Creepy - I Still Receive My Dead Fiancé's Autoreplies

Episode Date: August 26, 2024

After the tone...***Written by: B.A. Ries***Bonus Episode: "Home Late, Again" Written by: Jason P. Burnham and Narrated by: Cole Burkhardt***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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 violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents. I still receive my dead fiancé's auto replies.

Written by B.A. Rise. I ignore the ringing on my work phone for the third time this morning. It's probably Stephen, wondering when I'll send him my half of our presentation. Or maybe it's Mr. Mackey, finally ready to have the difficult conversation my bereavement leave had postponed. Either way, I know I should answer it, but I remain focused on the draft email on the screen before me. Dear Naomi, it begins. It's been two weeks, isn't it? Please don't worry, honey.

I'm in good health. Physically, at least. Work has just been taxing lately. Returning to the workplace exhausts me. I'm down to two days of telework per week. And now I'm already running out of excuses to avoid stepping foot in that corporate hell hole on the other three. Worst of all, Tuesday, I'm set to present to a whole room of self-important bigwigs. Stevens partnered with me for it.

I hope Stephen brings his A-game because I'm sure as hell not going to bring mine. Every time I look at all those fucking numbers on all those fucking spreadsheets, when mine drifts away. It always ends up in the same place, Naomi, with you. And to the times we spent together. Do you ever think about what our lives would have been like if we both hadn't signed up for that stupid auditing conference? You would probably still be living in that cramped townhouse with that monster.

I know you're coming home soon, darling. And when you get here, it'll be just like old times. We'll kiss and I'll remove your clothes one garment at a time until they form a trail leading to the bed. We'll fuck. And when we're done, I'll open the bottle of your favorite Merlot I keep in the upper cabinet just for the occasion. You may be wondering why I'm so certain you'll be returning. Well, it's because you promised. And you always keep your word.

Other people aren't like you. Other people say things that are stupid. empty and non-committal. Do you know what Stevens' away message says, Naomi? I'll try to get back to you when possible. Seriously. Remember the new secretary? The girl Sherry, who looks a little like you and who keeps trying to impress me?

Well, she's yet to miss a day, an hour even, in the three months she's been with us. So last week my curiosity finally got the better of me You understand, don't you Naomi? I had to know So when she was in the bathroom I went through her lunch bag and slipped a little something into the sandwich she packed It wasn't enough to do serious damage, mind you At least, you know, likelihood

Just enough to give her a five-day weekend and I was right. By Friday, she'd set up an away message on her work email from the hospital. Can you guess what it said, Naomi? Thank you for reaching out. Unfortunately, I am temporarily unavailable due to a medical emergency. I'll try to get back to you as soon as I can. It's disgusting, isn't it?

I'm going to give her a few pointers. She's not like Ted. She's not beyond saving. Speaking a tad, I'm still having the dream, Naomi. A terrible, terrible dream. Where the people I've hurt are coming from me. Or I'm paying some divine price for what I've done. But when I think of you, everything gets better.

It's as if my connection with you is what protects me. I promise. I won't let that. this much time pass again, love. I'll write you again within a few days. I love you. Always and forever. Peter, I hit send.

My phone rings again. I nearly answer it, but I already have a response from Naomi. My mouth waters as I reread the 15 words I know by heart. I am currently unavailable, but I will be back and will respond to you soon. It was never meant to be a permanent sign-off. Just a hastily drafted message while she used the afternoon to run an errand. Little did she know that her vengeful X would render it her last mark on the world. I hit Control P, then enter.

My dusty printer cranks out a hard copy. I head to my closet, where I shove aside a heavy box and a plastic container filled with green pellets to deposit it in a thick file folder with the others. Stephen's tone is shrill and accusatory. He demands to know why I've been unresponsive all morning. I don't really blame him for being angry, given how I've been acting the last few weeks. It's no secret that my prospects for continued employment at this company are quite dim, but Stephen doesn't want me to drag him down with me.

