Creepy - Don't Smile at the Morose Man & Fatal Gaze

Episode Date: June 1, 2023

Don't Smile at the Morose Man***Written by: TheEagleStrikes and Narrated by: Danielle Hewitt***Fatal Gaze***Written by: Ryan Charles Lieb and Narrated by: Nate DuFort***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Welcome to the bloody disgusting network. No. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of biocations of biocations. Silence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Creepy presents. Don't smile at the morose man. Written by the Eagle Strikes and narrated by Daniel Hewitt. He had a sullen disposition. So I thought I could brighten his day with a smile. That was a terrible idea. He certainly wasn't the only gloomy character I've ever spotted on the early evening train. For many of us, it's a very long journey home from the city.

We wear crestfallen expressions, decompressing after another soul-crushing day at work. Nevertheless, this particular man caught my attention. He was standing on the opposite side of the carriage, firmly fixated on the doors behind me. His vacant brown eyes hardly seemed to register what they were seeing. He had a pale complexion and his skin sagged, as if it were too loose for the bald head on which it hung. Most importantly, he was sulking. I smiled. If only I could retract that smile. Anyway, I beamed brightly, striving to cheer the man up.

It took a long time for the sour-faced gentleman to notice the upbeat teenage girl who was facing towards him. Well, it probably only only was. took a couple of seconds, but that certainly feels like a long time to maintain an unrecipricated smile. Eventually, thankfully, the man began to turn. His expression did not change. His body did not move. His head simply rotated enough to ensure that his eyes were firmly locked onto mine. I waited for his frown to turn upside down. It didn't. Slowly. sinisterly. The man shook his head. It was only a slight movement. But that made it all the more intimidating. He shook his head as if to say, you shouldn't be doing that. My glowing grin immediately

dissipated, of course. I cast my eyes to the ground feeling humiliated. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, ignoring the burning sensation that scorched my cheeks. How many more stops? I wondered. The most perturbing thing about the eerie situation was that the man did not stop looking at me. Despite my averted gaze, I could still see those beady little eyes boring into my skull. I could see him in my peripheral vision.

He did not move. He just stared, solemnly. I did what I always do in uncomfortable situations. I went on Reddit. I switched to my throwaway account and asked for advice dealing with odd people. I fully explained my predicament. Most people just called him a creep. They said to move down the carriage. One user popped up in my private chat. I won't tell you his username. But he had something more unsettling to tell me. Why would you smile at the morose man?

I thought he was screwing with me. I asked why he was calling this stranger the morose man. From your description, I realized who you'd seen. I played along with the prankster, asking about the morose man, who I assumed to be a sort of urban legend. He minds his own business unless someone disturbs his peace, and you just disturbed him. You need to get off the train and run. His wrath eventually subsides, and he goes on his way.

He will pursue you until midnight. My chest started to tighten. I was no believer in ghost stories, but I felt something that I still can't explain. I knew that the Reddit user was telling the truth. I felt it. I could feel it in the man's awful eyes, which were still watching me. I asked the mystery messenger what the man was going to do. He wasn't doing anything particularly threatening.

He was standing still. Why does that matter? Just stay away from him. What time is it in your part of the world? 6.59 p.m. Right, five hours. Just stay away from him and make sure that you avoid doorways. I thought that final sentence was a little peculiar.

But it was definitely no more peculiar than the user's claim that this dismal gentleman was some sort of unearthly being. That being said, I couldn't ignore the feeling in my gut. I don't scare easily. This stranger, however, terrified me. We were frozen in that state for another 20 minutes or so. When the train eventually reached the next station, I slinked out of the open doors. I still hadn't looked up from my phone.

I didn't want to see the man's ghoulish face. I just wanted to get home. Once I was on the platform, I stopped, walking backwards. I stood and waited, trying my best to watch the man out of the corner of my vision. He didn't move. He stayed on the train. The doors closed. I cried exuberantly as the train pulled away. What a fool you've made of yourself, Paige, I thought. You let anxiety get the better of you. And now you're at the wrong station. Fantastic. Perhaps the foreboding feeling in my body had simply dissipated because I was no longer in the vicinity of that haunting man. Perhaps it was simply

that his gaze was no longer upon me. Whatever the case, I felt normal again. I felt stupid, and I began to stroll out of the station. I was bursting for the toilet. I hate public bathrooms, but I knew I still had a long journey ahead of me, so I decided to face my phobia. I strolled into the empty bathroom, which was illuminated by a cold, clinical, fluorescent light.

Choosing the first cubicle, I entered, sat down and opened the Uber app. I was still about 40 minutes from home if I were to travel by car, and most of the nearby Ubers were not really nearby at all. After ten minutes of faffing, I booked one, and groaned at the text box, which explained there would be a 30-minute wait time. 8 p.m., home by 8.40. Great. Dinner than bed. The main bathroom door suddenly opened.

I ignored it, continued to scroll through my phone. shoes clomped across the tiled floor. They were very heavy, slow, purposeful. The footsteps stopped. I looked down and saw two black smart shoes poking beneath the bottom of my cubicle door. There are two other cubicles, I pointed out. Knock. Just one knock, that was all.

I looked a little more closely at the black footwear and realized. much to my terror, that I was looking at men's shoes. Excuse me, I timidly whispered. Are you... are you in the right bathroom? Knock. Just fuck off, I screamed. I hoped somebody would come. Somebody had to come.

An awful feeling overcame me. Without fully accepting why I was doing it, I frantically opened my phone and messaged the Reddit user. I don't think you need me to tell you who's on the other side of that door. I asked my anonymous savior what I should do. Don't open the door. I told you to stay away from doorways. Just wait for somebody else to come in the bathroom.

Remember, the morose man doesn't like to be disturbed. If somebody enters, he should leave. So I waited, and waited. I waited until the Uber came and left. Then something dawned on me. I could wait in the cubicle until morning, surely. No such luck, according to my online guru. Closer to midnight, his patience wears thin.

