Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S2 Ep88: Episode 88: Horror Stories from Beyond the Grave

Episode Date: July 14, 2022

We start proceedings this evening with ‘A beautiful day for a funeral’ by ParaMoMal:  https://www.r-ddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/6f1fys/beautiful_day_for_a_funeral/ Next up we have ‘The white doors’ an original story by Matt Mascia:  http://www.creepypasta.com/the-white-doors/ Our third tale of the macabre is ‘The scariest thing to me’ by EmpyrealInvective:  http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/The_Scariest_Thing_to_Me Our penultimate horrifying story is ‘You look like my son’ by Oneirataxia:  http://www.creepypasta.org/creepypasta/you-look-like-my-son We round off with Tonight’s terrifying tales of horror with ‘As her air ran out’ by Cage Venom:  https://www.r-ddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/65xzib/fiction_as_her_air_ran_out/  http://www.creepypasta.com/as-her-air-ran-out/

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Now, my dear friends, as ever, before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's stories may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. And let's begin. Nearly nodding off, I sat listening to the illustri-lust. Registrious Reverend Rob Deetz as he entered into the second hour of his sermon. My ass began to hurt from the century-old hardwood pew. I tried to shift to a more comfortable spot, but was wedged between the shoulders of two large old men.

I looked around at the 200 members of a rural community crammed into the small church. All, including myself, had shown up to pay last respects to one, Mrs. Lorraine Gilbert, a 62-year-old mother of 12 that had devoted herself to family, community and church. Ah, a true, righteous pillar of the community, being her youngest child. My attendance had been a forced courtesy. My stepfather decided that the funeral would be held in the community, and the church he and my mother had grown up in. So, I sat there. shoulder to shoulder with family members that still only knew me as Freddy's wife's daughter, listening to the Reverend Dietz, along with many, many others,

paying homage to the much-respected, God-fearing, family-loving woman. After almost four hours, I felt as though they'd had plenty. As Reverend Deats began to sing this little light of mine, his fifth song, One of the old ladies in the front row with a large bun on her head and a long skirt covering her ankles bolted upright in the standing position. Her body solidified as her fists clenched from the power of the Lord coursing through her veins. Oh, she held her hands up high. Words of unknown origin rolled off her tongue, and then she dropped to her knees and bowed her head low. Several other old ladies, with similar buns and skirts, joined her.

They kneeled in front of the casket, palms pointed upward. Reverend Dietz's voice rose until it shook the windows, and he began to sweat profusely. One hand raised to the heavens. I began to shift in my seat. Not being of this faith, or even being a regular churchgoer, I'd never witnessed a person going under the power. Unfortunately, my fellow attendees were very familiar with this practice

and joined the line of old ladies, each and every one of them, being struck with the love of the Lord. Soon, I was the only one in my seat. Bodies cover the floor, prostrated before the altar, singing, praying, speaking in tongues. Reverend Deaths was screaming at the top of his lungs, praising my mother for her devotion to the church and the almighty above. He raised both hands in the air as the entire spectacle crescendo to a fever pitch. I needed to leave, to get away from the perceived madness that had begun to unfold. If it had the courage to leave, well, I couldn't have done so without

stepping on people. So, I sat, wild-eyed and slack-jawed. Pain emanated from the white knuckles and breaking fingernails from the grip I had on the edge of the pew. Every muscle tightened up, my heart raced. I was scared. Just when I decided that I didn't care who I had to trample on in order to get out of that damn church, my eyes fell upon the reverent. He had stopped screaming. He stood still, hands still in the air. He looked as though he'd just been struck by lightning. His face contorted into ghastly forms.

His body shuddered, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Thinking this was part of the show, I stood up, planning my escape route. Suddenly, the Reverend dropped his hands to his sides and surveyed the congregation. He patiently waited for the power and love of God to leave his parishioners. One by one, they returned to the earthly plain, quietly got up off the floor and returned to their seats. I sat down as well, full of confusion and fear.

I mentally cursed my mother for marrying my stepfather, then cursed my stepfather for dragging me to this crazy filled horror eye. thinking the orgy of devotion was over, I relaxed my grip on the pew. Reverend Deetz looked across the silent church, and a smile slithered across his face. He resumed his sermon as though nothing had happened. As he spoke, his words took on an ominous tone, and a low growl began to well up from his throat. The more he spoke of the Lord, the more agitated. he became. His face turned red, his mouth frothed, and sweat rolled down his forehead. He stomped over

to the casket and kicked it over. Bitch! Lying, godless whore, he screamed. My mother's body flopped out of the casket as it hit the floor. The crowd gasped. Some screamed. One of the old ladies fainted, her large hair bun cushioning her head from the floor. My stepfather and my brothers raged towards the altar. Sit down. Sit the fuck down, screamed the reverent. His face had now contorted into what looked like an old funhouse devil mask. His teeth gnashed. He pointed a now nal finger at the men. In a calm tone, he repeated, Sid, the fuck, down.

The men stopped in their tracks. I don't know if it was fear or mind control that made them obey without questions. As they quietly returned to their seats, I was now convinced this was not part of the service and started my escape once again. Murmurs and whispering filled the room And people started to squirm uncomfortably

All of you Shut your fucking mouths Someone get that old bitch off the floor People sat stunned Eyes wide in terror Some had their heads down in silent prayer Others stared with hate and anger Someone finally

woke up the old lady who had clasped on the floor, helping her to a pew. Reverend Deeds stood tall at the podium. Now, I'm sure there is some confusion as to my behavior. Well, I'll tell you, the Lord has filled me with his power and love. He has seen fit to let me see into the hearts of each and every one of you. Even the late Mrs. Gilbert. God rose to the soul. He motioned to the corpse, spayed out on the floor. Reverend Dietz surveyed the crowd, making eye contact with individuals as he read their internal dialogue. When his eyes met mine, a slight look of confusion came to his eyes. He stared at me, I looked back into his soul. He continued his monologuing. Not one of you can call yourselves Chris.

I see adulterers, thieves, rapists and gossips. I see blackness, envy, hatred and lust in your hearts. You are all guilty of some sin, some guilty of all of them. He pointed a knolled finger at me. His eyes narrowed into slits. You. You are one of the chosen. You are the only one deemed one.

one deemed worthy, Lord be praised. I shrunk down in embarrassment. The congregation looked at me with daggers of hate in their eyes. Now, Mrs. Gilbert here was not the pillar of righteousness you all claim her to be. No, Mrs. Gilbert had secrets. One was her being a prescription junkie. Just because Dr. Dr. Drug said it was okay. She was no better than addicts in the park with needles hanging out of their arms.

