM 5K. It was a different time. Rod was up in the front seat, trying to smoke something, but the rest of us kept interrupting him. He had this stupid hang-up and a joke where, if you reminded him of it, he wouldn't stop laughing. It could boil down to a single word, and he'd burst. As we got there and poured out on the concrete, a chill passed through me. more so than the autumn air. The pillars outside reminded me of a ribcage,

making the whole place look like a giant concrete corpse. In the dark of a Halloween night, pretty much anything can look terrifying. That's just where your mind wonders. We made our way in through a loosely boarded glass door. Stepping inside, all the light we had were our flip phones and the moon slipping in through the skyline.

I'd been in that mall a handful of times over the years, but what I was seeing there and then was something different. Without the people and the ads and the billboards and the stalls, it was just a husk, something left behind. Still, we found a bunch of stuff. There were still metal racks in one of the old clothing stores which we could climb. There was a counter at the old sandwich place where we could pretend to take orders. There were windows to break and these huge, empty spaces where our voices would carry all throughout the building. The only place that held some sort of reverence to us was the toy store on the second floor. That had once been the centre of our attention.

We were just 16 and most of us remembered a time when we would beg our parents for a trip there. It had been the biggest toy store in our world and there was always something new to look at. But seeing it then and there, it was just as dead as the rest of the place. Not even the sign remained. As the others made their way inside, I split off to take a walk, lighting up the hallway with my phone. They mocked me on my way, saying whoever splits off the group is always the first. to die in horror movies. Illerious. I went past what remained of the old stores, the gift shop, the flower boutique, the bookstore.

I could almost see them, but only in my mind. Now it was all concrete and cheap sandstone tiling. The place wasn't even old enough to be dusty yet, remaining in this sort of space between living and dead like a man on life support. I don't only take the flip of the switch and this whole place would come alive, ready to welcome people back. But of course, that wouldn't happen. Then at the end of the hall, I came to a full stop.

It turns out we weren't the first people with the idea to come here. There was a resting area in the far back, a sort of alcove. The benches set around an empty space where stalls were supposed to be, all centered around this massive red marble column. I called the others over. They had to see this. My voice easily carried all the way across the mall, and the others came running. Someone had been here. They'd flipped all the benches onto their backs and placed several pots and planters in a circle around the column.

Hell, I even planted something. I could see little blue sprouts poking up. But the freakiest thing was the column itself. They'd taken the old mall posters and plastered the thing with them. These posters were just the picture of a smiling, middle-aged woman, dressed in a sort of 50s attire, a generic yellow sundress with little white flowers on it. She also had the most generic. generic stock photo smile you could imagine.

To a right on every poster was a cartoonish speech bubble. They were just old sayings, ordering on clichés. Like Mama used to make them, the more the merrier, happily ever after. But the freaky thing was not the posters themselves, but what had been done to them. Someone had burned out the eyes, leaving them covered in scorch marks. With the red marble in the back, my brain sort of short-circuited, making me think I was looking into her empty sockets, seeing the gore behind the eyes. It was unsettling and probably intentional. They also modified some of the sayings, crossing out certain words.

Mama used more ever after It was unsettling Some of us caught the Halloween vibe of it Thinking it fit perfectly with what we were up to Others could sense it like me But this wasn't just a fun thing someone did for fun This was deranged It must have taken hours to arrange this sort of scene

and we couldn't imagine a good reason to do it. That's Lady Lockley, said Rod, pointing up at the posters. I had a crush on her. Looks like my babysitter. She's like 50, I added. Still got a great rack. The others agreed. It was funny, but I couldn't bring myself to laugh.

This felt like rot. In the same way that a corpse did. decays. This was the way old buildings decayed. It made me feel filthy, like I was some kind of bacteria infecting this place and breaking it down, corrupting it, digesting it. I felt sorry for Lady Lockley. She deserved better, happily ever after. Once we got bored of wandering around, we made a way back to the entrance on the other side of the building. One of the guys squealed, in delight. He'd found a ball pit. Looking at it, it was clear that this thing wasn't sanitary. We could hear something moving in it, probably rats. Part of the ceiling had collapsed,

leaving a dead wire hanging like an open nerve, and the whole place was covered in a thin layer of concrete dust. Someone's got to go in, they said. We ain't leaving. We ain't leaving. We didn't leaving until someone goes in. Not me, I added, no way, and that settled it. I was the first to decline. I had to be the first to go in, no matter if I wanted it or not. The others grabbed me and pushed me into the deep end face first. Plastic balls rattled against my ears.

I was fully prepared to be drenched in rat pee and bites. But nothing happened. There was concrete dust covering my scalp and forehead, but apart from that, I was fine. It tickled my nose a bit. The pit was deep enough to reach about halfway up my body, but I'd sunk into the bottom. I could feel the rubber flooring against my cheek. The others were lighting me up with their phones. The lights coming through the balls made a sort of kaleidoscope of pastel colors.

stretching the shadows out into long, distorted shapes. As I struggled to regain my balance, I fumbled around with my hands, trying instinctively to grab something, but instead, something grabbed me. It was only a silhouette, a face somewhere in the swirl of colors,

the shape of a head with two holes where the eyes were supposed to be. It gasped excitedly. Even from a distance, I could taste the ammonia on its breath. Its icy fingers interlocked with mine, wanting to bring me closer. I recoiled, shaking my head. I think I let out a scream, but I don't remember doing it. My pulse shot through the roof as I forced myself back to my feet, scrambling to get back to the others.

They were laughing their asses off, thinking I was just surprised. As my head breached the surface, they were standing in a half circle shining their lights at me. Of course, there was nothing in the ball pit. I wiped my dusty hair and prepared myself to drag one or two of them down there with me. But something in the air changed. The faces went from gleeful joy to careful curiosity, to worry. Turning back towards the pit, I could see why. On the side of every ball in the pit was an eye, lovingly hand-painted with a sharpie.

The others helped me up and tried to diffuse the tension with puns and jabs. It didn't take long for the chill to leave our spines, but it took me the longest. Looking down at my hand, I felt cold, like something had really touched me, something just as real as the mall, and the people who invaded it. We left shortly after, taking the car back to town, blasting our music again. We filled the rest of the night with more stolen wine, games, dares and laughs, but something in me had changed. I couldn't let go of that image of Lady Lockley and the red marble in the back of her head.

Through every chuckle and every smile, that feeling held me back. Something had changed forever. That night, as I slept on Rod's couch, I watched the moonlight cast a shadow on the opposite wall. The cross of the window shaped the light into four perfect squares. As I lay there, half drunk and half asleep, I imagined them as little television screens, each showing whatever came to mind. Old memories, dreams, hopes. But every made-up show I imagined always ended the same way, with the mental image of a middle-aged 1950s housewife, a dead smile, a southern drawl, and the red infected cavity in a skull.

her eyes ought to be. The next day, it all felt like a bad dream. Some of the guys were hung over, and most of us just made our way back home to sleep it off. I didn't want to go home. My parents were so focused on my older brother at the time that they didn't care what I did. He was the one with the problems.

I could get away with pretty much anything. Being gone for a day was nothing. compared to a heroin addiction. Still, I had to get back home. Much like expected, my parents weren't around. They left a note to say there were some leftovers in the fridge and that I could call them if I needed something. But that was it.

I'd never once called them on that number. Making my way up to my room. I stopped. We have these two windows at the top of the staircase, with two knobs in the middle. For a moment, I imagine those two knobs as little eyes. I could imagine them blinking all throughout the day and the next. This would become a repeating pattern.

Two coins on the counter could send a shiver at my spine. The rings of a scissor grip would make me think of those gaping eye sockets. Two soda cans with their pull taps standing at attention brought me the same image. Every combination of two circles, spheres or rings, it all forced that image back into my head. That joyless smile of Lady Lockley and her icy fingers interlocking with mine, bringing me closer. It came to a point where people started to notice. For example, when I had dinner with my parents, they had a beer each. The bottles were placed next to one another and the top of the bottle.

bottles formed those two holes. It took me a while to notice. But when I did, I couldn't stop thinking about it. It physically made me itch, and I had this intense need to separate them. Once I did, the two of them just looked at me, not a word spoken. I tried to ignore it. I reorganized my space to make sure there was nothing around to remind me, but every now and Then there'd be something. It could be something as little as two people passing on the street and their heads reminding me of floating eyeballs. But it got worse.

Once as I stepped out of the shower, I spotted myself in the mirror. Even seeing my own eyes looking back at me sent me into this spiraling anxiety. I could imagine myself eyeless with that infected red cavity in the back. of my skull. I get to see it to the point where I convinced myself that it was true, that I had no eyes to begin with. My eyes would close, and I couldn't bring myself to open them. I would try to pry them open with my fingers, kneeling on the cold bathroom tiles, but it wouldn't work. Nothing would. Come on, I'd cry. Come on! But it just wouldn't work. It was. It was. so infuriating that it tickled the back of my brain into a joyless smile. No one else was

suffering from this. I'd no one to talk to, and no one would understand why I was feeling that way. It was impossible to describe. And to a group of guys who mostly talked about women and games, there wouldn't be much interest in mental health. So, I decided to do something about it myself. Much like exposure therapy, I had to go back. I was going to tear down every poster, set fire to the dam ball pit, and proved to myself that there was nothing to fear. I was going to destroy it, Lady Lockley. I was going to break those icy fingers and stare into her eyeless face unflinching. I had this crappy moped that I'd saved up for once summer. enough time had passed for the first Minnesota snow to fall

so I had to be careful not to slip and slide I loaded up a backpack with all kinds of destructive tools I didn't even bother to read the note left on the kitchen counter this time no one else was going to fix me so I had to do it myself I kept the wheel steady feeling the snow slush stained my cheap jeans cold water soaking into my second-hand shoes. By the time I got there, I was shivering. A cold wind had picked up from the overcast, and there was no moonlight to guide me this time. Still, I'd prepared. I had a great flashlight

with plenty of spare batteries packed away. My dad had this battery box in the garage, full of whatever kind he might possibly need. I brought the whole thing. I made my way inside through the loosely boarded updoors. The place felt warmer, but maybe it was just me being angry. I had this frustration pent up in me, forcing me forward. I went past all the hollow shops, the broken benches, the empty planters and the dry fountain. I climbed up the dead escalator and followed the familiar shops towards the resting area. I could see the red marble column from afar.

sticking out like a sore nerve. The posters plastered to it like a band-aid to an open wound. My footsteps echoed as I made my way closer, clutching the flashlight harder. There were little sprouts in the pots and planters now. Some were the little blue bud.

Others had barely poked through the dirt. One had grown quite tall. There were more posters now. Some had been stuck to the walls. Others lay strewn about on the floor. Someone had been there recently, I could tell. A few chairs from one of the downstairs restaurants had been dragged up there and smashed,

forming a kind of plastic half-circle across the floor. It didn't matter to me. This was all going to burn either way. I put down my backpack and brought out a bottle of gasoline. My dad always kept a spare can in the garage, but I didn't want to bring the whole thing, so I just filled up three plastic bottles instead. I unscrewed the top and just started chucking it at the column, tainting the posters. They were made with some kind of plastic that didn't react well to gasoline, making part of the

ink melt a little, making Lady Lockley smile into a frown, and then a garbled mess. I went all around the column, using two of my three bottles. It was messy, and I got a whole lot of it on my clothes. I would have to wash it when I get back. My parents didn't ask a lot of questions, but if I were to come back home drenched in gasoline, they might have something to say. As I finished, I put down my bag and got a hold of a lighter. One of those with a long neck for lighting fancy candles.

I tried to wipe the gasoline off my hands, but doubt was getting to me. I didn't want to set myself on fire. Then again, this place had to die. For a brief moment, I got stuck staring at the posters. Even with the ink melting off, the holes remained. Dozens of empty eye sockets staring at me, some with a barely human face attached. Some were relatively unscathed, still carrying the various slogans and sayings of Lady Lockley. There was even a fully intact, happily ever after poster smiling back at me.