For now he's polite. Soon he won't be polite. You should pray that somebody enters and interrupts him. I looked at the time on my phone, 8.37 p.m. Then I looked at the bottom of the cubicle door. The knocking head ceased, but the shrews. shoes remained. I leaned to one side of the toilet seat, peering through the crack between the door and the cubicle wall, hoping to catch a glimpse of the figure on the other side. Perhaps I wanted to prove

to myself that it wasn't, in fact, the morose man. I couldn't see him. He was standing too far to the side. And then a face slid into view, peering through the gap between the cubicle door and wall, revealing the insidious thing on the other side. Its brown eye was now black. I screamed in panic, instantly jerking myself into the center of the toilet seat, not daring to move. I wanted to keep messaging my mystery Reddit friend,

but he also gave me the creeps. Why did he know so much about the morose man anyway? I searched for information about the malicious entity on the internet. Nothing. To calm myself, I decided to accept my position of power, and simply scroll through social media. I wanted something grounded,

something based in reality. I know. I never thought I'd say such a thing about social media. Wait, the police, I thought. I dialed 999. It rang. I was asked which emergency service I wanted to reach. I opened my mouth to answer, but then, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock. A series of frantic, enraged thuds rattled the cubicle door back and forth.

My mouth was open, but no sound escaped my lips. I was petrified. A shushing sound quietly hissed from the other side of the door. I hung up the phone. I suppose it was not a good idea to disturb the morose man. I paused. What other options did I have? I had the idea to ask the Reddit messenger to call the police

on my behalf. But the morose man shushed me more aggressively, as if he were reading my thoughts. I thought of screaming for help, and he unleashed a croaking whale that sounded like a feral beast caught in a bear trap. Stop trying to think of solutions. Don't disturb him. I waited. 927 p.m. Two hours of frozen terror in a train station bathroom. I was running out of time. Trains kept arriving, but nobody was coming into the bathroom. And there wouldn't be many more trains before midnight. That meant there wouldn't be many more potential bathroom goers.

With every passing moment, I replayed the Reddit user's message in my head. Soon he won't be polite. 10.31 p.m. The knocking resumed. The overhead light started to dim, as if the morose man were gradually extinguishing it. I shuddered ceaselessly, lifting my knees up to my chin and wrapping my arms around them. 11.41 p.m. after four hours in the bathroom. I heard a train. Possibly the last train of the evening, pull into the station.

The bathroom door finally opened. Two chattering, inebriated women entered the room. I saw the black shoes of the morose man hurriedly scuttle into the cubicle beside me, and he closed the door behind him. I hate having to touch gross toilet door handles after washing my hands. One of the girls said, I'm going to wedge this door open with my shoe. Chantelle, I don't want to fucking talk about bathroom doors. You're such a bitch, one of the girls said. Did you just see that man, Tara?

Chantelle asked. Don't change the subject, Tara spat. You know that guy in the club saw me first, and... Tara stopped mid-sentence as she saw me huddle from the cubicle like a deranged animal slipping on the tiled floor. I sprinted for the exit. Yeah, I ain't, love? Tara drunkenly slurred. Please, I beg, move out of the way I need to get out of here.

Hey, I told you there was a creepy man in here, Chantel said, marching past me. He's been harassing this poor girl, I bet. Hey, mate. My heart sank as I turned to see Chantel strutting toward the cubicle door next to the one I just exited. She pounded furiously on the middle cubicle door. Don't do that. I pleaded. Remember, the morose man doesn't like to be disturbed.

We got you, babe, Tara promised patting my back. Chantelle roared like a lioness and booted the cubicle door inwards with one high-heel shoe that she was still wearing. The door practically flew off its hinges, ricocheting off the cubicle wall. I held my breath, waiting for the man to charge at her. What the fuck? Chantel gasped. He's not in here. Tara snorted with laughter.

You dumb bitch, you probably just imagined him. Tarrantial sweat oozed from my goose bump-riddled flesh. The man had strolled into the cubicle beside me. I heard him. Where'd he go? This wasn't right. This was all horribly wrong. I started to back toward the exit bumping into Tara, who was still blocking the doorway.

Chantelle frowned. No, I'm telling you, Tara. The girl trailed off looking in my direction. Her complexion turned paler than that of the morose man. Her eyes widened, her jaw slacked, and her arms fell stiffly to her sides. She unleashed a primal scream of horror. Consumed by unimaginable fear, I realized that I hadn't bumped into Tara. I took a few tentative steps forwards before slowly turning on my heel.

The bathroom exit led on to a pitch black train station. The lights were gone. The people were gone. All I could see was the morose man and the unholy act that he was committing. Tara's body was slowly being ingested into the gaping mouth of the black-eyed man. He had grown a foot taller, and his looming figure filled most of the doorway. His morose mouth had widened to squeeze Tara's still-wiggling body inside. He used the now abnormally long fingers on his nose. gnarled, ghoulish hands to hold the girl's ankles. He was forcing her, head first, into his

nightmarish gullet. I chose flight. Chantelle chose fight. I started to back towards the cubicles, but the manic girl beside me ran toward the exit, screeching at the entity and begging it to release her friend. The man was still greedily, swallowing Tara's spasming half-alive body, but he unwrapped the finger on his left hand from her ankle and sees Chantelle by the neck. As I continued to back toward the farthest cubicle, I watched the morose man complete one course and prepare for the next. Chantel was certainly much louder than Tara. She unleased a series of short, pained yelps.

Her cries muffled by the insides of the creature's body as he slid her down his throat. I threw open the cubicle door, locked it behind me, and immediately looked at my phone. 11.43 p.m. That traumatizing scene of unfathomable gore took place in the space of two fucking minutes. How? Shoes clumped against the tiles. I found myself where I started. I was trapped in the bathroom stall, staring at the shoes which poked through the bottom of the door. The morose man had grown so large that he could poke his head over the top of the cubicle door. The horrifying apparition, which still wore that dejected expression, shook its head at me.