Her beloved painkillers and sleep aids are the reason we are all here today. You all thought it was just a car crash. He looked at me directly as he said this. Whispers crept across the congregation. Reverend Dietz swept his arms through the air. She had several more secrets. twelve of them to be exact. You see, out of all Mrs. Gilbert's children,

not one of them were fathered by Mr. Hafford, her first husband. Poor Mr. Haffert didn't know he was shooting blanks until the day he died. Now, many another husband has had lovely Bible studies with dear, dear Mrs. Gilbert. Even after she stole Mr. Gilbert, who adopted and raised to many children. She continued to screw your husbands. More murmurs and whispers from the crowd. A sneer crossed the reverend's face.

This must be good news to you, Sister Claire. All these years, wondering if your baby boys belong to your husband or to Mr. Hanford. That's why you spread all those vicious rumors about their daughter. You didn't want your sweet boy marrying his half-sister. A few people stood up and headed for the door, not wanting their secrets to be revealed. Some kept their heads down in prayer, some in shame. I kept my eyes on the reverent. Where do you think you're gone?

No one leaves, not until judgment has been passed. He scolded the congregation. He then turned his head and looked straight at me. Once again I shrunk down in my seat, not wanting to be singled out again. He hopped down from the podium, walking through the aisles. He berated and belittled each and every parishioner

until every little secret and lie was brought to light. Even though their soft underbelly of deceit had been exposed, every one stayed quiet in their seats. Some even look relieved to be finally out. many hung their heads in prayer. I was still disturbed by their lack of anger. Sheep waiting for the slaughter, I thought. When the secrets of the last lamb was revealed,

he stopped at me. Why are you here? He asked. I smiled politely, eyebrow raised. To pay my respects, of course. child no one here deserves your respect

they all deserve to be damned to hell he narrowed his eyes and tilted his head in acknowledgement but you knew that already didn't you it doesn't matter what I know I'm not here to judge

I'm just here for the show I smiled warm and sweet judgment is exactly what you're here for. He let out a low chuckle. I stood up and met his gaze. As I looked into his soul, I asked. Had any good prayer sessions lately, Reverend Dietz?

Hmm, just yesterday, he said nonchalantly. Ah, she was a sweet little thing. His face contorted from devilish, to confused, to shame. He stammered. I've never touched a child, never touched a child. He was aware of his confession, but unable to comprehend why the words had come out of his mouth. He began to back towards the altar. I followed.

As we made our way back up to the podium, I dismissed the good reverend, with, thank you, Reverend Deeds. You have done your job perfectly. You may now take your seat with the rest of the lambs. The Reverend sat down in a deacon's chair, hanging his head in shame. I turned to address the congregation. Bible in one hand, the other held out over the congregation. Channeling Charlton Heston as Moses, I spoke loudly. I instantly knew why preachers preached this way. It was fun. I guess it's time for our closing prayer. Brothers and sisters, children of God, we have gathered here to celebrate our love for the Lord and Sister Lorraine. A motion to the corpse laid out on the floor. Thanks to the beautiful testimony by Reverend Deeds,

all of your sins have been put out to be judged and judged they have been. Each and every one of you has been deemed unworthy in the eyes of the Lord. But, but in his mercy, you will pass swift and just punishment on you all. Panic started to set in. A low roar rolled through the aisles. The people dropped to their knees. Prayers rolled off the lips of every single individual. And yet, they stayed put. They never tried to leave or attack. Was it the same influence Reverend Dietz had over the angry sons? I still think it was truly a miracle how they never once confronted each other or themselves the entire time. I strolled down the podium steps and towards the main doors.

Hatred, confusion and fear filled the eyes of many as I made it to the exit. Damn sorry, fools. didn't learn a thing. As I opened the door, I turned for one last announcement. You have all lived your lives in sin. Yet, only now you pray for forgiveness. Well, your prayers have been denied. I let the door close behind me as I left.

I could hear the clamour of feet and bodies, men and women screaming, trying to escape. I took a few steps into the yard, turned back towards the small church and said, Lord, I have done your bidding. The rest is up to you. I walked to my car, lit up a cigarette and looked back at the small church. I could still hear screams and fists banging on the doors and windows. Lightning rained down from a clear blue sky.

the screams died out as the building glowed brightly. The smell of electricity and burned flesh filled the air. The news called it a tragedy full of sorrow. Two hundred and eighteen members of a small religious community electrocuted all at once while attending a funeral for one of their most beloved and respected members. Even the corpse had been knocked over from the force. Why such a miscellar Unfortune would befall a god-fearing, hard-working community was beyond comprehension. Yet no one could explain how they were fried like little white grains of rice. It was a beautiful day for a funeral, not a cloud in the sky. Lightning would never, of course, so much destruction.

Must have been rats chewing on the wires, or some type of conductive material used in the carpeting. I was interviewed as the sole survivor. saved only because I'd been an outsider that just couldn't bear witness to such a show of emotion, devotion and love for the Lord. I'd been out getting some air when the tragedy took place. I was now an orphan, without her, if you'll excuse the phrase, soul in the world. I had survivors' guilt.

PTSD, grief-stricken over the loss of my entire family and adopted community. I made every major news network. Ellen, Dr. Phil, even Murray took DNA test to find out if my father was really my father. He wasn't. I don't know how he did it, but apparently he got the DNA from every dead man in the church. My real father was Reverend Dietz. Yeah, I still chuckle up that little tidbit of information. Well, give me my Oscar right now. I played the part so well. Donations are still rolling in,

even a new car and a free ride to college. As I sit in my beautiful new house with a very large inheritance, being the last living member of a large family certainly has its rewards. I thank my lord. He now has two hundred and eighteen years. new souls to torment with fire and brimstone in the pits of hell. And I have received my just rewards. Hey Ontario, come on down to BetMGM Casino and check out our newest exclusive. The Price's Right Fortune Pick. Don't miss out. Play exciting casino games based on the iconic game show. Only at BetMGM. Access to the Price is right Fortune Pick is only available

at BetMGM Casino. BetMGM and GameSense remind you to play responsibly. 19 plus to wager Ontario only, please play responsibly. If you have questions or concerns about or gambling or someone close to you, please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2,600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BenMGGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming, Ontario. Horror in real life doesn't come suddenly. It's not a shock or a reactionary scream. Horror in real life is a slow realization that occurs over the course of years. It needs time to mold, decay and spread. True horror is painful, often sad and tragic.

