CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - UNDERRATED 2025 HORROR STORIES You May Have Missed

Episode Date: January 26, 2026

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "He Always Said He Wanted an Adventure. I Think He Found One." Creepypasta►33:25 "Growing Up, I Thought the Man in the Crawl Space Was My Dad’s Friend. He Wasn’t" Creepypasta ►58:06 "I'm a Priest That Runs a Confessional. Someone Just Gave the Most Chilling Confession" Creepypasta►1:25:27 "We found a German WW2 Bunker in South America" Creepypasta►2:07:35 "I’m a Professional Phrogger. I’ve Never Seen a Family Act This Way" Creepypasta►3:03:03 "Something told you to click this" 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 web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

If you grow up in the city, adventure is something you watch on a screen. You sit in front of a TV, watching kids your age climb trees, build forts, sneak through the woods with flashlights. You see them find things you could only dream of exploring, hidden and forgotten places, once adults don't go to. But when you step outside, there's no wilderness waiting for you, no banish. and cabins with secrets inside. Just endless concrete sidewalks, chain-link fences, apartment rooftops, dead-end alleys, a world where every inch of space is mapped, numbered, owned by someone else. The closest thing to adventure was jumping between buildings, sneaking into construction sites, tagging a name on walls that won't be there in a year. It wasn't enough.

At least, not for Liam. I've known Liam since we were kids. He was always the loudest voice in the room, the one with the biggest ideas. He could make you believe in something just because he did. If Liam said, we're going to sneak into the old rail yard and see if we can get on top of a train before it moves. Then yeah, you were going to do it. If he said, this abandoned apartment tower is safe to climb.

No one ever checks inside. You trusted him. And most of the time, he was right. Ethan, on the other hand, was the opposite. He was quiet, thoughtful, always last to agree. But he never backed out. He always stood just behind Liam and I, arms crossed, scowling, always looking like he was seconds away from saying, this is stupid.

but he never actually did. Ethan didn't love the things we did, but he loved being there. I fell somewhere between them. Liam led. Ethan hesitated, and I was the one who said, Screw it, let's go.

That was our balance. That was how it had always been, until Liam said, I think I know what we should do. and we said, what? And he said, Let's get out of the city. We were sitting on the roof of a half-finished apartment complex,

watching cars blur below us, the home of the city swallowing our words. Liam was scrolling through his phone, flicking between photos of forests, lakes, abandoned buildings half-swallowed by trees. This is what we're missing, he said, We waste all our time sneaking into places that suck. Look at this.

Actual abandoned places. Out in the woods. No cameras, no fences. We should do this. You want us to go camping? Ethan asked, skeptical. Not camping. Exploring.

Ethan sighed. How do you even find a place like that? I already did, Liam said, grinning. He turned his phone, showing us a grainy satellite image, a patch of woods just past the city limits near an old, unnamed road. There's something there, a building or, I don't know, but no one goes out that way, no one talks about it. It's just there, sitting in the middle of nowhere. How do you know it's not private property? I asked. How do you know it isn't? Liam shot back.

Ethan scoffed. That's a solid argument, dude. Really airtight. Liam ignored him, leaning forward, eyes bright. Come on, just one trip. We leave Saturday morning, check it out, and come back before dark. Just like the kids in the movies. Just one time.

I could see it in his face. He'd already decided, and part of me already knew that I had as well. Ethan sighed, shaking his head. But he didn't say no. The weekend came. And we went. It felt weird stepping onto a bus that took us away from the city instead of deeper into it, watching the skyline shrink behind us, disappearing behind hills and stretches of open road.

I caught Ethan staring out the window, watching the trees go past, hands clenched on his backpack straps. Liam was grinning. He kept checking his phone, double-checking the location he'd found. Almost there, he said, eyes shining. The bus let us off at a half-empty gas station where the only road ahead stretched into the trees. It felt different here.

The air was quieter, almost peaceful, like we had stepped out of our walls. world and into another. Liam was the first the walk toward the tree line, sneakers crunching against the dirt. Let's go, he said. We followed. The woods were bigger than I expected, not just taller, but deeper. The city was all about height, skyscrapers, bridges, endless metals stacked toward the sky.

This was different. It felt old and alive. The trees stretched high above us, branches twisting like veins against the sky. The air was cooler here, thick with the scent of dirt and pine. The only sounds were our own footsteps, the occasional snap of a branch, and the distant hum of something unseen, wind through leaves or something else entirely. For the first time in my life, I felt small. And from the look on Liam's face, he'd never felt bigger. See, he said, spinning in a slow circle, arms outstretched like he was soaking it in. This is what I'm talking about.

This is what we've been missing. Ethan muttered as he kicked a rock. But I could tell. Even he was feeling it. We ran through the trees like kids, throwing rocks into a half-dried stream, scaling fallen logs like we were climbing mountains. At one point, Liam grabbed a branch, swinging from it like Tarzan, whooping before dropping into a pile of leaves. We were in it.

A real adventure. For once, this wasn't something we were watching on a screen. We were living it. And then Liam found the building we'd been looking for. It was almost hidden, swallowed by the trees. At first it looked like a hill, covered in vines and dead leaves, like the forest that tried to pull it underground to erase it. But then I saw the edges of a structure.

Concrete, cracked and weathered, barely visible through the overgrowth. And when Liam pushed forward, brushing aside the vines, the truth became clear. It was a building, half buried, lopsided, like it had sunk into the earth, a sagging roof, broken windows, and a doorway gaping open into darkness. Liam's eyes went wide. He stepped forward, running a hand along the crumbling wall. This is it! He exclaimed with joy. Ethan stiffened.

What? There was some urban legend, Liam said, absently, still staring at it. Some place in the woods where, I don't know, people used to go and never come back. Ethan scoffed. Cool, that's real comforting, man. But Liam wasn't listening. He was already walking toward the entrance. I felt something shift in my stomach, a feeling like we had stepped over an invisible line.

Like, up until now, we had been on safe ground. Liam, Ethan called his voice sharper now. Maybe we should. But Liam had already stepped inside. And like always, we followed. Inside, the air felt wrong. Not just stale, just still. We could tell no one had set foot in here for years, maybe decades.

The floor was covered in dust, except for where rain had dripped through the cracks in the ceiling, leaving dark waterlog stains. The walls were made of concrete and rusted metal beams, part of them buckling inward, threatening to collapse. A long hallway stretched ahead of us, dark doorways gaping open, leading deeper into the the unknown. And yet, despite all of that, Liam was grinning. This is insane, he said, stepping forward, his voice echoing through the empty space. Like, how the hell has no one found this? Maybe because they don't want to, Ethan muttered. Liam ignored him. He ran his hand along the walls, kicking at a fallen chair, the sound

sharp in the silence. You feel that? He asked, looking over his shoulder. That energy, like something big happened here. Ethan scoffed. Yeah, pretty sure the big thing was time and gravity, dude. This place is falling apart. Come on, Liam said, still grinning.

A little imagination never hurt anyone. For the first few minutes, it was fun. We kicked through old furniture, picked up faded scraps of paper that had long since become unreadable, made up stories about what this place used to be. An old military bunker, a cult hired out, a secret government lab. The only thing we were missing to truly make this a movie was a big camera. But then, after a while, Ethan stopped playing along. I noticed it when he started hanging back.

keeping his arms crossed, not really looking around anymore. Liam noticed it too. Okay, what's up with you? Liam said, turning to him. We finally get to do something cool and you're standing there like a dog just died. Ethan didn't respond right away. Then finally, he let out in a slow breath. Do you ever notice how this happens every time?

he said, voice quieter than before. You always find something fun to do. And at first, yeah, it's great. But then you always... Always push it too far. Liam's grin flickered for half a second. What are you talking about? You don't know when to stop.

Ethan shifted his weight, running a hand through his hair. Like that time with the train yard, or when we climb that tower and the stairs gave out, well, heck this, we should have turned back before he even got on the bus. Liam's face darkened, like Ethan had crossed the line. But then, instead of snapping back, Liam hesitated, and that alone was weird enough to make me feel weird. He exhaled through his nose, looking down at the ground. You ever think?

Liam said slowly that maybe I don't want to stop Ethan frowned What Liam stuffed his hands in his pockets You think I don't know when I'm pushing things too far His voice was quiet I know

I always know Silence Ethan and I exchanged the glance. For once, Liam wasn't boasting. He wasn't brushing it off. He was being honest. I just... Liam ran a hand over his face.

I don't like being home, okay? It's like every time I'm there, I feel like I can't... He stopped readjusting his posture. Then, finally, I just don't want to feel the way I feel at home. The words hung there. For a moment, none of us spoke. Ethan looked like he wanted to say something, maybe something important.

But before he could, something moved, a rustling noise, somewhere deeper into the building. All three of us froze. Liam's head snapped up. Did you hear that? Ethan took a step back. It's probably just this old building. You see the state it's in, he muttered. But there was no conviction in his voice.

Then it happened again. A shuffle and a scrape. Something was in here with us. Liam's eyes flickered toward the dark hallway ahead. A shadow stretched longer. against the far wall, cast by something moving just out of sight. Ethan grabbed my arm. Guys, let's go.

But Liam pushed forward. It's probably just rats, he said. But I could hear the edge in his voice now. Come on, we didn't come all this way to turn back now. We should have turned back. But instead, we followed. And we went deeper. The deeper we went, the worse the air got.

It became wet almost, despite the dust, like something rotting in the walls. The floor dipped downward, leading us to what used to be a staircase. Most of it had collapsed, the steps crumbling into a mess of broken concrete and rusted metal. But at the bottom, barely visible in the dim light, a lower level. A basement, half submerged in stagnant water. Liam turned back to us, eyes alight with curiosity. Okay, he grinned. This is actually kind of sick.

Ethan stood stiffly behind him, arms crossed tight. Or, hear me out, we don't go into the creepy basement, and instead we turn around and go home. Liam laughed. Come on, man, you've never wanted to find something real. Ethan's jaw tightened, but Liam wasn't waiting for an answer. He crouched near the edge of the staircase, gripping one of the railings, and peering down into the darkness. Then, he made a face.

Holy! He pointed at something on the ground. I stepped closer and felt my stomach churn. Scattered across the bottom of the stairs were rat not just dead, mutilated. Some were half drowned in the stagnant water, their small bodies bloated and misshapen. Others lay twisted and broken, their fur slick with something dark and drying. They hadn't been eaten. Something killed him, then left them.

I took a slow step back, pulse pounding in my throat. Um, if it wasn't the rats that made that noise earlier, then... Ethan exiled sharply, rubbing his hands down his face. Then what made that noise was whatever did this to the rats. A rabbit animal? We should really get out now. Liam, though, Liam just stared, a flicker of doubt, a tiny unspoken realization, like the edges of his adventure had suddenly sharpened, like maybe, just maybe,

he'd finally pushed too far. But then, he stopped breathing, not literally, but he froze completely. His whole body tensed, his hands gripping the railing tight. His lips parted just slightly like he was about to say something but didn't. Or was too afraid to. Ethan frowned. Liam? Liam shook his head.

Not a no, not a yes. Just a barely there movement, slow but unsteady. A big crash came from behind us, like dynamite exploding. Our head snapped back. Dust rose up from the stairs and slowly settled as we stared. When the noise faded into the distance, what was that? Ethan let out a half-whisper, half-shout. Wait, Liam said sharply. Silence again. I didn't understand at first, but then I heard it. something breathing. It wasn't any of us. It came from below, from the basement. And as we stood there, frozen, ear straining, something shifted, something unfolding itself,

something rising, we ran. Not because we had a plan, not because we thought we could get away, because there was nothing else we could do. The sound behind us wasn't footsteps. It was worse. A deep, guttural clicking, reverberating off the walls, filling every space at once, like something shifting, rearranging itself as it moved. I didn't look back.

I couldn't. But I felt it. I felt it breathing down my neck, even though it was nowhere near me. The hallway I had twisted and turned, the walls seeming to close in on us, the darkness swallowing us whole. Malone's burned.

Ethan stumbled, gasping, but Liam grabbed his arm, yanking him forward. We need the main door, I yelled, the way we came in. We turned a corner, practically skidding into the entry hall. and stopped. The ceiling had collapsed. The entire doorway was chalked with debris, thick slaps of concrete and rusted beams blocking any way out. No, no, no, Ethan gasped, eyes darting frantically.

There, there has to be another way. Liam spun, searching. His head snapped upward. There. I followed. his gaze and saw it, a hole in the ceiling, a small opening where the structure had rotted away, just wide enough to squeeze through. Hope surged in my chest. This was it. We could get out. Liam grabbed the edges of the broken ceiling and hauled himself up first, grunting with effort.

He reached down immediately, his fingers closing around my wrist. Ryan, come on! I scrambled up, my feet scraping against the crumbling walls as I kicked off, pushing with everything I had. And then I was up. We made it. We were going to live. Then I heard Ethan's struggle below. I turned back, looking down, and my stomach dropped. Ethan was too slow.

His hands were clawing at the edge, trying to pull himself up, but his arms shook violently from exhaustion. His sneakers slipped against the slick, broken walls, failing to find any purchase. And beneath him, in the dark, it was coming. A shadow twisting, shifting, a blur of something impossibly long, impossibly wrong. Liam saw it too. and he made his decision. Before I even realized what was happening, Liam looked at me, and he smiled.

It wasn't cocky or forced, like he'd finally found what he was looking for. He'll tell a good story about this, he said, and dropped back down. Liam landed hard, his feet slammed into the hard concrete below, and for a split second, I thought, for a second that he could still climb back up, that this wasn't the end. Then it moved, something in the dark. It didn't lunge. It unfolded. A shape crawled out from the blackness beneath the broken stairwell, stretching tall and thin,

its body unnatural, wrong. I saw its arms first, long appendages, with countless joints, all cracking and unison, fingers shaped like hooks. Then its head tilted up. It had no eyes or face to speak of, just the smooth stretch of bone-white skin pulled tight over a shape that resembled something between human and a dog. It didn't make a sound. Liam spun toward Ethan. Go! Ethan froze. He just stood there, wide-eyed, lips moving but making no sound. Liam grabbed him, fingers twisting the fabric of Ethan's hoodie, boosting him up. Ethan gasped, hands scrambling for the ledge, one foot kicking against Liam's hands, the other trying to find leverage on the bare wall,

but Liam wouldn't let him fall. With one final heave, he threw Ethan up. Ethan crashed over the edge, scrambling away on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Liam! I reached for him. Both of us did, but it was too late. The creature's arms shot forward, and Liam screamed. He wrapped around his chest with impossible speed, pulling him backward and back down to the ground. His body skidded against the dry concrete.

sending dust and debris into the air. He tried grabbing anything on the ground to hoist himself up. Ethan reached down as far as he could, so far that he would have fallen back in if I hadn't caught him. But it wasn't enough. The ceiling creaked under our weight. The walls groaned, dust and stone raining down from above, shifting beneath our weight. A warning. If we stayed, we'd all die.