Still, fuck Stephen. I'm tempted to tell him, I'll try to get back to you when possible, and end the call. Instead, I apologize. I'm sorry, I've had a difficult morning. He retorts that he's had a difficult morning, too. We have less than 24 hours before our presentation to a group of corporate bigwigs, after all, and I haven't been pulling my weight in preparing for it.

He asks for the status of my slides on Q&Sy on Q. Q3 and Q4. I haven't had time to finish them. It's just, Yoki, Meyerdale, you know? He, um, well, he passed this morning. Stephen, the gullible moron he is, turned sympathetic. He tells me that he's sorry, that he didn't even know I had a dog. Yeah, he fought real hard.

Although much longer and predicted, but it's okay now. I've come to terms with it. You don't need to worry about me. I'll be ready to present tomorrow's planned. Stephen offers to take up part of my presentation, such that I just have to cover the fourth quarter. Stephen, I couldn't. He insists.

I take a long, deep breath. I owe you one, Stephen. The next morning, I ignore the judgmental looks of my coworkers as I scurry towards my office. I'm 40 minutes late. I look a mess. Jerry cheerfully wishes me a good morning as I pass where she sits dutifully at her desk.

I'm so happy you're well enough to come in, Jerry. How are you feeling? She tells me that she's back to normal. That's great news. Do you know what caused it? She responds that the doctor had a few theories but wasn't sure. She changes the subject, asking me if I received her email about her need to attend a follow-up appointment this afternoon. Oh, right, of course.

I thought I responded already. Yeah, you can take the time off. No problem. She thanks me. Oh, there's one little thing I wanted to tell you. She looks up at me attentively. Wanting to handle this as appropriately as possible, I force an awkward laugh and try to sound lighthearted.

Well, you see, when I emailed you on Friday, I got an automated response from your account. She nodded and asks if there was something wrong with it. Well, the message you wrote, It wasn't... She looks at me, concerned, as I try to find the correct words. It wasn't quite right. I'd recommend writing something clearer, more decisive next time.

Don't say that you'll try to get back to someone. Say that you will respond. None of that wishy-washy bullshit. Got it? She says that she understands. Very good. Hey, I am so glad you're feeling better. Truly, in my office, I focus intently on my computer screen.

The blinds on the glass walls around me are open, after all. I need to at least look like I'm working. 270 unread emails. Jesus, that's a lot. It's better than the auto response ellipse. Ted caused a couple months back. He tried setting up in a way message prior to taking his first vacation, but went about it all wrong by messing with his filters. He ended up sending an auto reply to every email he'd ever received.

I sat down to over 150 emails from him alone. Each reading, I will do my best to try to respond as soon as I can. Good luck with that Ted, I remember thinking to myself. Good luck. I peer through the glass of cherry and recall how my heart had fluttered when I realized she was Ted's replacement. Her resemblance to Naomi was impeccable. Not just on the surface. Sure, her hazel eyes, curly chestnut hair, and diamond face all loosely resemble Naomi,

but also her deliberate gait in the way her eyelids twitch when she's nervous. Stephen enters. He repeats platitudes about how very subtle. Sorry he is about my dog, and I repeat platitudes about how grateful I am for his support. He asks if I'm ready for the presentation. Yes, absolutely. Good to go. He asks if I'm planning on cleaning myself up beforehand. You really think I'd show up looking like this?

I say with a laugh. Stephen grimaces when I arrived in the conference room that afternoon. My tie's crooked. My hair's a mess, and my lunch left a new stain on my suit jacket. I take a seat by the screen while Stephen begins. The judgmental gaze of the assembled corporate brass remains focused on Stephen as he reviews numbers and charts. I, meanwhile, zone out. Shiri really does resemble Naomi, doesn't she?