I put away my flashlight, letting the darkness of the place overwhelm me. The overcast was doing me no favours. I held the lighter up, inched closer, and clicked it. A single light in the dark But something was wrong A chill worked its way across my right cheek Making me squint Then a breath of air

The light disappeared And my nostrils were assaulted By the sudden smell of ammonia And right behind me Grazing my cheek Was something cold Something that was gently placing his fingers on my left shoulder, inching up towards my neck. I bent down, snatched up my flashlight

and turned around. The cone of light swayed back and forth, finding nothing as I backed away. My feet was stepping on their own, seemingly out of my control. My lungs felt stiff, like I couldn't push any air into them. There were puffs of smoke with every little forced, panting breath. I wasn't alone. I didn't even think about how far I backed up until my back hit the red marble pillar. I just stood there, frozen. I could feel the eyeless holes turning towards me, waiting for me to turn around.

Something was running down my arm. It made its way to my fingers. I looked down only to see fresh blood. Droplets formed at the edge of my fingertips, pulling up and dropping to the floor. The back of my head felt wet, same with the back of my pants and jacket. I carefully stepped away and turned to face the pillar, blood. It wasn't just red marble. It was bleeding.

The gasoline had made the posters slip off, falling to the floor one by one, leaving the pillar raw and unprotected, little pools of blood ran across the floor. It was so quiet, just little tips and taps of drops hitting the floor, mixing with the echoes of my breathing. I could hear the battery in the flashlight rattling as my hand shook from the cold. And in the distance, a hiss, my ears honed in on the sound. A whisper, coming from one of the nearby stores, Put them back.

I just stood there, trying to comprehend what I was hearing, what it was demanding. Then, from another store from across the mall, a louder sound, Put it all back. And from a third store, an old fast food kitchen. Put me back. Looking down at the pools of. gasoline and blood, mixing with a misshaped plastic posters, I shook my head. I didn't want this anymore. All the anger had turned to fear, and all I wanted was to grab my stuff and leave.

I'm going, I said. I won't come back. There was no response. Just like back home, there was no one to listen to me. Maybe I was speaking to an empty. room, making up stories in my head. I won't come back, I repeated. This is it. Screw them all and whatever game you're playing. I won't... I suddenly choked on my breath.

I could see them in the distance. Human shapes stepping out of the storefronts, all with the same cheerful yellow dress, the same hair, the same smile. Then something grabbed me. me. It wasn't like the first time where icy fingers daintly slipped into my hand, but something violent, angry, nails digging into my scalp, grabbing a handful of my hair, forcing me forward with a dead man's cramped grip. I went from standing to kneeling, having my face pressed onto the

floor in a heartbeat. There were no more than two hands, maybe four, five, something heavy pushed against my spine. No, it wasn't just one word. It was a choir. A dozen identical voices speaking as one from across the mall. Two cold fingers touched my eyelids, forcing me to blink. I forced my eyes shut, trying to squint them away. I could barely breathe.

I tried to move my head away, shaking the fingers off, but I couldn't. No matter how far I forced myself back, they pushed on until the pain started. This mounting pressure, causing bright, painful spots to dance across the inside of my head. It was excruciating. I was panicking, trying to turn, but I couldn't. There was this raw, primal emotion bubbling inside me, forcing me to scream. I begged and pleaded, but it was too late. I had wronged them and they were relentless.

Had it gone any further, I'd be blind today, maybe dead. But it didn't. I heard footsteps approaching and felt the fingers slowly let up. Pressure released from my spine and the hands holding me down loose in their grip. I slowly opened my eyes, blinking away the spots of pain. Only to see a man. He had a flashlight of his own, casting deep shadows on his wrinkled face. He must have been in his early 60s and was dressed in some kind of maintenance get-up, a janitor perhaps.

He walked up to me as the last hand let go and offered to help me up. I accepted it and got back on my feet. I didn't dare turn around. I could hear them, feel them, smell the ammonia. Don't do anything stupid, he whispered, give them a moment. We just stood there. I looked down, try my best not to bring any attention to myself. At the edge of my vision, I could see flurry, yellow dresses shuffle past me, back into the empty storefronts.

back into the mall. He patted me on the shoulder, and I looked up. The last silhouette slipped into an old outlet space, leaving the two of us alone. He got some blood on his hands from touching my shoulder and wiped it off on his legs. He stepped back to pick up something he'd brought, a stack of posters and a toolbox. Walking up to me, he had this almost a pocket. apologetic look on his face. So, she picked you too, eh?

He sighed. That makes, what, four of us? Using a bucket and a still working hose in the back, we got enough water and soap to clean the pillar a bit. It had stopped bleeding, coagulated in a way. We ended up putting up new posters, still with the eyes burned out. She likes them.

this way, he said. The kids always did this to the posters long before the place closed. She thinks they're supposed to look like this. We spent some time collecting scrap and piling it into a circle around the pillar. That, and drawing eyes on various white surfaces. She doesn't have any eyes of her own, so she needs us to give her some. We spent hours just wondering around, touching up the place, watering the plants, cleaning up the gasoline. The Lady Lockley seemed calmer. I could see them shuffling about in the back of the stores, catching a reflection off their perfect teeth every now and then.

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that any threat to this place would have me swarmed. Do you have to do this? I asked. Like, often. Yeah, he nodded. What happens if you don't? I think you know what happens. At the end of the night, as I left them all behind, I saw a final, swaying, fiery dress in the cracks of the wooden boards.

Even now, I was being watched, judged, weighed, but for the moment. I was safe. At first, I went back like once. a week. Once I brought ping pong balls and painted eyes on them. They seemed to like that. Another time I filled up the water fountain. The janitor would return at times two, bringing freshly printed posters and scrubbing the floor. No wonder it wasn't dusty. I tried to stop going back there, but it would just build this pressure in me. I'd feel this pressure in me. I'd feel feel her eye. I would start to focus on circles and spheres as if my body was reminding me

that I was being watched. I'd sometimes feel something cold at the edge of my vision, something I see brushing against my ear. It would put me on edge as if expecting something to grab me at any moment. For that damn smile to come out of the dark and become the last thing I ever see, places like this don't get torn down. The land is dirt cheap and the effort to break and ship off all that concrete just isn't worth it. It remains there to this day.

I would go back every now and then to fix the place up to make sure she was happy enough to leave me alone. Weeks were turned to months and over time they trusted me enough to come back only once every six months. months or so. I'd make a day out of it. The plants would blossom into these six feet tall

radiant blue sunflowers and a creeping vine would slither at the side of the marble pillar. She seemed to like the vines. Sometimes there are new people. I don't really know their names, but we can kind of recognize each other at a glance. Some young, some old. We've tried to board a place up, to keep people out, but every now and then some smart ass gets through. I don't think they all make it out. Some of the things I've seen over the years tell a gruesome story of their own. I'm in my mid-30s now. I've done this for half my life as a sort of stewardship, a part of my life that I can't share

with anyone. I've gotten to know a wants and needs. There is a personality there, an intelligence. Sometimes they can get these strange whims. I once saw one of them trying to break through the loose boards, only to be dragged away by the others. I've seen them gently crest the leaves of the sunflowers. I've seen them dance on tables, walk hand in hand down the empty walkways. And once, just staring up at the moon, I think she's like an amazing.

immune system, like something remaining to stop the decay. This building has been closed for decades, but from looking at it, you couldn't tell. Most buildings that have been empty for that long just look way down and worn, but not the dead-eye mall. They still spry and waiting as if expecting people to come back, and every now and then they do, but it's a service I perform under threat of death, and to this day, it terrifies me. While I'm not as bothered by circles or rings, I still have this feeling that I should be, like I shouldn't be normalizing this. I shouldn't have to compromise to something unnatural and

otherworldly. But I just don't know what the alternative is. I have this feeling. I have this feeling. that sooner or later, she'll turn to me dissatisfied, and that day she'll interlock her fingers with mine, and drag me to a dark place I can't come back from ever after. I barely made it home in time. One minute I was singing along to the radio, and then next I was staring, slack-chored at the most menacing storm clouds I'd ever seen. As someone born and raised in Vermont, I was no strange as the snow squalls, but there was something foreboding about the dark clouds blowing in over the mountains. After reaching my house, I opened my car door and stepped out into a cold evening. The wind lashed at my face and made a terrible

howling in my ears as I raced up the steps and slipped through the front door to my house. Just in time, Luke said to me in greeting. My husband was staring in front of the living room window surveying the mountains beyond our city. By the time I walked over to him, I could barely see two streets down. Seemed like we would be spending the evening inside. Came out of nowhere, I commented. Before I so much as set my bag down, I heard the doggie door open. We didn't own any pets, but we often entertained visits from a neighborhood cat who Luke had called Rigatoni.

Sure enough, an old orange cat soon appeared in our living room, leaving a trail of muddy poor prince as he trotted over to Luke. Ah, the serial couch surfer returns. Too cold out there for you? He asked the cat, currently rubbing her head against his shin, who meowed as if in affirmation. Tony wasn't terribly fond of most people, but Luke had away with animals. He reached down to Petter, eliciting a melody of purrs from the contented cat. Come on, he said standing, I'll fix you some dinner. Thank God, I'm starving. I wasn't talking to you, Luke said with a warm laugh,

walking into the back of the house to fetch some cat food for Tony. Half an hour later, just as Luke and I had finally sat down to eat, we heard the doggie door open once again. I raised the brow at my husband. Tony was our only regular four-legged visitor. I wondered who else could have let themselves inside our home. I didn't have to wonder for long. Seconds later, a border collie tore into the dining room, barking. and whining with urgency.

Luke and I rose sharply to our seat to the table, watching the dog as it came to a stop in the corner of the room. I realized as the poor creature lowered its head and tucked its tail between its legs, that I recognized it. Hey, that's Mrs. Johnson's dog, I said, rounding the table to check if the dog was hurt. Tucker?

Yeah, I'm pretty sure. I see her walking him all the time. I crouched down next to Tucker and slowly reached out my arm. To my surprise, the usually sweet-tempered border collie pulls its lips back in a snarl, lunging forward slightly and snapping his teeth. It was a warning, not an attempt to hurt me, but I backed off all the same. Luke shot me a worried look. he's uh usually more mild-mannered i'll give her a call and let her know he's with us luke left the room to grab his phone while i studied tucker from a safe distance looking for signs of injury his frantic barks had been replaced by occasional mournful wines he was no longer racing around seemingly content with his place in the corner but his posture remained fearful and defensive

It was hard to tell with the way he was carrying, but I saw no visible wounds on him. Do you have signal? Luke shouted from another room. I took my phone out of my pocket to check, and to my surprise, I didn't. We had generally reliable coverage, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd lost cell service. I tried restarted my phone, walking around at different spots in the house, and Turning airplane mode on and off. Nada.

Unfortunately, if it was affecting both of us, it was probably an issue with our service provider, meaning there was little we could do. I was about to ask if he still had Wi-Fi on his phone when a light but urgent tapping sound filled the room. I listened for a moment, trying to place the origin of the sound and soon traced it to the bathroom.

or, more specifically, the bathroom window. When I got there, I saw a small, fuzzy animal standing on the windowsill and scratching fervently at the glass. What in the world? The little creature didn't seem to notice my presence. I took another step forward into the bathroom, and I realized as I approached that the animal had torn right through the window screen. No cell service, no Wi-Fi, no nothing.

At least the lights are on... Luke trowed off as he entered the room, looking over my shoulder at the frantic creature. Is that a weasel? I asked my resident animal lover, who shook his head. Pretty sure that's a martin. Neat. I was about to compliment his identification skills

before I looked over and saw the look in his eyes. Don't ask me what I think you're about to ask me. Please, they're endangered, you know. This isn't Noah's Ark, Luke. We can't shelter every animal in Vermont. I swear, the rodent took a break from ripping through my window screen to glare at me. I glared right back. Besides, this little thing here looks rabid.

Luke and I spent a couple minutes arguing. I wasn't keen on taking in any more impromptu guests. But Luke was adamant on saving it from the storm. There's something off about how desperately he's trying to get in, he said. It might be on the verge of freezing to death or something. After a while, he convinced me to take pity on the martin. I had to admit, the way it was throwing itself against the glass was a little unsettling. Reluctantly, I opened the window and allowed it to squeeze through the hole in the screen.