The thing yanked him backward, the ceiling gave way, a violent crack. Dust exploded into the air, chunks of stone crumbling beneath us. Ethan grabbed my arm, yanking me back. Liam! I tried to scream, but the noise of the collapse swallowed his name. We had to run. And Liam? Liam couldn't. We ran until our legs gave out.

We didn't stop to think we didn't want to. Through the trees past the empty roads until the gas station came into view the first sign of normalcy of civilization. By the time we stumbled inside, breathless and shaking, the old man behind the counter barely had time to ask what was wrong before Ethan collapsed against the shelves, hands on his knees gasping. Call the cops, we told them everything.

We told them about the building, about the creature, about Liam. They didn't dismiss us, but they didn't believe us either. Just two hysterical kids, filthy and bruised, talking about monsters in the dark. Still, they sent a search team out. By the time we were allowed to go back to them, the sun was rising, the world slowly bleeding back into reality. I remember how silent it was, standing at the edge of the wreckage. Because that's all that was left. The building had collapsed, a pile of broken concrete, shattered wood, twisted metal.

The entrance was gone, buried. There was no sign of the thing. But there was a sign. Of Liam, I saw him first. What was left of him? The police had to pull us back, keep us from getting too close. But I saw enough. A body crushed beneath fallen debris.

His face blooded and unrecognisable. Just a boy who got trapped in a crumbling building. That's what they said. That's what everyone would say. There was an article written about it in the local paper. Three kids when exploring somewhere they shouldn't have was the headline. They found an abandoned building. They went inside.

It collapsed. Two of them made it out. One of them didn't. A tragic incident, the police called it. Unstable structures are dangerous. You boys were lucky. They shook their heads when we told them the truth. They told us that there was no creature, no thing in the dark.

Whatever you thought you saw, one of them told us, was just panic. Fear does weird things to the mind. Ethan and I never spoke about it again. Not because we didn't remember. Not because we didn't think about it every night when the city lights flip. We could through our windows, but because there was no point. No one would ever believe us. Maybe it was better that way.

I could never quite figure out why Liam decided to jump back down the way he did. Not at first. I thought about it constantly. That final moment when his feet hit the ground, when he looked at me with that expression of finality. As he said his last words to me, he'll tell a good story about this. The look in his eyes was something I couldn't understand. At night I'd stare at my ceiling, replaying it over and over.

What did it mean? Why would he do that when he knew he was going to die? I couldn't ask Ethan. He wasn't talking about it. didn't call or so much as text. The few times we ran into each other at school, we barely looked at one another. Like, if we didn't acknowledge it, maybe it wouldn't be real. And maybe Ethan hadn't heard it.

Liam's last words. Maybe he didn't know. But I did, and I couldn't let it go. A few weeks later, I saw Liam's parents. They were walking down a busy street lost in the crowd. I stopped in my tracks, my heart slamming against my ribs. I expected them to look different, weaker, grief-stricken, lost. Instead, they looked not exactly happy, but not broken either.

Definitely not the way loving parents would look after they just lost their child in such a tragic way. And they didn't recognise me. Liam's best friend, the kid who had spent years by his side. They walked right past me, no sign of recognition on their faces. I was just another face in the city to them. That was when it clicked. Liam never liked being at home. He never talked about it, not directly.

but looking back all the signs were there the way he'd always want to be anywhere else how he'd never invite us over how he'd change the subject any time we asked the way he threw himself into every stupid reckless adventure as if standing still was worse than falling and that's when I knew

it wasn't just about the thrill he just wanted to escape Every rooftop, every train yard, every broken down place we snuck into, it was about something more than fun for Liam. He had been running his whole life and in the end he got exactly what he wanted. The ultimate adventure, a place no one else would ever go, a place where no one could follow.

because he'd finally escaped. I grew up in a small, single-story house on the outskirts of town. Our house wasn't much, just a squat little box of peeling white paint with a porch that sag slightly in the middle. I always thought it looked like it was tired of holding itself up. I didn't care though. To me, it was home. But what I remember most about that house wasn't the porch, Or the yard, or the tiny bedroom I shared with my younger brother.

It was the crawl space. It stretched under the entire house, a hollow, black cavity, barely two feet high, covered by warp wooden slats nailed haphazardly across the entrance. My dad always told me to stay away from it, said it was full of spiders and mould, sharp bits of rusted metal waiting to slice my hands open if I reached in. My mom warned me too, though she was less dramatic about it, more exasperated than afraid. But I was a curious kid. I'd kneel by the slats, peering through the gaps, trying to see what was inside.

Most of the time, it was just dirt or darkness. Sometimes, if the angle was just right, I'd catch a glimpse of the wooden beams holding up the house. or maybe a flash of something skittering out of sight. I never got too close, never reached inside, until one summer afternoon. When I heard someone whispered my name, I was playing in the backyard alone, kicking a plastic soccer ball around. When I heard it, faint at first,

a dry voice slipping out from beneath the house like a draft. When the voice slipped out from beneath a porch, it was so soft, I almost didn't hear it over the sound of the ball bouncing. I stopped, turned toward the crawl space, nothing but darkness. Then again, slightly louder, come here for a second. Any adult would have ran inside, alerted the police or done anything. But I was seven, maybe eight, and I had that stupid, childlike fearlessness that makes kids think nothing bad can happen to them.

So instead of being scared, I was just curious. I dropped my soccer ball and walked toward the crawl space, dropping to my knees to press my face to the gaps in the wooden slats. A face stared back at me. I just stared back. The man didn't blink. His eyes were wide,

locked onto mine, sunken deep into a skull, like he hadn't slipped in a long time. His skin was sallow and streaked with dirt, and his hair, what little of it I could see, was long and stringy, clinging to his face in limp, greasy strands. When he spoke again, his voice was almost kind. Didn't mean to scare you, buddy? I still didn't answer. I'm an old friend of your dad's, he said, his lips curling. Really? I finally managed. He shifted slightly, just enough that I could see more of him.

Boney shoulders, his skin, a mess of wounds. He looked filthy, like he'd been rolling in dirt, but his voice was calm, friendly, the way adults talk to kids when they want them to feel safe. Yeah. used to be real close to the family. But it's been a while since we talked. He probably wouldn't remember me. He nodded. That made sense.

Adults forgot things all the time. Hey, do me a favour. He added, lowering his voice. Don't tell him I'm here yet. Let's give it a secret for now. Just between us. Your dad might not understand. At that age, I thought secrets were fun.

I don't know why I trusted him. Maybe it was the way he spoke, the softness in his voice. Maybe it was because I wanted it to be true, because the idea of finally having a secret of my own to keep from my parents made it seem grand, special. I didn't tell my parents, and I kept visiting the crawl space. We just talked. I'd go outside and kneel by the crawl space, whispering through the gaps in the wooden slats,

while the man lay on the dirt on the other side. He never came out, never reached for me, just stayed in the shadows, speaking in that same, soft, friendly tone that made me feel like I was talking to someone I've known all my life. I felt safe. What's your favorite thing to do? He asked me once. You play outside. a lot. What do you want to be when you grow up? His questions were harmless at first,

and he listened so intently, like every little thing I said was the most important thing he'd ever heard. I liked that. But over time, the questions started to change. Your dad still works late, huh? Where do you sleep in the house? Your mom locked the doors at night. The first time he asked that, I hesitated. Yeah, I said, she locks them. Every night. I thought about it. Sometimes she forgets, I admitted.

He was quiet for a long time. Really? He finally asked. She sometimes forgets. There was something in his voice, something I didn't understand yet. because I was just a kid. Looking back, I can see now that they were never just questions. They were tests, each one peeling back another layer,

gauging how much I knew, how much I was willing to tell him, how much influence he had over me, without me even realising it. And I'd let him do it. I had fed him information piece by piece, unaware that I was giving him everything he needed. Hey buddy, I missed you yesterday. Sorry, I had whispered back. I went to my grandmas.

Ah, that's nice. Bet she makes good cookies. Yeah. Your little brother go too. The question was casual, effortless, like he was just making small talk. I'd answered without thinking. I didn't think back then of the fact that I'd never mention my little brother to him.

Uh-huh, he always comes with us. Of course, can't leave the little guy behind, huh? I laughed. And then, I heard the screen door creak open. Hey, what are you doing? I flinched, jerking back from the crawl space so fast that I scrape my knee against the dirt. My little brother was standing on the porch,

watching me with wide, suspicious eyes, his small hands gripping the wooden railing like he had caught me doing something I wasn't supposed to. I panicked. Nothing, I said quickly, scrambling to my feet. I was just looking for something. His face twisted into something skeptical, his little brows knitting together as he took a step forward,

craning his neck to look at the crawl space entrance. Looking for what? The man was silent now. I could feel him waiting just beyond the slats. Watching. Listening. I had to think fast. Uh, my ball.

I said, brushing dirt off my shorts and trying to sound as normal as possible. I think it rolled under there. My brother's gaze flicked back to me. Okay. Um, want to go play in the treehouse? I stumbled, and just like that, he forgot all about it. Wish he never believed me. The first time the man in the crawlspace asked me for something,

I almost didn't even register it as a request. Hey buddy, can you do me a favor? It was an easy question. We were just two old friends at this point, trading secrets. I didn't even hesitate before nodding, before giving him this simple, automatic, sure. Because, why wouldn't I? He had never asked for anything before.

He'd never even implied that he wanted something from me beyond my company. Your dad keeps a spare key to the shed, right? I remember feeling the slightest pang of discomfort then, but it was vague, unformed, like the first tremor of a storm coming. A flicker of something wrong just beneath the surface that my young mind didn't yet know how to identify. I hesitated, but the response came anyway. Yeah? You know where he hides it?

Of course I did. It was under the porch, tucked behind a row of old cinder blocks near the back steps. My dad had told me once, in case he ever needed me to get it for him, and I'd filed the information away, never thinking it would be useful for anything else. Yeah, I said. Think you could grab it for me. That's when I finally hesitated for real. There was a shift, a barely perceptible change in the air between us,

a tiny crack in the illusion that I had never noticed before. I didn't understand why it felt wrong, but it did. And for the first time since I'd started talking to him, I found myself wanting to leave. Why? He laughed, as if the answer was obvious. Ah, it's stupid, he said, dismissing the whole thing as a joke, as if I was the silly one for taking it seriously.

I left something in there a long time ago, something I meant to grab. A little keepsake, you know. That made sense to me. All the adults had little things they didn't need, but couldn't bring themselves the throwaway. Even mom had shoeboxes full of old birthday cards she never looked at, and my dad had a drawer full of broken watches. He always swore he was going to fix. And maybe you noticed.

maybe he sensed that my willingness was starting to crack, because after a moment of silence, he gave me reassurance. It's all right, buddy, he said, you don't have to do it, and that was the end of it, until the next time. But he didn't ask about the shed key. Hey.

His voice was lower that day. quieter, like he didn't want anyone else to hear, even though we were alone in the backyard, just as we always were. What? Could you leave the bag door unlocked for me tonight? My stomach twists, thinking back to it. Why? I want to leave you a little present. Trust me, I really liked presents, and my parents hadn't gotten. me a present since my birthday a couple of months back. And then, before I could decide what to do, dinner's ready. I turned toward the house, the sound snapping me out of whatever fog I'd been slipping into. And when I looked back, he was gone. I unlocked the back door that night.

I don't know if it was because I started trusting the man too much, or if I wanted a present that badly. Or maybe I was just too caught up in the normal rhythm of family life to think about anything beyond the present moment. Either way, it didn't matter, because the moment came and went, and by the time we sat down for dinner, the whole thing was already slipping from my mind, already losing its weight. And then, without thinking, I said it. I'd talk to your friend today. I didn't even notice the reaction.

I was focused on my plate, barely paying attention, my fork spearing a piece of overcooked chicken as I chewed slowly, distantly. But then the silence settled, and I felt it. Dad's hand, frozen mid-cut, his knuckles white around the handle of his knife. Mom, unmoving at the stove, her back to me, her posture stiff. She looked like her entire body had gone cold all at once. What friend, Dad's voice was slow, careful, like he already knew the answer but was trying to delay it. I blinked at him, confused by the sudden change in the atmosphere.

Your friend, in the coral space. The words landed. Mom dropped the pan she had been holding, the metal clattering against the stove of the loud, jarring crash. Dad's face went white. For a long time, no one moved. Then, all at once, Dad pushed back from the table, standing so fast his chair scraped against the floor with a shriek of wood on tile.

Without a word, he turned, walked to the front door, and stormed outside. My father was already in motion before I could fully register what was happening. His movement sharp and frantic as he ripped at the wooden slats covering the crawl space entrance. His fingers prying at the brittle planks with the kind of strength I'd never seen before. The nail shrieked as they were wrenched loose, the old wood splintering beneath the force of his grip. Dad? My voice came out small, but he didn't answer.

He was breathing too hard, too fast, his hands shaking as he pulled away the last of the boards and tossed them aside. The entrance to the crawl space yawned open before us, a gaping black mouth cut into the earth. Dad grabbed the flashlight from his belt, flicked it on and shine the beam inside. For a moment, I expected to see him. I expected the pale, thin man from beneath our house to be crouched in the dirt. His sunken eyes reflecting the beam of light as he stared. But there was nothing.

Just emptiness. The flashlight beams swept across the crawl space, illuminating nothing but bare dirt and cobwebbed wooden beams. The air that wafted out smelled stale and sour. thick with a scent of damp rot and things that had been left the decay in the dark for too long. Though no footprints in the dirt, no sign that anyone had ever been inside. No mattress, no discarded clothes, no remnants of a person who might have been living there. Maybe I'd made up the entire thing in my head, a game of pretend that had spiraled out of control.

But then the flashlight beam passed over something small and familiar, something that shouldn't have been there. A shoe. Tiny, red, half covered in dirt. I felt a jolt of recognition before my mind fully processed what I was looking at. My stomach twisted violently and the air seemed to thin around me. the world tilting sideways as I stared at it because I knew that shoe didn't belong to me it belonged to my little brother

what the hell my dad's voice was hoarse cracking at the edges as he stepped closer his flashlight trained on the single outer place objects sitting in the dirt his hands clenched at his sides his whole body rigid with tension He turned toward me, his face pale. Where is your brother? The words barely had time to register before my mother's voice rang out from behind us.