I should ask Sherry out. It's hardly an appropriate thing to do given the power dynamic, but fucking. call that. She's as close to a substitute for Naomi as I'm likely to ever find. I sense a closing window of opportunity. My only inn with Cherry is that we work together, and that's not going to last. If I'm going to act, I need to do so now. I remove my phone and type out an email about a get-together tonight at my house. Lots of people from the office are going to be there, I say. Just a nice, casual evening. She's welcome too, of course. I'd have told her sooner, but she'd been out of the office when I'd invited everyone else on Friday. I hit send. Stephen shoots me a cold glare when I check

the notification from my phone. I should at least pretend to be invested in this presentation, but I can't be bothered. Now when the automated response I received from Cherry is glorious. Hello, it reads. I am out of the office with limited email access for the rest of the day. However, I will respond when I return tomorrow. If the matter is urgent, please call me at the number below. Fuck, yes. That's a huge improvement.

Jerry followed my advice after all. I realize I'm breathing heavy. I can hear my heartbeat. Naomi would be proud. It contains no ambiguity, just a flat-out declaration, I will respond when I return tomorrow. I promise just like the one Naomi had made. I'm too lost in my thoughts to care when Stephen announces the conclusions of his auditing report for Q3. He shakes my arm gently and forcefully until I finally process that it's my turn to present.

I get to my feet. Ah, yes, Q4. Um, I scan the ghastly faces of the executives. They're like dogs, all of them, waiting for me to give them a treat. I start babbling. This quarter, we, the... So the excesses we identified... I try to read the words on the side.

slide, but all I can see are the same few phrases that I know aren't really there. I will be back. I will return. We'll be together soon. Fuck, that, I'm out of here. I'm so sorry, but I have to go. Stephen tries to call out for me, but the sound of the slamming door cuts him off. I barge into my office, turn the lock, and close all the blinds.

On my computer, I pull up Cherry's auto reply. maximize it and zoom in until its giant letters fill up the screen. It's beautiful. It makes me feel like I'm with Naomi again. I remember spotting and not caring about the circular indent on her ring finger when she first took me back to her room at the convention center. I recall the times we'd shared in that crappy apartment I rented out in Midtown just a few blocks away from where she and her husband lived.

I feel the heat of our passion and the warmth of her body against mine. As my mind slowly returns the reality, a sense of embarrassment grows in my gut. Apparently, even I am capable of experiencing shame. I'm sitting back in my seat. My pants are down, and from the look of it and the fading sensation of orgasm, seems that I just delivered a full load all over. for my half-unbuttoned royal blue dress shirt. Jesus, that auto reply really made an impression with me.

Mr. Mackey is knocking at the door. He tells me to open up. I'm busy. I meekly respond. He shouts things at me. About how I've let down the branch for the last time, about how he never should have given me all the chances he did. I yell at him to fuck off.

He screams back in me that I should fuck off. He follows this with some taunt about jeopardizing my severance package. I consider my options as I dress back up and do the best I can to clean up the new stains on my clothes. There's no way in hell I'm opening the door to my office now. Now with my boss out there waiting for me, that leaves only one alternative. I open the blinds to the outside. I'm only on the second floor, and my car is in the lock below.

I open the window and step into the bitter cold. My suit pants scrape against the odor sill as I lower myself to the surface. I land against the asphalt with a muffled thud. I take what I hope to be my last ever look at the concrete monstrosity where I've worked for over ten years. Fuck every last one of you! I hollered before pulling at the handle to my car's front door. It doesn't budge.

Fucking hell. I'd left my car keys in my office. You can imagine the absolute misery of going into that place again. As I march back to my office, Andrew, a perplexed Mr. Mackey, and several others take their turns telling me how much of a disappointment I've been to them. By the time I find my car keys, a security detail has arrived to escort me out. I don't look back as I finally drive home. At home, I shower, dress, and draft another.

other email to Naomi. I explained how I'd lost my job and how difficult it is for me to think of anything other than her. Remember when the divorce finally came through? When you were legally free of that loser, we felt like we had a whole life together out of us? That was really something, wasn't it? A high worth chasing. Naomi, I don't want to rush you, but I've been thinking. I think it's about time you came back. And if you're still not ready, maybe it's time I come to you. The ring of the doorbell

startles me as I hit send. When I see the dimly lit silhouette waiting on the front porch, I think for a moment that Naomi has granted my request with Cherry, who emerges from the shadows. I totally forgotten about the invitation head center. It dawns on me that she may not know