His morbid frown lifted into a sickening smile for a split second. Then it quickly returned to a state of moroseness. The man shook his head at me, much as he had on the train. He was reminding me of what I'd done wrong. I flipped the toilet lid down, clambered onto it and squished my body against the back wall, trying to escape the wretched thing before me. The morose man was not finished. Midnight was fast approaching, and his patience was wearing out. The elongated fingers on his two hands suddenly appeared, grasping at the top of the cubicle door. He violently wobbled it in its hinges. I started to blubber, looking down at the phone in my hand. 1145. Every minute felt like an eternity. I wouldn't make it till midnight. I was sure of that.

The man reached an arm over the top of the cubicle door, stretching his hellish fingers toward the lock. It fumbled clumsily, dying to slide the door open. I'm not going to stand here and wait to die. I turned to the right and started to pull myself over the wall of the cubicle beside me. At the moment I landed on the other side, I heard the lock slide across. The monster barreled into the cubicle I just exited. I knew I only had moments to spare. So I fled the middle cubicle and ran towards a bathroom exit.

Welcoming the dark embrace of the train station, I didn't pause to look over my shoulder. I already knew that the morose man would be following me. He could find me anywhere. That was when I remembered what the Reddit user had repeatedly said. I told you to stay away from doorways. I know. I was an idiot. Well, I hadn't believed in the morose man. Not really.

You can't blame me for going into the bathroom. I'd already put the fright on the train out of my head. I viewed it as a moment of anxiety. As I ran across the train platform, however, I could no longer deny it. I looked over my shoulder. The man was striding across the platform, slowly and surely.

He was striding towards me, but he was slow, and he wouldn't catch me. As long as I stay away from doorways I can escape. I kept running. I ran until I reached the end of the platform. I realized I'd foolishly forgotten how to exit the train station. Fuck that, I thought. I don't want to go near doorways. Throwing caution to the wind with my life hanging in the balance.

I jumped down from the platform onto the railway line. I followed the treeline trail track stealing a glance at my phone. 1151. I glanced behind me. The morose man was in front of my. pursuit, but he seemed even taller now, taller than any human. And he seemed faster, much faster. I had to get out of the open. I was too exposed. I darted to my right entering the forest and lit the way with my phone. No doors in the forest. And the trees were tightly grouped together so the gargantuan man would have to shrink back to human size if he were to follow me. It seemed like my

best option. I weaved between trees, casting my torchlight before me so as not to bump into anything. I didn't want to end up flat on my face. I didn't want to be the morose man's dessert. I heard that on earthly wail once more. It was terrifying enough to startle all of the peaceful creatures in the forest. Birds flew from trees, and grounded animals rustled in bushes, fleeing the scene. I switched my phone off. No more light. I didn't really think it would make a difference. I had a feeling the man could still find me, even without a light, even without a doorway.

Just a few minutes, page. You just need to last a few minutes. I convinced myself. Except for the sound of my shoes crunching against leaves, the forest was completely silent. I could scarcely see the outlines of trees in the darkness. The canopy of leaves above me prevented any moonlight from illuminating my surroundings.

I heard the booming snap of what sounded like a thick tree branch. The man was close. Very close. I wanted so desperately to check the time on my phone, but I tried to rely on my body clock. Every second felt like an hour, but I grounded myself.

It must be at least 1155, I thought. I crept forwards, failing at stealthily traversing the forest. Every step seemed to make noisy contact with leaves and twigs. I tried to quicken the paper. case. There was no use in concealing my location. He knew where to find me. I suddenly heard low breathing from a few yards behind me. Not daring to turn around. I screamed at the top of my lungs and sprinted ahead, roughly scraping my shoulder against the jagged bark of a tree. I grimaced, but adrenaline pushed me onwards. I fumbled from my phone in my pocket and used it as my flashlight

once more. I also needed to know the time. I couldn't resist any longer. 11.59 p.m. Of course. I continued to swerve between the trees, praying that I wouldn't trip, praying that I wouldn't bump into another tree. One more obstacle could be the death of me. Midnight. I couldn't believe it. I yelled victoriously twisting around. My flashlight shone on the horrifying specter before me. The morose man was now the height of the trees around him, slinking his skeletal body between them. pursuing me. My heart thumped. Maybe the Reddit user lied. Maybe the morose man never stops. I closed my eyes and braced myself for death. I braced.

Braced. Succoming to a feeling of pure horror, I felt a brittle limb brush against my clothes. I opened my eyes to the man walking past me, brushing one of his spindly legs against my coat. I turned around casting my light onto him, and I watched as the spider-like, ten-foot-tall man vanished into the depths of the forest. If you ever see a morose gentleman, don't disturb him. Do not smile at him. Creepy presents fatal gaze, written by Ryan Charles Leeb and narrated by Nate DuFort. wasn't what he'd expected, not even close. In fact, nothing Brendan saw at the open mic night

aligned with his presumptions. He'd anticipated a room full of nervous, wannabe artists and a tangible aura of low self-esteem. Certainly, many of them fit that description offstage, but most took to the spotlight with a self-assurance Brendan had thought was reserved for celebrities, and they were pretty darn good, but she was on another level entirely. When she took the stage, all other sound ceased. She radiated a brightness such that the rest of the room seemed to darken, drawing all eyes to her. To say Brendan found her beautiful would be an understatement. She had curly black hair parted to one side and a smile that could stop a truck. She wore a loose fitting tank top, revealing a number of tattoos that seemed both completely random yet perfectly placed.

She wore no bra and her underarms were unshaved, two traits which usually made women the target of judgment or ridicule, but on her, they seemed like a perfectly natural state of being. Her casual posture as she slung her acoustic guitar over one knee could only be described as cool. hell. Brendan was certain she was the most powerful woman he'd ever seen, and she was in total command of the roughly 60-some patrons at Hustler's Pub that night. Hey, my name's Natalie. How's everybody doing tonight? Her speech was playful and charismatic, elongating the vowel sounds, no hint of uncertainty or nervousness. Her question was met with scattered applause, a few whoops and hollers, a general expression of collective gratitude for being in her presence. Awesome, awesome, me too.

Thank you for being here tonight. I've been working on a few new tunes. Is it cool if I play them for you guys? She already knew it was, and the crowd confirmed. Cool, cool. This one is called Marigold. Then she proceeded to fill the room with the most lovely sound, Brendan could imagine.