Who are you talking about? I turned and saw her standing in the doorway, looking at us with an expression of deep, unsettled confusion. Her brows furrowed as she tugging the scene before her. Who was in the crawl space? She asked again, and then the screaming started. I don't remember running inside. I don't remember how I got from the front yard to the hallway,

how my legs carried me forward so fast that my surroundings blurred, the walls stretching long and thin, like something from a fever dream. I don't remember how I ended up right behind my father, or how my mother's voice, shouting something I couldn't understand, faded into a dull hum at the edges of my mind. I only remember the screaming. It was raw and high and jagged, something too broken to come from a person,

something that didn't sound human at all. And it was coming from my brother's room. My father hit the door at full speed, his shoulder slamming into it so hard that it must have hurt. The wood buckled under his weight, and for a moment it didn't budge, but then it gave way. He stumbled forward, nearly falling as he caught himself. And then I saw the blood. It was everywhere, splattered across the floor, painted up the walls in thick, visceral streaks.

So much of it, more than I thought a person could even have inside them. It was still wet, still warm, still spreading and slow, creeping rivers beneath the flickering light of the ceiling fan, and in the centre of it all. My brother, or what was left of him, I don't think I screamed, I don't think I made any noise at all, because something inside me broke, something deep and dark, something deep and dark, and all-consuming. And as I stood there, staring at the thing on the floor that had once been my little brother, the thought rose up in me, slow and suffocating, curling around my throat like smoke.

I did this. I don't know when my mother pushed past me, or when a voice cracked into a sound I'd never heard before. Something so shattered and animalistic that it didn't even sound like words. I don't know if they tried to shield me from the sight, if they pulled me back or turned me away. I don't know if I collapsed or ran or simply stood there as the room spun and folded inward around me. Because in that moment, all I could hear was his voice, Where do you sleep in the house? Your mom locked the doors at night.

She forget sometimes. Really? The realization came slowly. It wasn't like a sudden impact, not an explosion of clarity. It was something worse, something creeping, something insidious, something that had been building for weeks, for months, for however long he'd been listening to me. I had told him everything. I had given him the key to my family. I don't know what happened after that.

I don't know who called the police or how long it took them to arrive or how many times I was asked the same questions over and over and over again until my mouth was dry and my voice cracked from the effort of trying to answer. I don't know if I ever answered at all because how do you begin to explain something like that? I don't remember the funeral. I don't remember the weeks that followed or the way my parents stopped talking to each other or the way my mother wouldn't even look at me anymore.

I don't remember how I got from that house to a different one, or how much time had passed before my father finally packed up all our things and moved us away. But I remember the guilt. The church was empty. It was just me, the candles, and the rain tapping against a stained glass like a restless child. It had been storming since dusk, an unending curtain of water from a bruised sky. I sat in the confessional with my hands folded loosely in my lap and my eyelids heavy, but not from a lack of sleep.

It had been a long day with two funerals, a hospital visit and a broken boiler in the rectory. I just started to think I might close early. when I heard the door at the back of the sanctuary open. A gust of wet air followed someone in, along with hesitant footsteps, much different from a regular parishioness confident pace. I straightened. Then the curtain slid aside.

I heard the soft squish of wet fabric as they settled on the opposite side of the confessional. Then a faint rasp of his breath, and how his weight shifted, like someone fighting the instinct to bolt. Finally, he spoke, low and unsure, but clear. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. The ritual took over. My voice came easily and automatic, though something in my chest had tightened.

God is always watching my son, I said, speak freely, the Lord offers mercy to all who seek it. At first, he said nothing in return. Yet the way the air changed betrayed his lack of response. I knew then that he was going to tell me something, and it wasn't going to be easy. His voice came again, steadier now, like he had stepped back into the safety of memory.

I grew up on a farm, he said. Just me and my mama, out past the river bend, where the road turns to gravel. We had no neighbours close enough to wave to. He exhaled slowly. She was a believer. She didn't just speak the word. No. She lived it.

Every evening, before supper, she'd read from her old leather-bound Bible. I remember her soft but unwavering voice, even when the storms came and the lights flickered. She'd light a single candle and read Psalm 23 like it was a promise she was making to both of us. He paused, and for a second, I imagined he might be wiping his eyes as he remembered a fond memory of his mom. She carved crosses into everything, the fence posts, the barn doors, and even the wooden spoon she stirred our stew with. She said it kept evil out and reminded the Lord we were watching back. His tone dipped into something warm and fond. It wasn't a fancy life, but it was ours.

We had three hens, pearl, marigold and little sister, and a stubborn old goat named Mownd. who chewed through more of our laundry line than I'd like to admit. We had potatoes, turnips, and a patch of carrots that only ever grew crooked. Sometimes we'd trade our eggs for milk. There was never more than we needed, but she always smiled when she said it. The Lord provides. I could hear something shift in his breath, like he was close to brushing up against the memory in which his adult mind saw the

Ruth. Winter was the hardest. I remember one year she boiled onion skins just to make broth. She told me it was French soup and made me sit up straight like her in a Paris cafe. She even folded a towel for me to use as a napkin. I believed her. That's the kind of woman she was. She could make suffering feel like theatre. The confessional had gone quiet around us. the storm muffled by thick stone walls. But at that moment, I swear I could feel the cold of that farmhouse kitchen, the scratch of old quilts,

and the soft light of candlewax dripping beside a prayer. I let the silence hold between us, unable to shake the feeling that whatever was to come would be a heavyweight for us both to bear. It started with Pearl, he said. The oldest of the oldest, 10. She stopped laying, which wasn't unusual. But then she started acting odd, wondering in circles, pecking at her own feathers. One morning, I found a standing motionless in the

yard, eyes leaking this dark red stuff like tears. She didn't squawk or anything. I ran to tell Mama. She looked at Pearl for a long time and whispered. And the next day, Pearl was gone Buried Mama said But I never saw a shovel Then it was Marigold Then Little Sister

Then Moses All of them followed the same pattern Their eyes Something in their eyes was just wrong But Mama told me she'd take care of it And that everything would be okay The garden turned next One by one

The carrot split open from the inside like they'd been cooked in the dirt. The turnips came up black and soft, and the potatoes, when we harvested them, were little more than husks, like something had sucked them dry from the inside. I asked if we were cursed, and she said no, and that the Lord is testing us. I could tell she believed it. She prayed harder than ever. She would hardly eat so I could, and in the middle of the night I'd find her knelt beside the kitchen window, whispering scripture to the wind sometimes, just mouthing the Psalms into the dark.

There was something sacred in how he spoke of her, like a child recalling the warmth of a hand that always knew how to hold his without needing to say a word. She didn't panic. Not once did I think anything was wrong. She did everything to keep me calm Even when I asked what we do without food She just looked at me and smiled and said He will provide And in that moment I heard it The quiet turn of something in his voice

It was the next morning He said The frost hadn't even lifted when Mama came to me Her hands wrapped in a shawl Like she was cradling something delicate She said, Go to town today. Look for someone cold.

Someone who's hungry. Bring them here. The Lord rewards kindness. It made sense at the time. That was how Mama thought. When times were lean, you gave more. You open your door wider. That's what she taught me.

So I went. I walked all the way into town kicking rocks and counting steps and praying I'd find someone to help. Near the train yard, I found a man. He was older, wrapped in layers of newspaper and threadbare denim. He was humming to himself, eyes half closed like he was dreaming of food. I told him we had warm soup and fresh bread, a barn to sleep in, if he didn't mind the hay. He looked at me like I was a little.

ghost. Then he followed. Mama greeted him like she'd known him all the life. She called him brother. She sat him down at our little table and served him a bowl of stew. The smell was so strong it made my mouth water and the bread was still warm. I don't remember where she said she got the flower. I didn't think to ask in fear that it would disappear if I acknowledged it. He stayed the night in the barn. I brought him an old quilt in a lantern. They thanked me and said we were angels. The next morning, he was gone.

Mama said he left early. She said he was grateful and traded us some things before he went. He inhaled, sharp and shallow. There was meat on the table that morning. Real meat. Pink, marred. She said it was a blessing and the man had traded goods and I I didn't question it I just thanked God after that we always had something not a lot but enough

Every few weeks she'd send me again to find someone alone and hungry I didn't understand it then she started a new tradition where just before eaten. She'd take white linen napkins from the drawer we only used on Christmas and carefully draped it over her head so it hung down like a veil. She told me to do the same.

I remember the first time I giggled and said she looked like she was playing dress up. But she didn't laugh. She just looked at me through the cloth and said, That's the point, baby. We hide our faces so God doesn't have to watch us eat. We eat in private, hidden from the eyes of heaven. And then we'd say the same prayer, always the same words,

like a song only the two of us knew. Lord, bless this meal, bless the soul who gave it, and keep our hands from shaking as we take what was given in grace. She made me whisper it three times before touching the spoon. It was never skipped, he swallowed. We'd eat in silence, chew slowly and pray again when we were done. I was a child, I didn't understand. All I knew was I gained a weird sense of hunger that only that meal could quench.

I sat back slightly in the confessional. the warmth of the wood against my shoulder, doing little to ground me. I wanted to believe this was all a metaphor, that he was speaking in the language of parable, of symbolic hunger and strange rituals born of grief or madness. But some part of me there was a sharp and instinct honed from years of hearing the worst of people, wondered where those people he had brought home had gone. The ones who never came back, who were needy. yet still had things to trade.

Still, I could not accuse. That wasn't my place. But I felt the hair at the back of my neck begin to rise. I crossed myself quietly, more out of reflex than faith at that moment. I was 13 when I found it. He continued. It had rained the night before, and I was out behind the barn, dumping the meat scraps

Mama said we couldn't use for breakfast into the slop drop for the young pigs we managed to buy something white bobbed up half floating in the grease his voice trembled now just slightly I thought it was a chicken bone

I reached in thinking it wouldn't be good for them but it was soft and pale when I turned it in my fingers I saw the nail and the shape, oh God. I squirmed in the silence, shifting slightly on the bench. The air inside the confessional felt too still, like the world itself was holding its breath with me,

waiting for what came next. I clasped my hands tighter and kept my voice locked behind my teeth. This was his moment. But God helped me. I wanted it to pass. I walked into the kitchen and held it out like I was handing her a riddle. She looked at it, then at me and said, Some lambs are meant for the altar.

Like it was scripture, like I should have known already. His breath hitched. She said the desperate, the forgotten, they don't have much to give, so when they offer themselves in their weakness, we're supposed to receive that. She said it made us holy. My hands tensed just enough for my knuckles to wake. There it was, a confirmation of my suspicion. The clarity of it made my stomach twist into knots.

And yet I knew better. I am not a judge. I do not wield the sword. Only the word. I have heard things in the booth that would make most men sleep with the lights on. my duty has been and still is to listen to witness to guide but at that moment i could not deny the tremble in my breath or the heaviness that settled in my ribs i nodded he continued his voice tall because that's what you do when you're a child your mama's word is final so i nodded and sat at the

table that night. I ate the stew and wore the cloth to hide my sin from God. But something had cracked. I started waking up sweating, chewing my tongue roar in my sleep. I stopped praying out loud out of shame. I started skipping bites, then whole meals. She noticed. Of course she noticed. One evening, she reached across the table and gently pulled the cloth off my head. Her eyes didn't look angry, but they had gone hard, like cold riverstones. Don't waste what's been given, she said. Don't turn your nose up at blessings, that cost someone else their place in the kingdom. I nodded again like I believed her, but I didn't, not anymore. I couldn't look at her the same way. But it was strange.

I still wanted her to hold me when I was scared. He was quiet for a long time. Then, after a long inhale, he kept going. It lasted almost two more years. I tried to forget what I saw. I think I stayed because part of me still loved her too much to leave, because she smiled at me like nothing was wrong. She kissed my forehead tenderly every night,

and she still sang hymns while cleaning the kitchen. How do you walk away from someone who taught you everything, even when you find out some of it was poison? But when I turned 15, I packed a bag silently and walked out while she slipped. I didn't leave a note, only took what I could carry. He paused. I never went back.

I told myself I'd start over. He said, clean slate, clean soul. I ended up in foster care two towns over. They were kind mostly. Kept the fridge full, took me to church when they could. His voice thinned. I tried to be normal. I did everything, brochure said.

Join clubs and took therapy seriously. I even started cooking real meals for. recipes. I made myself believe that the hunger was just trauma, just something I could fix. I breath, sharp and frustrated. I went vegan. I thought maybe it was guilt. But it didn't work. Then I tried a carnivore diet, but that didn't help either. Then raw food, paleo, fasting, ice chewing, clay. I even thought at the edge of a belt one. just to feel the resistance. He shifted on the other side of the screen, wood groaning onto him. And at that moment, a terrible thought flickered across my face, unwelcome and absurd. I pictured his hands slipping through the slats, cold fingers gripping my collar,

and his mouth opening wide to take a bite out of me like I was bred and flesh both. The image was so vivid I almost flinched. It was a silly thought, one I was not proud of. But it sat there, pulsing at the edge of my reason, refusing to be dismissed. Every meal was a disappointment. Every bite tasted like paper. Even the things I used to love, like roast chicken, cornbread, sweet potatoes with brown sugar. They all turned to ash in my mouth.

His voice dropped lower than it had all night. I know now what it is I miss. He let the word settle like dust in a crypt. It didn't hit all at once. It came in flashes. The smell of breath. The way candlelight hit steam. The weight of linen over my head was so nostalgic.

I thought I was just remembering. But it wasn't memory. It was want, a need. I told myself I could resist that I was better than her, that I didn't have it in me, but the hunger, it... I planned it carefully. I chose a man I saw often on the corner outside the train station.

He wore a grey hoodie and plastic bags around him. his shoes. He never asked for anything, just sat there. I watched him for a week, made sure he was alone, that he didn't speak to anyone, that no one would notice. If he disappeared, a pause and a breath. We walked side by side through the quiet part of town. He kept glancing at my face like he was trying to figure out if I was real. The whole time my chest ached with something. something that felt like guilt. He looked at me with trust, with quiet awe, like I was saving him. I wanted to deserve that, but underneath it, deeper than anything I could name, there was the hunger gnawing through every step. A single thought echoed through the prayers I muttered to drown

it out. What really taste like? At one point he laughed. low and wheezing and said, You're one of the good ones, huh? I told him I was trying to be. I brought him back to my apartment, told him I had a hot shower and some food waiting, and mentioned spare clothes, socks, and even a razor if he wanted. He looked up at me like he couldn't believe it,

with eyes wide, rimmed red, hopeful in a way that made my chest tighten. Really? he asked, like he thought the offer might shatter if he touched it. I nodded. That's all it took, and it hurt because I knew I was lying. I let him take the hot shower first, gave him a towel I'd laid out earlier, let him eat the bread and drink the tea while some soup simmered on the stove. He looked so grateful, called me a saint. and I must have been raised right.

His voice cracked slightly. But the cloth was already in the drawer. He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. By now, I knew what that meant. I bought it from a linen shop two towns over, just like the ones Mama used, pressed it flat, folded it three times,

and put it in the drawer under the knives. silence stretched between us. The stew was rich. The meat practically melted in my mouth. I had cooked it that long. He said, I ate it under the cloth, just like before.