of the day's events. She probably thinks I'm still one of her supervisors. Sherry hands me a bottle of wine. Cheap reeling. Bad choice, but that's okay. I direct her inside and take her coat. Noting the empty room, she comments

on being the first guest to arrive. Oh, yeah. Funny thing. My mind scrambles to come up with something. I force an awkward chuckle. You see, Sherry, I originally planned the event to start at six, but last week I realized that I need more time to set everything up. So I told everyone else to arrive at seven. But when I emailed you this morning, I think I

included the original time. Silly me? I'm so sorry. She offers to leave and come back closer to the start time. No, no, please stay. I insist. She may not be an answer. She may not be an But it still feels like something of a small miracle for her to show up here tonight. I sense this is a special night. I bring down the 1990 Merlot and pours each a glass. So, did the doctor have any insight about what caused you to get so sick? She relates how the doctor traced the issue to something she'd eaten and believe the cause was more serious than simple exposure to rotten or expired ingredients.

The doctor had even asked if she knew anyone who could have been. have deliberately tampered with her food. The Cherry hadn't taken that suggestion seriously. She didn't have any enemies, after all. I lead her back to the living room. She takes a seat on the couch, examines her surroundings, and asks me about the woman in the photos with me.

That's Naomi. I assume no one in the workplace told you about her? She shakes her head. She and I were engaged. The wedding was set for last January. We had it all planned out to take place at her parents' farmhouse where she grew up. But she passed away shortly beforehand. She expresses her sympathies and asks what happened.

I gulp down the rest of my glass. Her, um, well, her ex-husband, he wasn't happy about her leaving him. Very upset, in fact. He... He was responsible for what happened to her. He'd handled things decently well at first. That's because he thought his wife had split from him and then phoned me. When he discovered that she'd been seeing me behind his back for a year as he snapped.

But I omitted that version from the events I relate to Sherry. She again expresses her sympathies. She seems genuinely sympathetic, as well as a bit shaken. I pour myself a second glass. Before I know it, I'm opening up about all the things I loved about Naomi. I realize I'm oversharing, but my tipsy self continues anyway. The odd thing is, she still has an email account with her old workplace, Shelby and Nixon over on 4th, and it's set up with an auto reply.

I sometimes type up long emails to her. I tell her how much I love her and how much I miss her, Then when a response shows up in my inbox, it's like I'm hearing from her again. It always says I will be back. And I try to tell myself that it's true, even though I know it isn't. Jerry's face is red. She's a naturally empathetic person. She tells me that she can tell that I'm in a lot of pain and that it's understandable, given what I'd been through.

She says that she wishes there was something she could do to help. You are helping, in a way. Have I told you how much better you are at your job than your predecessor? She tells me she doesn't want to talk about Ted like that. It takes me a second to understand why. Oh, right, I stamer. Probably best not to insult the dead. Poor Ted.

Necks slashed open by a sickle. Terrible way to go. I'm still hoping they catch the bastard who did it. Sherry looks surprised. She hadn't heard anything about the murder weapon. Just that he'd been stabbed. Oh, right. Well, you see, when his family came in to remove his personals

and they told me it looked like a farm tool of some sort of done it. Cherry grimaces. It wasn't a great lie, but it seems to have done the trick. I offer her another glass of wine as I pour my third, but she declines. You know, just before he died, Ted had done something insanely stupid. He accidentally sent dozens and dozens of copies of his flaccid auto response to everyone in the company. It was fucking revolting. Sherry looks on disapprovingly and starts to express some cliche about Ted resting in peace.

Funny thing is, I say, interrupting her, Naomi's ex-husband died the same way. I run my finger across my neck. Slash to the throat. Sherry starts to grow a little pale. I can tell that she's getting nervous. She asks when I think the other guests will get there. Oh, any minute now. Any minute.

We sit quietly for a few moments. There's a palpable tension in the air. I realize I've over-talked. I've probably freaked her out a little too. Jerry finally breaks the silence. She asks me to repeat the company that employed Naomi. When I reiterate the name of the firm, Shelby and Nixon, she asks if I heard the news about it.