It's a slow deterioration, separating you from all forms of comfort and happiness. It is this kind of horror that I've felt ever since I learned of my mother's passing. The circumstances of her death did not make things any easier. It wasn't a slow death with time to make a man. so just or say goodbye. She hadn't been fighting a disease or infection for years. She wasn't old, nearing the end of her life. Her death came for her quickly and unexpectedly.

My mother, who after divorce and my brother's moving away, had been living alone. She kept herself busy by working for the church and caring for her parents. My last couple of visits home, I'd noticed she seemed more fragile. than she should for a woman of her age. She had lost weight and seemed starved for visitors.

There was also a look in her eyes that bothered me. They were sleepless, panicked and broken. It seemed as if she wanted to tell me something but couldn't. Instead, she would just smile sadly and change the subject. I was told that my brother found her

late one night in October. locked in the downstairs bathroom, naked, lying in her own blood with her wrists sliced open. She was 63 years old. Knowing that suicide is a mortal sin in the Catholic Church, and my mother being a devote Catholic, I couldn't help but wonder if something else was involved in her passing. Not anything scandalous or plotted, with something queer and unconsored. comfortable that had been with me and my thoughts since I was a child. It dealt with our family home and, more particularly, the old wooden doors.

It all began with trouble sleeping. For as long as I can remember, I always had trouble falling asleep in my parents' house. My grandmother told me that as a small child, I was prone to sleep, Terrence. She would watch me during the day while my parents were at work, and in the evenings when they went out to dinner. She told me that she was watching me the night a bad storm hit our neighbourhood. A tornado had been spotted that night, but never touched down. However, the lightning did claim the house's electricity. My grandmother raced to my bedroom, worried the window facing my crib would break under the violent wind.

There was something else she was afraid of as well. When my grandmother picked me up from my crib, she said she felt something in the room, something new, different and dark. My grandmother, who came to America from Italy as a child, told my parents that she'd felt a strange presence that night and begged them to allow her to do a prayer to remove the Maloic, an old world superstition.

But my parents, who were religious, believed in angels and demons, not folklore. They didn't want to dabble in curses and superstition. As I got older, the sleep terrace continued as nightmares. It wasn't uncommon for me to wake up hours after going to bed, only to be too afraid to fall back asleep. Later, in high school, I dealt with my insomnia by not sleeping for days until I could fall asleep quickly. It wasn't until I went away for college that I was able to rest peacefully. I attribute my difficulty sleeping all of those years to the doors in my parents' house.

They were big, plain wood doors, simple with no additional furnishing or decoration. They seemed ominous, nevertheless. I would spend hours looking at their patterns in the grain, finding shapes and images in them like one would do with clouds. The more I looked, the more I saw, until the images seemed so clear to me. Strange, famished figures, naked with one leg or half of a torso,

rabid dogs, an old bearded man. I saw faces too, wide-eyed mouths open, sometimes made of knots in the wood, all suffering, as if the spirits of these things had somehow become trapped inside the wood. The bathroom door on the first floor was the worst. It was positioned next to the door leading to the basement, and the lock-upers. and the lock on the doork was finicky. It would sometimes get stuck or give way, locking or unlocking by itself.

The bathroom door also had one of the strangest designs. In the centre of the door, there was what looked like a woman in intense pain, as if she was in labour. Her face was contorted and blurred with the vertical lines of grain, tearing its way out from what I could only imagine to be her stomach,

in my childlike imagination was a wide-eyed creature. I would see the bathroom door in my dreams as well. I had terrible nightmares where I was floating and desperately trying to get away from the bathroom. But I was being pulled backwards by an invisible force unable to escape. It would suck me into the darkness of the room.

The door would slam shut and lock before I would have a chance to wake up, panicked and out of breath. The nightmares and the lack of sleep only made my already active imagination worse. The strange images in the door weighed on me. There was a door for every room in the house. I could not escape them. They were a constant presence, staring out at me from the wooden veneers.

As a child I began to see other things, things that found a way out of the trappings of the wooden frames. Not things I could look at directly, but rather things that appeared in my peripheral vision. The kinds of things that always begged to be questioned was someone there, or was my imagination getting the best of me, Over time I got better at being watchful and looking without shifting my gaze.

One night when I was six years old I went into my parents' bedroom feeling guilty that I wasn't yet asleep. I needed to be reassured and comforted because I'd scared myself badly. My mother gave me a hug and asked me what was wrong. I told her that I could see things out of the corners of my eyes. She asked me about their appearance, but I couldn't get a good look at them. As soon as I turned my head, they were gone. She asked me when the last time was that I'd seen one.

I told her that there is one with us now in the corner of the room. My mother looked over at what to her was an empty corner in her bedroom. She told me that maybe they were angels sent by God to watch and protect me. me. But they weren't. Something in the pit of my stomach would turn and I would feel sick around them. They were motionless beings, staring blankly at me, only moving when I wasn't looking, slowly getting closer to me every time I looked away.

I'd first discovered them in my peripheral vision outside my bedroom on the stairs, late at night when I couldn't sleep. I would notice a dark shape peeking over the top stair, eyes glistening, where nothing should be. I would try to quickly shift my gaze to refocus on them, but they were always gone. I'd eventually look away and then find them again at my bedroom door, and then even closer at my desk. Ever present, just out of sight. I decided that they must be demons. Not the red horn demons from cartoons,

but something else. They seemed old, as if they were somehow misplaced, out of time. At night, when I'd see them, I would be too afraid to move, or do anything else but stare blankly, not giving them a chance to move in closer. Sometimes I would hear them talk to me in my head.

They would tell me to do things like to wait in the corner of the room, or flood my mind with images of strange, exotic places. I would sometimes do what they said, though nothing ever came of it. My mother panicked one afternoon when she couldn't find me. She searched the entire house, eventually finding me in the bedroom closet, facing the wall, where the voices had told me to wait. She was in tears when I told her about the voices. She bought me a rosary and asked if the demons were the reason I was having trouble sleeping. Eventually, my father blessed the house with holy water, room by room, as part of the celebration of the epiphany.

recommended every year by the church. It was after this, when I was still seeing them, that my mother became bothered by my demons and their doors. He began to weigh on her as well. I grew up in a suburb just outside of Cleveland, in a working-class neighbourhood predominantly made up of Irish, Italians and Slovenians, where religion was very much a part of life. My parents were passionately involved in the church as well, and it was through them that I learned to take the sightings I was having very seriously. Instead of denouncing my demons as part of my imagination, my fears were reinforced, and their existence confirmed through the power of faith and community. One night, we had a priest who was new to the parish over to our house to meet the family. After dinner, he asked me if there was

anything I wanted to ask God for. I told him that there are demons in this house that hide in the doors and I wanted them to go away. My parents shared a look of concern as my mother tried to explain. The priest looked at the doors before he left and assured me everything was okay. Later that evening he spoke with my parents and something was settled between these adults. A couple of months later, my father did a small home renovation, which included replacing all of the doors with white ones. It was relieving for the doors to finally be on, and I thought I would now be rid of the strange creatures and be able to sleep. But it was too late. My mother told me that she was having the nightmares now as well.