However, I didn't realize that the martin wasn't the only creature waiting to get inside. Before I could shut the window, a flurry of about 20 miles searched into the bathroom from the hall. They must have been sitting on the sill as well, but I guess I overlooked them, mistaking their fluffy white bodies for snow. I jumped backwards, swallowing a shriek as one of them landed right on my foot. Eventually, I managed to shut the window without stepping on any mice, but not before a red bird, a cardinal, I think, squeezed its way in as well. Stunned, I hurried after the animals as they made a beeline for the centre of the house. When I entered the dining room, I saw not only Tucker and the animals who had just burst in through the bathroom,

but also a cat and two dogs that I didn't recognize. Cursing, I realized that they must have entered through the doggie door, so I yelled out to Luke to lock it as I tried to make sense of the scene in front of me. The animals gave each other a wide berth. The cat didn't so much as look at the mice, nor did the dog seem at all interested in the cat. All of them were cowering, shivering as they pressed themselves into corners or squeezed into whatever hiding spot they could find.

The dogs whined, the mice squeaked. Even the cardinal was making a strange, almost mournful sounding chirping noise. The only one who was behaving normally was rigatoney, who I had to shoe away from the troop of mice hiding under the China cabinet.

The hell is going on? Luke asked, and I had no explanation to offer. We'd had nasty storms, before, but never had I seen one inspire such desperation in our local wildlife. After another failed attempt at coaxing Tucker out of his corner, I made my way to the living room and stared out the large window. A total whiteout stared back at me. I could only see a few feet out in every direction before the world was swallowed up by darkness and snow. It was eerie, but

It was beautiful in a strange way. Hypnotic. It was easy to lose myself in thought as I watched the snowfall. What could have spooked the animal so much? I wondered. Could it really be the cold alone? The weather hadn't seemed all that bad. Sure, it had been cold outside, but not a blizzard cold.

When I'd opened the bathroom window, I'd been distracted by the mice, but when I thought about it, I didn't remember a freezing cold wind sweeping into the house alongside our animal guests. I raised my arm, pressing the back of my hand against the glass, and then stilled.

Lou? I quietly called out. He appeared around the corner seconds later. Tony cradled in his arms. Is it just me or is the glass warm? Luke stepped closer, shifting to hold the cat in one arm and placing his free hand against the pain.

He didn't respond, but the way his mouth set into a thin line told me that he felt the same thing. What does this mean? I don't know. We both stood in silence for a while. The wind howled outside, but I had the sense that if I opened a window and stuck my hand out, wouldn't feel cold. I didn't want to find out though. Opening any windows or doors at that point seemed like a bad idea. In fact, I was about to check that all entry points to our house

was secured. When Luke pointed at something outside, a large black mass ambled its way towards us. At first, I didn't understand what I was looking at. Its shape and gate was so strange that I thought I thought I was looking at a brand new animal, but once it stepped fully into the faint glow emanating from the porch light, I realized that it was a black bear. Its lower jaw on one of its hind legs had been ripped off, and from the trail of blood it had left in its wake, it was clear that the wounds were fresh. The bear stumbled closer, stopping only inches from the glass, and with every wary step I could make out another laceration on its body.

I watched in horror as the massive creature stared directly at us with a look in its eyes that it could only be described as pleading. I held its gaze for a few seconds and then the creature collapsed onto its side. A puddle of dark red pulled outward from its body and soon the strange expansions and contractions of its body. rib cage ceased. Never once did it look away from us as it bled out and died.

There was a long silence before Luke and I dared to speak. You think, Luke began. You think that's what the animals were afraid of? I hoped so, but something in my gut told me that it wasn't. After all, even if that was the creature they'd been running from. The question still remained. What could have inflicted that level of trauma on a black bear of that size? I think we should get away from the windows.

As we made our way to the middle of the house, the lights flickered once, twice, and then abruptly went out altogether. We were plunged suddenly into darkness, and it seemed to put the animals even more on edge than before. The squeaks and wines increased in volume as I procured two flashlights from our kitchen cabinet. I handed one to my husband and then the two of us took to the dining room

sitting on the floor with our backs against one of the walls. Luke was calm on the surface, but I could tell that the strangeness of the situation was causing him distress. At least Tony's presence seemed to bring him some peace of mind. for some reason she was unaffected by whatever ailed the others. I studied her as she relaxed in Luke's lap, her eyes closing as he absent-mindedly stroked her fur. Why was it that she was unafraid?

She had come to her house right before the blizzard set in, whereas the rest of the animals likely had been outside for longer. Had they seen something out in the storm? If they had, could it have been the same thing that killed the bear? Hey, Luke's shaky voice broke through my thoughts. Do you hear that? I didn't hear anything. And then I realized, I didn't hear anything.

No wailing of the wind, no sounds from the animals, nothing. It was like the whole world had suddenly gone quiet. I looked around the room. All of the animals were so still. It was as if they were afraid to move. I clicked my flashlight off, wanting to attract as little attention as possible, and Luke followed suit. For a moment, we just sat there in the dark, listening, and then, I heard a voice, Hello?

Clear as day. the voice of a person was calling to us from outside our house. Hello, anyone in there? It asked, its tone far too nonchalant for someone weathering the full brunt of a blizzard. I need some help out here. Next to me, Luke shifted as though you're about to stand up. I reached out and grabbed a hold of his arm,

grabbing Tony and pulling Luke back down to the floor. There wasn't a chance in hell I was about to let him investigate the voice. It was so strangely quiet that I could hear the crunching of footsteps in the snow as the person moved outside. Please, the voice said. It had gotten closer, like it was circling the house. Please, I really need help. Can I just come in for a minute? It's so cold out here.

my grip tightened on Luke's arm. The complete lack of emotion in the voice's tone sending a chill of my spine. He reached over, holding my hand in his, as the source of the voice moved even closer. Come on now. Don't you have room for one more? He was right outside the dining room window. I closed my eyes like a coward, not wanting to see whatever it was about to step into view. Next to me, there was a single, sharp intake of breath, for what felt like an eternity, neither

of us moved. And then there was a light chuckle from outside the window. There were more footsteps, but this time they were moving away from us, and they seemed to be taking the silence with them. The wind remembered itself, returning with a howling vengeance in the visitor's absence. Luke's hand had gone slack in mine, but I held onto it for a long time, sitting there with my eyes shut tight. It must have been an hour before I dared to open my eyes and breathe normally again. Are you okay?

I finally asked. No response. I tried asking again, a little louder, and still my husband didn't respond. Luke, when I clicked on the flashlight, I saw Luke staring at the window. His face twisted into an expression of horror I'd never seen before. His skin was pale and his body was rigid as a corpse. And try as I did, I couldn't get him to respond to me in any way. His look of sheer terror never once changed, even as I carried him to the car and drew.

drove us as fast as I could to the hospital. The doctor said, it was a stroke. Of course, I was incredulous that such a thing could happen to my fit, non-smoking, 29-year-old husband. But no one could offer me a better explanation. For the next few days, I waited for a recovery that never came. Then the days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and the months into years. While Luke regained some very minimal motor control, blinking and twitching his fingers,

it was clear that he would never be the same. I became his full-time caretaker, spending my days attending to all of his needs and my nights praying that he would make a miraculous recovery. As of this evening, five years have passed since the storm. Old Wicotony is still alive and kicking somehow, and her visits always seem to make Luke perk up just a little bit. She's sleeping on his chest as I tell this, taking care of him in her own way. I'm glad to have her around. But even though I try not to be superstitious, her presence always brings me back to the night of the blizzard.

I think about Tucker, who ran away after the storm past, I was never seen. seen again. I think about the Martin and the mice and the bear, and the way all of them acted like they were fleeing from something terrible. I think about the look on Luke's face, and I can't help but wonder if they all saw the same thing. Maybe Luke saw something he wasn't meant to, something that his brain had destroyed itself trying to comprehend. I look at my husband, the love of my life and can't help but mourn what was taken from me that night. If I had opened my eyes, if I had been brave enough to look, would I have met the same fate?

What did you see? I ask him, like I have a thousand times before. I never. Get an answer. Most Uber drivers serve a wide variety of customers. Some probably have never seen the same. same person more than once. But I've been serving the same person for almost a year now. At first, it was a coincidence. He lived relatively close to me, so when I accepted the ride and

picked him up, he, for some reason, seemed relieved that someone had come. Then I saw why. His route was a four-hour ride all the way to the nearby seaside town a town often visited in the summer months but he was heading there in late autumn I figured people cancelled on him once they saw the route so my accepting it gratified him I needed the money so I figured it was worth the time he was quiet the whole car ride and never spoke as he left

not even a thank you for making this absurd trip. And being new to Uber, I started to realize why I experienced riders would decline such a route. I was stuck in the town, with barely anyone doing anything since it was outside of peak activity. I made a few routes for some locals, trying to scrape some extra cash before heading back, but it was nowhere near the rates of the city where I lived.

Dejected, I was ready to head back, when I saw a ding near where I dropped the guy off. I accepted, and to my surprise, it was him. The route was the take him back home, another four-hour ride, which would make the day's profits far higher than if I'd done a whole day in the city. Ecstatic at the thought, I drove him back again in complete silence until I dropped him off and called it a day. Overall, it was a strange sequence of events, and at the time, one I did not want to repeat,

until I saw the tip. He had left a hefty 30% tip on top of the already expensive ride both ways. For someone struggling for money, this was a godsend. When I accepted a route the next day, day and went to the location. I was surprised to see that it was him again.

The route was readying for a four-hour ride back to the seaside town. It was obviously strange that he would go so far yet again, two days in a row. But, knowing what he was paying, I accepted again. This time, I didn't even bother doing any of the local routes there. I just hung around and grabbed a drink with the app open. the map hovering where I dropped him off. And, like clockwork, around two hours later, a ding popped. I quickly finished the drink and accepted the ride,

and it was him ready to go home. I relaxed when I finished my shift and lit up when I saw that yet again, he dropped a 30% bonus on top. The next day, when I started my routine of checking the app, I was doubtful that he would want to go there again. It was preposterous that he even went twice like that, but a lingering hope in the back of my head made me check if there were any roots around where I picked him up.

And my jaw dropped when I saw one there, exactly where I usually picked him up. This set my routine for the next few months. Every weekday, I would start up my app at around 8 a.m., driving to the town, waiting around two hours, and then driving back, each time getting a juicy 30% tip on top. God knows if he did this on the weekend with someone else, but I was not going to do this seven days a week.

I'm not a very talkative person, but I sometimes tried to start a conversation, but I'm just met with silence. I even tried to offer my personal number, in case he wanted to do this outside of Uber, so they wouldn't scrape their fees from the payment and make it cheaper for him. But no, he would just look out the window and watch the roadside, eyes glazed over, lost in thought.

So, when he finally spoke, I nearly jumped. The town means a lot to me, he said. His voice sounded like someone who had just woken up. making me wonder if this was the first time he'd spoken to anyone in a long time. I froze, but didn't want to pass up the opportunity of knowing more. So, I asked why. He opened up about his connection to the place, but he used to go there often,

and now that he was no longer working, just wanted to spend his days there. I asked him if he was retired. He said that he wasn't, but that he lived off of passive income. that supported his lifestyle. It was intriguing learning about his unique circumstances

and despite the long ride we soon neared the location and he quietened up. On the way home he talked about the things he liked there the local ice cream shop that made their own flavors the bike rentals that let you see the scenes in good time the corpse I shopped around

was suddenly animated a life with nostalgia even recommended places for me to go, somehow knowing that I now waited for his ride back. I dropped him off with a smile, excited to learn more the day after. When I got home, my eyes widened when I checked the Uber app. He slammed me with a 50% tip, far exceeding what he had tipped before. I almost wanted to return it, but I didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth. It helped me so much with my financial issues, and he seemed to have an endless source of income to have supported this strange lifestyle. The day after, I tried asking him more questions.

I was curious about more of the local experiences and his connection to them. Despite having been there so much, I knew next to nothing about the place. But I was only met with stone cold silence. It was like he had reverted back to how he was, just solemnly looking out the window the whole ride. The way back was all the same. It seemed he had expended his burst of social energy and fell back into his usual routine. I tried again the day after and was met with more silence. The tips reverted back to 30%.

Nothing to scoff at, but short. of the big payday I was after. A while went by like this. A silent ride there, a silent ride back, sandwich between visiting the few spots he recommended, which were just as good as he had hyped them up to be. Yet, despite visiting all the places he mentioned, he would never be there. Maybe it was a coincidence. We would always miss each other, having gone to different spots.