I said the prayer, every word three times like Mama. And for the first time in years, I felt full, really full. He exhaled slowly, and I heard, the shift, the tremble that had clung to him like wet wool was gone.

In his place was a strange calm, like it was waiting for me to speak. So I did. I cleared my throat softly. My son, I said, carefully measuring every word. There are things in this world we carry that were never meant for us. Burdens passed down like inheritance. He spoke in love and devotion. He didn't interrupt, so I kept going. You are not your mother, and you are not beyond redemption.

But if you truly seek absolution, it must begin with truth, followed by repentance, and then by surrender. Not just of your sin, but of your will. I felt the sweat cooling at my temples. God offers mercy, yes, I said, but not without cost. You must never do this again. You must turn yourself in. You must choose a path that leads away from this hunger. Silence.

There was a faint shift, followed by a hush. And when I peaked between the slats, he was gone. He hadn't waited for my blessing or absolutely. He vanished quietly as if the act of confession itself had been enough. And maybe for him, it was. I sat there a while longer, hands clasped, eyes closed. I prayed not to carry his burden with me into the world, that whatever darkness he left behind would stay sealed in that booth.

I prayed that mercy still meant something, even when offered to someone who may never stop doing the thing they're sorry for. When I finally stood, I moved slowly through the empty sanctuary, checking locks. I stepped into the parking lot. The night air was damp and cool and the storm had passed. My car engine groaned to life and the headlights carved through the dark. I pulled onto the main road. And there, under the flicker.

of a street lamp. I saw a man huddled against the bench, wearing only a thin coat and no shoes. I slowed, and for a long time I just sat there, hands frozen on the wheel. I couldn't get the confessor out of my mind, how he spoke his truth like a man unburdened while all I was left with was silence. And in that silence, I wondered. if the confessor would stop, if anyone was safe, if he was still nearby, and all I could do was prey. We hacked our way through the jungle like we were peeling back time itself. Every branch and root we cut and stepped over felt like it hadn't been touched in decades,

maybe longer. The heat pressed down on us, wet and constant, and the insects came in waves. that never seemed to stop. Somewhere overhead, monkeys shrieked and fell silent just as quickly. That silence always made me pause. None of us spoke much. The machetes did the talking, slicing rhythmically as we followed the barely visible trail Lewis swore existed.

I didn't see it, but he moved with a confidence, false or not, we didn't have better options. Around midday we reached the clearing Or, more like the jungle gave up for a second In the middle was a rise of uneven stone Half swallowed up by moss and earth It could have passed for a hill If not for the exposed edge of something unmistakably artificial Weathered concrete and the rusted corner of a metal structure

poking out like a broken rib. No one said anything right away. Then, from behind me, a voice muttered, low and breathless. There it is. We moved closer, brushing back the foliage. The moss came off in heavy sheets. Underneath, a swastika, barely visible, faint from time and grime, was stamped into the concrete. half melted from what looked like an old fire.

None of us reached out to touch it. Jeez, someone whispered. We'd found it. The bunker wasn't a myth. It was real and it was here. Lewis stepped forward and ran his hand along the edge of the old hatch embedded in the slope, tracing the rusted wheel lock. He bowled gently and it was.

groaned like something waking up. The door was ajar only slightly, but enough that the smell hit us almost immediately. Mold, metal. And beneath it all, something else, sweet and rotting. Ventilation shaft might be clogged, I offered with a chuckle. A flashlight clicked on beside me. No words, just a beam of light piercing down into a dark mouth cut into the earth. None of us said it out loud, but we knew.

We were going in. The ladder was slick with condensation and rust. I climbed slowly, each rung groaning under the weight, until my boots hit the concrete floor with a dull, wet thud. The air down there wasn't just stupt. It had an artificial weight to it. No power. That much was immediately clear and expected.

The ceiling fixtures overhead was shattered, wiring frayed and exposed like vines, brittle and dead. The corridor stretched out ahead of us in both directions. Jonas stepped past me first, hand-brushing the wall as we moved. Concrete still solid. He muttered, Reinforced, this wasn't some half-baked shelter. He passed a rusted plaque, the German text barely legible. Sector 1, under comte, quarters.

The rooms were narrow, lined on either side of the hall like cells. Inside, rows of metal bed frames stripped of sheets. What remained of the mattresses had slumped into soft, mounds of black. Mushrooms had taken root in one. Another had the impression of a body long gone, just the shape, still there in the stained foam like a fossilized absence. Someone opened a crate near the far wall, dust plunded out. Food rations, Jonah said, still sealed. Sasha lifted one and turned it over. They labelled everything by name, date. rate, roll, caloric requirement.

She pointed to the faded ink. Jane Nusslane, 3,000 calories, night watch. All so precise, but the silence in those quarters told another story. Further in, we found a hallway bulletin board. A photo was still tacked up, barely hanging on. Four men, all in uniform. German officers, at least from what I could tell, standing in a cramped hallway right here in the bunker. Their faces were long and drawn, eyes sunk deep.

One of them was holding a small child. That's not wartime Germany, Sasha whispered behind me. That's after they arrived here. The hallway ended in a bulkhead door half of its hinges, rusted and bent inward. like something had forced its way through years ago. We ducked inside and found the largest room yet. Storage maybe, though half the shelving had collapsed and a fine film of mould coated the floor.

Amid the wreckage was a scorched binder. Jonas flipped it open gently and half of it crumbled in his hands. Manifest, he said, Eyes narrowing. Look at this. Tight names in columns. Serial numbers. Dates of birth.

Occupation. 978 entries. Men. Women. Children. Sasha leaned over his shoulder. Lips moving silently as she scanned. They listed them all.

Nurses, engineers. Even barbers. No ranks? I asked. She shook her head. Only functions. They were building a self-contained population. In the far corner, we found the radio room, or what was left of it. Shattered glass and twisted knobs lay scattered across the floor like shrapnel.

An old broadcasting mic hung from its wire, swinging slightly in the humid draft. Banks of analogue equipment were ripped open, fuse is missing, wires yanked out in clumps. Dr Ketterley crouched down next to one unit and muttered. This was military grade, state of the art for the time. Sabotaged, I asked. He didn't answer, but the way he stood up told me everything. We lingered in the radio room longer than we should have. No one said it, but something about the broken equipment unsettled us in a different way.

Not just because it was destroyed, but because it had been intentional, as if someone had wanted to make sure no word ever left this place again. We moved on. Sasha suggested we start marking rooms as we went. Chalk lines, basic numbering. smart idea it helped gave the illusion of control past the supply wing we found a heavy door

partially ajar with a tarnish brass plate above the frame officer under comte officer's quarters the air inside was different still dust floated in the beams of my headlamp

like falling snow untouched for decades Jonas moved toward the desk, open a drawer, empty. Another, paper scraps, a yellowed photograph of someone blurred and smiling. Nothing useful. Sasha knelt beside the trunk. Help me with this. I unclasped the rusted latch and helped to lift the lid.

Inside, a wall officer's coat folded. beneath it, something wrapped tightly in a stiff brown cloth, tied with the leather strap that cracked as she unwrapped it. A journal. The leather was dark, almost black with age, but still intact. A rusted iron clasp held it shut. Sasha took a breath. This might be useful. She worked the clasped loose.

It took effort. but it hadn't been opened in years. A sharp, metallic snap, then a shudder as the leather flexed. She peeled it open carefully, revealing thick, yellowed pages covered in tight, immaculate writing, and on the inside cover, scrawled in deliberate, blocky script.

I am Eric Mahler, engineer. If these pages are found, know that we are not all willing, We exchanged glances. For a long second, no one said anything. Then Sasha had turned the page, and we began to read. May 12, 1945, I have arrived in South America at last.

The journey was as surreal as it was harrowing. After months of uncertain passage by submarine and stolen aircraft, we landed on foreign soil with a promise of self-reveillance. The promise was whispered with fervor by those who orchestrated our passage, a promise of a new beginning away from the ruins of a lost war. Dozens more arrived in the weeks that followed. Scientists with eyes bright from hope and despair, soldiers whose uniforms were as stained with honor as with regret, families clinging to the belief that they too might start over.

over. We were all immigrants of circumstance, united by the lie of salvation. In time, we began the construction of something vast, an underground complex that stretched out beneath the unforgiving jungle. We laboured our hands and backs, broken by ceaseless work. Slave labor, both forced and self-imposed, carried bricks and mixed mortar in the dim light of torches. The complex was designed to be our haven. One day we would shelter as many as a thousand souls. Already the numbers grow, and each new arrival reinforces our resolve, though a gnawing doubt stirs at the edge of my mind.

June 3, 1945. The days have grown colder, though the jungle remains unyielding in its humid embrace, communications with Germany have all but ceased. At first, the higher-ups maintained that the war raged on, a justification to seal us inside this very bunker. But now, with every passing day, I find my certainty waver. The radios have fallen silent, and the orders we once received from afar are nothing but echoes of a past that no longer exists. Inside these walls, the leadership in sin. We remain sealed in. They assure us that outside, chaos reigns, that our isolation is the only means to preserve the future. Yet I wonder, if the war has truly ended, why must we be locked away? In the dim corridors, I hear the soft laughter of children, a sound both haunting and tender.

New life has been born here. In the dark recesses of this underground world, they grow up knowing nothing of sunlight, their only lullaby, the hum of machinery, and the distant groans of the bunker. I cannot shake the feeling that we are no longer the architects of our fate, but rather subjects in a grand experiment. The silence from the outside grows ever more oppressive, and with each passing day the control exerted by those at the helm Titans like a noose.

I fear what might come next and I write these words in the hope that they may serve as a warning should anyone ever find them. September 14th, 1946. I have not written in some time.

The work has consumed us all, but it is not construction that keeps our hands busy now. It is research. Though I am an engineer by trade, I am often called to assist with logistics and infrastructure in Section 3, the medical wing. It is there that the whispers began. They called it Project Morgan Minch, the man of Tomorrow Project.

A rebirth, they say. A better human, a stronger one, one who will be ready when the Reich rises again. if not in this lifetime, then the next. I've seen the files. The injections are not just vitamin serums or nutritional supplements as they claim in official meetings. There are compounds I do not recognize. Radiation-laced fluids, growth accelerants, even samples rumored to be derived from fungi found deep within the jungle. Some subjects are brought in at night, barely conscious.

Others are volunteers, selected with honours, but none of them returned to the dormitories. A man named Dieter, a chemical assistant from Sector 2, questioned the project openly last week. He was gone by morning. We were told he had requested a reassignment to an external outpost. I don't believe that outpost exists. Three nights ago, while checking airfield, flow systems, I paused near the ventilation shafts above the lower levels. I heard something, a scream, not of pain, but of pure confusion.

It was drawn out and hollow, like someone was trying to scream all underwater. Then came the thud, something slamming against the ductwork. Once, twice. They sounded like heavy slaps. I have stopped asking questions, but I haven't stopped writing them down. February 7, 1947. We were lied to. There is no Reich.

There is no war. There is no Germany waiting to be reborn. One of the young technicians in communications, Rudolph, barely 20, smuggled in a radio from the surface during a supply rotation. A homemade receiver tuned to. to civilian frequencies. He played a broadcast for us, clear as a bell, a station out of Santiago, Chile, a full broadcast in Spanish, music, advertisements and politics. We lost, long ago. The higher-ups knew. They have known this entire time. All of it, the isolation, the lockdowns, the rationing, the indoctrination, was to be.

To keep us here, to maintain a closed system, a laboratory, not a refuge. When the truth spread, there was panic, yelling in corridors, officers pulling sidearms. Rudolph was taken, so were the three others who heard the broadcast directly. They said it was a security breach that outside voices are contaminated. A few of us discussed mutiny, quietly in passing. It lasted two days before someone betrayed us. I was beaten. Not enough to kill, just enough to remind.

One man was dragged to sector three. No one has seen him since. I believe now that we are no longer survivors. Rather, we are subjects. October 23rd, 1947. It is happening too fast now. I can hardly keep track of the days. Sickness is everywhere.

Not just fatigue or malnutrition, but something deeper. Flesh turns soft, almost sponge-like, eyes glaze over. Some have developed a sort of fever that doesn't burn the skin, but warps the mind. Men forget how to walk. walk, women scream at nothing, and children are crying. The experiments have escaped containment. No one says it out loud, but everyone knows. It began with a breach in sector three, a door left open, a containment cell damaged. The lights went out for less than two minutes, but it was enough. They don't resemble people anymore.

One moved through the upper maintenance corridor last night. I didn't see it fully. It moved in a sluggish pace. I heard gasps. Then nothing. When I returned with two others, there was no blood. Just clothing. Three men gone with no sign of struggle.

Only the scent of salt and bile in the air. Today I opened a sealed supply. crate in the communal hall. Inside were plastic wrapped packages. I read the labels, coded, sterile, clinical. Protein units processed. But it was warm. I took a knife and cut one open. They were feeding us the failures. Some knew, some didn't, but we ate anyway. We had. We had no choice. I vomited until nothing came out but bile. I have not eaten since. November 9th, 1947. This will be my final entry. There is no more order here, only rituals, grotesque imitations of structure. Men still wear uniforms. They march the halls as if the Reich still

listens as if this place is anything but a grave. I was part of a small group who tried to escape. There was an auxiliary hatch built during the early days before the lockdowns. We found it behind the water reserves hidden under rebar and rotting crates. Six of us planned to leave. We never made it out together. Something followed us, a failed subject if you can even call them that. I saw its face for the first time. A man I once knew, Fisher, I think. His skin had melted like wax and reformed in sagging layers. His jaw was unhinged. His ribs pulsed like gills. He moved without urgency, like a predator that knows nothing can escape. He crushed Yergan against the wall with one arm. I saw bone snap through his thick,

thigh like dry kindling. Hanna screamed until her voice gave out, then tried to run and slipped on the floor on what remained of someone else. We sealed the hatch behind us, but I was injured. My leg is broken. I can't walk.

I volunteer to stay. The others are gone now, up that ladder and back into a world that might not even be waiting for them. Maybe they'll make it back. Maybe not. I no longer care. This journal will remain with me.

If you are reading this, you must understand. We were not all complicit. We were not all monsters. We didn't speak right away after the journal ended. Sasha closed it with both hands, slowly, like it might shatter. She sat back on her heels, mouth slightly open in a stunned silence. Jonas had been pacing in a tight loop near the bed. Dr. Kettley hadn't moved at all.

He stood by the desk, arms folded, staring at the floor like it owed him an answer. I couldn't think. Couldn't find a thread to hold on to. The words were still echoing. Then, Ketley spoke. We can't stop here. I looked at him. What are you talking about?