something about the doors she would say as I got older I read about the possession of objects like the Annabelle doll and how the Native Americans believed in evil wood spirits called Wachachuna but I mostly ignored the demons and I eventually stopped seeing them despite my mother's wishes I no longer went to church and I refused to talk about religious matters or anything involving the strange things I'd seen and felt

in the house. I told myself that the horrors I'd faced as a child were due to my overactive imagination and strict religious upbringing. By the time I left for college, there'd been no talk of doors, demons or nightmares for a long time, although I would still occasionally get that sick feeling in my stomach late at night when I was near the downstairs bathroom door. My parents would later divorce, my mom keeping the house and working at the church. I moved away for work to Twin Falls. It wasn't until my dad called to tell me about the circumstances of my mother's passing, that I began to wonder if something more had happened to my mother. I made the trip home to find that my childhood neighbor had been hit hard by the recession. It was now only a faded

memory of the town I grew up in. The corner ice cream parlour was now a get-cash-fast lender, and the streets were relatively empty and bleak. Houses were boarded up, and my old high school had closed. Parked at a red light, I watched the traffic light signal to empty streets. My parents' house even looked different, old and not as well kept as it had been, when my father's mother had lived there. The grass had been overrun with weeds and the siding was dirty. We stood in front of the house that afternoon after the funeral. My brothers, father and I. My brothers explained to me how my mom had been stressed. Her mood swings had been violent and her sleeping pattern was erratic. She would go for long periods of time without sleeping

and then fall into a deep sleep for days. My brother told me how late one, evening after work he'd gone over to our mother's house to check on her it had been two or three in the morning by the time he'd arrived and let himself in finding our mother in the kitchen making breakfast he told me that she'd become confused throughout the time and had thought it was the morning he explained that she was trying different medications to help with the insomnia and the doctors had thought the mood swings and suicide could easily have been a side effect I told them about how I used to have trouble sleeping in her house

and about the demons and the doors. They laughed. They were too young to remember. I told them that I thought I was going to sleep better after Dad had replaced the doors. But it wasn't until college that I really slept well. That's when my dad stopped me and told me that he'd never replaced the doors.

He just painted them white. Let me get this out of the way first. This really did happen to me. This is a hundred percent true story, especially the part where I upper-cutted a ghost through heaven itself. As with most true stories, do not expect some great shocking ending. I can only relate to you what I know.

This is a mystery to me, and probably will remain so for the truth. rest of my life. I'm only telling you this because I feel like it highlights the concept I want to discuss. If you're willing to accept that fact, then let me tell you what happened to me one night when I was home alone. It was back when I lived in Kalamazoo, Michigan. I no longer live in Michigan, so I have no qualms with stating that little fact. I was a teenager at the time. My sister was in college and my parents were taking my brother out to look at colleges in the Midwest. I want to say I was 14 or 15 at the time. It was a summer and I'd been at football camp. I told my parents that I would be

there for a week rather than the actual five days so I could be home alone for a few days. Looking back, I realized if I told them the truth, they wouldn't have been all that concerned. but I guess I just wanted the excitement of pulling one over on them. I did manage to get some excitement out of it all, but not in the way I'd hoped. I got home and set about doing what teenagers are want to do. I blasted heavy metal, climbed out of my window onto my roof to smoke cigarettes, and other illicit things that are best left on the set. I enjoyed the freedom and took advantage.

advantage of the opportunity to watch some horror movies. They weren't really all that scary, but I do think they set up a certain atmosphere. I even ordered a pizza to eat while I watched my marathon. I must have forgotten to close the door when I paid for the pizza, because when I was getting ready for bed, I found the front door to my house wide open. I don't mean open by a crack. I mean completely open for anyone and every. everyone to walk in uninvited. I would have normally thought nothing of it, of course, but I was alone,

and I just watched four horror movies back to back, like a genius. I had visions in my head of a crazed vagrant hiding in a closet, with a box cutter waiting for me to fall asleep, before carving his murderous manifesto into my chest. I decided to arm myself with what I had to be on hand. A BB gun we used to spook off squirrels and raccoons. Yeah, we lived in a rural area. It was made to look like a handgun and was so realistic that it would probably get you shot if you started wearing it around in public. You even loaded the BB gun by pulling back the slide, which gave it a very similar appearance to a real handgun. I hope that any razor blade wielding baseheads could be intimidated with this imitation.

I'd hope that they wouldn't call my bluff because I had a crystal clear mental image of a BB bouncing ineffectually off his chest before he vivisected me with a chainsaw. I proceeded to sweep my house, looking in every closet and under every bed. I even checked the attic. Each time the tension within me grew tighter and tighter in my chest, like I would pull over. and a door to see a man with a knife sliced smile and Butch's knife grinning at me. I had the pants shittingly terrifying mental image that he was slowly stalking behind me, and hiding in the places I'd already searched, biting his time and sharpening his Freddie Kruger-style knife gloves in anticipation.

I swept the house once, twice, three times. without any sign of an intruder I put the BB gun back and went to bed I undressed down to my boxes and hopped in my bed I don't remember at what time I drifted off exactly but I do remember what time I was woken up it was 2.30 in the morning because I remember thinking to myself who the hell is making that noise this late at It took a few seconds for my sleep adult brain to register that I was home alone, and another few seconds to place the sound. It sounded like something was tapping on my window.

I was facing away from the window and had that childish thought that I should just ignore it and it would go away. It was the thought that the sound might not be coming from outside into my room. but from inside my room itself that made me roll over and look around my room. There was no recently escaped convict in my room gazing in my sleeping form with some sort of murder erection. That was a good start. The tapping was still going on throughout all of this though.