What news? Naomi relates how, according to the newspaper at least, they've been in bankruptcy proceedings for a while. She recalled something about the liquidation of its assets getting finalized within the last day or two. Oh. I feel dizzy. The alcohol doesn't help. That means any day now, the server... I whip out my phone.

The top message isn't from Naomi. Instead, it's from fucking Google. And it's telling me that the server had rejected my last email to Naomi. No. No, no, no. I collapse against the carpet. Naomi asks if I'm okay. Do I look like I'm fucking okay?

The server shut down. Her account's fucking gone. I spring to my feet. and run to my bedroom closet as I remove the file pocket. My shaking hands and several adjacent containers tumbling down. A cardboard box bursts open and its contents scatter across the floor. Ignoring the mass, I take out the thick set of printouts of my email exchanges with Naomi's account. You were supposed to come back.

I whimper through tears. Now you've gone forever. And this is all that's left. Charlotte's held a small shriek. She followed me to my room, and her mouth now hangs agape. I realize her eyes are locked not on me, but on the carpet behind me, where a red-stained sickle sits next to an open jar of rat poison. She backs off and announces that she should be going. Wait, Sherry!

I run after her, but she's already outside. I watch from my front porch as her car disappears into the night. I've never felt it. more alone. The one form of contact I had left with Naomi is gone. Shut down without warning. And her doppelganger is probably

on the phone with the police at this very moment. My eyes catch movement in the distance. Two dark figures approach. Their stride is jagged and uneven as their tall frames sway with each step. Hello? I call. They continue to stager across my mouth.

my lawn towards me in silence. I jump back when they finally come in range of my front yard light. Their faces are drained of all color with the exception of their bloodshot eyes, which are fixed on me. Red liquid drips from deep gashes in their necks. I know who they are, and I know why they're coming for me. Frantically, I lock and latch the front door. What could this be happening?

Am I losing my mind? The thuds against my front door grow louder. So loud, in fact, the floor feels like it's shaking and reverberating so violently that I struggle to stay balanced. It's like they've been waiting for this moment of weakness, for this moment of separation from Naomi. I don't know which will give me first. The police, the animated corpses, or the dozens of green pellets I consider lifting

towards my mouth. My attention turns to one last task that will allow me to leave a mark on this world, one that will stick around much longer than I will. I open my laptop and type frantically. I keep typing as I hear the door burst open, as I sense figures shuffling slowly in my direction. Finally, in what I sense to be my last moments, I sent my final automatic reply to send without any time limit.

Hey, asshole. It begins. Fortunately, I'm not available right now, nor will I be anytime soon. If you need to reach me, well, you're out of fucking luck. I don't know where I'm going exactly, but I do know who's waiting there for me. We've been apart for too long, but I've got a feeling that no one will be getting between us again. Now fuck off.

Now let me rest in goddamn peace. For your bonus episode, creepy presents, Home Late Again. Written by Jason P. Burnham, and narrated by Cole Burkart. Rick rushed up the three steps to his house, brown loafers slipping on the slick gray stone

as he fumbled to extract his keys from the old. overstuffed pockets of his corduroy pants. Though the guilt he felt for being home late again made his hands clumsy, it wasn't strong enough to get him home on time. Today, he'd promised to leave before the storms came, but got caught up in a menial task he could have put off until tomorrow. This had changed a commute that should have taken only 20 minutes into a two-and-a-half-hour hellfast of flash flooding, stalled cars, accidents, and a string of text messages asking why he hadn't left earlier. It had been a historic storm, a downpour even a stilled meteorologist could not truly have predicted. 25% of the region's annual rainfall in a single afternoon. Surely this excuse would be an acceptable one.

He slammed the key into the lock and turned it, formulating in his mind a last-minute attempt at an explanation for his decisions. He knew his wife and children would listen politely. There faces a mixture of disappointment and resignation at the familiar rhythms of requested forgiveness, which they gave increasingly begrudgingly and with ever stronger airs of boredom. He'd had the whole ride home to craft a well-meaning apology, but hadn't bothered to. When the tumbler clicked into place and he swung open the door, the space waiting on the other side of the threshold was not his house.