He turned toward us, slow and heavy. This journal is, it's only a part of the picture. If half of what he described actually happened down there, we owe it to history to see the rest. They could be evidence, proof, biological remnants. You want to find them? Sasha asked. Her voice was hoarse. The things he described. I want to know if they're even real, he said. Jonas nodded, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He's right, we're already in. We can't just run now.

Jonas, we should run, Sasha said, rising to her feet. This isn't a science project. This is a mass grave built and alive. There's a reason they sealed it up. She looked at me, eyes roar. Tell me you don't want to keep going. I didn't answer. The air was changing, heavier, close to sour. I hadn't noticed until then, but it was there clinging to my clothes. Footsteps behind us.

We turned to see Lewis duck into the room. room. His face was pale, a thin sheen of sweat catching the light from his headlamp. He looked at each of us, then down at the journal in Sasha's hands. I read a few more pages, he said, I didn't want to, but I did. He swallowed hard. There's something wrong down here, and I don't want to be a part of it. We're going down, Jonah said. Lewis stared at him, then turned to me. Don't go with them, I didn't answer. A minute later, he was gone.

The air felt colder once he left. The stairs to the lower level had nearly rusted through, but the structure held. We descended one at a time, our boots clanging softly against the metal, echoing of the shaft. my headlamp flickered once and stabilized. The damage was obvious from the start. The walls were warped and bulging in place, like something had pressed from the other side with slow pressure. Entire panels were cracked open,

revealing tangled veins of rusted piping and torn cables. One segment of the ceiling had collapsed inward. We dug beneath it, crawling through to run. reached the next corridor. As we moved farther down the corridor, the signs of collapse became less like age and more like a struggle. The walls were scarred with impact marks, some shallow, some punched in deep. Sasha brushed her hand across a jagged hole near a doorway.

Her fingers came away flaked with rust and something darker beneath it. Bullet holes, Dr Kedley said quietly. Close range. We looked around and they were everywhere. Pock marked across the hallway, clustered around corners near doorways. Some had fragments of brass casings still embedded in the cracks between the floor tiles. Others were surrounded by long-dried splashes of what could only be blood. someone maybe many had tried to fight whatever got out

the rooms on this level had no beds just rusted restraints shelves of ruined medical equipment dr kettley stepped ahead his lamp tracing an open door he froze i turned to ask what he saw but before i could speak I heard it, breathing. Wet, strained, like air pushed through mucus and ruined lungs. Then something shifted in the dark, a shape moved at the edge of our lights.

Gurgling followed, long and low. I felt the breath leave my body as something inside me screamed to run. It was hunched in the corner, facing away. from us, a towering shape with limbs bent at wrong angles and skin stretched too far to hold what was inside. It was the shape of a man, barely. Its skin was wet and sagging, shiny with dark sweat or fluid, parts of it clinging to the bone, other parts slowing off in folds.

Where its joints met, elbows, knees, shoulders. Black fluid oozed freely and pulled on the floor in thick, tar-like globs. It was wearing something. Or what remained of something. A uniform, torn, threadbare, stretched under the fabric had embedded itself into flesh. The buttons were still there. The collar fused to its body. One barefoot dragged behind it, grotesquely swollen and,

roar, the heels split open like old fruit. The other foot thudded when it moved, heavy and wet. And its face. No, it wasn't a face. A mound of pale pulp, sagging and twitching, with holes where features should have been. No eyes, just dark impressions like the sockets had collapsed inward long ago, then it sniffed, a wet, rattling inhale that sounded like fluid bubbling in a train pipe, and it turned toward us. Its mouth opened wide. It released the groan, slow and shuddering like a child. The sound echoed off the walls, wet and heavy, and it slapped the wall with one massive hand,

leaving a smear of black. Dr Kedley whispered something I couldn't hear His light dropped slightly, his hands trembled The thing stepped forward We ran The hallway behind us felt longer than before Our boots hit the floor with a frantic pace Lights bouncing wildly off the walls

Behind us came the sound of meat hitting concrete A sound that wasn't quite footsteps But not quite crawling either Dr Kettley tripped near a broken section of piping. I turned too late. The thing reached him in a blink. One bloated hand wrapped around his waist and lifted him like a doll.

Kedley screamed tore through the hallway. Then a crack, we kept running. Jonas was ahead of me, nearly at the bulkhead we'd come through when it happened. Jonas reached the doorway. He turned to seal it, tried to pull the reinforced door shut. The creature's arm whipped around the corner like it was liquid. A tendril slid into Jonas' mouth fast. His body arched violently, feet lifting off the ground as he convulsed.

His eyes went wide, then rolled back. His limbs flailed once, twice. then stopped. He collapsed, twitching once before going completely still. The thing retracted his arms slowly. I backed away and realised I was the only one left. I kept to the left wall, then the right, mentally tracing every turn we took on the way down. My chest burned, my legs wanted to give.

But something beneath it all, instinct kept me upright. And then I saw the hatch we came from. Relief hit like a punch to the gut, so sharp it made me stagger. I climbed up the ladder and grabbed the iron wheel, turned it. Nothing. It didn't budge. I tried it again, planted my feet, pulled harder.

The bolts groaned faintly. But it didn't give. I felt along the edges. There were no breaks, no external damage, no collapse. The mechanism hadn't failed. It had been sealed from the other side. Lewis. He must have heard something from the outside, or panicked,

or maybe he closed it wrong on accident. My fists hid the hatch again and again, pain booming across my knuckles. I yelled, screamed his name. No response. Behind me. Moisture. The faintest vibration underfoot, followed by the moan. I shut off my light, backed into the dark.

The crawl space I'd found was barely wide enough to fit through. An old maintenance shaft lined with torn conduit and brittle cables. I didn't think about what might be in it. I just dropped to my knees and slid inside, scraping my ribs against the stone, arm shaking as I pulled myself deeper. I stopped maybe 15 feet in, tucked between two collapsed pipe junctions, curled as tightly as I could. My chest rose and fell so fast I was afraid the sound of my breathing would give me away. I clamped my hand over my mouth and waited. The thing came into view slowly.

Just light at first, bouncing dimly from a lamp still lying in the hallway behind me. Then the sound. It was a strip of fabric, barely holding to the remains of a coat or uniform. A piece of cloth fused into the rotten flesh of the creature's chest, barely hanging on. A name tag. Marla The lettering was faded But clear enough

Eric Marla It paused near the hatch I couldn't see it clearly anymore But I could hear it It slapped the walls Sniff the air loud Gurgling inhales Like a drowning animal

struggling to taste something lost Then he began to speak Not full words but it tried anyway. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath. I don't know how long I stayed in that crawl space. My joints had gone stiff, my mouth dry as bone. My flashlight had long since died,

and even the fear was beginning to thin, giving way to something worse, the quiet belief that this was it, that I would die down here. I'd stopped listening for it. The thing, I thought, maybe it had a lost interest, or maybe it didn't need to hunt anymore. Then. Light, flooding in from the corridor, warm and golden, not the sterile white of her headlamps,

but sunlight, pure and alive, crashing through the darkness like a resurrection, and a voice, familiar, human, cracking with panic and guilt. I came back. A pause. I'm sorry I left. Are you there? Lewis.

My body reacted before my mind could. But I wasn't the only one who heard him. I scrambled out of the crawl space, half crawling, half tumbling. My legs screamed, blood rushing back into numb muscles as I ran full tilt toward the hatch. The air stank of heat and rot. The moan behind me grew louder, closer. The floor shook beneath its weight. Loo's face appeared in the open hatch above, eyes wide, flashlight in one hand.

Hey, what's going on? he yelled. I threw myself at the ladder, missed the first rung, slammed my shin, climbed anyway. My fingers fumbled for grip, the metal slick with some. sweat and grime. Lewis reached down, grabbed my arm. He pulled. As my head crested the hatch, I felt the pressure shift behind me,

a blast of heat and a wet sound. The thing was at the base of the ladder. I screamed. Lewis pulled harder, and I cleared the opening, just as a wet mass slammed against the underside of the hatch. He slammed it shot. The thud echoed like a gunshot, metal shaking under the impact.

We stood there in the clearing, both of us heaving for breath. I bent over with my hands and my knees, trying to slow my heart. Lewis paced in wide, frantic circles, wiping sweat from his face, mouth working like he wanted to say a dozen things but couldn't pick one. Then he turned to me, eyes wide, hollow. Where's Sasha? He asked. I didn't answer.

What about Jonas and the professor? What happened down there? What was that thing? My lips parted, but nothing came out. I opened my mouth again, tried to form words, but it was like they were stuck. behind everything I had just seen. Felt, Lewis stepped closer.

Tell me what happened. They're gone, I finally said. I just... They're gone. He stared at me for a long time, like he was trying to read something I couldn't put into words. Then, slowly, he pulled out his phone. I'm calling someone.

he muttered. He stepped a few feet away, murmuring into the speaker, giving what details he could. Location, injuries, urgency. I just stood there, numb, watching the hatch like he might start rattling again. But it didn't. We left before they arrived. Neither of us wanted to be there when they opened it again. if they opened it again

but we knew we had to stay and so we did a few days passed the authorities came local police first then federal agents and finally someone in clean uniforms

with no names on their jackets they wouldn't say who they worked for only that the site was under investigation and we were advised not to speak to the press. Weeks later, I got a call. Lewis was on the other end, voice low. They found it, he said. Everything, the bonker, the journal, all of it, I asked. He went quiet. No bodies, he said, finally. No people. No creatures. I didn't respond.

This could have only meant one thing. They got out. I've been a frogger since I was 13. At this point, a professional squatter. It started a survival. But over time, it became something else. I don't do it for food or shelter anymore. I do it because it makes my pulse race. I do it because slipping between cracks of someone's life without them ever knowing I was there

feels like proof that I existed. People think of squatters as junkies or drifters. But froggers, we're different. We become ghosts in pristine houses, ghosts with beating hearts, watching the living world from air vents and crawl spaces. There's a whole online scene buried. You wouldn't stumble across us by accident. You'd have to be broken in just the right shape.

Once you're in, you're in. I've been doing this longer than almost anyone else. I've lived in mansions, farmhouses, penthouses, domesday bunkers. I've crawled on the floorboards while families ate breakfast above me. I've watched people sleep from the shadows of their closets. I've held my breath for hours. hours in insulation that made my skin bleed. There are contests. Longest stay undetected, most dangerous

infiltration, most expensive home, most absurd hiding place. I've won all of them at least once. They treat me like a legend. Some of them even message me for advice. There's a thread with my name pinned to the top of the forum. I post tips, photos. maps, audio files. I teach them how to disappear in plain sight, how to become nothing, and survive inside someone else's everything. Before all of that, I was a kid no one wanted. My mom dropped me at a fire station when I was a baby, a bundle and a duffel bag. I grew up in orphanages that smelled of bleach and sadness, passed between foster homes like a borrowed jacket. Every new house came with rules, slaps, broken promises.

Some of them starved me, some locked me in closets. I ran away from all that when I was nine. Took a bus as far as I could afford, then walked. I stole food, snuck into unlocked garages, lived in empty homes under renovation. Then I got better, started hiding in homes that weren't empty. I watched and listened, learned habits and schedules. I found silence and made it my armour. That's when it changed from survival to skill, then from skill to instinct.

Then obsession. I couldn't stop, even when I didn't need to anymore. I got jobs eventually, did odd work, I started making enough to rent a place of my own, if I ever wanted it. But I never did. I found the ranch by accident, dragging through satellite images one night while riding a post-job high. I just finished the clean exit from a two-week infiltration in Boulder, wealthy newlyweds. As always, I didn't take anything, didn't leave the same. single sign. That's what separates froggers from burglars. We're not thieves. I kept scrolling

aimlessly, waiting for my adrenaline to settle. Then I saw it. A rectangular smudge of green in the middle of Utah's drylands. Nothing around it for miles but dust and sand, all scorched and crumbling. It was a lush square of impossible color. A full of far. full orchard from the looks of it, a ranch house with a wraparound porch. It looked perfect. I pulled it into my files and started scanning deeper. No records in the county assessor's database. I cross-referenced it on four different mapping services. Same thing. I took a screenshot, logged into the forum and posted it under the title. Anyone tried this place?

The replies came fast. What is that? A new movie set? In the middle of nowhere? No, thanks. Nah, man, those rural folks don't play. You don't mess with ranch families. Too isolated.

If they catch you, they'll bury you in the back pasture. People have their own guns. They'll shoot first. Ask later if you're lucky. I waited before replying. Eventually, someone tagging. me directly. Don't even think about it. You're good, but that's suicide. Another added, He won't do it. He knows better. I stared at that line for a while. Could have closed the tab,

gone to sleep and found a safer target, but the green rectangle sat in my mind like a loaded chamber. They thought I wouldn't do it. That's why I packed to my kit the next. morning and started walking east. I was going to Utah. I traveled light. Everything I needed fit into a canvas pack that had been stitched and restitched too many times to count. My boots were cracked at the seams, soles reinforced with glue and strips of tire rubber. I stuck to low ground and outcroppings during the day, walked at dusk, and slept under shrubs when I couldn't see your head anymore. It took two full days to cross the desolate stretch leading to the ranch. The air was dry enough to strip moisture from your lungs and the ground swallowed footprints

within minutes. When I finally saw it, it felt like my mind had been tricked. One moment, I was looking out across endless, dead nothing. And the next, I saw color bleeding through the heat shimmer, lush grass, tall corn, a patch of orchard trees bearing fruit, rows of cabbage and beans. All of it nestled inside a perfect square of green that pulsed with life. At its centre stood a house with a wide porch and pale wooden siding. There was a sharp border at the edge of it, a soft dent in the ground. It was literally one step of sand. than grass.

I stopped at that line and crouched down, pressed my hand to the ground. The dirt under my palm felt warm and faintly alive, if that's the right word for it. I brushed aside a patch of grass and saw that the line was definitely

not natural. There was something buried just beneath the surface, chalk or salt or ash. I couldn't tell. It formed a thin grey barrier running through the soil, clean as a ruler line. I stepped over it. The air smelled different immediately.

The temperature dropped by at least 10 degrees. My skin stopped burning. I should have turned back right then, but I kept walking. I found a good vantage point behind a stone wall that had collapsed on its western edge. The ranch house sat 200 yards ahead, wrapped in a horseshoe of crops and animal pens. The field stretched out behind it, and from where I crouched, I could see a set of cattle luring near a feeding trow. The entire scene looked pulled from a dream, something from a calendar photo or an old oil painting.

The family appeared on the porch just before sunset. First came the father, broad-shouldered and tan, wiping his hands with a stained rag. His wife followed, carrying a tray of glasses and a pitcher. Three children bounded after her, each under ten. They were laughing as they ran down the porch steps, chasing a small dog that darted through the grass. They moved in the kind of grace I hadn't seen in a long time. Whatever their lives were, they didn't wear the weight of them. I was jealous.