It was definitely coming from the vicinity of my bedroom window. for shits and giggles, tap on a nearby window or glass surface. Using that as a frame of reference, imagine hearing that sound coming from your bedroom window late at night. Now imagine remembering that you lived on the second floor of a house. The nearest tree was 15 feet away and out of range for its branches to be smacking against the window. My mind painted images of hockey mask-wearing men sitting on the three-foot space of the roof outside my room, tapping on my window with the machetes. I slept with the blinds down to prevent the sun from waking me up too early, so I couldn't just simply look out my window. I would have to get out of my bed and open the

blinds. I was genuinely terrified that someone was outside my window. I got out of bed, as quietly as I could. I thought any sound would incite my brutal death. I crept towards my closet and opened the door. I was no longer imagining home invaders waiting in the dark closet with their sickles sharpened. I was certain that there was a clear and present danger, feet away from me outside my window. I searched my closet for something to defend myself. The only thing I could find was a whiffle bat. I almost laughed at the absurdity of me tearing up in the blinds, threateningly wielding a plastic bat at the intruder. At least they would have some decent comedic fodder for my tombstone. He died in his boxes, brandishing a plastic bat against a sword

swinging undead samurai. I found nothing else even remotely feasible for a weapon. I crept over to the window with a plastic bat in my fist. The tapping was still emanating from the window. I cautiously raised my hand to pull the string. I hesitated for a full minute in paralyzing fear. I reasoned that I could try to peek out at whatever was still making the noise. I was debilitated by the prospect of peeking out, only to see an eye. staring back at me. I'd been standing before the window for fully ten minutes now. The prospect that as soon as I opened the blinds, I could incite my violent and bloody death, gave me considerable pause. I had, and have, so many dreams and goals that I didn't want to be

interrupted by whoever was toying with me outside. I managed to pump myself out of the way. I managed to pump myself up enough to grab the pull string. I listened to the inconsistent but continual noise coming from inches away. I decided to open it on the tenth tapping sound. The noise stopped. The lack of noise was so much worse than the incessant tapping. The silence seemed to be pregnant with malicious intent. Were they planning to be. blitz me now was their game over would they come crashing into my bedroom through the window i held onto the plastic bat so tightly that my cuticles went white i decided that it was now or never i grabbed the drawstring for the blinds and pulled and nothing there was nothing outside

had they fled had they tired of the mind games and moved on to more responsive targets the sudden thought that they had dropped down to the lawn and were entering the house made me go to my bedroom door and lock it my back was to the window and my hand had just touched the door lock when the sound was back a world around and my heart was hammering in my chest. There was nothing outside. I remembered thinking that this must be what insanity felt like. The sound was coming from the window, but there was nothing outside. I got close to the window and listened for the sound. My mind raced, trying to attribute the sound to something. I couldn't explain it. There was absolutely no reasonable explanation. But the tapping continued. I must have examined

every inch of the window and the area around it to discover the source of the sound, but I had no luck. The sound stopped after a few minutes, and I decided that I was too tired to try and piece it all together. I lay back in my bed. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. but just as I was drifting off, I didn't sleep at all for the rest of the night. I half expected the sound to come back the next night, but there was nothing. I don't know what would be worse, if the noise came back, or if it vanished without any explanation. If it started up, I could reason it was the house, settling on the wood, shifting and expanding in the cool summer night air. It didn't return and my mind is still unable to think of what had caused that sound.

Was it some fiendish monster toying with my mind? Was it the spirit of the least threatening ghost possible? My parents came home the day after that and I lived in that house for a few years before I went to college and my parents moved to another state. that time I never heard that tapping sound again. It's almost weird how clearly I can remember all of this. I guess it's because this memory has such a profound impact on me. It helped me realize that sometimes the scariest thing in life isn't a corporeal thing.

The scariest thing is a mystery, an unexplainable occurrence. The scariest thing is something incomprehensible. to the human mind. Even if it is something as minuscule as the sound of tapping on your window late at night. My eyes are in a fervorous effect with the clock and my focus is none the wiser. The police dispatcher is pleading for me to humour her inquiries, if for no reason other than to keep my consciousness afloat. It is so late. and today has been so challenging. Nevertheless, I'll gratify her with my story

because I'm really in no mood to tell it again later. Mariam Clifington happened into our photo center again today. These visits are becoming relentless, as are the innumerable poorly photoshopped images on her sandisk flash drive. Every day it's the same process. She purchases at our photo kiosk, orders small batches of five by seven and four by six photos, and crones over the photo printer as it squeals its mechanical protests.

The unfortunate photo specialist on duty is then scolded by dear old Marion, as the colour in my son's face is coming out too pale, and my granddaughter's dress looks smudged too washed out, becomes as recitable as the Lord's Prayer. The project is then gifted to me, as I am the only one who receives her limited mercy. This is due in part because I'm the only one in the store qualified as a professional photo editor.

I also look just like her son. At least that's what she tells me every time she swoons over the photos I correct. I personally never saw the extreme. resemblance. We have similar Hollywood-esque hairstyles, dark stubble, light eyes and a fair complexion, but that's where the similarities end. Well, that's my general assumption. Truthfully, I have never met him. According to Mariam, they don't get along so well these days. Reportedly, her son has become what she calls a changed person after he split with his wife. That always seemed odd to me, because nearly every day I'm draining the red out of a new family photo that she zealously adds

in a novice Photoshop sessions. It seems the family often stays in touch. Today we discuss more personal topics, such as my college degree and her family get-togethers. She should told me she was celebrating her granddaughter Gracie's fifth birthday today and was putting together a photo album and baked goodies to send her. Today's photos were of the girl from her previous birthday. She had straw blonde hair, her father's bright blue eyes, rosy red cheeks and a devilish grin that strongly reminded me of the girl from the movie Problem Child 2. When the topic turned to me being a graduate in multimedia design, she immediately began to give me the shake down on my talents as a web developer. She wanted me to build a forum-based website just

for her family. She wasn't fond of the public limelight social media granted, but wanted regular updates from her son, granddaughter, their prized show-horses, and images from all the reunions they've had over the years. I'm not a fan of marriage. She may treat me in a more humane manner than my colleagues, but she's always so bitter. She carries an air of importance about her that mismatches with who she is, like a pug in a sweater made of silk. The last thing I want from a client is a beady pair of eyes reflected behind ancient, dark-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses, critiquing my every line of code with ignorant words laced with the smell of stale coffee and menthol cigarettes. Her grey-black black,

hair is often wild and tangled, as if she was fleeing her home every morning to develop photos which contained the cure for cancer. Despite her lack of self-management, she saw herself as an expert in managing the talents of others. I inquired about the specifics of her family problems, but I assumed this attitude must cause the bulk of it. The sense of entitlement is something I don't blend well with. The endless barrages of questions about my rates, schedule and ability to tutor her in Photoshop,

I gave her my business card and told her to call me in a few weeks. Truthfully, I am in my two-week leave period and on my way to a better job. And this was a simple method to evade her until I would never have to see her again. She seemed content with my proposal and took my card. I told her to forward my congratulations to her granddaughter on a five-year milestone. As she shuffled out of our store, I looked again at the refuse pile of discoloured prints. If her family is so dysfunctional, why does she bring in new pictures of her son and granddaughter every other day? Why, as a spitting image of the son she frequently quarrels with, am I so reasonably

treated by her. Those suspicions came to fruition a few hours later when a 20-something couple dropped off a few rolls of 35mm film. They had matching black hair, the athletic builds of bicyclists, and eyes that reflected deep kindness, but an even deeper sense of fatigue. The lab's business was running slow today, so I was immediately able to process their order and begin development. The development process is always the same. I feed just enough of the raw film through a machine to attach it to a leader card, which is mechanically guided through the film processor.