Her voice started low, sultry and seductive, with a little bit of vocal fry and a slight controlled waver. Over the course of the first verse, it built up gradually in both pitch and volume, deftly riding the melody like a mounting ocean wave. The chorus erupted out of her with such force and strength that Brendan immediately began to cry. As the tears streamed down his face, something both, incredible and terrifying happened. Natalie met his gaze.

Earlier that week, Brendan's therapist, Dr. Stewart, had given him an assignment to socialize with a stranger for at least five minutes. We've made a lot of progress in here, he'd said. I think the medication's helping. You're calmer than when I first met with you

and more emotionally aware. You can vocalize your thoughts and your needs much more clearly. You're still struggling to make eye contact, but I think we're getting there. But just talking to me isn't enough. You need to step outside your comfort zone. Don't forget, you are in control. If you feel uncomfortable, if you get scared, you can excuse yourself.

You can just go home, and we can talk about it in two weeks. But I want you to try. And Brendan, I need to. I need you to look them in the eye. Can you do that? Brendan had met his gaze hard right then. He remembered feeling naked, humiliated by his own existence. Seeing someone else's eyes meant they could see you right back.

Being seen meant you really existed, which meant you could be affected and have effect. Having effect meant doing harm or being harmed. The alternative? Being alone with utterly no impact on the world around you? That wasn't much better, but it was familiar, comfortable, safe. The long gaze confirmed Dr. Stevens' resolve to hold Brendan to this task, so finally he agreed. The doctor had tried to offer him a tissue, but Brendan had barely acknowledged as he turned his gaze to the floor and walked out.

Dr. Stewart's office was only a few blocks away from Brendan's downtown loft apartment in a cramped business district packed with various offices, boutiques, cafes, and bars. It was almost fate when Brendan saw a sign on his way home outside of a bar called Hustler's Pub while contemplating how to carry out this assignment. Open mic night, Friday night, no cover. A bar full of duster. desperate, insecure musicians, too experienced or unknown to receive any pay, playing wherever they can, to garner just a little bit of attention?

If there was anywhere a reclusive 30-something software developer could have a five-minute conversation with a stranger, it was probably here. As it turned out, though, the performers were not desperate sad sacks chasing a carrot. They were talented, powerful, beautiful souls, and one of them, was a goddamn queen named Natalie, and she was looking right at him, not just at him, but into him. She was seeing the pain and the heartache in his eyes. It passed from him into her and came back out in the form of incredible music,

tears and sorrow and rage, transposed into cathartic bellows and earth-shaking vibrato. He breathed it in, now cleansed and rejuvenated, and it enveloped him like a blanket. Then he exhaled and released it again, imagining she needed it back for her next chorus, but knowing all the while it would come back even purer and warmer each time. Then he saw into her, and he knew that deep down inside her there was someone like him, someone so lonely and tired that nothing mattered, who still felt unseen, even though they were beautiful and talented and popular,

whose only means of communicating their profound pain was through artistic expression. She only truly spoke under the spotlight, and all of the applause and the cheers and the drooling men were not as valuable to her as the one person who truly heard her, who wore all of the emotions about which she sang on his face, and whose gaze communicated an understanding that no conversation could ever establish. She looked at him for the remainder of the song.

She seemed to sing it to him, and for the first time in his life, he was not overcome with the unbearable urge to look at the floor. He just sat there with tears streaming down his face, completely unembarrassed, soaking in her eyes, her smile, her otherworldly voice. He didn't wipe his eyes until her face became a blur. By then the song was winding to a close. She gracefully crooned the final note like a bird gliding into its nest, and the bar erupted into applause and cheers.

Natalie blushed and adopted a bashful smile, chewing her lip and giggling as she soaked in the praise. Oh my God, thank you. Thank you so much. She scanned the crowd and seemed to thank everybody one by one, but her eyes landed back on Brendan more than once. He realized he'd just been sitting there and joined in the clapping with comic force. He saw her see this, and her smile widened just a little bit more, solidifying in his mind that she saw in him a kindred spirit.

He still could not take his eyes off of her, not of his life depended on it. The applause finally died down, and he held his breath, waiting to hear her voice again. Thank you all so much for supporting local independent artists. You have no idea how much it means to me and the other perform. Natalie coughed suddenly. Excuse me. the other performers. Another cough, causing some feedback into the mic.

She brought a hand to her chest. I seemed to have a little tickle in my throat. Could someone bring me a glass of water, please? She turned to the side and cleared her throat, and Brendan noticed how badly she was perspiring. Her top was clinging to her skin, and her chest and shoulders glistened under the stage lights. somebody approached the stage of the glass and she reached for it thank you baby she said as she took it brend wondered if the water deliverer was her friend her lover her sibling it didn't matter everybody was baby to you when you were as cool as natalie through all of this her charisma never faltered she gulped down some water and set it on the empty stool next to her

Who, don't know where that came from. Okay, this next song is called... Brendan never learned the name of the next song, unless the title was the sound one made when being punched in the stomach, which was the sound she made as blood exploded from her mouth and landed on the three patrons sitting right in front of the stage. Time slowed as everyone in the room processed what they were seeing. Brendan, who was still weeping, had to wipe his eyes again, before his brain would acknowledge

what his eyes were telling it. At first, all attention focused on the patrons in the splash zone. All three had blood on their faces and torsos, mixed with some other sort of yellowish bile. They seemed frozen for a handful of seconds that felt like minutes, mouth as agape and a dumbfounded expression, hands up as if instinctively ready to block the next torsons. torrent. Finally, one of them let out a piercing wail. This snapped everyone out of their trance. The sound of wood scraping filled the room as everyone sitting around the bloody patrons stood up and backed away, pushing all the tables and chairs around in a frenzy. The ones further back,

including Brendan, had the opposite instinct. They tried to move closer to get a better view of what was happening. Then, Brendan slowly turned his gaze back toward the stage. There, Natalie sat, dazed and panting, mouth and chest covered in crimson drool, which also coated her guitar. Her eyes were glazed over, unseeing as if she were sleepwalking. Then she toppled over sideways, falling into the other stool, shattering the glass of water as she and it. crashed to the floor. Feedback from her guitar blared through the PA as her body began to convulse. At that moment, Hustler's pub entered a state of pandemonium. Bodies flew in every direction. Three folks rushed to the stage to see Natalie. Others tended to the blood splattered patrons,

bringing them towels and escorting them to the restroom to clean up. Many ran for the nearest exit, someone straight to the bar for a stiff drink. The sound engineer cut the PA, and the noise of feedback was replaced with frantic shouts. Don't move her. Somebody call an ambulance. What the fuck just happened? Did somebody drug her?