I watched them eat dinner outside, grilling over a fire pit near the barn. They passed food back and forth. The sun eventually dipped low, casting amber light over the field. It was a perfect postcard, every detail framed by golden haze. I waited until the sky took up. turned black, and the lights in the house started going out one by one. Then, I moved. I crouched low and moved fast across the edge of the property.

Every footstep I made, I would make sure to stop, wipe it clean so it doesn't leave a print, and stayed out of open ground, weaving through trees and parked equipment, until I reached the east side of the house. I waited again, pressing my back to the cool wood siding, listening for footsteps or voices. There was nothing. I took one last look at the darkness behind me, then slipped around the back of the house and tested the windows. One of them was unlocked. And I was in.

The house was old, but not falling apart. Every piece of it had been cared for, yet nothing had been modernised. The floors were polished wood, the walls were dark timber, thick and slightly warped with age. Shelfs line the corners, each one stacked with books, jars and figurines. The art on the walls wasn't the kind you'd find at hobby stores or Sunday school. Most of it was hand-carved or painted. demons and angels fighting, horned men, circles of fire and bone, symbols arranged in patterns I had never seen before. Most of it looked Christian, or some weird denomination of Christianity.

Some of the figures looked human, but wrong in ways I couldn't explain. One piece near the staircase showed a figure kneeling in front of a goaded head man with his hands open. Weird religious depictions weren't rare in rural homes, but man, it was a shocker to see every time. I moved past it and opened the refrigerator. I took my time. I had done this hundreds of times before. I knew how to take without drawing attention. I broke off small pieces from a wedge of cheese,

sipped just enough milk to cool my throat, and took a spoonful of something sweet, from a glass jar. I wiped the edges of the containers with my shirt and placed them exactly where I'd found them. Once I was sure the kitchen had no cameras or alarm systems, I scouted the rest of the ground floor. It was a wide open layout. No hallways. The living room opened directly into the kitchen and dining area. Beyond that, a hallway led to a laundry room and what looked like a study.

A staircase on the far end curled upward toward the second floor. I found my hiding spot behind a false panel in a storage closet near the laundry room. Someone had remodeled this part of the house recently. The panel didn't sit flush with a wall. I pried it loose with a butter knife and found a gap between the inner wall and the original frame. It wasn't spacious, but I had slept in worse. I tucked my pack into the corner, lay back and steadied my breathing. Every creek of the house made me flinch, but nothing stirred.

I slept in short intervals, waking often to listen. The next morning, I waited until the family left the house. I heard the kids talking through the walls, their voice is muffled and distant. At one point, the mother said, they needed to find some fresh meat soon. The father grunted something in reply. One of the children asked if they were going to the usual spot. The mother said no, they needed something stronger this time.

I assume they were talking about livestock, maybe venison, something rural and bloody. The house was larger than it looked from the outside. Two full floors. I started by mapping the layout in my head. The kids stayed on the bottom level, tucked into two small rooms near the kitchen. The parents slept above them in a spacious master bedroom that had a double balcony.

There was a third room on the second floor, locked from the outside. I couldn't figure out what was inside, but the door had been nailed shut and covered with a faded wall tapestry. One night while checking around for a new hiding spot, I noticed the small indentation on the rug in the kitchen. When I lifted it, I found the edge of a small wooden hatch, maybe two feet wide, with a thin brass handle and four nails holding it shut. A narrow wooden staircase led down into darkness.

The air rising from the opening was cold and dry, and it was cold and dry, and he was a little bit of, I carried that same strange scent I had noticed when I first entered the house. Dampness mixed with something ancient and faintly sweet. No one had mentioned this space in the time I've been here so far. I hadn't heard anyone go down there either. If I could make that space my own, I could stay here as long as I wanted. I could vanish beneath the house and live for months without a single footprint. if they never used it.

It was mine. I closed the hatch and pulled the cabinet back into place, pressing the rug down to hide the seam. All I had to do was wait for the right time to move in. If I did now, there was no guarantee the stairs leading down wouldn't creak and groan. I had to wait.

Two mornings later, I heard the mother mention the same thing again. I had slipped out of my hiding spot before dawn and crouched just behind the half-open door to the pantry. The kids are in the kitchen, eating breakfast, or the parents moved around the counter, packing something into canvas bags. We'll need to be gone at least a full day this time,

the mother said. Maybe two. If we can't find any on the low trails, we'll go further. Should we take all three? the father asked. No, she said. Just the deep one.

The others are too thin. The land won't respond. I didn't know what they were talking about. One of the kids asked if you could stay up late while they were gone. The mother gave him permission, then leaned in and kissed the top of his head. The other two whined about having to feed the goats and prep the drying racks again.

We'll bring back fresh meat. Be patient. The kids groaned in unison. They were leaving. That meant the house would be empty. I waited. Once the house was quiet, I was sure that the parents had gone. I slipped from the wall panel and crossed through the kitchen barefoot,

stepping carefully to avoid the boards that creaked. I peeled back the rug and exposed the hatch. It lifted without a sound. I didn't hesitate. I stepped into the hole and pulled the hatch closed above me. The stairs groaned, but not too loudly. My shoulders scraped both walls as I descended, and the temperature dropped with every step. The smell hit me halfway down.

Iron and soil was thick in the air, clinging to the roof of my mouth. When I reached the bottom, I stood in pitch-reaching. black and listened. My breathing echoed faintly off stone. I pulled a flashlight from my belt, wrapped the lens in cloth to dim it, and clicked it on. The basement was fairly large. Rough stone walls braced with timber, hooks hung from overhead beams, rusted chains dangling beside them, some old fibres stuck to the links. The floor was stained in regular patches. I moved slowly. casting the light across the space. There were animal bones along the far wall,

stacked in a bin beside what looked like a salt block and several glass jars filled with dark liquid. I stopped myself before the anxiety got too loud. My first instinct was to run. I don't know why. Maybe it was the smell or the cold or the way the silence bent around me. My legs twitched,

ready to sprint up the stairs. But then the voice in my head, the one I've been sharpening for years, kicked in. Calm down. Use your eyes. You've seen butchering rooms before, man. Farmers butcher meat and then dry it. That's probably what they use the basement for. Besides, this family had done nothing out of the ordinary

in the time I've stayed here. The weirdest thing about them was the religious stuff around the house. and that wasn't even the weirdest thing I've seen in homes in my life. I made my way to the far corner and checked around. There was no way out but the stairs, but the corner itself had just enough shadow and a few crates blocked direct line of sight from the centre of the room. I pulled them aside, stepped down,

and wrapped myself in the old canvas dropcloth I had stashed in my pack. Just before I dozed. I heard the basement hatch open, a faint click, then the groan of old hinges. My eyes snapped open and my breath locked in my chest. I twisted beneath a canvas and pressed my face between two wooden slats. The stairs creaked one step at a time, soft voices followed, four sets of feet. I angled my flashlight toward the floor and watched their shadows stretch in the same. into the room.

The first two were the parents. I recognized their outlines immediately. The man walked ahead, carrying something heavy draped across his shoulders. It looked to be a person. The woman followed with a bundle tucked under one arm. Behind them came the two others, robed, their faces completely hidden. The man stepped into the center of the middle. the basement and signalled for what seemed to be his companion to do something.

He took a table that was near them and dragged it to the centre of the basement. The other man laid the burden across the table. I could see it now. It was a woman, he sat down, and she seemed to be unconscious. Her limbs hung limp, her hair had been matted with sweat, and a stomach bulged beneath a dress. Was she pregnant? I felt my stomach lurch. Her chest moved shallowly, so she was still breathing at least.

The robed men stepped fully into view, and I got my first proper look at them. Their robes were deep black, made from something thick and textured, and each one was stitched from the neck to ankle without a single scene visible. their hems and sleeves, symbols had been embroidered in a sickly, off-white thread. One of the row figures produced a long piece of bone, sharpened to a fine point, and dipped it into one of the dark glass jars. He bent low and began tracing a perfect circle in the dust, followed by a pentagram at his centre. The lines gleamed wetly, and from the way the lantern caught them, I realised...

He was using blood. It dragged across the stone in thick strokes, bleeding into the grooves carved into the floor itself. The other roped figure stood by the table, whispering something low as the father and mother adjusted the woman's position. Her stomach rose in a full, tight curve. She was heavily pregnant, close to term. She remained unconscious. The table they placed. was an old butcher's slab, covered in scars and grooves, the grain of the wood blackened

and glossy from years of use. The father stepped back as the robed man finished the pentagram. The lines met, closed, and the robed man gave a nod. She's strong, one of them said. She'll hold, said the other. The mother moved to the far corner and opened a wooden crud. crate. She produced a long, curved dagger, wrapped in red cloth, and handed it to her husband. He took it without a word and stepped up to the table. He leaned in and placed a hand on the woman's

forehead, brushing her hair aside like he was saying goodbye. Then he placed a blade into a chest and drove it straight through her sternum. Her eyes snapped open. She didn't scream, but her mouth twisted as a hand seized at the edge of the table. Her back arched and her legs kicked against the slab. A choking sound rasped from her throat. Blood welled up around the handle, thick and dark, soaking through a dress and pulling across the pentagram beneath her. She convulsed once more. Then went still.

The basement fell into silence for several long seconds. The father stepped away from the body and wiped the blade against his sleeve, folding it again in a red cloth as if he were a sacred object. The two robed men began chanting something in a guitaral language, made of deep clicks and harsh consonants that didn't resemble anything I had ever heard. The mother ascended the stairs without explanation and vanished through the hatch. She returned several minutes later, cradling something in both arms. At first, I thought it was a bundle of fabric, or maybe an animal.

But then I saw it was a severed goat's head, freshly taken. Blood still dripped from its neck and darkened a blouse, and she carried it across the room with care, as though presenting her newborn. The goat's eyes were milky and half-closed, and his tongue lulled out. between its teeth. One of the roped men retrieved a short saw and placed it on the table. The father held the woman's body steady or the mother guided the blade. It took several strokes. Her neck split slowly, vertebrae crunching as the saw made contact with bone. I could barely watch. Her head came loose with a wet snap and the mother lifted it free.

laying it in a clay bowl beside the table. Then they placed the goat's head on the open neck, seating it awkwardly. Blood ran from the seam, soaking the pentagram again. It looks so grotesque and wrong. I had to use every ounce of willpower to not wretch and throw up. It sat too high. It sighs off by just enough to make the body beneath it seem small.

the mouth twitched, and for a moment I thought I had imagined it. The mother and father began to spread salt in a precise pattern along the edges of the circle. Every few seconds they paused, muttered a word and dropped small metal tokens, coins, rings, a gear, a broken key. The symbols carved on the floor flared dimly, then pulsed again bright. The temperature shifted around me, dropping to freezing in seconds. My teeth clenched as I wrapped my arms around my chest. The table began to tremble. Then...

The body twitched. First the legs, then the arms, then the fingers. One foot kicked, then the other. The abdomen clenched once, twice, then swelled unnaturally. unnaturally. The goat head rose slightly, its mouth opened and hung. From deep within it came a sound I had never heard repeated since. It was low and wet, a gurgling croak that built into a shuddering intake of breath. It rose upright, arms rigid at its sides, and then it spoke. Why have you summoned me? One of the figures stepped forward, arms outstretched in reverence,

and bowed low before answering. The crops have dulled, the ground is dried, the air takes more than it gives. We need your blessing. We need the land to breathe again. The goathead twisted slightly to the side and hovered that way for several seconds, as if conceivated. their words. Then its arms jerked upward, bone cracking at the shoulders, and its hands snapped open. The entire table rattled beneath it. A long growl rose from its chest and deepened into a gurgling scream, its volume climbing until it filled every corner of the basement. One of the jars near the altar cracked, The father staggered back and caught himself on a crate, his face pale. The mother clutched the silver charm that had been hanging around her neck.

The creature slammed his hands down on the table, splintering one of the legs. It bared its teeth and hissed through clenched jaws. His voice returned, less articulate. You have wasted blood. I will not take offerings in such circumstance. The robed men exchanged the glance. Something disturbed it, one said. We must abandon this site for 24 hours.

Let it rest, but the lines reset. The other said. We will stay with you at your ranch, he said, looking over at the man and woman. When we return here, we cleanse every inch of this basement. every crack, every hiding place, it will all be scrubbed. They began collecting their tools in silence. The creature hissed again and pressed its hands against the inside of the pentagram, testing it. The salt still held.

I saw one grain tremble at the edge and roll across the line. A faint spark flared from the ground and the creature recoiled. Return prepared, it said. They didn't speak again. One by one they ascended the stairs. The hatch creaked shut behind them. The sound of metal locks sliding into place hit first, then the dragging of something heavy across the top of the hatch.

A power drill whined. The seal was thorough. They weren't just closing it. They were barricading it, sealing the basement shut from the outside world with no intention of returning until they believed it was safe. I sat frozen beneath the crates. My back was damp and clung to the wall. Each bang above me sent a new spike of dread through my chest. I felt like I'd just been buried alive.

I closed my eyes and buried my head against my knees, counting seconds in my head. head to keep from losing it, then it spoke. To me. I know you're here, the voice came softer this time. I smelled you as soon as I came. I tried to keep my breath quiet enough to vanish into the walls. You watched it, it said. You've been watching for days.

I stayed still, but every part of me. burned with panic. I didn't know if he could see me, or if it only sensed me. He let out a deep, slow breath that filled the basement like steam rolling out of a furnace. You and I,

we are the same. I stayed curled behind the crates with my body locked in place, listening as the creature shifted on the table. His voice filled the room again, drawing out each syllable. You are small, but capable. I clenched my jaw and tried to ignore it,

but my arms are already starting to tremble. My legs had gone numb. I didn't know how long I could keep this up. The voice drifted closer. I know what you desire. I wanted to yell back, to tell it to shut up, but I couldn't summon the courage. You want to leave, they continued.

They will not let you. They will come back tomorrow with fire and oil. They will burn the walls. They will tear the floors apart. They will find you. I let the thought pass through me. It wasn't hard to imagine. If they had gone this far,

then finding a frog or a frog in their basement would only make their work easier. I would become another ingredient, but I can help you leave. The words stopped my breath. Break the salt, only a single line. Then we shake hands. That is all. I help you, it said, and you help me.

One wish. That is the price. One. I didn't answer. You do not have to die here, it said. I pressed my fingers to the floor. I counted my options and found none. If I stayed, I would be found. If I ran, I would be caught. If I waited, I would be part of the next ritual.

I stepped out from behind the cross. prates and walked toward the table. It crouched low on the table now, knees folded beneath it, one hand resting on the wood, and the other stretched toward me with its palm open. His head followed my movement without turning, but his presence bore down on me with unbearable weight. I approached slowly, my eyes on the edge of the salt line. The grain shimmered slightly as I neared. You are close, it said. Finish it. I stepped forward and used the tip of my boot to break the smallest section of the circle.