The time only allowed me to see one, maybe two depending on where I went. But after weeks of this, surely we would have lined up at least once. I was jolted again in the middle of a midweek drive. He broke the silence with another nugget of information. I go there to see my wife, he said bluntly. This answer raised so many questions. long distance is often almost entirely reserved for young people or people who cannot afford to move in together, but he was neither of those. Before I could ask him about it, he went on.

He spoke of how much he loved seeing her, describing how she looked, middle-aged, full blonde hair with a button nose, slender but not too slim. He was infatuated. glowing as he spoke, not only animated, but happy, a sharp contrast to how he usually seemed, so much so that I didn't want to interrupt him with my curious, yet benign questions. Sadly, he only started talking near the end of the trip, so by the time an opportunity came up to ask him my questions, we were pulling up to his stop. I waited around, too curious to do much in the town, only grabbing some food and waiting with excitement. After spending so much time with him, I was invested in his story, only drip-fed to me in rare times.

When I got the ping, I hurriedly picked him up, my mouth bursting with the questions I had bottled up. I tried to broach the topics calmly. I asked him why they lived apart, why he didn't just live in the town and why they only see each other for such a small window each day. I did so as politely as possible, but was only met with a silence I was all too familiar with when I got home. I had two amounts for the trips. A 50% tip on the way there and only 30% for the way back. A curious hint about how he wanted things on the plus side. I was able to start living how I wanted. The first thing I reinvested in was a new car.

I was spending so much on fuel, so to get something more economical was basically an investment, though the luxury extras were me treating myself. Then I felt too scruffy to be seen in the thing, so I even got some nice new clothes, standout brands that would make it look like I didn't just steal the car from the lot. It took a good few months before he spoke again. I was scared my probing questions that offended him.

But when he spoke, he dropped some heavy information, answering my questions as if I'd only just ask them. The reason we don't live together is because she died. He said dejectedly, my heart sank. This answered, as I'm sorry. surprising amount of my questions. The whole bizarre routine started to make more sense. It was a saddening twist to the tale that was being drip-fed to me.

He told me stories of their time together, that she was with him from rags to riches, and that despite making something out of himself, he said that he cannot share the fruits of their labour together. This explained why he frivolously spent on Uber's every weekday, just to keep up this ritual. This time, he talked almost the entire four-hour ride there. He shared personal details about the relationship, the ups and downs, the things he didn't realize he'd miss until she was gone. It was touching and really progressed me emotionally,

for when I finally meet someone worth sharing my life with. When he exited the car, he shared one piece of five, final wisdom. It's the routines that matter. Make sure you keep up a good routine. This way, you never forget what happened. It was cryptic enough to apply to many things. I chose to hold onto it and to hopefully fully know the meaning of this proverb. The ride back was silent, but in a good way, resting in the good energy of openness. I got home to a few. 50% tip both ways, and I felt content that we finally had a rapport. The day after, I asked him more questions about his wife.

He seemed more animated and alive when talking about her, so I hoped that I could breathe some new sense of purpose for him. Even if it meant I would lose out on this amazing Uber gig, I would feel content to see him relive his life. However, when I looked back in the rearview mirror, he was looking out the window, silent like before. I tried to probe once more, but we were back to our usual routine. The following weeks were the same. Each time I thought I had made enough progress to get to know him, he closed up.

It was only when I tried to start conversation, so I noted that it always had been. had to be him, no exception. So I waited. And eventually, the day came when the silence was once again broken one week from now. We'll be the anniversary, he muttered, my heart sank. But this was just the beginning of the heart-wrenching details. He told me how things happened from his perspective. He said they went to the seaside town for a few days, bookwerecting details. But a nice hotel and planned to spend a few days there just to relax. It was the start of autumn, but it was also their anniversary. They didn't care that it would be cold and that it would basically be a ghost town. They just wanted to share their special day together in the place

that meant the most to them. This touching scenario was ripped from my gut as he explained what actually happened. They were walking near the pier. It was early afternoon, broad daylight, when he lost sight of her while distracted for only a moment. There weren't many people around, and not many places she could have gone. Yet despite this, he couldn't find her afterwards. He looked nearby, and when that didn't work, he checked places they usually went to. He even went back to the hotel to see if she had maybe forgotten something and went back. empty. He couldn't believe she had just vanished, so he waited around spots they frequented,

occasionally switching locations to see if she'd be there. When it started getting dark, he reluctantly called the police to file a report. He was assured she was probably lost, not being local on all, and that this happened often. So they sent out a few search parties to check around, but days went by. Nothing was found. It was only after a week that she was found, and hearing it was like a punch in the gut. She was found floating below the pier.

Despite the scenario that she had maybe fallen in, evidence showed she was abducted and brought back there. Fowl play was immediately ruled in. The sea washed away all forensics, so it was already a cold case. I was devastated hearing this. Yet despite this, he held a hopeful smile, maybe clinging on to the cherished memories rather than the grim ending.

But this story was followed by a request. The next Wednesday was going to be their anniversary date. He asked that I'd be around to make sure I could take him to the seaside town. Without hesitation, I hope. wholeheartedly agreed. I even offered my personal number in case something happened, but he politely declined. The ride home was silent, but with an air of solemn optimism. A hope lingered in the air. No words were exchanged, nor did they need to be. I now felt I was doing something bigger than myself, a duty to the calmer of the universe.

When I got home, I checked the app and was hit with an 80% tip both ways. A hint that said to make sure I was ready on Wednesday. And I was. When I picked him up, I was surprised. From the cocoon of a dreary middle-aged man emerged a dapper gentleman. He wore an elegant long black peacoat over a suit that wasn't too formal, but definitely stood out. The day was chilly, so his hands sat in nice fur-lined leather gloves.

This was the sharpest contrast from what I'd seen in the many months I'd been with him. I felt like an underdressed chauffeur rather than an Uber driver. I smiled without a chauffeur hat to tip and proceeded to the town. The silence was pleasant this time around, lingering with a sense of her. hope and wonder. I fully believed that he was there to enjoy the memories of his time with his departed wife, and I smiled the whole ride, hoping he got what he wanted from this endeavor. This time, he spoke on the way back. I did it. It was exactly like before, he yelled animatedly. He described doing everything like he remembered, that it was just like before, and he was.

and that he felt a strong connection to her. Even said he might be able to move on, which stung a little, the thought that this routine could come to an end. But he topped it off with a feeling that this routine made him too happy and that for the foreseeable future, this will continue.

When I got home, I was met with his biggest tip yet. 100%. I was happy, he was happy. It was the best day of my life, living it vicariously through this interesting man I'd became acquainted with. The rest of the week was silent bliss. Each day he'd tip 100% both ways, his new standard for my dedication to his routine. I relaxed on the weekend, sitting back in a nice restaurant, a multiple course meal lined up.

A far cry from the ramen I'd become. I'm accustomed to many months ago. I had started living my life, not just because of the generous source of income, but to strive to be more like my inspirational passenger, until my phone dinged with a notification. It was the weekend, so it couldn't be Uber, and when I checked, I saw it was a news notification. I'd spent so much time in the seaside town that I'd spent so much time in the seaside town that I'd sometimes got news notifications from the area, my phone's location thinking I reside there. It was an emergency notification about a missing person.

The picture looked familiar, yet it was someone I'd never seen before. Middle-aged, full blonde hair and a button nose. Slender, but not too slim. It wasn't someone I'd seen before. But it was someone I remember having imagined. almost exactly how the man described his late wife. The details chilled me. She went missing in the early afternoon, near the pier.

No other details were known, just that they were still currently looking for a whereabouts. My heart sank. He didn't just say the day went well. He said it went exactly like before. It didn't take a genius to piece together what might have happened. He was a man of routine, and I guess this constituted as his new ritual. But as I looked at the food in front of me, the new car outside, and the nice clothes I could

finally afford I couldn't bring myself. To turn him in, I live under the greatest horror known to man, the Homeowners Association. The scrutiny of the recertoric rules is benign only to them. You may hear tales of HOAs that are sticklers to strict laws, but let me tell you that mine is far worse. I once saw them cite an old lady for undesirable decorations on her house. There were napkins that were blown around a porch after a barbecue. Driving through the streets, the neighbourhood almost looks like a movie set.

Within minutes of being expressed, all sense of personality is crushed. Still, I moved here at a much better price than if I lived in the city. I have more space too. For the cost of my house, I would be living in a small studio apartment that I wouldn't even own. So, I put up with the HOA simply by almost never being at home. The only downside for me is the community. is the commute. I have to travel far to get to work, and even further if I want to do anything recreationally.

But it's not too bad, knowing that I've never caused any reason to be cited. Until one day, I was sitting in my little cubicle at work when I got an email. At first I thought it might have been spam. It was a citation from the HOA that I was being written up about something. I thought this couldn't be the case since my home looked pretty much the same as when I first moved in, but I opened it anyway, just in case. My disbelief faded. It must have been real, because it had all my details that I used when I signed for the

house. Through some hoity-toity nonsense speak that they were obviously using to try to sell more professional than they actually were. It was a warning about a fine I'd get if I didn't clean my yard. This couldn't be the case, I thought to myself. But sure as day, there was an attached picture of a heap of mess on my lawn. It didn't look like a trash can had fallen over. The pile was of large pieces of junk containing a mixture of broken furniture and discarded

housing materials. Furious, I quickly opened my doorbell camera feed and checked through the day. Sure enough. there it was. A dusty looking pickup truck that pulled over, quickly launched the stuff off the back, and then sped off. Now, you'd think this would suffice that I had good reason that it wasn't me and that I was a victim of what looked like a random dumping. However, nothing I said absolved me of any wrongdoing. I would be fined if the site wasn't cleared by 10pm that evening. begrudgingly I got on with work and sped back, hoping I had enough time to clear it up by the set deadline.

When I pulled up to my drive, I was daunted by the task that lay ahead of me. The mound of rubble looked smaller on the wide-angle lens of my doorbell camera. In person, however, it was a heaping mountain of splintery, rusty, nail-riddled junk. I went to my shed, put on the thickest work gloves I could find, and prayed to the hepatitis gods that I wouldn't get a visit from them. Fortunately, I had a small trailer attached to the back of my car. I'd used it to move from the city all the way to this neighbourhood in one trip, knowing that the cost of renting a van would have been astronomical for how little stuff I owned. I loaded piece after piece, narrowly avoiding cuts and splinters with each item hurled into the trailer. It was getting close to the deadline when I was nearly finished.

Aside from a few small pieces skewed around, the last large item remained. A door inset into the lawn soil from how much weight had been on top of it. It was old-looking, but not decayed. more so in the sense of its build and look. It had inset grooves that reminded me of a museum piece. Even the smell of damp soil brought out that aroma you only get from an antique shop that only stalked from the freshly deceased. The doorknob was a marred brass that had long lost this metallic luster.

I tried to pry the edges with my fingers for the perch, but couldn't get between the wood and soil. goodness knows how but it was perfectly flush with the ground almost like it was painted there i grabbed a thin piece of scrap from the trailer to try prying it from the ground at least enough for me to get my hand under but my luck being the way it was the piece of scraps snapped almost instantly i stood there for a few minutes trying to figure out what to do i lived alone and far away from friends so I had no one to call for a helping hand. I was put off the idea of asking a neighbour, knowing that the HOA could be any one of them and I had no intentions of interacting with them. So I did what any man would do in this situation.

I tried whatever I could think of as soon as it popped into my head. I kicked down on a corner to see if the other side would rise up an inch. Nothing. I looked to rope around. the door-knob and pulled to the side, hoping it would slide out. Nothing. I even tried to see if the previous house owner had left any old tools in the shed.

Nothing. The only bit of movement I got was the door-nob idea, which gave a slight, barely noticeable rise when I pulled. So I focused on that angle and tried more ideas. If pulling to the side didn't help, maybe using it as a handlewood, so I tied a rope around it and heaved upwards. The door rattled with each pull, almost like someone trying to check a locked door, but the bevel of the knob made it so my terrible tying skills were made apparent.