After it completes its voyage and the developed film is fed through, I place it on the scanner of our printing machine and check the frames digitally for colour flaws and inconsistencies. The picture showed the young couple celebrating another birthday, A boisterous banner which read, Happy Birthday Birthday Mitch, hung above an electric blue neon mini bar. The couple was shown holding beer bottles and laughing heartily. The entire set was quite like photos most young couples bring in.

There was a sloppy drunken kiss here, someone air-girying on a table there. I began to complacently press the print button after every six frames. Then I noticed a picture of Mariam's son. Even though I'd never met him, I had seen that face often. It was a face that was branded into the back of my eyes, like the bright red digits of a digital alarm clock

in the first few moments of morning consciousness. I was intrigued that these two may also be familiar with the eccentric woman who both frowned upon and adored her family. As I was packing up their photos and bringing up their orders, I decided to make conversation. So, you know Mariam Clifington? I asked casually. Silence. I glanced upward, and the glance became a fixture. A paleness and shock had matched the exhaustion they both wore in their eyes. Are you okay? I reckon. I reckon. recognized her son in your photos.

The girl spoke, tears welling in her eyes. That's our friend Mitch. Those photos were taken a few weeks ago. He passed last week. This order is for his funeral slideshow. Her boyfriend spoke next, clearly unsettled, but retaining his composure, as he quickly recited what I am sure he has gotten used to its

as he quickly recited what I am sure he has gotten used to explaining. He and his daughter were found dead in Mariam's home last Sunday. Poisoned. The police have been seeking her for questioning. Have you seen her recently? I was flawed. I'm rarely one to lose my call, but I began tripping over my words like they were raised on a high wire.

Yes, I mean, She was in here a few hours ago. She said she was celebrating Gracie's fifth birthday. I... She's working on a new photo. They were new photos. The girl spoke next. We need to call the police immediately.

Gracie's birthday was the Tuesday before they were found. They didn't enjoy visits with Mariam, but she insisted on being with them to celebrate. Call them, I did. I spent the rest of my shift plus two extra hours conversing with a police detective and the couple. He asked me to print out the information we had on Mariam, and if we had any idea of her whereabouts. They inquired about the frequency of her visits, the types of purchases she made from the rest of the store, her current appearance and general abnormalities in her behaviour.

I gave them what they needed, along with surveillance footage from the cameras we'd hear. hidden around the building. They gave me the direct line to their office and sent me off with my assurance that I would call them immediately if Mariam came into their shop again. The drive home felt relatively non-existent. The thoughts of what had occurred seemed to dominate my sense of time while on the road. Had this lady, who compared me to her own son, been responsible for his death, for the death of his daughter. Would I see her before the police? I arrived at my house in the same psychological state

as when I'd left the store. I nearly broke my angle while stumbling over a package that was placed in front of the entryway. I brought it inside into the light and saw that the sender's name was mum. I wasn't sure what the occasion was, but I assumed it was a late Thanksgiving care package. Regardless, it was good to receive mail from her.

I wasn't sure where her new apartment was. Now I had her address, 6312 Prospect Road. Inside the package was a tin box of cookies and a neatly wrapped rectangular gift. I hadn't gotten to eat lunch with all of the police activity, so I immediately started tanking through the cookies as if I'd also skip my last five meals. After my fourth cookie, I decided to wipe the crumbs from my hands and see what the mystery gift was. I unceremoniously ripped the red and gold metallic paper off of what appeared to be a small photo album bound in black vinyl. I opened it with giddy curiosity and felt the blood empty from my face.

It was a timeline of photos from Marion Cliffs. Giffington's family. These weren't the fun family get-together as I'd recrafted at the photo lab. I hadn't printed these at all. Page one. Mitch and Gracie are propped against the arm of a tan leather sofa, a daughter wrapped in father's arms. Their eyes are sunken and rolled backwards, and their tongues are lulled out of their mouths in an unnatural brown color. There is dried spittle and yellow foam caught in Mitch's black stubble, and a mixture of blood and vomit on the front of Gracie's shirt. The blood vessels in their faces are a sickly blue, and their skin is pale and puffy. This photo is labelled Tuesday.

Happy birthday, Gracie. Page two. The bodies are placed in a maroon 2013 Toyota Ravreve. for. They've been cleaned up and posed. Mitch in the front seat, Gracie in the center backseat. Their skinners continue to swell as to their eyes are puffy slits. Their now purple lips have been sewn shut and side-stitched into makeshift smiles. One of Mitch's arms is placed on the wheel, the other propped against the passenger seat in a pathetic wave. The label, Wednesday, taking Gracie to school.

Page 3. The bodies are now dressed in swimsuits and are posed around a kiddie pool. Mitch had to be propped up in an unknown manner that is clearly hidden from the frame. He's on his knees at the edge of the pool in blue and white Hawaiian shorts. Gracie is in the pool, positioned on her belly in a striped pink one-piece bathing suit, with a matching swim skirt. Their hands are duct taped together and their skin has taken on a sickly yellow colour. They are starting to bruise and darken in areas in which they'd evidently been placed for too long. The label, Thursday, teaching Gracie to swim, page four. Mitch is now

dressed in a handsome ivory tuxedo, which has a few often often. colour stains where his skin is starting to split open. He's at his kitchen table with a full glass of white wine and a lit dining candle in front of him. The sleeves on his arms reveal dark bruising where the tape was wrapped with his daughter's arms the day before. Gracie is not in this picture, but Mariam is. She's grasping one of his rotting hands in one of her own, with a brimming glass of red wine in the other. She wears a motherly smile that sickeningly matches the sewn-on smile of her lifeless son. The label, Friday, dinner with the boy, page five. Gracie is propped against the wall, the skin of her arms ripped off where the tape was two

days prior. Her face is beginning to lose its humanity. but is now coated in makeup worthy of a little Miss Sunshine pageant. Her straw blonde hair is curled and bouncy, and her artificial smile is beginning to tear along the stitching. Next to her is an assortment of porcelain dolls, each made up and dressed with care that is a bit too sophisticated for a five-year-old girl. To the far left of the frame,

Mariam's reflection could be seen in a full body mirror. pointing the camera at the twisted salon she constructed the label saturday girls night out page six there is finally a full frame of the house in which this sickening family montage was photographed it is a modest one-story home on the foothills of the rocky mountains the paint is a simple white and it is beginning to flake from a simple ticket fence that marked the perimeter. There are no other homes close by that are visible from the angle of the shot. In the left of the frame, the stables of the prized horses, Marion mentioned, are visible in the background. The gates are wide open, and the horses are nowhere to be seen.