Oh my God, it got in my mouth. Am I infected? Only Brendan seemed to remain entranced. His vision narrowed as the bodies between him and Natalie parted like the Red Sea. He crept slowly down the tunnel, wanting, needing to get a closer look. One person leaned over her twitching, spasming body, carefully brushing her hair aside and saying things like,

It's okay, baby, stay with me, honey, we're here, we're getting help, somebody's on the way. Another stood a few feet back and held a cell phone to their ear, presumably calling 911. Brendan reached the edge of the stage and stopped. He wanted desperately to take another step. to be the person comforting her, to play some sort of role, to help. But he knew he couldn't. Despite their shared moment, the fact remained that he was nobody to this woman. So he just stood there and watched as others came to her rescue.

She had suffered additional injuries from the fall. Her left forearm had several shards of broken glass lodged into it, and the top of her scalp had been split open by the stool. Her shaking body was utterly drenched in sweat and bodily fluids of various colors, but one detail stood out to Brendan, more than anything else, in high definition and technicolor. In addition to the mess of her mouth and chest, small trickles of blood ran from her eyes and from her nose. A memory suddenly came back to Brendan in that moment. One of those things your eyes see and then tuck away.

not letting your consciousness in on it until later. He flashed back to his therapy session and saw Dr. Stewart reaching for a tissue, but not to offer it to Brendan as he thought. In his peripheral vision, he saw the doctor raise the tissue to his own face to stop a nosebleed. Brendan flipped a 180,

brought one hand to his mouth, and directed his eyes immediately toward the floor. Why had he suddenly remembered that? He twisted slightly to take one more peripheral glance toward, but not directly at Natalie, making double sure someone was still helping her, then tore off toward the bar. Johnny Walker Black, neat,

Brendan said to the bartender's crotch. Brendan's entire body trembled as he planted his elbows on the bar, holding himself up. His stomach was doing somersaults, seemingly white, winding up for a big leap-up through his esophagus. A glass slid in front of him, and he tossed a ten toward the vaguely human shape in the corner of his vision, then downed the sweet and smoky drink in one shot. It calmed his nerves the most minute possible amount, but it put his stomach into turbo mode.

Another, he called out anyway, dropping another ten. The bar was in a separate room from the stage, but the scene was still visible through two large open archways. The commotion was beginning to die down. Natalie's friends were waiting for the ambulance. The blood-soaked fans had either cleaned up or left, and the general state of panic had wained. Though the whole thing was observable from the bar side, many folks over here seemed to be acting as if nothing had happened, carrying on merrily, drinking and entertaining each other. It made Brendan feel even sicker. His second drink slid over to him, and he took this one slower, downing about half of it. Brendan heard a deep-booming voice from a ways down the bar. He took a sideways glance and saw an

extremely tall, muscular white man with a crew cut and a sport coat, chatting up a petite, dark-haired woman and a bright green top. He was obviously trying to get laid, and so far seemed to have decent chances, in some part, due to the fact that the petite woman was very intoxicated. Everything about this man was sleazy, from the way his eyes continuously moved up and down her body, to the way he placed his hand on her hip every time someone squeezed by them, and the fact that he seemed to be rambling endlessly about himself. She ate it up, somehow laughing at every dumb joke, miraculously impressed by every fake embellished story. Other people's interactions always seem so fake to Brendan, so shallow,

and yet he couldn't keep himself from thinking about how badly he just wanted an ounce of that man's charisma. Brandon down the rest of his whiskey and glanced back toward the stage room. Natalie was still lying there, no ambulance yet. He considered going home, where he could throw up, in private. But he couldn't leave until she was safely on the way to the hospital. Despite being completely ineffectual in the situation, he felt like a guardian of sorts. That's not it. You feel responsible. Stop it, he pushed the thought from his mind. How was what he was thinking even possible?

How could simply looking at somebody do that to them? Regardless, he couldn't leave hustlers. until she did. He ordered a third scotch, sipped it, and forced himself to tolerate the crewman's abhorrent courtship ritual. Eventually, the petite woman excused herself to have a cigarette. She pointed toward a glass filled with ice and pink liquid and said something that even Brendan knew a woman should never say to a stranger. Watch my drink. Brendan imagined she'd said it to him instead of the crew-cut man, charging Brendan with keeping him honest in her absence. His vision narrowed in on the pink cocktail,

just like it had on the stage when Natalie collapsed. Your fault. But he couldn't drive the scene in the other room from his mind, nor is rebounding nausea. Flashes of the nightmarish incident replayed in his mind as he tracked the crew-cut man's actions. Blood spurting from her mouth, the crew-cut man ordered a new drive.

drink, glass shards in her arms. With the bartender's back turned, he slid sideways, blocking the pink drink from the view of anyone not positioned directly against the bar. Her eyes were bleeding. He reached into the pocket of his coat. Dr. Stewart's nosebleed. He glanced at Brendan. Brendan could no longer hold back the chemical reaction brewing in his stomach. abandoned his post and bolted toward the bathroom in the opposite direction of where the crew cut man was standing. His puke was mostly water with a little bit of whiskey. He thought the act would sober him up, but his head continued spinning, even after his stomach finally settled. He dropped the lid on the toilet and collapsed over it, weeping, fault, not your fault, he kept telling himself

in his mind. But it was. You know it was. You know it was. was. But how? And why? He thought back to the song, to the moment when their souls connected. His tears then were joyous, cleansing, promising a light at the end of the tunnel. These tears were oppressive, hopeless, and told him nothing would ever be okay again. He cursed himself for thinking even for a second that Natalie was someone who would understand or care for him. Her episode was retribution for his hubris. That was the only possible explanation. He had no idea how long he laid there,

sobbing under the filthy toilet seat. But unfortunately, nobody walked in on him until he'd begun to pull himself together. When the door to the bathroom did finally open, he was greeted with a familiar booming baritone voice. The crew-cut man accompanied by a second, far less imposing voice. The crew-cut man spoke first.