The rope slipped off every time I felt I had a good purchase on it. This left me with my final option. try it by hand. My grip was far from that of a rock climber, so I didn't feel confident in this, but it was worth a shot. I squatted down, gripped it with both hands, and heaved as hard as I could, that minute lift gave, but nothing more than that. Whatever this was made from must have been the heaviest wood known to man.

wonder the people ditching it didn't want to take it to the dump. Knowing that I'd somehow have to heave this into a skip was just as daunting as handling it in the moment. With a heavy hoff, I gave it one last hard pull. As I adjusted my grip, the doorknob did what it was designed to do and twisted as I pulled. And as it did, I heard a familiar click. Suddenly, my ass was wet in the lawn as the door flung open. In hindsight, the thing was the weight of a normal door that I'd forced open with all the might I could muster. This door haphazardly left crooked on my lawn opened, and a gust of musty air seeped from underneath.

And when I stood up, I saw why the wind whistled on the edges of the now over upright door, which somehow opened into a tunnel, perfectly lined up to the angle the door had been left. I was no longer bemused by the incident. However, the swirl of emotions never settled, so I still can't quite place how I truly felt about the situation. The door sat nearly upright, just tilted far enough that it didn't immediately snap closed. that angle was the furthest it sat. I tried pushing down on it to somehow snap it off its hinges

to try get rid of it, knowing the new hole in my garden was going to have to be a future issue, but to no avail. I dared not look into the hole for a while. I was daunted by the prospect of the job. Had it breached any important pipes or wires? Was it a straight drop which would be a danger to the neighbourhood kids? What could even have made such a hole in such a short time? I hadn't seen anything that could have caused it on the video from the doorbell camera. All I saw were the workers dumping the junk in my yard. This hole was a whole new development,

and something the HOA would have a feel day with when I finally peered in. Something struck me as odd. On top of the oddity of the whole situation, was the angle in which the hole went. It was steep, but sloped, just enough to be able to walk down, and my cell phone's flashlight didn't tickle the depths it boasted. Even sticking my arm as far as I could didn't reveal where the hole ended,

though this was me lying on the edge so I couldn't reach far. I didn't dare walk down without a plan. So that was the next step I took to figure the whole situation out. I grabbed a helmet I had stashed for the bike I never used, a flashlight I had for if the power ever went out, and a stick from the junk pile in case I needed to poke something. I was obviously inexperienced, but I didn't let this stop me from trying to scope out what I was dealing with.

The door, when opened, never lay flat. standing nearly vertical just past 90 degrees, but it held open untouched, so I slowly made my way in, using my dim flashlight to penetrate the thick darkness below. I made sure I was always in sight of the exit. However, the further I went in, the deeper it went. I took a few more cautious steps before I realized that the tunnel did not. end, but rather it split in different directions. Whenever this hole was, it seemed to lead into a system of underground channels that ran much

further than I planned to go. So, I had to rethink my plan. I made my way back out and put on my thinking cap. From what I saw, it was just hollowed out dirt, but my new fear was the direction. one of the tunnels went. It turned towards my house, making me worry about the structural integrity. If this ran under the foundations,

I would be in a world of trouble if the unsupported hollows fell through. I decided on one last foray into the darkness, this time equipped with something to help me find my way back. I tied a couple rolls of garden twine around a heavy piece of junk I placed, back of my yard, and I unwound it as I went back in. I had one hand slowly unraveling the

twine, while the other held the flashlight. I had the stick under my arm for the time being. Going down again, a strange thought crossed into my head, one that whispered before, but feeling it the second time was too patterned to notice. The slope had rhythmic bumps, interludes of rounded edges that were too perfectly aligned to be natural, near smooth in the middle, but very apparent when looking at the concave sides. It was almost like there were once earth and stairs that had been worn down through use. I didn't want to dwell on that too much, knowing this hole wasn't here for my entire time living here, so to see something so used was too much to bear.

The whistling of the wind outside faded the further I went in, mixing in with some faint chatter. Maybe some pass-a-bys were just as confused as me about an open door on a lawn. And soon, I was at the crossroads I found before. I peaked left and right, but knew the left turn would lead under my house the section I was most worried about. I toyed in my head for a while about just turning back, maybe calling a professional, though a professional what? I did not know.

Someone else to take a look, but I mainly just wanted to make sure that my house would at least make it through the night. This decision. I was soon taken from me. The wind that was only a wind before, gave a loud howl. It was a strong gust between the many small whispers it had been doing until then, but the gust must have lined up perfectly with the door. It slammed shut with an earthen thud rather than a wooden bang you'd expect from a door

slam. The line was taught now, the twine held in place by the closed door, so I followed it back up to try to get it loose and try again. next time propping the door open for security. But, as I gave the door a push, it didn't budge. Silly Me was pushing with the muscle memory strength used to open a regular door, but this was horizontal, so I realized I needed to add some heft to pry it open. So I tried again, with more gusto, nothing.

I forward at this, trying again harder. Nothing. Worried, I perched the leg higher on the slope and shoved. Nothing. I crouched damn near into a ball, twisted the handle and jumped with a door flush on my back. Nothing. It didn't even give a rattle, even on my strongest attempt. It was well and truly stuck now.

I bashed repeatedly, hoping that the voice. The voices outside could hear me, but all that remained was silence. Pressing my ear against the door didn't even yield the winds of the wind outside. Eventually, the silence was broken. But not from the outside. It was subtle at first, but unmistakable. There was a scuttling sound in the dirt deeper into the tunnels. The banging seemed to have stirred something dwelling in the dark.

This left me with the ultimatum of my life. Stay and keep trying the door, knowing I was far into a dead end, or go further in to find an alternative exit, to at the very least have a chance to move away from whatever was waking in the tunnels. I gave a final silent heave, putting my entire body into a hard squat, making sure the doorknob was turned. But to no avail, I was stuck with option B. I knew the twine I brought was finite, but I still opted to use it as much as possible. I made my way to the crossroads, and made the left I originally settled on when I first went in.

My hope was that if this was a system centered around my house, there might have been another exit in my house. Though the thought of that was something I didn't want to dwell on too much in the moment. I carefully carried myself forward, trying to stay composed between more scuttling sounds or dirt sprinkling from the low ceiling. My senses were on edge, and they only got more heightened with each step deeper. I kept my light downward like the headlights of a car.

I didn't want the bloom to bleed too far forward in case something surprised me up ahead. I kept my presence as small as possible. minimal sounds, slow breathing and slow steps. But a sound trickled into my ears, making my hairs stand on end. Something so distinguished and recognizable that I couldn't logic it away as dirt or paranoia. A hoff of a deep breath into the tunnel behind me. This was only exasperated when, on top of that, I felt the slightest tug on the twine. It must have stepped on a bit of slack in the darkness.

The relief I felt from having looked into the correct direction was overwritten by the feeling that it was stalking me from behind. No matter how far I moved, it seemed to still be there, matching my pace as if watching me like prey. This was coupled with an intrusive thought that this was only making me move deeper and deeper into the tunnels, further away from the only exit I knew of. I was so preoccupied with this

that my face made a soft thud with the wall in front of me, and this was the tipping point for whatever was following me. Like the pop of a starting gun at a race, whatever stalked, now hunted. I heard its skitters rapidly pound the ground as it sprinted towards me. My fear of a dead end was short-lived as I saw it was another split. I dropped the twine and grabbed the stick from under my arm,

knowing the twine wouldn't last to run, and I needed my arms free to run as fast as possible. Having turned left before, I chose to go right this time and sprinted away, hoping I was at least matching its pace to keep distance. With the light now pointed forward, I could see the next crossroad. I chose left and kept running, still hearing the scratching sprint behind me. Another turn, another crossroad, more turns. It wouldn't let up. And as I reached another fork, I heard a new set of scratching that started heading in my direction. Another one joined the fray.

This forced my choice to the direction opposite to the sound. I ended up making so many turns and splits that I was well and truly lost. There was no way to backtrack my directional choices with how preoccupied I was. Turn after turn, randomly choosing whenever a choice presented itself, I reached another split. But this time, something was in front of me. With flickers of my flashlight swings from my sprint, I didn't get a good look at the thing, but what I did take in was sharp. with concaves like they were made for tunneling, but doubled as extremely dangerous weapons.

I didn't have time to stop, so I lurched my arm into a swing and lashed out of the thing with my stick. It barely gave any resistance before shattering. Without a doubt, it did no damage, but it stunned it enough for me to slip by. I discarded what remained of the stick and headed away from the thing, knowing that the others were also catching up. I dipped around bends and turns as best as possible, but I knew my endurance was reaching its limit, and these things showed no signs of slowing down. This was their domain, and they held all the advantages here. As I ran, I caught glimpses of the walls.

occasionally there were mars of marks in a symmetrical pattern, obscenely long gashes left by their tunneling claws. Some were set deep, more than lethal if they were to hit me, showing me the consequences of being caught. I took a turn fast and my foot caught on something. I flopped face down into the dirt, my helmet saving me from a broken nose. if slowing down was a danger.

This was a death sentence. I pulled my leg up to check the damage, trying to be conscious of every second spent. But as I looked down, I saw what I had tripped on, a body. It wasn't human. It was one of them. It's more hung agape, life long since gone from its eyes. signs of decay had set in all over. The thing that made me rule out death of natural causes

were the puncture wounds littered all over the body. Whatever did it went deep, but some that must have ricketts stuck out. Thin metal needles protruded from some of the wounds. I was distracted. I realized I'd been staring too long, enamored by the sight before me. At the pace that I heard them,

They should have been on top of me any second. However, they weren't. I could still hear them, but they slowed, then stopped. There were a few confused potters, before as quickly as they came, I could hear them slowly scatter away. I didn't have time to ponder on what caused this, as I heard more steps coming towards me. But these were much heavier,

powerful thuds that I could almost feel while still on the floor. In the direction I was headed, I saw a new figure, larger, more humanoid, and slowly lumbering my way. Its eyes reflected a faint green, and he was holding something in both hands, but I couldn't see what. I tried to stand back up, but I couldn't. My leg twisted under me, and I could tell the heat I felt. felt was my leg swelling. Even if I'd made it up, I did not know which direction to run. There was doom in either direction. I slumped back down, choosing to die on the comfort of the floor and the pain of running, and as the lumbering behemoth walked up to me, it stopped short.

I looked back up, feeling that it was the last thing I would see. but was stunned trying to process what was in front of me. Beneath all the metal and technology that stood there was a man. I could see parts of his lower face, and I recognised the gloved hand of a human. The top half of his face was covered with a helmet that seemed to have lenses where his eyes should have been, most likely a peripheral to let him see in the dark. He was decked out in something I'd only imagine. from a sci-fi movie.

I saw what he held in his hand, some sort of gun, but one I didn't recognize from my limited knowledge of current era weaponry. Looking at him, just stood there, not saying or doing anything.

I think he was as stunned as I was. Eventually, it was him who broke the silence. Who are you? He muttered. His mind probably settled on it in the jumble of thoughts we were both in. I started to introduce myself, but I think the reality of the situation kicked in, so he interrupted me before I began and told me to follow him.

So I did. And he only led me to more questions. Where he took me was a stark contrast to the dark hells I just came from. I was in a makeshift room carved into what looked like a scientific facility. People worked on intricate machines, chemicals and computers. A few men standing around were in the same exoskeleton suits as the man who brought me here. To avoid collapse, thick metal beams acted as pillars to the installed metal ceiling. The metal panels lined the walls, which looks structural as well.

Each time someone glanced at me They would do a double take The second time we're in a shocked expression Followed by quickly getting back to whatever task they had on hand I don't know who'd win if there was a competition for more questions I sensed no hostility though A step up from the horrors I'd been pulled from Soon I was brought to another man wearing another exosuit

but marred with more damage and a collection of symbols which I could only assume marked his higher rank. Hey Captain, I got a weird one, found this guy on patrol. He looked at me inquisitively, a pause hanging in the air, before he plainly demanded. Speak, tell me everything. A simple request. I had no reason to hold anything back, so I caused. him up with everything that had happened. He was bemused that this started with me, just trying to sort out a fickle HOA situation.

But he had no reason to doubt anything I said. After more thought, he finally uttered a call. Take him to the room. Wait, what's going on? How do I get back? This is all I managed to mutter, as my arm was grabbed and pulled away. I blurted out more questions, but they were ignored. I tried asking my now prison guard, but he stayed silent under the watchful eye of the captain.