Police guards, ambulances and yellow crime scene tape blocks the rest of the view, except for the mailbox. The address on the mailbox, 6312 Prospect Road. The size of the frame indicates motion blur and plastic paddling. Mariam photographed this from a moving vehicle, likely from far away. The label reads, Sunday, the family gets to see police men in action on career day. On the final page, Mariam is standing in front of Morrow my house with the package I'd just opened, the label, Thursday dropping off goodies for my

favourite son. In that moment of realization, weakness took control of my body. Not just from the imagery I was subjected to, but from a sickening feeling that burned in my stomach and intestines. Words from earlier were ripping through my skull, just like my son. He and his daughter were found dead in Mariam's home last Friday, poisoned. I forced myself to scan the backgrounds of those horrible pictures. On the first page in Gracie's lap was the cookie tin I'd just eaten from. This package was not from my mother. It was from a crazed mother who thought I was her son,

guided to my home from the business card I had given her. Now, here we are. I don't think I have much time left. I'm starting to lose focus. My eyes are in a fervorous affair with the clock, and my focus is none the wiser. Maybe they'll get married and elope. I'll invite this dispatcher to the wedding if I make it through this.

I vaguely realise that doesn't make sense, but I don't mind. I'm so tired, and now I can't stop coughing. I think I hear sirens in the distance, but I'm not sure if the ambulance has a cure for vomiting blood. Someone is coming up the stairs. I have to go now. Mariam is here, and she wants to give Gracie's swimming lessons. Ellie's eyes fluttered open, only to be blasted by strong white light. Her arm shot up and hid her face from the glare, as she slowly became able to see her surroundings. She was stuck in a plexiglass cube, big enough for her thirteen-year-old self to stretch out her eyes.

arms and barely be able to lay down both palms of her hands on opposite walls. The material was transparent, and through it, Ellie could clearly see that her cube cage was somehow stuck to the center of a square wall, about five feet off the ground. The room was a brilliant white colour. Marble tiles decorated the floors, and a very strong light was coming from a simple white luminear, hanging from the centre of the ceiling. It was shaped rectangularly, as the wall opposite to the one Ellie's box was mounted on was much further than the ones to the side. That wall had a white door with a silver knob in the centre.

There was a desk at the half point between her box and the door, offset towards the wall on Ellie's right-hand side, though she couldn't see a chair behind it, a black fountain pen with a golden nib resting on a black, round holder, and a white clipboard with blank papers were the only things on the table, which seemed to be made of white, glossy plastic. Next to the table, and below the light hanging from above, stood a person. He was tall enough to meet Ellie's eyes without her looking down.

The slenderness of his body was emphasized by the black buttons, creating a dotted line from his neck to his white pants in plain black shoes. His face, as if floating in the whiteness, was framed by a curled cloud of thick black hair. His most striking feature were his blood-red eyes, staring motionlessly, unblinkingly at Ellie. The man's face was expressionless. Ellie, startled, knocked on the translucent wall. trying to get the man's attention, but to no avail. She felt the claws of fear and panic slowly climbing up her stomach,

weaving spider webs in her chest, making it hard to breathe. Her fear rose like the mercury in a thermometer sunken into hot water. She heard a metallic humming noise of something running through pipes from behind her, followed by a splash. She quickly veered her head around. to find the source. Water was pouring onto the floor. The pressure making the glass-looking jet come down just shy of the center of the bottom panel. It soaked into her skirt and got into her shoes before she could get up on her knees. Her face was now in the tight grip of terror as she slammed

her palms against the window, desperately screaming for help. The man stood. unmoved. The transparent liquid pooled about a centimeter deep at the bottom of the cube, and it looked as if it was the bottom panel expanding upwards. Ellie had given up on the staring man and looked for a way out. She shoved at the top panel with all her might, then pressed her back against one side and pushed it the other with her feet. It didn't budge. The cube was over a quarter full by now.

The water level well above Ellie's waist. The little girl's clothes were soaked now, clinging to her body. She reassumed her position on her knees, once more pleading with the motionless mouth. Her cries became high-pitched as the cold fluid slowly crawled its way up her thighs, unsticking the bottom of her skirt from her body, making it float. Tears viciously poured down her cheeks. as her cries for help turned to sobs. Soon she was on her feet,

her palms pressed against the top window, the liquid up to her neck. Her silent crying occasionally turned to loud wails of mixed horror and anger, but subsided whenever her chin touched the liquid, and the paralysing fear of drowning repossessed her body. as the last two centimetres of the cube were filled, Ellie took one last deep breath and went under. She looked through the front panel, but could barely see two black specks.

One was the penholder on the table. The other was the man's hair. She hid the glass again, a few precious air bubbles escaping her lips. Her chest began to hurt from holding in the air. She placed her hands over her lips, desperately trying to keep the air in. Her palms slowly moved to her throat. She couldn't take it anymore. The need to exhale was like a hot iron stuck in her head. Exhale.

The air had to be pushed out. Hit the glass. A bouquet. of bubbles erupted from Ellie's mouth. The silver flowers of her last breath floated to the top of the cube and were slowly sucked out by unseen tubes. Ellie took a breath of the fluid and immediately started to cough it out. A few more sparkles escaping her lips. And then her world faded to black. The black-haired man stood and watched as her lifeless body floated in the liquid. Her hair fanned out like a curtain, crowning her head with the dark chestnut color.

She looked as if she was caught in a giant ice cube that had very sharp edges. Her face wasn't contorted with pain nor screaming anymore. It was peaceful now. shot open, her entire body flinching. She was lying in the soft embrace of a bed, the covers pulled up to her neck. It was so delightfully dry and warm that even in her panic state, she was able to appreciate the comfort it offered. Just then, a figure leaned over and into view, causing Ellie to let out a frightened gasp. It was the man the one who'd watched her drown except hello ellie his blue eyes sparkled with a calm kindness where am i she asked trembling with fear even if he did hear the question his features didn't show it

"'Am I— am I dead?' Ellie stuttered on. At this, the man's clean-shaven face softened into a smile. "'Oh!' she said, looking somewhat disappointed, and only slightly less weary. She eyed the man very carefully. "'Are you—' "'God!'