You ever seen shit like that before? No way. Someone's up that bitch some nasty drugs. Too bad they got to her before me, fucking amateurs. They ever hear her quality control? You're going after her? She was a little hairy for my taste. The ones you don't shave, think they got something to prove.

It's more fun to break them in. You see the way her tits were hanging out? She wanted it, even if she didn't know it. Fair enough, I guess. teach their own. Too bad they're loading her up on a stretcher. So the paramedics arrived. No huge loss, crew cut man continued. I got this little hottie by the bar.

She's primed and ready to go. I'll be balls deep in her within the hour. Shit! The other man interjected. Brennan heard shushing and then silence. They had taken notice of him and were waiting for him to come out. The urge to hurl again welled up, but he needed to get home.

to get out even more. He stood up slowly, took a deep breath, and opened the stalled door. The crew-cut man stood a full head taller than Brendan, and stared down at him, hard and confident. The other man was much smaller in stature, and had a generally greasy appearance. He was nervous, nibbling at his fingernails, as if he'd just been caught by the cops,

waiting for the crew-cut man to defuse the situation. Little too much to drink, eh? The crew cut man said. Maybe time to go home and sleep it off. It was not a suggestion. Brendan stood, rooted to the spot, staring at the floor, trying to work up the guts to do something.

The man leaned in closer and asked in a voice that was lower but somehow much more threatening. Are we going to have a problem? In the smallest act of defiance, Brandon looked up and met his gaze. He wanted to hold it, to test his power, to make what happened to Natalie,

happened to someone who deserved it. But after a few seconds, he lost his nerve and looked away. He shook his head sheepishly. No, no problem. Good, the crew-cut man said, backing off. The greasy man breathed a sigh of relief. Brendan bolted out the door without washing his

hands are rinsing his mouth. The bar was clearing out, and there was nobody left on the stage side, no Natalie. The ambulance had already come and gone, and Brendan had missed it entirely. He felt like a failure. He made a beeline for the front door, and on his way past the petite woman in the green top, sipping the pink cocktail. He still owed Dr. Stewart a five-minute conversation, but he couldn't bring himself to speak to her. He somehow believed he'd make her situation worse or get his ass kicked. He simply went home. Brendan turned on the TV in his loft and flipped through some news channels looking for

anything with the word live on the screen. Eventually landing on a conservative late-night talk show, some idiot and a hairpiece looking directly into the camera was complaining about wokeism. Perfect. Brendan focused his attention on the anchor's eyes, immediately feeling silly, but he had to test it, had to know if it was real. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. Nothing happened to the newscaster. He just droned on stupidly about the dangers of socialism and gender-neutral restrooms. I guess it doesn't work through the TV. It doesn't work at all, you moron. He shut the TV off. There was another way to tell. In the entryway to his loft, there was an old side table with a vanity mirror. It was intended for a

bedroom, but he couldn't keep it there. It made him feel exposed all through the night. Couldn't get rid of it either. It had been his parents. It was in his house growing up, one of his few reminders of a slightly happier childhood. So he'd stuck it in the entryway and did his best to avoid looking at it every time he came in the door. Now he ran over to it, slammed his hands onto the corners of the table,

took a deep breath, and looked into the glass. The face staring back looked like a toad, pudgy cheeks, pockmarked unhealthy skin, a sheen of nervous sweat. He tried to just focus on the eyes big in hazel, full of hurt and longing.

He thought for the briefest moment that he actually had quite nice eyes. Then the urge to cry overtook him again, followed abruptly and much more forcefully by the urge to blow chunks. He rushed to the bathroom to throw up for the second time. It made me sick. You were already sick. Inconclusive. He glanced at the clock in the back. bathroom, 2.16 a.m. Defeated and utterly drained. He finally went to bed. Brandon didn't leave his loft for a week. Didn't go near the front door, nor the vanity in the entryway. Monday he got up,

went to his desk to write software for some corporate schmucks, then poured a scotch and watched TV until he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. On Tuesday, he did the same, and on Wednesday. On Wednesday and on Thursday, too. All week long, he thought about them. He thought about the petite woman with the pink cocktail. Was she okay? Why hadn't Brendan said something? He could have helped her if he wasn't such a coward.

But mostly, he thought about Natalie, thought about that incredible song, and the moment they locked eyes, the moment they saw each other. He longed for that moment, desperately, wished he could rewind time and experience that over and over again, stopping just before the moment her insides exploded from her mouth. Then he scolded himself.

He felt selfish, only focusing on his own pain. He didn't even know if she was alive. How could he find out? He thought about searching for her on social media, but he didn't have any accounts. That was too much exposure. He finally told himself that it wasn't his concern, that he wasn't the cause of her attack, if that's what you'd call it, and he had nothing to do with her, period. He was a non-entity, non-existent, inconsequential.

She didn't even know his name. He had to trust that her circle would take care of her because he wasn't a part of it. End of story. But he couldn't stop thinking about her, or the crew-cut man. Thursday night, he had a dream that he found her hospital room. She was catatonic, but alive, sleeping peacefully. Brendan sat in a chair in the corner of the room, wanting to reach out to her, to take her hand, to caress her cheek, to tell her he was sorry, and it would all be okay.

but he couldn't move or speak. The crew-cut man came in, his face obscured in shadow, appearing only as a silhouette with red eyes, but his size and voice were unmistakable. I finally got you, bitch. He'd come back to break her in, and Brendan just watched, cowering in the darkness.