When he let go, I was in a room with a few others. This crowd did not look like they stumbled in here like I had. They were dressed like some of the people working the equipment in the main room. Stay here, we'll figure out what to do, he said in an assuring tone. though there was only so much assurance I could have in this situation. He closed the door and I heard it latch shut. In a futile attempt I tested it and it was indeed locked. Questions still swirling around my head.

It wasn't long before I was the one to broach conversation. What is going on? What is this place? A pause of silence falls. followed as they gathered their thoughts. But one of them spoke up, giving me their best attempt at enlightenment. So you really don't know what this place is? You weren't sent here from the higher-ups?

One man said. Before I could answer, another captive deduced the answer. Look at him. He's not in uniform. He's just some guy. This doesn't make sense. I started to get frustrated. I was in some place beyond imagination, with horrors above my comprehension.

Yet I was treated as the anomaly here, so I snapped at them. Look, I just stumbled in here. I have no idea what's going on. I've been lost, got chased, nearly damn well killed. Just tell me something. Anything, I... I don't know what to do. I trailed off at the end.

My outburst. quickly losing gusto, knowing that they were as captive as me. Another pause before the first man spoke her. My name is Dr. Jameson, and you've somehow wandered into base ivory of the... He was cut off by a hushed too much before he continued. Look, you've somehow stumbled into an experiment. We found away here through a door, a sort of dimensional anomaly. We scientists were stationed here to make grand discoveries.

You've seen our personal guard, the men in the tech fits. They were assigned to protect us while we carved out an outpost to work in. However, as he took a moment, the other's faces dropped. The signal of bad news. Our door just stopped working, or at least somehow jam-shot. We don't know if it was intentioned. from the higher-ups. They've been known to experiment on the experimenters.

But since this happened, we've not been allowed to work on an exit strategy. The TechFit Merks have us working on our experiments, regardless of circumstance, following the commands of those who sent us here, and they refused to deviate despite the circumstance. This room is where they put people who tried to do otherwise. At this, more silence fell. but I had a lingering thought itching in the back of my brain. So, what does this mean for me?

He just looked back at me one more time and said, I don't know. This ended the conversation, as we all had things to think about. Eventually, a call was made from outside that it was time to sleep. So, we settled. into the bunks. I awoke to some yelling

and what sounded like the pinging of metal. At this, I bolted up and looked around. It seemed I was the only one perturbed by this, but my motions seemed to have stirred Dr. Jameson awake. What's going on? I asked. Probably the moles. One must have gotten close. The moles?

I asked back. Yeah, you said you were. chased, so I'm guessing you saw them, or at the very least heard them. Blind, mammalian, tunnelers. We discovered them after losing contact from the higher-ups. So we were never given a name for them, so we just called them moles. In my head, I scoffed at the mundane name, but chose not to let it out to keep conversation flowing. So, what are they? We don't know. It's one of our tasks down here. Examined local species. He spoke of this like a job rather than a fight for survival, but his casual nature

did give some slight assurance. Having ran out of questions, he took my silence as the end and rolled back over to sleep, knowing there was nothing more to do. I did the same. When I woke next, there was a metallic bang. The door rattled from the other side and an authoritative voice yelled for us to wake up. With a lack of urgency the others had, I assume this was just a routine wake-up call. We stretched the sleep away and opened the door. A guard stood there and glanced at the room and stepped aside. I forwarded my brow in surprise, thinking that if we were to escape, he had left more than an opening. But I was even more surprised when I saw the others meander out of their own accord.

What's going on? Are we being let go? I asked Dr. Jameson as he walked by. It's breakfast. We're being let out to eat, he replied. I lowered my voice to a hush. But this is the perfect time to escape, no. It's just one guy. I glanced over to him. He doesn't even have a weapon. This gave Dr. Jameson a chuckle. And go where. We're safe for here then. out there, and they know this. At this, he joined the line filing out, and I followed in suit. We ended up in a sort of makeshift mess room, tables and basic kitchen appliances, stacked high were large boxes, and each person in turn put their hand in and pulled out a random metallic bag.

Damn, curry, I hate this one, one muttered, and he took it over to a kettle and started preparing it, Everyone pulled something out, and I was last, reaching in to find a bag labeled lamb. I looked at it, confused, and Dr. Jameson peaked at what I had. Wow, lucky, that's the best one. I'll trade you, he muttered. Do you not get to choose what you get? I asked back. I mean, yeah, you could, but the randomness of what you eat is damn near the only entertainment you can get down here. I'm pretty sure hitting the lamb jackpot is what gets some people sane down here.

I looked down at my bag of food, knowing he probably needed this more than me. So I agreed to the trade without seeing what he had. His bag was labelled cowboy casserole. I followed the instructions in the bag and prepared it as best as possible. It wasn't a spectacular taste, but it wasn't bad either. These were probably standard issue MREs they'd brought with them when they set this place up. Damn near unperishable food for long expeditions. When Dr. Jameson opened his lamb bag, I expected a divine aroma compared to what I was putting up with.

But no, it was just as mundane as mine. I think they must have created a placebo of a lamb hype. Maybe someone initially started the rumor, knowing it would add some excitement to someone's day and have others looking forward to something. Thinking that it was a pragmatic ideal, I kept my thoughts to myself and ate as much as possible. When we were done, we were lined up. The soldier walked back and forth a few times, glaring at us occasionally, before speaking up. As you know, delinquency and insubordination is a bit of. not tolerated. You have been designated to the room indefinitely for your actions. However,

this is your daily chance to come out. Return to work and do not cause trouble for the others with your plans. Silence fell, and a few dropped their heads into feet and stepped out the room. After a while longer, he spoke once more in a defeated tone. Okay then, everyone else follow me back to the room. The remaining people shuffled back, myself included. Knowing I'd be stuck back in that room for a while, I paid more attention to my surroundings, trying to get as much information as possible.

I noticed much more now that adrenaline wasn't altering my focus. I saw things they were working on, sampling the dirt, picking apart the bodies of the moles, and tinkering with pieces of the armor the guards wear and other technologies. I got some glances back, presumably from people who hadn't seen me the first time around. But one scientist in particular had a startling gaze. He looked like something in his head clicked into place, maybe an epiphany on something he was working on.

Yet his expression never shifted back to his work. It was solely focused on me. When we returned to the room, we were simply told to await further in the room. instruction. The conversation in the room was dry. Either they were socially inept or purposely closed me out, and I couldn't figure out which. The closest to answers I had was Dr. Jameson, but the way he was cut off showed they didn't trust me with the information. If I could get him alone, I was sure I could get him to spill more details, but it was impossible with this room situation. Suddenly, there was a scuffling sound from outside, and people were shouting.

I couldn't distinguish what was said through the thick door, but it sounded heated. The door banged, then quickly opened, the scientist that was pressed up against it falling in. His face scrunched up in anger, and expletives were thrown at the guard who ignored him as he locked the door. However, the second the door clicked, his facade dropped, his expression lightened up, and he set to a sly grin. When I got a good look at him, I recognised him as the man glaring at me when I walked back to the room. Hi, he opened with. However, it wasn't a universal greeting to the people in the room.

He was directed solely at me. Oh, uh, hi, I mused back. Not deterred by my hesitation, he went on, a lot more open than the people I'd been stuck with so far. My name is Dr. Kirkland. You're obviously not from around here. So, how did you get here? He asked.

I went on to explain my situation. Though I wasn't happy with a lack of reciprocation each time I did this. His face displayed his feelings on each bit of information he extracted from my tail, not hiding his thoughts on my predicament. After some deliberation, he broke his silence. Look, I want to get out of here, need to get out of here, and I want your help. I just wore a shocked expression at this. He continued gesturing to the people around him to listen in, who are now leaning in to pay attention.

We are safe here. We have use. You don't. He pointed at me. Your safety is not guaranteed. He almost sounded like a salesman, giving his best pitch to sell his idea. But I also couldn't refute his logic, especially with how little I knew. Before I could even respond, the rouse crowd started to pipe in. Sure, we have use, but to compromise the facility with escape is grounds for termination.

They would not let that fly, one chimed in. Homs of agreeance resounded from the audience. Even if we did get out, where would we go? These aren't some pushovers like the FBI or CIA? Another person interjected. I was surprised that he spoke so lightly of what I was. was led to believe were the best. This must be deeper than I could possibly imagine.

This is a room full of the smartest people in this dimension. They call the shots, but we're the brains behind everything. You don't think we could manage something easy like this? I know for a fact some of you have achieved feats that make this look like child's play. At this he shot some specific glances to certain people, which they looked back with growing confidence. which again I had no context to what he was talking about. Remember, we don't just work here. We made this place.

He didn't think I would think ahead. At this, Dr. Kirkland pulled out a pale blue device with a mismatched asymmetrical pattern on the end, almost like the teeth of a skeleton key. If his speech hadn't fully convinced everyone, this revelation certainly did. In turn, everyone who thought themselves of use chipped in with info or services they could provide. I know the code for the equipment room.

There's a set rotation the guards follow. I made the schedule. The northside tunnel is the least guarded. We'll have our best shot there. Excitement grew in the room. And I started falling for it. It seemed individually, no one had any luck towards escape. But together, they were in the room.

the jigsaw pieces that fell perfectly into place. Once the plan was set, all we had to do was wait for the perfect time. Man had his ear to the door, the room silent for him to make the call for action. Dr. Kirkland stood by with his strange key, ready to move on the signal. After many agonizing moments, the man up front raised his hand and everyone snapped into place. Though these people were only the scientists, I could tell they had some form of military training.

No words were uttered. Only silent hand motions directed the squad on how to move. Even the way they walked to minimize sound a lot. Compared to them, I sounded like a lumbering giant, even though I was trying my best to mimic their posture. We slipped around corners, the frontman moving with confidence, knowing we were moving through blind spots.

We reached the turn and he double-checked if it was clear. He made a motion with his hand and another man turned the corner. When I moved round to follow the rest of them, he quickly entered a combination on a number pad and opened a thick metal door. Inside was something that looked like something from the future. Equipment that I hadn't the faintest idea did what. But it seemed I didn't need to. because each scientist went straight for what they needed.

Some grabbed goggles that had a green hue on the lens. Two grabbed the large rifles I saw the guards carrying and others grabbed things I hadn't seen before. Since I was apparently not given a crash course on how this tech worked, I was simply left with my bike helmet and flashlight, much to the degrading looks from the others. If bets were placed on who would die first, all of them would have been.

on me. We left the room as silently as possible. In a single file, I followed the point lead around more turns. We passed by rooms that looked like they were used for storage or an office, but other rooms were so beyond what I understood that I had no idea what they did in them. As we reached a straight tunnel that transitioned from metal to dirt, a sure sign of an exit, we heard yells from behind. I couldn't fully understand what they said, but I picked up on the distinct word, escaped.

They knew we were gone, and would soon be behind us. And now the chase was on. We stopped just shy of the darkness, some adjusting their goggles to see in the dark, others pulling out strange-looking devices that lit up the tunnel in front of them. Dr Kirkland turned to me An adrenaline-fuelled grin beaming at me Okay Where is the entrance you came in from?

He asked What? Oh, I don't know I was lost when they found me I replied His face dropped Wait, did you hinge this entire plan on that Dr Jameson blurted A look of confidence reappeared on Dr. Kirkland's face

Though this one looked more forced Don't worry, if he got in, it means we can get out, he roused. We all made our way deeper, footsteps picking up behind us. I didn't have the hard to tell him that my door jammed, just like theirs. It wasn't long until all hell broke loose. I was held up in a dark cubby with Dr. Kirkland, running so fast that some of us got split up on the first fork, and the scuttling forced more of us to separate.

The ones carrying the rifles were needed at the front, but lagged behind due to the weight. And, when I saw on fire, it sent the scientist near horizontal from the kickback after only a few shots. What shots landed on the mole well and truly killed it, but the loss of control sent a few shots into innocent bystanders. The wounds left behind were near perfect holes straight through,

the wall behind having the remnants of metal spikes. A caseless railgun shot that could be used for long excursions, I was told during some downtime. I'd lost track of Dr. Jameson, but the footsteps, followed by shots and screams, told me that the guard's leniency had been spent. It was either stay in work or die. And we had all chosen the latter.