The man's smile remained motionless. Ellie took it as a yes, but investigated further. But you look just like that terrible person who... Well, I told him to help me, but he just stood there and... Then there was all this water, and then I think... I think I drowned, asked the man, with a voice which was perhaps a bit too smooth. She'd always imagined God as having an angry, roaring voice.

Like the one her mother imitated whenever she read, story to Ellie before bed. The story about Moses, at least her mother's rendition of it, was her favourite. Yes, his eyes were different, but you look just like him.

Hmm, the man answered, his eyes now focusing on Ellie's. What? I always looked like the last person you saw during your life. Did you not like the person who looks like me?

In spite of everything, Ellie was nearly convinced. She remembered how she drowned in that sea-through cell after all. Can you prove it? Can you prove your God? The man then curiously raised his eyebrows and then went back to smiling. He motioned for Ellie to sit up. She did so, and now was able to see around the room. She was lying in a forepost of queen bed. with white wood posts. The sheets were white with the detailed floral designs. The carpet was white,

and so was a chest of drawers up against the wall across from Ellen. There was an open window to the left, and white silken curtains were swaying gently in the wind. Beyond it, Ellie only saw bright light. There were no doors anywhere in the room. The man was sitting next to her on the bed. His arm was now outstretched, fingers limply pointing at the chest of drawers. The palm of his hand slowly rose, and with it the piece of furniture. It stopped three feet off the ground before he gently set it down again. Ellie tried to stifle her, but failed, feeling like a little kid for doing so. She fell into silence, her mind trying to comprehend everything that had happened.

So this is heaven, then, she finally asked. Not quite, answered the blue-eyed man. We'll talk about that a little later, though. Now, we should talk about you. The two spun a long thread of conversation, and Ellie told him all about her life. They talked about her family. Ellie loved her parents and her brother dearly.

She admired her father for being so knowledgeable, but also confessed that she was sad whenever he was too engrossed in his work to listen to her. They talked about school. Ellie did pretty well academically, but she felt quite at odds with most of the other girls. She didn't give much thought to the boys, unless they purposefully nagged her.

Even then, she would usually ignore them, and they would give up eventually. Ellie had few friends. Throughout her schooling, she'd always stuck around one person most of the time, though that person changed every two years or so. She would still maintain good relationships with most of the girls that had been her friends like that,

but not all of them. They talked about Aisha, her best friend at the time. She and Ellie shared what they thought was a unique craziness. which would only come out when they were at home one visiting the other they would put up shows to an imaginary audience which would invariably end with both of them rolling on the floor with laughter barely breathing iisha had that one music band that she'd always listened to ellie noted that she was slowly warming up to them having already learned two of the songs by heart iisha lived on the internet her mobile phone constantly chirping with notifications whenever the two of them were together they would often read through them and answer strangers on the net giggling at how witty their responses must have been they talked about books which ellie thought was kind of funny she'd read a lot of books up to the age of ten or so but then sort of stopped it had fallen out of fashion and though she'd always advocated books, she wouldn't really read them all that much as of late. She just finished explaining that,

although she liked romance, fantasy was her favorite genre, when the man interrupted her by saying, Excuse me, Ellie, but are you hungry by any chance? Ellie's stomach had been rumbling for a while now, but she hadn't noticed as she'd been immersed in the conversation. Yes, she seemed, answered, hiding her embarrassment. Good. How does apple pie sound? The man said in a soft tone. That's my favourite, Ellie said, momentarily touched. How did you know?

The man simply smiled in response, opened the bedside cupboard and pulled out a hot pan of apple pie, a plate and some utensils. He cut out a piece and handed it to her on the plate, watching her as she hungrily devoured the delicious treat. Oh, excuse me, would you also like some? she asked, halfway through her piece, her eyes practically begging him to say no. That's very kind of you, but I'm quite all right, said the man, still smiling. He patted her head and sat back down on the side of the bed. Quite some time had passed since Ellie had awoken.

Ellie, may I ask you another question? Yes, answered Ellie, her mouth full, a crumb of pie rolling out and somewhere between the sheets. Her eyes frantically searched for it on the bed around her, and when they found nothing, she turned back to the man. trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. Before I take you to heaven, I can give you another shot at life,

if you'd like. Helicopter head to the side, expecting an explanation. If you go to heaven with me, you won't see Mommy, Daddy, your little brother or Aisha for a very long time. But if you go back, you might see them again. You might live out your life, and the next time we meet could look different.

I might look like your future husband, or one of your children, if you have either of those. Each of the words nudged at Ellie, making rips in her current peaceful mood. She wanted to see her parents. She was pretty sure she would have liked to have lived a longer life. Her eyes welled up. Can you do it? She asked in a strangled voice. That smile again.

Please do it then, she said. Her head sinking. The blue-eyed man pulled a small, silver box from his pockets. He opened it and got out a syringe of clear liquid. He flicked it gently, then squirt his son out of the needle. He started lowering himself towards Ellie. This will help you calm down. Then you'll wake up back in the real world. He squeezed the contents into her arm. Ellie started to feel dizzy almost immediately. He set the syringe down on the cupboard and gently held Ellie's hand until the world went dark again. James Knight got up from the bed,

only taking a second to admire his handiwork. His hand slipped into his pocket, pulling out another box. This one smaller and grey in colour. He took out a red contact lens and gently placed it into his left eye. Then he did the same for his right eye. Then he produced a tissue from the same pocket and wiped the small droplet of blood that had gathered on Ellie's arm where he'd injected her. The red-eyed man gathered the girl in his arms

and carried her down to the office. He jumped up on a step-ladder and gently placed Ellie. into the clear glass cube, which was again empty of the liquid, its top side opened like a lid. He closed the lid and locked it into place by pressing it down. Then he carried the step-ladder out of the room, came back in and closed the door behind him.

James watched, completely still, as Ellie woke up. He watched Ellie scream and beg for his help. He watched the absolute horror in her eyes, when the perfluoro decholine again began to pour into the box. It wasn't water pouring in, but rather a breathable liquid. It wouldn't really drown her, since she could still breathe while submerged. But Ellie didn't know that.

Ellie couldn't have known that. And so he watched, yet again without expression, as her air ran out, and Ellie drowned again. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories, and to you for taking the time to listen. Now, I'd ask one small favor of you. Wherever you get your podcast wrong, please write a few nice words, leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again, same time, same place,

and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.