He bolted awake before the worst of it, mercifully, drenched in cold sweat, At first he felt relief, then guilt, then rage. Finally, he worked until sundown, and then he put on a dark-colored hoodie and walked out the front door, still avoiding the vanity mirror. Brendan was back at Hustler's pub. It was open mic night again, and a rather good musician was performing. But Brendan chose a seat at the bar. Natalie was nowhere in sight, neither was the petite woman.

But the crew-cut man was there, wearing his sport coat, chatting up another woman, this one a curvy blonde. He didn't see Brendan, and somehow Brendan knew he never would. Brendan was excessively skilled at being unnoticeable, and the crew-cut man was focused entirely on his new target. His greasy friend was over on the stage side. crowding a woman who was obviously annoyed. Brendan sipped on Johnny Walker, biting his time,

tracking the massive man out of the corner of his eye. Eventually, the greasy man came and tapped his friend on the shoulder, and the two went to the bathroom together. Drug deal, perhaps? Brendan didn't know, but it was no good. He couldn't take them both at the same time. Then the greasy man came out alone. Brendan waited for him to pass back into the stage side of the venue, then shoved off from his stool and practically sprinted toward the bathroom.

He planned to dart sideways through the archway if the man came out prematurely, but once he passed the opening between rooms, he was committed to the altercation no matter what. Luckily, he reached the bathroom door before the man finished his business. The man was sitting on the toilet, and the same stall Brendan had vomited. in a week prior. This time, Brendan waited at the door for him. His heart rate steadily increased as he heard the toilet flush, the sound of pants being pulled up, of a belt being buckled, of the deadbolt being disengaged. The man swung the door open and was startled backward. He didn't seem threatening at all, just confused. What the hell? He didn't seem to recognize Brendan. What do you want? Then it clicked, and he stepped forward, looming over Brandon,

all of a sudden, terrifying. Oh, you again. What? You follow me in here to look at my dick, you fucking freak. Brendan said nothing, just continued to stare. His heart pounded, begging him to turn tail and run, but he didn't listen. He locked on his gaze and held true. Okay, what is this? The man asked. Confusion returning to his face, but not at the expense of his menace. There's a shakedown or something? You want some drugs?

You want some money? You're going to wrap me out or something? What the fuck do you want? He shoved Brendan hard in the chest. He flew back against the door with a violent thud. Pain jolted up his spine and threw his shoulder blades. But he didn't break eye contact. His body was shaking and his breathing had become laborious.

his face was red-hot, fuming. He pushed away from the door, and with his elbows, and stepped back into the man's shadow. Okay, now you're starting to piss me off, the crew-cut man said in that low, no more bullshit tone he'd adopted before. He grabbed Brendan by the shirt with both hands and began to lift him off the ground, until Brendan's face was level with his. And still, Brendan did not look away. You're going to regret this, he said. Then it began.

The man dry heaved and relaxed his grip. Brendan's feet momentarily touched down, then were raised again as the man tried to resume his threats. Then Brennan was released fully as the brute stumbled back into the stall, going into a fit of coughs. He covered his mouth with the sleeve of his coat, and when he pulled his arm away, thick red blood stood out, on the fabric like paint spilled on canvas.

Blood ran from his nose and a ball of red saliva hung from his lower lip as he looked back toward Brendan, expression, a combination of rage and terror. What the fuck did you do to me? Huh? Brendan finally began to shrink away, realizing he wasn't at all prepared for his unbelievable power to be real, or for the utter horror of it all. His stomach churned, the hulking, bleeding man, clocked this moment of weakness, and his rage immediately overrode his terror. He lunged forward and punched Brendan square in the eye.

The pain was excruciating. It sent Brendan flying into the corner to the right of the door, where he crumpled to the ground. The left half of his vision went white, and his whole head felt like it might explode. He waited for more blows, quite certain he was about to be beaten to death, and strangely content with this knowledge. But the Goliath

whirled in the other direction and began ejecting dark fluid into the porcelain sink. All at once, Brendan was overcome by euphoria as his brain released endorphins to override the pain. Along with the euphoria

came a firm and immovable resolve. Horrible or not, he meant to kill this man. He hauled himself up and approached the sink, past his left hand under the deluge flowing from the man's mouth, and placed it on the man's right ear. Then he grabbed the other ear with his right hand and yanked his head around to face him. The man yelled and instinctively twisted his body around to protect his neck, which resulted in him bending backward over the sink in some bizarre

ballroom dancing pose, with Brendan bearing down on him. At first, Brandon could only see half of what he usually could, because his punched eye was beginning to swell shut. Pain returned to it, but he willed it to open, making sure he hit this man with a full blast of whatever the fuck he had inside of him. He felt the veins in his neck and forehead flex, as he repeated in his mind over and over again. Die, die, die! The crew-cut man coughed and sputtered as blood and bile pooled in his throat. He tried to cry out, but could only make gurgling sounds that sounded vaguely like, Stop, please, and eventually, help.

Bits of fluid flew up like a geyser getting on Brendan's face, in his nostrils, in his mouth. It tasted acidic and rotten, but Brendan was too entranced to react. Finally, the man lost his footing, and his gargantuan head crashed in his gargantuan head crashed in to the sink, shattering a corner of the porcelain. Brendan's hands went with it, and the jagged corner sliced his right one open on the way down. Then they were on the floor. The crew-cut man flat on his back and Brendan on top, teeth bared and eyes wild. The huge body began to convulse, just like Natalie had, and his eyes rolled upward into his skull.