Dr. Kirkland and myself were holed up in a curve, just big enough to fit us, a blind spot if someone ran past. We stayed quiet when we heard a scuttling and felt a breeze of moles rushing towards the commotion. I have to get out, I have to get out, I have to get out, Dr. Kirkland kept muttering to himself. Despite the chaos and all the lives lost, he was driven to get out. not saying us or we had me rethinking his pragmatic coaxing of the group. Were we just fodder to help him escape? There were noises still, but far off.

So, I had to find out. Talk to me. You had a plan to get here. What do we do now? I whispered. This seemed to break him out of his stupor, and he sat there for a while in silence, thinking, I need to get out.

We need to get out. Wait until they've passed and we move forward. It was such a vague plan. No thought beyond what I could have come up with myself. What sickened me was the lack of initiative to help the others. We just sat there hearing their cries for help. They were secondary to his own escape, myself included most likely.

So I pride and what I was more curious about in that moment. Why do you need to get out so badly? I asked bluntly. At this, he took another pause, contemplating a response. I have a family. I miss them. We were sent here on the promise of returning. We were to set up the facility, then cycling scientists to work here. I was one of the first in. I need to get out. I need to see them. He was fixated on this. He must have thought this humanised his actions,

but the screaming and dying in the distance made it all the more selfish. Who knew how many families were losing someone here, just for him to try see his? All I knew was that he grabbed one of those insanely put-together weapons, so sticking with him was still my best shot. The screaming and fighting were dying down. We quieted down ourselves as our surroundings did, and as we did, heavy and deliberate footsteps approached, no doubt one of the guards.

They were creeping with caution on the lookout for hiding scientists and violent moles. A barely audible whisper trickled into my ear. If he sees us, point your flashlight in his eyes. I will do the rest. My mind boggled with responses. was he planning on us taking the guard down together or using me as bait? I no longer had faith in his motives. However, the footsteps were drawn nearer,

and each step taken was taking away time to reply. I hadn't decided on what to do, so I let myself move in the moment. The steps clunk to a stop before us, and a pause lingered in the air. The crackle of static rams. out, and he spoke into his radio. I've got one here, ready to engage, click.

We were compromised, so now was the time to strike. I heard Dr. Kirkland yell out, and out of reflex, I flicked my light on and swung it around, looking to get in in his visor. But as soon as I found his head, we both stopped. He wasn't looking at us, but was looking further down the hallway. However, our outburst made him turn to face us, to which he flinched from being blinded by my light. I guess Dr. Kirkland was right.

Whatever they used as seen in the dark seemed to flashbang his vision with a direct light source. A screech followed straight after, but it wasn't from the guard. It wasn't even human. A sprinting thud crashed from where he was looking at, and as I turned, A mole dove straight at us. Dr. Kirkland fired a few stray shots, and one pierced straight into his abdomen. But like before, the shots also sent Dr. Kirkland falling back, and this left him no time to get out of the way.

With the mole's momentum, it landed claws first into both Dr. Kirkland and the guard, who never stood a chance while blinded. The guard fell from his hit, and the mole dug its nails wildly at both of them, goring them into a mess. Each swipe slowed down until it stopped, still perched between them, and slunk onto the floor. Turning my light towards it more, I saw it had bled out from the wound Dr. Kirkland had inflicted. And silence remained. I froze, now flying solo.

If Dr. Kirkland had a hollow plan that he was loosely following, I was now, now left entirely alone, a ship in open water with no wind. The guards' radio crackled, a deep voice repeatedly asking for an update, but who knows if they knew the exact turns he made to find him, or what was left of him at least. However, one tiny piece of information was the basis for my steps forward. The direction we heard the guard come from was my right. which told me that was the direction of the facility. So I turned left and started walking.

I opted not to take the weapon. I had seen it get someone killed more than it saved. The tunnels rewarded agility over brute force. But this didn't ease my mind and the challenges that faced me. Time passing was mental agony. I'd been wondering the tunnels for what must have been out. hours, sometimes running from the skittering chase of a mole, other times lurking and cutaway channels from the guards.

Through the distant chatter I would occasionally hear on their radios they were looking for only one or two more scientists, but it was still kill on sight. If they would so easily dispose of people a million times more useful than me, I would be squashed like an ant on sight. wouldn't even think twice. The distance I'd create from the guards did not provide safety. Each step away from them was also a step away from the safety that they used to provide. I was past the protection of their capture, however long they would have lasted.

Gunfire broke me out of my thoughts. Nearby, war cries rang out and footsteps of all types were bouncing around. The lighter skitters though were headed towards me. scared off in my direction. I turned on my light, knowing that stealth was no longer an option, and ran away from the noises as fast as I could with my still swollen ankle.

The gunfire rang out every so often, screeches of beasts and men intertwined. It was an even fight, skirmishes that happened sporadically between the moles retreats and attacks, hit-and-run tactics. Each battle created more distance between them and me, but they would catch up between fights.

Whether intentional or not, each turn I made they would follow. It was impossible for me to tell if the moles thought my footsteps was one of theirs, back up, leading the guards into a trap, or if they knew the guards were hunting me, setting up a distraction for them to ambush. I dodged around turns, making each choice as randomly as possible.

But all the parties were still in my tail. Another skirmish broke out, and it only sounded a few turns away. I was too slow with my hobbling run. It wasn't long until they were on the same corridor as me, so I looked for somewhere to hide, hoping they'd pass by. Fear came over me, knowing this plan had its flaws. Images lingered in my head that they'd find me curled.

up or that I was caught in some sort of crossfire. My light lit up a turn that deviated from the tunnel I was in, but the dirt sloped. Something insect caught my light. Color, standing out from the dull brown and grey of the ground, thin and linear. It was my twine. I had somehow made my way back. I rushed up the slope, my legs burning from my monument. mental journey so far.

As soon as I reached the top, I grabbed the handle and paused with a silent prayer. With a make-or-break war cry, I twisted and should the door as hard as I could, expecting resistance. Instead,

it flung open with ease, sending me reeling out. I rolled on the ground from the momentum and quickly scrambled to my feet. I slammed the door shut, silencing the back, battle beneath and grab the heaviest thing nearby, dragging it on top. I had to catch my breath, lost from both exhaustion and adrenaline.

I slumped onto my back, the weight of everything keeping me grounded. I was still for the first time in so long, and I was relishing it. The sun was dull, which I estimated to be the late afternoon to early evening, turning my head gently, I saw where I was. Scrapped cars and discarded belongings scattered around, a crane in the distance that was used a whole mess around into a nearby compactor. It was a dump. My peace was short-lived.

I felt a multitude of shakes, but not from the door. My phone buzzed repeatedly in my pocket. I had almost forgotten about it since losing signal while stuck down there. The battery had the slimmest of red lines left. Still, there was enough to see the notifications now rolling in, the signal returning, opening the floodgates of everything I'd missed. Messages and missed calls from work rolled in, ranging from asking to where I was,

to anger about skipping a shift to concern about my whereabouts. Their concern warmed me a little. I had messages blasted from family asking where I was, a range of jokes at first about overdoing it on a late night out, to genuine fear of my well-being. And finally, a single email. It was from the HOA, telling me that I had not removed the mess in time,

so they hide some contractors to clear it up. The bill of which, would be added to my fine. Working as a park ranger was a big deal for me. I've always loved the outdoors and getting paid to patrol hiking trails and check on campsites felt like a dream. It was only a seasonal job,

but I was still content with the allocated time I was given. I'd been assigned to a remote national park miles from anything resembling civilization. My station was a tiny cabin in the main. middle of nowhere, surrounded by dense forest. There was an even cell service most of the time. First day in the job was pretty standard. I met Ed, my supervisor. He's this older guy, maybe in his 50s, with a kind of weathered face that says he's been out here way too long. Nice enough, but kind of distant. He handed me a basic book full of protocols, how to check the

trail damage, what to do if you encounter a bear, how to handle lost hikers, stuff you'd expect. But then, tucked in between the normal sections, there was this page titled Special Procedures. The front looked older, like it hadn't been updated in years, and it stood out immediately. The rules on the page. Well, they were different. ignore the screaming after midnight, never acknowledge the lake when it reflects the moon. If you hear footsteps behind you, do not turn around. I actually laughed when I first read them.

I thought it was some kind of joke the older rangers played on the newbies. But when I asked Ed about it, he didn't laugh. He didn't even smirk. He just said, follow them, and you'll be fine. That's it. No explanation, no elaboration. I even tried pushing him a little, asking why these rules are in there, and if this was some kind of hazing thing. But he just shrugged and said, you'll see.

So, I put the book down and figured maybe it was just some weird tradition or superstition that park stuff kept alive for fun. Maybe a way to freak out new hires. Whatever, right? But my first few nights of the cabin started to change my mind. You ever stay somewhere so quiet that it almost feels loud? That's how it was out there. At night, it was like the forest itself was holding its breath.

Sometimes the only sound was the wind pushing through the trees. Other times, there wasn't even that. The stillness made me jump at every creek of the cabin, every rustle in the bushes outside. And then there was this feeling, like I wasn't really alone, even when I knew I was. It was my third day in

when I first heard the scream. I was sitting at the tiny table in the cabin, halfway through a lukewarm cup of instant coffee. My eyes were glued to the book of rules again, trying to make sense of it all. It was late past midnight, but I wasn't tired. Something about the cabin made it hard to relax. Maybe it was how the floor creaked randomly, even when I wasn't moving, or the way the wind outside never quite sounded like just wind.

I was flipping through the rules. When it started, at first it was faint. I thought it was the wind again. But then it got louder. A sharp, piercing scream that cut through the stillness like a knife. It sounded human. A woman, maybe, or a kid. My stomach dropped.

I froze, my hand gripping the edge of the table so hard my knuckles turned white. My eyes darted back to the rules, to that stupid yellowed page. Ignore the screaming after midnight. Ignore it. Easy to write, harder to do when it sounds like someone's out there begging for help. I sat there for what felt like forever, just listening. The screen would rise, hold for a few seconds, and then fade. Then it would start again.

My heart was racing, and before I knew it, I was standing by the cabin door, my hand on the knob. I told myself it had to be something explainable. A hiker in trouble maybe, or an animal that just sounded like a person. I mean, I'm a park ranger. It's literally my job to check these things out, right? I stepped outside. The cold hit me first. It wasn't a normal cold.

It was biting, the kind that sinks into your bones. The forest was pitch black except for the faint cone of light from my flashlight. The scream came again, louder now, and I swung the beam in its direction, trying to see through the trees. My throat was dry, and every step I took felt heavier than the last. Then… It stopped, not just the scream. Everything.

The wind, the rustling of leaves. the distant sound of nocturnal animals. It all just cut out, like someone hit the mute button on the world. The silence was so thick I could hear my own breathing, quick and shallow. I don't know how long I stood there, frozen in place. But eventually I turned back toward the cabin. Whatever I thought I was going to find out there, it wasn't worth it. It. My skin crawled the entire way back, like something was watching me, just beyond the edge of the flashlight's reach.

When I got inside, I locked the door twice. The next morning, I asked Lisa about it. She's another ranger, works the main station closer to the visitor center. Lisa's the kind of person who always seems upbeat, like nothing rattles her. but when I brought up the scream her face changed immediately she went pale and her eyes darted around the room like she was checking to see if anyone else was listening you didn't follow it did you she asked her voice low I hesitated, not sure how much to admit. I stepped outside, I said finally. Didn't go far. Lisa's expression darkened.

She looked at me like I'd just signed my own death warrant. That's how it starts, she muttered. Then she stood up and walked out of the room like I wasn't even there. Later that day, I went out to the room. to patrol one of the popular trails near the cabin. It was my first time on that route, and for the most part, it seemed normal. Just trees, dirt, and the occasional squirrel. But about halfway through, I noticed something odd.

The ground had these scuff marks like someone had been running off the trail. The branches and the bushes nearby were broken, and the dirt was churned up, like it had been a struggle. I followed the marks for maybe 20 feet before I found it. A single boot. Muddy, torn, just sitting there in the middle of the forest. There was no sign of its owner. My stomach twisted as I stared at it.

It wasn't just the boot itself. It was the way it was sitting there, like it had been dropped deliberately. It didn't feel like something someone had just forgotten. It felt wrong. When I got back to the station, I told Ed about it. He barely looked up from his paperwork. The forest takes what it wants, he said, shrugging.