The street was his. The keys had unlocked the door. The structure sat on the same lot as his house. The black mailboxes full of sopping wet envelopes had the correct numbers for their address, 417. But everything inside was wrong. He turned to exit to find his house, but the front door wouldn't let him back out. He had to leave, so he could find his family. He'd already missed dinner, and bedtime was rapidly approaching. If he missed the kid's bedtime, they'd not hear his poorly-crafted apology until the morning, at which point it would be reopening old wounds and setting him up for two apologies for being late in a single day. The leftover morning one and the evening one to inevitable. come later. And if he didn't hurry, he'd miss the apology to his wife, too, even though she now sometimes told him not to bother apologizing when the kids weren't around. He'd been feeling more and

more guilty about working too much, and not seeing everyone, and abrating his promise of a timely return was only going to sour the docemer tenuous connections drifting above the tempest, that was their matchstick lives. Leaning over a brown leather sofa that should have been a plush blue two-seater, he peered through windows framed by chattered green curtains that should have been black. Parked on the street next to his maple tree,

yellowed leaves readying themselves to fall, was his Prius. The crow's nest was high up in the maple. They were out for the evening. turning hesitantly from the windows, but hopeful because normalcy seemingly lurched just outside the house, he tried his luck at the front door. It was still locked. What the fuck? He asked nobody in particular. If his youngest, four-year-old Lee had been around, he would have told him he shouldn't say fuck. Lee would have been correct, but Rick would have given him a

caveat that when you walk into your house and it isn't your house anymore, fuck was an acceptable utterance. He'd not kept up with the child development books his wife had recommended, and he wasn't certain if Lee would understand that explanation of acceptability of swearing. Rick focused on individual differences of the house, trying to impose order on chaos. Where there should have been shelves filled with, child-rearing educational books he'd promised to read, but hadn't had the time since 12-year-old

Elliot was born. Instead, there was a large cherry-wood armoire, freshly polished. The armoure had two doors, each of which had an ornately curled, wrought-iron handle. The handles glowed red, as if heated from within. They reminded him of hot cattle brands he'd seen in an old-time Western movie. It was then, Rick noticed the smell was wrong too, like freshly struck matches, or maybe it hadn't smelled like anything,

until he looked at the armoire. He couldn't be sure. If anyone was home, they weren't making any noises louder than the rapid whooshing of his heartbeat in his ears. Based on the appearance of the inside of his house, he wasn't sure he wanted anyone to be home. He wasn't sure if they would be... Right. He hurried into the dining room, which was that in memory only. Completely empty, excepting the deck doors,

that looked out onto his normal bat yard, lacquered wood deck, patio table, and chairs, planters with bean vines snaking around corn, a mannolia tree heavy with recent storm, and the occasional flicker of squabbling blue jays. He should have been able to hear the jays, but it was only his blood, pulsing against tympanic membranes. The rain outside had stopped. He closed his eyes, hoping he'd awaken in his actual house. When he opened them, the armoire stood in front of the deck doors. The handles glowed.

He nervously backed away into what should have been the kitchen, where now molten red liquid dripped from the ceiling and burned through the floor into the basement. Some part of him wanted to understand what was happening. Another part wanted to take a moment to be horrified. But the loudest part told him to keep moving, to find his family. He shuffled around the red-hot drops eating their way through wooden panels and went to the stairs. Having fallen on the narrow steps so many times, he'd grabbed the handrail out of half,

but it burned him and he withdrew his hand. The banister had metamorphosed into the red-hot material of the armoor's handles. He held close to the opposite wall, running his fingers lightly along it for balance, staresly daring to breathe in this strange place. Absent from the wall were pictures of his family, replaced instead by swirling, shimmering ovals of dark blue-gray iridescence. They reminded him of mirrors, and he avoided looking into them for fear of seeing his face. At the landing, the staircase turned abruptly and tightened into a spiral. Just when the encroaching rails of the staircase threatened to burn him, it inverted, and he was falling.