Brendan jammed his thumbs into the eyelids, held them open to make sure he could still see the pupils. He watched as the irises filled with blood like the yoke of a raw egg bleeding into the whites. And then it was over. His limbs ceased spasming. The surface of the pool inside his mouth bubbled softly and then went still. When Brendan pushed against the man's body to stand up. up, it felt squishy. The bathroom looked like a scene from a nightmare on Elm Street, but somehow, miraculously,

Brendan had not yet stepped in any blood. His body was covered, but he wasn't yet leaving any footprints, and the mess wasn't obvious on his dark hoodie. He grabbed a wad of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall and wiped his face off as best he could, then wrapped the rest about his wounded hand. He tiptoed around the steadily growing pool of carnage in comical fashion, and almost couldn't reach the door handle from the clean spot along the wall opposite the sinks. Finally, he hooked it with his pinky, swung it toward him, and hopped over the threshold. He'd put no thought into getting out. He simply pulled up

his hood, hit his sliced paper-towled hand up his sleeve, and committed himself straight to the front exit. Not a single person noticed him leaving. Nobody came looking for Brendan after the incident, but it made the local news. The crew cut man's death was ruled an overdose from some kind of exotic drug, though surely the police had to know there was no known substances in either his or Natalie's systems. They did, however, find several doses of ruffinol in the man's coat pockets. The prevailing theory was that he and Natalie were victims in some kind of turf war. The greasy man and one of the bartenders were arrested as the crew-cut man's accomplices. Investigation into the alleged rival party was still ongoing, though nobody seemed to suspect a sheepish,

ugly man in a dark blood-stained hoodie. If the bar had any surveillance, Brendan was sure a blurry photo of him would have been all over the internet attached to a police hotline in the letters B-O-L-O. But miraculously, it seemed that no one ever realized he'd even been there. He was in the clear.

More importantly than that, the news confirmed that Natalie was alive and recovering. Brendan could find, finally sleep again. He didn't tell Dr. Stewart anything about the ordeal. Didn't tell him he'd gone to the open mic night, and he didn't know if the doc had even heard the new story or not. It never came up. He simply looked at his hands and said he'd chickened out. He couldn't do it. The doc didn't ream him or lecture him, but instead seemed to pity him,

which was somehow worse. Nevertheless, he spoke with real command. compassion. That's okay, Brendan. That's okay. Maybe we'll try again another time. Tell me about work. And that was that. A couple of Fridays later, he found himself back at hustlers. He couldn't remember making the decision to go. He just stepped out of his apartment, going nowhere in particular, and his feet had carried him there. He wasn't sure what he'd hoped to find. He didn't actually think Natalie would be there after what had happened, but it was his only connection to her, his only chance of basking in her aura again, even if it was just a faint afterglow. When he walked in, there she was, on stage performing.

This time it was a different song, maybe the one he never got to hear before. Her voice was different, a little raspy, not quite as loud, yet still absolutely hypnotizing, beautiful in an entirely different way. She was still healing, but whatever her condition, she could make the best of it, molded into something incredible. The unfathomable courage it must have taken to step foot in that room, to get back on that stage after what she'd experienced, and pour her heart out all over again. Fucking legend.

That's what she was to him. He made sure not to look at her face for more than a few seconds, just found a seat toward the back of the venue and closed his eyes, enjoying the sound. After her set, he approached her table. Just five minutes, that's all. You can do it, but sorry, Doc, going to have to skip the eye contact. She was in the middle of a conversation and didn't notice him at first. Hey, Natalie, he called out, without looking up for her.

from his hands. Was he allowed to use her name? She stopped speaking and turned to him, waiting for more. Um, I just wanted to tell you, er, that was a really incredible set. He felt like a dope. She flashed him a warm smile. Oh, thank you so much. I'm really glad you enjoyed it. It was sincere, yet businesslike. It reminded him of Dr. "'I don't know if you remember me,' he continued awkwardly. He tried to at least pretend to look her in the face. In his periphery she looked confused, shook her head. She didn't know who he was.

"'Well,' he trudged on, "'I was here three weeks ago when you—' "'Oh!' she'd been leaning forward to hear him over the next performer, but now she abruptly sat back in a sort of gloomy discomfort settled over her. He had triggered the memory she was trying not to think about. Get out, abort, abort! I'm sorry, I know this is awkward.

I just felt like we had a moment in understanding. He waved his four fingers back and forth, trying to say we had a connection. She stared at him sideways with furrowed eyes. She wasn't getting it. and he was being a total creep. Never mind, he finally said. I'm sorry to bother you.

Okay, well, you have a lovely night, she said, dismissing him. He turned around and went straight home. He walked into his apartment and planted himself at the side table vanity. All right, he said aloud to the tabletop, five minutes. Let's talk. He looked into the mirror. The amphibious creature in the glass stared back at him. You can stop this thing, he told himself.

You can hold it back. Dr. Stewart said, you are in control. So be in control. He wasn't at all certain that he could hold it back. What he was certain of was that he couldn't live with it. Never being able to look another human in the eye, never escaping the unbearable weight of loneliness, being doomed to harm anyone he ever tried to love,

he had no choice but to try. And so he stared, and stared. He wasn't sure exactly, but it had to be at least a minute that passed, and nothing happened. He kept staring. He had to be sure. He meant to stay there until he collapsed from exhaustion. Two minutes, he guessed.

Still nothing. Good. At three minutes, his stomach began to rumble. No, he said, it's just nerves. But the rumbling increased, seemed to rev up like a diesel engine. Stop, he said. He tried to pretend he couldn't see the tears streaming down his reflection's face. He didn't want to admit to himself that he was afraid. Stop, he repeated.

Blood began to run from his left nostril, and time stopped, freezing it on his upper lip for a moment. This is it. This is really happening. Then the record spun back up, and it ran into his mouth, tasting of iron. Stop! He began to cry harder as the other nostril bled. The nausea became nearly unbearable, but he would not break the gaze, not for anything,

not even to save his own life. Stop, please, he cried, stomping his foot into the wood floor over and over again, as if the gesture would intimidate his involuntary power and scare it off. The table and the vanity mirror shook as his body began to convulse. His vision turned red. He screamed, Stop! Then the world went black.

They assumed it was more fallout from that drug nightmare at the bar down the street. But it was like no over-es-up. overdose any of them had ever seen. The downstairs neighbor had called 911 after they heard stomping, a blood-curdling scream, and a sudden heavy thump. The paramedics found a dead man lying on the floor with blood all over his face

and two sunken red craters where his eyes should have been. No sign of forced entry, no evidence of homicide. How do you suppose that happened? One of them asked the other. pointing toward the vanity mirror in the entryway. Hell if I know, the others said. The mirror gazed back at them, with two splotches of blood that hung like red, haunting eyes.

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