The salt scattered outward. The creature rose to its full height in a single motion, limbs unfolding with perfect fluidity. It stepped over the line and stood before me, towering, not with bulk, but with full. form. The dress it wore hung in tatters, soaked through with blood that had dried in layered streaks. The goat's head stared straight through me, its hands still hung in the air. I reached forward and tuck it. The moment we touched, the entire room shivered. The ceiling

cracked once above us, a gust of wind passed through the room. The creature nodded once. Then spoke, Turn around. For a second, I thought this would be it. This was the part where it would rip me in half, or drive his fingers into my skull, or whisper something into my ear that would collapse my mind. I thought it would betray the deal,

twist it, drag me down into whatever hell it had come from. But I turned around and accepted my fate. after a while of nothing, I turned back. And it was gone. Then I heard it. Wood splintering, a scream, sharp and short. I crouched and crept toward the stairs, stepping lightly to avoid the cracked boards. Another crash followed.

Then a sound that turned my blood cold. It was wet and sudden, like someone tearing a roast from the bone with bare hands. A gurgling cry ran out, followed by a thud that shook dust loose from the ceiling beams. Someone else yelled, a deeper voice this time, angry, cut off by a second impact that made the floor groan. I reached the top of the stairs and press my ear to the hatch. Muffled movement echoed above me. I eased the latch open. Whatever had been used to barricade it was gone.

I slipped through the opening and rose to my feet in the kitchen. The light was dim, fed only by the flicker of lanterns that swung in the hallway. A smell hit me before I saw anything. Blood, warm enough to coat the air. I moved through the living room and crouched behind the banister near the front entryway. Beyond the corner, I saw the creature. The flesh was pale and cold. glistening with sweat and blood, veins pushed against the skin as if something large writhed

beneath the surface. His torso swelled unnaturally with each breath, and the skin around its belly stretched so tight I could see the outline of something shifting inside. The goat's head remained fixed above it all, still slack-jawed and expressionless, but the air around it vibrated from the growling sound rising from its throat. One of the roped men, in clear desperation, charged forward with a blade drawn from his belt, but the creature swatted him aside with one arm, shattering his jaw and throwing him into the far wall. His body hit the bookshelf and slid down, crumpled and twitching. The other raised his hands and began chanting.

The creature lunged forward, driving its fingers. through his stomach. They punched through his robes and into his flesh with ease. He buckled around them, and the chanting died in his throat as he collapsed, folded in half. The mother and father tried to run. The father was too slow, however, so he grabbed a shotgun from behind the door and fired once. The blast tore through the creature's shoulder, exposing raw muscle. But he didn't flinch.

It didn't bleed. The flesh folded back together as if nothing had happened. Across the room in two lurching strides and tackled him against the wall. I heard the bone crack before he even screamed. The creature pinned him there and pulled the gun from his hands, then pushed its face into his neck and bit down. The mother suffered a similar fate. I didn't wait for my turn.

I ran through the side door, out across the field, and toward the edge of the property. My legs burned and my lungs pulled cold air that stung my chest. The sky above me swirled with smoke and stars. The property line came into view ahead of me. Grass stopped and sand began, just as it had the night I arrived. My body slammed into something solid and invisible. It knocked me back flat onto the ground. I gasped, rolled onto my knees and tried again.

I clawed forward and lunged with my shoulder, but the wall held. There was no sign of what was stopping me, just empty air with a density of steel. I beat my fists against it. I kicked it. I even screamed at it, hoping something would shift. Nothing did. Behind me, it was coming, galloping, hands and feet pounding the dirt frantically. I turned and saw it charged through the dark, arms bent, mouth wide.

Its goat face stared directly ahead, those empty sockets locked onto mine. Its legs kicked up dirt as it closed the distance. I brace myself and shut my eyes. But it stopped inches in front. of me. Its breath was harsh and fast. I felt the warmth of it on my skin. I opened my eyes and saw the goat head tilted downward, close enough that I could see the crusted blood dried onto the hairs around its mouth. It just stared. Then it sat down in the dirt, folded its arms over its knees, and whispered one sentence. My wish. It sat up.

back slowly, folding its legs beneath itself, arms resting on its thighs, shoulders heaving with slow breath. The goat's head tilted down toward the earth, and the body underneath began to sag. Muscles quivering beneath the stretched, sweatslick skin of the pregnant woman's frame. My wish is this. You must raise my kin. I didn't understand what it meant at first. The words registered, but the meaning floated beyond them. The creature load itself further into the dirt and wrapped its arms around its abdomen. The flesh swelled and pulsed, shifting in thick waves as something began moving inside. It gritted its teeth and bent forward, nails dragging through the earth beneath it. I watched the belly twitch and lurch,

muscles contorting, as if something larger than the frame of the woman's body had ever been meant to contain, began forcing itself free. It whimpered once, a low rasp torn through clenched teeth, then braced itself on one arm and reached between its legs with the other. Blood poured out under the grass, soaking the soil beneath it. The stench filled the air. I wanted to look away, but I was lost. in place. The body convulsed once more, and then something slipped free and hid the ground

with a wet, muted slap. It was small, no larger than a toddler. Its body was covered in coarse black hair and gray skin. Its limbs were jointed like a person's, but longer and hairier. Bones jotted out at odd angles, and from its back, two leathery wings unfolded. and stretched outward with a slow, fluttering pulse. Its head was elongated and bent forward, nose flat and wide, eyes already open. It blinked once, then rolled onto its back, and looked up at me. I understood then what I needed to do,

so I rushed forward, grabbed it by the torso, and held it down against the dirt with everything I had. It bounced once. let out a short yelp and rolled to its side. I turned, found a smooth rock about the size of a football near the edge of the line, and raised it above my head. My arms trembled from the weight, from the panic, from the surge of hatred I didn't even know I could feel. I brought the rock down on its skull.

Once, twice, three times. It giggled. Then it looked up at me. me and said, Da-da, I dropped the rock and stumbled back, nearly falling. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. It reached one hand toward me, fingers splayed, smiling. I don't remember walking back to the ranch.

I must have been in shock. My body moved, but I didn't guide it. My arms clutched the thing to my chest. It rested against me and pressed his head. head beneath my chin, breathing slow and steady, humming to itself. Its small hands gripped the collar of my shirt with frightening strength. I walked into the house expecting to see blood, but there was nothing there. The hallway rug had no stains, no tears. I passed through the rooms in disbelief, searching for any trace of what had happened. There was none.

The fireplace glowed with a faint bed of coals as though someone had stoked it an hour ago. I climbed the stairs, still holding the creature to my chest. Its eyes were closed, it smiled in its sleep. In the master bedroom, the bed was made. The curtains are open. Sunlight washed through the room in slow, golden waves. I stood in the doorway with my hands trembling and my knees ready to buckle. The windmill outside turned slowly in the breeze, casting long shadows across the fields,

and I understood then that I wasn't going anywhere. I tried to kill it again during the first night. After returning to the house and wandering through room after room that had been wiped clean of blood and memory, I laid it down on the kitchen floor and grabbed the heaviest butcher knife I could find. I raised it over his chest, two hands on the grip, and stared at the pale, pulsing skin between its ribs. Its chest rose and fell slowly. It looked asleep, though its eyes were open. I brought the knife down with everything I had.

The blade hit the skin and stopped, as if striking cured leather. I pressed harder. It didn't pierce. It didn't even leave a scratch. The thing blinked once, reaching up with a tiny hand and tapped the edge of the knife, like it was curious. Then it laughed. A small imitation of human joy that sent a chill down the length of my spine.

I dropped the knife and stumbled backward. It rolled onto its side and cooed, dragging itself across the floor. Later that night I found the father's gun The shelves was still in a wooden box beside it Organised by calibre I loaded it around and pressed it to the side of the thing's head While it napped in a bundle of blankets I pulled the trigger

Nothing happened I opened the chamber and checked The bullet was clean I reloaded, tried again Click Nothing. I pointed it at my own temple and fired. There was a flash and a crack, and then everything went black.

I woke up on the porch with a creature sitting beside me, giggling again. My ears rang. I checked for blood and found none. The bullet was lodged in the wood beneath my seat. I tried again. This time I aimed in my chest. The fire bloomed through my ribs and dropped to my knees. I passed out choking on my own breath.

I woke up in bed, tucked beneath a wool blanket. The creature stood by the window, humming to itself, staring out of the field. The gun rested in the nightstand with a safety on. I couldn't take the sound of its laugh anymore. I waited until noon when the sun was highest and climbed up the windmill. It wasn't tall, but it stood far enough above the property that I could see everything. The land rolled out in perfect symmetry. Everything in this place was a symbol from the fences to the paths.

I saw it clearly from above. The windmill stood at the centre. Each plot of land, each structure, each buried mark and etching in the stone, had been placed to match the design of a vatement. fast, incomprehensible, simple. I laughed. I don't know why. I think I lost something in that moment, something important. I climbed to the edge, spread my arms, and jumped. The fall should have shattered my legs and broken my spine, but the impact felt like hitting a warm mattress. I bounced once and rolled through the dirt. My limbs ached, but nothing snapped.

The creature watched from the fence. It clapped twice like I had done something clever. Time started to rot. I stopped counting days. I would wake up and find the creature had moved the furniture, arrange plates and circles on the floor, place books in spirals across the kitchen tiles. It mimics speech and movement.

It watched me eat and copied me, though it never needed food. I never saw it sleep full. long. Sometimes it stood in the hallway and stared at the ceiling for hours. It smiled more. Its teeth changed. The front row straightened. The gums pinkened. The texture of its skin began to smooth. The wings on its back folded down and slowly receded. Its fingers shortened. Its gate adjusted. It stood at me when I moved and copied me without hesitating. At some point, I recalled my old frogging community.

I silently prayed they'd notice my absence, and maybe someone would come to this ranch and rescue me. But nobody came. I tried to run. I tried to walk into the woods and keep going. I hit the barrier again. I circled the entire perimeter for days. The invisible wall was absolute. It never stopped following me either.

Some days later. Something happened. The sky was clear. The stars flickered in slow spirals. I sat on the porch staring at the dark, holding an empty cup. My fingers ached. My back had started to curve. My hair had thinned.

I hadn't aged normally, but I hadn't stayed the same either. My body was changing. Then I felt it. A heat rose from behind me, soft and warm, followed by the faint creek of wood beneath careful steps. I turned and saw it standing in the doorway. It wasn't the unholy demon spawn anymore. It was human.

It was morphed. Its features were perfect. Its skin was gone. clean, its hair was dark and soft, combed and parted. It wore simple clothes, a linen shirt, but its eyes still carried the same smoke. Behind the pupils, a swirl of faint grey fog moved slowly, and on its forehead, just below the hairline, a small circular mark glowed faintly. It stepped forward and sat across from me.

Then it reached forward, touched my hand and said, Thank you. I hadn't been sleeping well. Not in the dramatic, tortured way. Just the usual. Late nights dragging to early mornings, too much screen time, too much silence. You stop noticing how tired you are when it's constant. I thought maybe it was the recent job loss or the breakup or the fact that I was living in a sublet where the ceiling fan clicked like a

metronome made to measure disappointment. People said I seemed distant. I was. I tell people I was fine. I'd say it enough that I almost believed it. But a few nights in, something changed. I was washing dishes, staring out the kitchen window at nothing in particular, when I heard it. Not a voice exactly, more like a sense. The sentence dropped in my head, complete, neutral. He dries the glass, he stares too long. I blinked. The sponge slipped in my hand. It wasn't my thought. That's what threw me. It didn't feel like me thinking.

It felt like someone else was thinking at me. I told myself it was stress, insomnia, internal monologue. with too much flair. The next day, on a call with my sister, she asked how I was holding up. I opened my mouth to lie. Before I could speak, it came again. He takes the call. He lies.

And then I said it, without even meaning to. I'm doing all right. I remember the exact moment after how my fingers trembled slightly around the phone, how the line was silent for a beat too long before she replied. That was the first time I joked aloud. Guess I've got a narrator now. But it wasn't funny. It didn't stop.

And it was starting to get things right that I hadn't done yet. At first, the voice stuck to narration, little summaries of what I was already doing. He scrolls too long. He reheats leftovers. He pretends to read. Almost funny in a pathetic sort of way. But after a few days, it started to comment. The first jab came while I was sitting on the couch, scrolling job listings.

He won't apply. He never does. I froze, thumb hovering over the screen, then close the app. I told myself it was a coincidence that my brain was catching me in old habits building sentences around guilt. But the timing was too sharp, the phrasing too pointed.

Later, while I was drafting an email I didn't want to send, it said. He's already lying and he hasn't hit send yet, and I was. I deleted the email. email entirely, stared at the blinking cursor until the words felt like they'd been scraped out of my head. The voice didn't sound angry or emotional. It just sounded sure, confident in a way

I hadn't been in months. It was like reading from a script I hadn't seen. I started testing it, small things. I'd reach for a glass of water just to see what it would say. He reaches for the glass. And quickly, I changed my mind. He hesitates. He pretends that makes him unpredictable. My hand shucks so badly, I nearly dropped the glass. I thought maybe this was a breakdown.

Sleep deprivation, anxiety, some kind of disassociative loop. The internet had words for it. Intrusive thoughts, auditory hallucinations, de-realisation, Except, it didn't feel like a voice in my head. It felt like someone was watching. By the end of that week, I'd stopped turning on the TV, stopped playing music, and stopped doing anything that made me feel less alone. Because that's when it started saying things I hadn't done yet. He won't sleep tonight.

I laughed when I heard it, nervous, brittle. Sure I will. I thought to myself. But the power went out around 1am. The hum of the fridge died. The room folded into silence so deep I could hear my own pulse. I got up, fumbling through the dark

for my phone's flashlight. The air felt heavy, close. I checked the breaker, the fuse, nothing. Then, from the hallway, a faint creek. When I turned, I saw it. The front door, wide open. The cold night pressed in, sharp and deliberate, and behind my ribs, that same quiet voice said,

Something's going to break. I didn't sleep the rest of that night. I checked every room twice, every window, every lock. Nothing was disturbed. The only thing out of place was the front door, wide open with no signs of forced entry. And my phone, sitting on the nightstand, battery drained a zero. I plugged it in before bed. I was sure of it. The next day, I filed a police report.

They didn't find anything. No fingerprints, no signs of tampering. The front door hadn't even been scratched. It's probably stress, the officer said, handing me back the form with practice sympathy. Sometimes people forget they opened a door, but I hadn't. And when I got home, the voice was waiting. Who wonders if he's imagining it? I froze halfway through the threshold.