Then, he went back to his coffee. Like that was the end of it. The first time I broke a rule, I told myself it didn't really count. It was maybe a week in and I'd almost started to feel like I had a routine down. Sure, the rules are weird, and yeah, the nights were unnervingly quiet, but I'd convinced myself that things weren't as bad as I'd made them out to be. Then, the footsteps started. It was late, probably around 1 a.m., and I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep.

At first, I thought it was just the sound of branches tapping against the cabin. But then I realized it was rhythmic, slow, deliberate. Someone was walking around the cabin. I froze. My heart was pounding, but I kept telling myself to stay calm. I remembered the rule. If you hear footsteps behind you, do not turn around. Okay, fine. The footsteps weren't exactly behind me, but the logic seemed the same.

Just don't engage, right? The pacing continued. It circled the cabin, slow and steady, and I swear whoever or whatever it was would stop right by my window. I could feel it lingering there, just out of sight. The sound went on for hours. I tried covering my ears, but it didn't help. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was waiting for me to look. I held out as long as I could, but by 3 a.m., my nerves were shot.

I figured if someone was actually outside, I needed to know. What if it was a hiker or I got lost? What if I was in danger? I pulled back the curtain just a crack. Nothing. There was nothing out there, just the trees, the dirt path, and the faint glow of the moon. But the second I looked, the footsteps stopped, like they'd been waiting for me to break. The silence that followed was even worse.

It was thick, pressing down on me like gravity was being turned up on a dial. I didn't sleep that night. The next morning, I noticed something was off. My boots weren't by the door where I'd left them. They were in the middle of the room. My radio which I left off was on, hissing with faint static. And when I glanced at the window, I swear my reflection didn't move in time with me. It lagged just a split second, but enough to make my stomach drop.

I told myself it was nothing, just my mind playing tricks. But then I patrolled. the lake. A few days later, I was out patrolling the trails near the lake at dusk. The sky was this brilliant orange, and the moon was just starting to rise. When I got to the water's edge, I noticed the moon's reflection. It was too much, too bright, too vivid, almost like it wasn't just reflecting the moon, but amplifying it. I stood there for a second, hypnotized, before the rule clicked in my head. Never acknowledged the lake when it reflects the moon.

I snapped out of it and took a step back, but as I turned to leave, I saw a ripple in the water. There wasn't any wind, no fish jumping. Just that ripple spreading out from the river. center and for a split second. I swear I saw a hand, pale and thin, reach up toward the surface. I didn't stick around to see what came next. I stumbled back to the trail and didn't stop until I was halfway to the cabin. That night I had a dream.

I was back at the lake standing at the edge, but the moon's reflection was should be able to shattered, like broken glass. I could hear something crawling out of the water, slow and deliberate, dragging itself toward me. I couldn't move, couldn't even scream. I woke up, drenched in sweat, my heart racing, but it wasn't just a dream. When I swung my legs out of the bed, I felt cold, wet fabric. My boots were soaked, caked with my mouth. And there were footprints, muddy, unmistakable, leading from the door. To my bed, looking back, I think the first real warning sign wasn't the footsteps or the lake. It was Lisa.

She'd been one of the first people I'd met on the job, and while she wasn't exactly friendly, she was present. She'd crack a joke now and then. Talk about the hike she liked to take, but after the footsteps and the lake, she changed. She was still around, technically, but she wasn't Lisa anymore. Her skin looked pale, like she'd been sick for weeks, and her eyes. I don't even know how to describe it. They just didn't seem to focus, like she was looking through me, not at me. She barely spoke unless it was necessary

And even then her voice was flat Almost mechanical One morning I asked her if she was okay She just shrugged and said I'm fine just tired But she wasn't fine And the worst part Ed didn't seem surprised

If anything He avoided her When I brought it up to Ed later, he snapped at me. Ed, the guy who'd spent most of my first week cracking dad jokes and calling me newbie. The rules are there for a reason, Nick, he said, glaring at me like I just insulted his entire family. You don't follow them and you deal with a fallout. That's it. No exceptions.

What kind of fallout are we talking about? I pressed. What's actually happening? happening here?" You don't want to know, he muttered, turning back to his coffee, like we hadn't just had the most unsettling conversation of my life. Later that day, I went out to patrol, trying to shake the weird tension between us. It was supposed to be a normal route, one I'd done twice before.

But something was different. The trail I was on didn't feel right. The trees seemed taller, like they were leaning in toward me, and the air was colder than it should have been for midday. Still, I pushed forward. I don't know why. Maybe I was hoping to find something, proof that I was still in control. Then I saw them, carvings in the trees, faces.

They were warped and stretched. mouths open in silent screams, their eyes too big, too round. They weren't there the last time I'd walked this trail. I swear in my life they weren't, as I stood there staring. I heard something. It started as a faint whisper like wind through the branches, but it grew louder, words I couldn't make out. Voices, dozens of them, maybe more.

overlapping. My chest tightened and I turned back the way I came, practically running until I was back of the cabin. That night, the scream came back, louder, closer. It didn't just echo through the forest this time. It felt like it was inside my head, rattling around my skull, clawing at my thoughts. And then, I swear to you. I heard my name It was woven into the scream Whisped at first Then louder

My name over and over Like it was begging me Calling me I grabbed my flashlight and stood by the door My hand on the handle I almost opened it I don't know what stopped me Maybe it was instinct

Maybe it was the rule Either way, I let go of the handle and stepped back, my whole body shaking. I didn't sleep that night. I wish I could tell you this is where it stopped. That after ignoring the scream and the whispers and whatever the hell happened with the lake, I just rode at my time and left the park like a normal person. But that's not how it works here. It was the manual that tipped me off.

One morning I woke up to find it sitting on my kitchen table. I swear I'd left it in the drawer, but there it was, right next my untouched breakfast. I thought someone had just left it out. But then I saw the writing. The rules had changed. The old ones were still there. Ignore the screaming, don't look at the lake, but new ones had appeared, scribbled. in handwriting I didn't recognize.

One read, The cabin lights must stay on after dark. Another, if you hear knocking from inside the walls, don't investigate. But the one that made my stomach drop was at the bottom of the page. You are part of the cycle.

You must stay. I stared at it for a long time, hoping I misread it or losing my memory. mind. Pardon me wanted to crumple the page, toss it in the trash and pretend I hadn't seen it. But I couldn't. Something about it felt final. It wasn't instructions I could just ignore. That afternoon, I went to find Ed. He was sitting on the porch of his cabin, sipping coffee like everything was fine, like none of this was happening. Ed, I said, holding up the manual.

What the hell is this? He barely glanced at it. It's the rules. Don't give me that. The rules are changing. Look! I flipped to the new entry, shoving it toward him. What does this mean?

What the hell is the cycle? Why does it say I have to stay? Ed didn't say anything at first. He just stared at the horizon. His face. unreadable. Finally, he sighed and put down his mug. I told you, follow the rules, Nick. That's all you had to do. What does that mean? My voice cracked, but I didn't care. You knew this was going to happen, didn't you? You knew, and you didn't say anything.

His eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw cracks in his calm demeanor. He looked, tired, defeated. The rules aren't just there to keep you safe, he said quietly. They're part of the agreement. What agreement? With the forest, he said, his voice barely above a whisper. It takes what it wants. The rules are how we keep it at bay.

But once you start breaking them, he trailed off, shaking his head. You can't undo it, Nick. It's already claimed you. That night, I didn't bother trying to sleep. I sat at the table, the manual open in front of me. The words, you must stay, burned into my brain. The footsteps started around midnight. At first they were faint, just a soft shuffle outside the cabin.

Then they grew louder, circling the walls, passing by the winter, windows. I kept my eyes on the manual, my foot shaking nervously, trying to focus. Then came the knocking. It was slow at first, deliberate, like someone tapping their knuckles against the wood. But it didn't come from the door. It was inside the walls. I tried to block it out, repeating the rules in my head like a prayer. But then I made the mistake of looking at. up. My reflection was in the window, staring back at me. Except it wasn't me. It looked like me, same face, same clothes, but his expression was wrong. Its mouth curved into a grin I wasn't making. Its eyes darker than they should have been. It raised a hand pointing behind me.

I turned around. Nothing was there. But the footsteps inside the cabin didn't stop. Ed came to my cabin the next morning. He didn't knock or ask permission to come in, just opened the door, stepped inside, and stood there like he belonged. You're taking the North Patrol today, he said. His voice was flat, like we hadn't had that whole conversation about the cycle,

like I hadn't spent the entire night hearing footsteps, steps inside my cabin. I didn't argue. What would have been the point? If I refused, he'd just give me some cryptic warning, maybe shove the manual at me. I nodded and grouted my gear. The manual stayed on the table. I didn't want it near me.

The patrol route was one of the longer ones, winding past the lake and cutting through a part of the forest I'd avoided since I started the job. It was a hard trail, but something about it felt heavy, like the air itself was thicker, harder to breathe. I passed the lake first. The surface was glassy, perfectly still, reflecting the sky like a giant mirror. I kept my head down, refusing to look too closely, but out of the corner of my eye, I swear I saw something, someone. just beneath the surface. Lisa, her pale face, her eyes wide, staring up at me. I don't know if it was real or if my mind was playing tricks,

but I hurried past, not daring to stop. Further down the trail, I found a flashlight that belonged to Harris, another ranger lying in the dirt. It was caked with mud, the lens cracked. I picked it up without thinking, then immediately dropped it. The metal was ice-cold, like it had been sitting in a freezer, not out in the open sun. That's when I started to notice the forest wasn't quiet anymore. There were faint whispers coming from the trees, layered and overlapping, like a hundred voices murmuring just out of earshot.

I couldn't make out the words, but I didn't. I didn't need to. I knew they were for me. By the time I reached the park boundary, my legs felt like lead. The air had a strange pull to it, like the forest itself was holding me back. I stopped at the edge of the tree line, staring out at the empty road beyond, and an intrusive thought hit me. I could leave.

Then, right there. I could drop my gear, walk out of the forest and never look back. I'd lose the job, sure. But I'd keep my life, my real life, the one I'd had before all of this. But then I thought about the manual, the rules, Ed's warnings. The forest takes what it wants, he'd said. What if leaving wasn't an escape? What if I took something with me, whatever this was, and it followed me home?

Or worse, what if leaving through everything off balance, broke the agreement and dragged someone else into this nightmare? I stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the road. My mind was screaming at me to run. But my legs wouldn't move. The whispers grew louder, circling around me, wrapping me, wrapping me in their invisible grip, and then, just like that. They stopped.

The forest went silent, completely, utterly silent. I turned back, my heart pounding. The trees seemed taller, darker, and the trail I'd come down looked like it had never been there at all. I don't remember much about walking back to the cabin. It felt like the forest had swallowed me whole. and when I stepped through the door, I couldn't tell if I'd escaped or walked deeper into something far worse. The air inside was stale and cold.

My body ate like I'd run a marathon, but the exhaustion wasn't just physical. It was in my bones, my mind. I locked the door, bolted it twice, and sat down at the table. The manual was still there, waiting. I opened it slowly, flipping through the pages. The rules were the same, or at least I thought they were. I read each one carefully over and over, like I was memorizing scripture. I understood now.

The rules weren't suggestions. They weren't folklore. They were survival. As long as I followed them, I could stay. I wouldn't disappear like Lisa, wouldn't dissolve into whispers like Harris. The virus might have claimed me, but it wouldn't take me all at once. I fell into a routine after that. Patrol during the day, locked the door at night.

I didn't ask questions anymore. I didn't peek through the curtains when the footsteps started. I didn't let myself think about leaving, because I knew there wasn't anywhere to go. Sometimes I still heard the scream. It's always distant now, muffled, like it's coming from miles away. Maybe that's what happens. You fade into the forest slowly, until you're just another sound in the dark. I don't know how long it's been.

Time gets slippery out here. The days blurred together and the nights feel endless. I've stopped counting the seasons. stuck looking at the calendar. The forest doesn't care about dates. So why should I? But something new has changed things. Last week I saw headlights through the trees,

a new ranger pulling into the station. I watched from a distance as Ed handed in the manual. The kid looks so young, so confident. I wanted to warn him. Wanted to scream at him to leave now while he still could. But I didn't. Because the forest was watching. And the rules are clear.

He has unknowingly became a player in this game. And I just pray. He doesn't lose.