He landed in a mass of shimmering black feathers, detached from any body, but with a warmth their own. They sat where his marriage bed should have. The feathers were oily, and his touch elicited the smell of a wet barn, hay and animal alike. With every movement,

the ridges and spines of each individual feather abraded his skin until he cried out and forced himself up. Where they'd touched bare skin, hot, angry welts had formed, coalescing at points of contact. Where there should have been dressers, drawers, and the casual thrown-about clothes of a half-clean room, instead there were large shards of broken eggs. Rick did not want to see the bird that had looked,

nor hatched from them. He wished he could wait up from this nightmare. Part of him wondered whether whoever lived here had gotten out before it transformed into the inscrutable hellscape he now walked. The edges of the room were twigs and bark, mud and debris.

He fervently looked for something molten red. He assumed there's, must be some connection, some driving force to the abnormality of this house that wasn't his house. He picked up a shard of eggshell and flipped it over. Where he touched the inside concavity, his fingers burned. The inside of the shell was molten red. A shriek reverberated up from the basement, and a morbid, unquietable impetus pushed him out of the bedroom toward the sound. The stairs were in approximately their native confirmation, four steps to the landing, 11 to the living room. He considered entering what should have been his children's bedrooms,

but decided the potential horrors within were too great. He hoped they were long gone, safe in their home, wherever it had gotten to. He tried the front door again to no avail. He considered the molten-handled armoire, knowing it would burn him if he tried opening it. The shriek sounded again from the basement. The armoire would be easier to face. When he gripped the wrought iron handle,

it wouldn't relinquish his hand, even as the layers of skin burned away. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound escaped. He slumped to the floor, body spasming as his hand blistered, until finally the handle seared the nerves away, and he could feel it no longer, except as a dull, distant throb. The armoire door fell open, a bright white light, shined from within. Through the armoire was his house, the plush blue, two-seater, the black

curtains, his wife and children. He wept. Elliot, Lee, and Maria ran to him, embraced him. They bombarded him desperately with questions falling over him. Where had Daddy been? He didn't know what to say. He attempted to speak, but light the streams he'd tried to utter while his hand burned, nothing escaped his lips. The joy of reuniting eroded from the faces of his family, replaced with the usual bored stairs they wore when he recited his explanations for being home late. Again, what was wrong with Daddy? Didn't he love him? them? Tears streamed down his face and he wiped them away with his numb, blackened hand, char staining his face. Daddy had all the time in the world to work, didn't he? But did Daddy

asked about school or have time to play ball or draw pictures? Daddy had time for the crows, but what about his human family? Rich's greatest fears. His greatest regrets he couldn't bring himself to rectify played out before him in the faces and words of his family. He looked around desperately for a way to escape, but the armoire was gone. He rushed to the front door and found it locked,

the handle molten and dripping through his charcoal hand. His family grew angry. Did Daddy have to go back to work already? Or was it time for Daddy to be with the crows? When he turned to his family, they shrieked. Black feathers sprouted along their arms and up into their necks. Their mouth turned to beats. Their eyes became dark and beady.

Did Daddy love them now? Were they worthy of Daddy's attention at last? They flapped their armwinds at him, and he was suddenly yanked backwards through the armoire, which he'd not seen reappear. He flew through the air of his house, to the house that was not his house. Claws sank into his shoulders

between his clavicle and back muscles, dating deep and approaching the apices of his lungs. He couldn't breathe from fear, Talens rupturing his long paranthema, or perhaps both. Talens dragged him into the basement, legs bumping over the stairs as he descended. He came to a halt in the middle of the basement floor, cold concrete pressed against his back. At least that part was like his real house. He was too weak to turn when the claws relinquished him. The unfinished ceiling looked down at him, lights flickering, electrical wire, and pipes in Eldrich disarray.

The smell of rotten meat wafted over him. It was accompanied by the clicking of claws on concrete. Three crows, one large, too smaller, strutted into his field of view, and stared at him through dark, black eyes. I'm sorry, he croaked. The crows talked their heads, but either they didn't understand or didn't care. Rick knew it was too late. When the crows opened their beaches, the insides were molten red.

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