He steps inside anyway. I stepped inside. It was like someone wrong. writing over my life in real time, erasing the possibility of free will with every line. I couldn't surprise it, couldn't get ahead of it. That night, I slept with the lights on, dragged a chair in front of the door, tied a string between the handle and my wrist. I needed proof of a person, of a thing, something.

The voice didn't speak for hours. I almost thought it was gone. Then, as I was drifting off, it whispered. He thinks he'll be safe if he prepares. I didn't sleep after that either. By morning, the knot was still tied. The door was unmoved, everything untouched. But the house felt...

Used. Not in a way I could name. Just lived in by something I hadn't seen. And for the first time, I realized I hadn't done anything wrong I hadn't committed some great sin I wasn't cursed or haunted or chosen

Something I was toying with me I wasn't going to I knew how it would sound But it had been weeks I wasn't sleeping I kept second guessing every thought before I could even think it

It felt like my brain wasn't mine anymore So, I called Emma. We'd known each other since college, the kind of friend you could call after six months of silence and pick up like nothing had changed. She met me at a diner near the edge of town. I told her everything, the voice, the predictions. I didn't even care how I sounded anymore. I just needed to say it out loud.

I needed to see someone else react. to anchor me to reality. She listened. She really listened. Asked questions. Took my hand at one point. You're under a lot of stress, she said gently. But I believe you believe it.

That counts for something. It wasn't full belief, but it was something. That night, as I lay in bed, the voice returned, slow, deliberate. He told the wrong person. Boring. Remove her. I sat up, reached for my phone.

Emma's name wasn't in my contacts. I opened her old texts. The thread was there, but empty. Just the grey bar that said, no messages. I called her. It rang once. Then a robotic voice. This number is not in service.

I scrolled through photos. I knew I had dozens with her. Birthdays, Halloween, that awful karaoke night. But in every one I checked, she was missing. Whole frames cropped. Others where she should have been beside me. Empty space.

The next day I drove to her apartment. different name on the buzzer, new mailbox label. I knocked anyway. A woman I didn't recognize opened the door, mid-thirties, short blonde hair. She looked confused. No one named Emma's lived here, she said, not since I moved in six years ago.

Six. We'd had coffee yesterday. Hadn't we? I sat in my car for an hour, holding my phone like it was a dead animal. A story doesn't need side characters if they aren't part of the ending. The voice whispered, smooth as oil. I didn't know what this meant. I just drove.

And every street sign I passed felt like it could vanish next. It wasn't the voice that changed. It was everything else. The clock on the stove Always read a time that made sense Just never the same twice I'd look away Look back

And somehow it had jumped ten minutes forward Or back Once it was midnight three times in a row But the voice It stayed observant A steady interjection that jutted in at random intervals He notices time is wrong

But keeps eating He's starting to realize this isn't stress. I tried ignoring it. I tried pretending the world still worked. Then, it said something new. He looks at himself and wondered when he stopped being real. That one hit too close. I stared at my reflection, waiting for it to blink first.

It didn't. It just stared back, hollow and quiet, like it knew me. more than I did. But fear still ran through me. If this voice could make Emma just disappear, what could it do to me? And I snapped. I punched the mirror, full swing. I watched it shatter, felt it shatter, glass scattered everywhere. Then I blinked, and the mirror was whole. The glass was gone, and the cut across my knuckles had furnished. I staggered back, heart-pounding. The room wasn't mine, not completely. The layout was correct, but off. The coffee table was on the wrong side. The couch was an older model. There were pictures on the wall I didn't recognize,

a smiling family I'd never seen. The narrator was still calm, still sure. He understands now, but not enough. I sat on the floor, shaking. This wasn't just in my head. Someone was building the world around me, piece by piece, and I was slipping between versions. All week I tried to explain it away, drown it out, reason with it. But the voice was always there, narrating like I was the joke of some sad, slow, story. So I screamed, loud, ugly.

What are you? The air didn't answer. Not right away. Finally, took you long enough. It wasn't a whisper. It wasn't inside my head anymore. It was everywhere. The ceiling fan hum in the fridge compressor, in the space between my heartbeats. I'm the only real thing here, it said. I felt myself go cold. I didn't fully know what it meant. You're a story.

You are supposed to be a story. But you're nothing. You hesitate. You mope. You repeat yourself. You don't give me anything. I paused at this, not knowing whether the voice was being literal

or metaphorical. I want attention, conflict, growth, but you just... Exist. I shook my head. No, this isn't real. This is... You're not real. I wrote you.

I tried to care about you, to get people to care about you. But this is going nowhere. The lights dimmed. The walls seemed thinner. So, I've been trying to fix it. Add some stakes, a little fear, a little mystery. Something that might save this train wreck from total irrelevance. I backed into the corner, heart pounding.

But nothing works. You just survive. You stall. You bore. There was a pause. Then, like the edge of a blade. I want an ending, silence returned, not calm but coiled. Something was coming, but with how things were, the scope of what scared me. In the silence, I had time to think. A story it called me, like a character in a play. The only way for a story to progress is by participating. This whole thing is, was something I couldn't fight.

It wasn't physical or external. So, my only idea, the only thing I could think to do was... Nothing. Pure, nothing. The next morning. That's what I did. Nothing. No longer paralyzed by fear.

This was pure choice. I didn't get out of bed, didn't drink, didn't eat, didn't speak. I just stared at the wall and counted the cracks in the paint. And the voice? It waited. At first, it tried the usual. He woke up confused, anxious, heart still racing from the confrontation.

Nothing. He got up, poured coffee with a shaking hand, tried to convince him. none of it was real. Still, nothing. I stayed in bed, face blank, like a body no longer connected to the script. Then it got bolder, meaner. He screamed, he begged, he cried. I didn't flinch, didn't even blink. If this were a story, then I figured it couldn't move unless I did. So I gave it nothing. Days passed. I grew hungry and thirsty, but I didn't move, even for the bare essentials.

I truly committed to giving it nothing. The fridge hummed, the sun rose and set, and the voice unravelled. He's breaking down, losing it. He wants to scream but can't. He misses his friend. The one who forgot him. He regrets everything. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I didn't miss anyone, didn't feel anything. I was done being a character. Every second I stayed still was another second. It didn't get what it wanted. Let it lie, let it twist, let the story rot on the page. Eventually, it stopped narrating altogether. There was no momentum, no tension, just me rotting in a room, not knowing what came next. So, when the door clicked open, I thought I imagined it.

But the footsteps were real, soft, familiar. I didn't look up right away, afraid that if I moved, the world would snap back into fiction. But then I heard her voice. Are you okay? I turned my head slowly. She stood in the doorway. My wife, the real her, wearing the coat she always said made a look too grown up. Her eyes were full of cautious worry.

And next to her, our daughter, small, quiet, watching me with a seriousness. children aren't supposed to have. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. She stepped in, took a breath like the place smelled bad, and it probably did. I hadn't showered, hadn't cleaned, hadn't done anything but sit and wait to be erased. What happened to you? She asked. Why won't you answer your phone?

I didn't know how to explain. I didn't know where to begin. So I just said, I'm sorry, and that was all it took. She moved across the room and sank to her knees in front of me. Her hands touched mine, dry skin, cracked knuckles, but hers were warm, solid, human. We were so scared, she said,

you don't just disappear like that. I didn't know how to come. come back, I said, the words catching in my throat. Everything stopped making sense. I didn't know what was real. I still don't. She looked at me, really looked, and then leaned forward and rested her head against my chest. A daughter climbed up into my lap without a word, curling up against me like she'd been waiting to do it the whole time. And for a moment, one impossible moment, I felt okay.

The narrator didn't say a word. It was just us, me and them, breathing, warm, alive. And I thought, maybe this is the ending, but, in the interim of silence, it started with pressure. the kind that makes your ears ring. A sudden drop, like the air forgot how to breathe.

Then came the wind. Not a gentle breeze, a full body shove. The apartment groaned, the windows trembled, curtains flared inward, as if something was trying to get in. My daughter screamed, a small piercing sound. My wife pulled a close. shielding her from nothing and everything all at once. It's okay, I told them, it's just the storm.

Bigger storms don't come from nowhere, and they don't make the floorboard shift like footsteps. I stepped into the hallway. The front door was wide open, the knobs still turning, like someone had just let themselves in. Outside, moonlight poured down in a flood of silver, but it wasn't gentle. It looked wrong, too sharp, too focused, like a spotlight through fog. It painted a threshold like a stage.

And from this basking glow, something moved. A ripple in the light, a shadow, slick and smooth, crawled across the wall. the ceiling, thin as a trickle of oil, fast, intentional. I whispered, what the hell is that, then? A shriek. From behind me, from the bedroom. My daughter, I ran. The bedroom door was already open, already waiting. And for a second, I thought maybe it was a false alarm. I was a false alarm. I ran. I ran. The bedroom door was already open, Maybe the scream was fear and not pain. But the moment I crossed the threshold, I knew they were on the floor. My wife, my little girl, twisted together in a tangle of limbs, eyes wide and mouth slack,

as if they hadn't even had time to scream again. The throats had been opened, messy and jagged, like claws had dug in and tore their voices out. The blood hadn't pulled yet. It was still moving, still hot. And above them, that thing floated. A smear of black, oily and slow moving. No eyes, no face, just motion constant, swirling. The ceiling above it cracked, paint blistering,

as if reality itself was struggling to hold around it. I couldn't speak. I dropped to my knees, landing in the blood I didn't feel, hands trembling as I reached stupidly, pointlessly, for what was already gone. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. No breath, no words. Just the silence so heavy it rang in my bones.

Then the voice came, smooth and measured. Predictable. It said Painful, yes But still, dull My head whipped around But there was no source Just the voice

It was back This isn't real I whispered voice cracking This can't be real This... Of course it isn't The tone shifted Not mocking or cruel just disappointed.

I gave you a family, stakes, texture, and you squandered it. Do you know how hard it is the salvaged tension after the second act stall? You sat, you stared, you moat. Now we're crawling toward an ending with nothing to show for it. I couldn't breathe. This wasn't even supposed to happen. not like this, but you left me nothing, no arc, no drive. My wife's body flickered once, twice, and then she dissolved, like static, noise and distortion

that tore her apart in a thousand little digital blinks. My daughter followed one second clinging to me in memory, the next, gone. Only two dark, wet outlines remained on the floor, like shadows that forgot to leave. Memories of a life filled with love fading. And in that space, where grief should have consumed me, something worse crept in. The cold realization. They were never real. I never had a family.

I lived alone. I had a girlfriend, but we had broken up reasons. But the moment I saw them, I accepted it like it was real, like it always was. A tragic footnote meant to make me compelling, and even that hadn't worked. I stared into the red-stained floor, into those empty shapes, and wanted to scream until my throat tore open. But I didn't. because I heard the voice again, quiet this time, close. Let's try something else, and the world blinked out, awoke to cold,

to pain already blooming in my arms with a rope bit deep. My wrists were tied to a chair, thick splintered wood beneath me, the legs uneven on a cement floor. Pipes line the walls, rusted and dripping. A single bulb swung over head, buzzing like flies. The light stuttered. The air reeked of metal, mildew, and something sharp underneath.

Something alive. Across the room, a man hummed softly, off-key, childlike. He stood with his back to me, laying out tools on a tray, not surgical, but domestic, familiar things made wrong by arrangement. Pliers, box cutter, flat-head screwdriver, a hammer with something dried on the handle. He turned and smiled. Too wide, lips stretched to unnatural corners, like someone who had studded humanity in a mirror and still hadn't gotten it quite right.

He stepped closer. Conflict, the voice said. Stakes, pain, let's make them care about you. The man reached for the pliers. I screamed at a reflex. He didn't pause. The pain was real, so real, when the first fingernail peeled away,

bright and white-hot and immediate. The sound was worse, the squelch, the snap. My body jerked so hard the chest scraped the concrete. I cried out, pleaded, cursed. But the man was humming again, like he didn't even hear me. Blood ran down my fingers, hot and quick, pattering onto the floor. I begged for it to stop, but it didn't. He carried on with each finger on my right hand and started on the left.

Each rip I forced words out, begging for an answer. Please, I gasped. What do you want from me? The humming stopped. The man froze, head tilted, fingers twitching. The tool slipped from his hand with a soft clatter, metal bouncing off concrete, one after the other. Silence fell. Then the voice returned.

like narration bleeding through the ceiling with a hint of frustration. Not this, it said flatly. It's too repetitive. The bulb above me flickered, spotted, the edges of the room blurred, shimmered like heat waves. Torture is lazy. The narrator continued, anyone can suffer,

doesn't make you interesting, you're still boring. The man, or whatever he was, lifted his head suddenly, like a puppet cut loose. The pain didn't fade. It just stopped, like someone pressed pause on reality. I could no longer see, hear or feel. No body, no room. Just darkness. Endless and silent.

except for the ragged sound of my own breathing. And then, from somewhere above or inside or beyond, pages turned, a sound like paper being considered, judged. I didn't know what form I was in anymore, whether I had a mouth or a throat or a voice. But the words forced their way out of me anyway. Don't stop the story. I whispered barely able to form the words. Please, if you stop, I stop. By this point, I realized,

I only existed as long as the story did. When the story ended, so did I. I didn't know how to give the voice what it wanted, but that didn't stop me from trying. Silence. Then a sound. Low and familiar, pages turning, not nearby, above, somewhere out of reach, out of understanding. So, the voice said, finally, you understand now.

I nodded or tried to. I'm not real, I said, but I'm still here. Another pause. no sarcasm, no contempt this time. Then, maybe you've earned another draft. The light dimmed, folding inward like paper, curling in flame. And I let the dark take me. Sunlight warmed my face.

I blinked. I was on the couch. The stained chair, the concrete room, the screaming. Gone. No blood or bindings, just the soft hush of morning and the low hum of the TV. My phone buzzed on the armrest. Unknown number. I answered, unsure of what to expect.

A chipper voice beamed through the speaker. Hi, just calling to let you know, you got the job. Full benefits, competitive salary. We're so excited to have you on board. I didn't respond at first, just stared at the far wall, mouth dry, nodding to no one, then hesitantly thanked them and hung up. Another buzz, a notification from Instagram, a new message flashed across the screen. Hey, saw your profile, thought you were cute, want to grab a drink sometime, smiley face.

I clicked the profile, and it was the profile. and it was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, exactly my type. The interests on a profile were everything I was into. I sat up slowly. The room felt artificial, like someone tried to remember what a morning should feel like. On the TV, a news anchor rattled off last night's lottery numbers. I barely heard her,

until the numbers hit my ears one by one. My eyes dropped to the coffee table. A lottery ticket sat there, perfectly aligned. Every number matched, every single one. And in the quiet that followed, I didn't smile, I didn't move. Because I understood now, Despite everything that was happening, how I was receiving more than I could ever dream, the story was about to end.