Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S3 Ep103: Episode 103: The Strangest Ever Horror Stories

Episode Date: November 10, 2022

All of tonight’s tales are original stories by the wonderful Michael Paige, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/Atrophied_Silence/posts/ https://michaelpaigeblog.wordpress.com/ 1) Hitchhiker's Haven 2) The Lighthouse Project 3) The Man Who Ate Ghosts 4) Where the Caterpillars Die

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We believe OCT scans are so important they're included with every standard eye exam. Book an eye exam at Spexsavers.cavers.ca.ca. Eye exams are provided by independent optometrists. Visit Spexsavers.com to learn more. Welcome to Dr. Creepen's dungeon. Well, they do say that some are born weird, some achieve it, while others have weirdness thrust upon them. Well, tonight's stories will definitely be thrust upon you, my dear friends.

Now, 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. If that sounds like your kind of thing, Then let's begin. Hitchhiker's Haven. My name's Noah Riley and I like to burn things. It all started when I was nine after my parents separated.

Custody was granted to my mother since my father had taken the opportunity to jump ship, probably to start a new family with the tart he'd been having an affair with. Took my mother less than a year to catch another man's fancy, one that went from boyfriend to fiancé in record time. My new stepfather had no interest in children. The longer they were together, the more my mother's focus straight away from her son, to keep her new love plump and happy. Having no friends at school and no desire to be home, I often wandered aimlessly.

I enjoyed finding ant-hills and reflecting the sunlight with my chip magnifying glass, burning them until their little bodies went pop. Sometimes the head survived. Oh, it was on a day like that on my way back home, and I found a tiny discarded box at the park. Five little matches were in sight. I struck one just like they do in the movies. A small tongue of a flame amused me.

It was a nice, tingly feeling. I used two matches on two separate days that week, burning chunks of printer paper in the backyard. It helped me feel better when the days got hard, as though I were burning that day away. Good riddance. God knows I couldn't turn to my mother. her thoughts were always somewhere else a place where i didn't matter of course when i'd used the

last match on her new carpet it caught her attention she forced me to attend a treatment program for young fire starters but it didn't come home with me it was two maybe three a m on a tuesday when i cut across the vacant parking lot every step as furtive as possible i was 18 then my eyes were locked on the target, a large industrial bin situated outside a construction site. Impregnating its big red body was an overflow of trash that had accumulated over the week. Perfect, I thought, when I'd spotted it the night before. Simply perfect. Not far away from home, but not too close either. I ducked behind the bin. A deep exhale seeped out of my lungs. What a thrill. Like a buried seed deep inside myself. finally cracking open. For years I cultivated that seed. Even as a young boy, I'd burn broken toys,

or I'd toss firecrackers in mailboxes. Never once caught, mind you. The only good that came out of middle school for me was learning how to make a flamethrower. All you needed was a can of aerosol spray in a lighter, discovery that had led to a permanent scar over my left eye, and a lack of eyebrows. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Pulling a white container out of my jacket, I squeezed an arc of colourless liquid over the bin's contents. I circled the red rectangular body four times, soaking as much of the compacted waste as possible. Then the coup de grass.

I poured out a box of matches from my jacket, igniting one of them on the striker. I couldn't help but take a moment to appreciate it, how the small flames swayed and danced in the air. With a sharp flick of my finger, I tossed the flame into the marinated pile. There was a whoosh, followed by a burst of light. The fire erupted out of its throat in a borealis of orange and yellow.

I was in awe, mentally fixated by the growing kingdom. The deep crackling sounds, the new sense scarring the air. At that moment, I knew what true pleasure felt like. Unfortunately for me, the pleasure would be short-lived. While mesmerized by my creation, I'd felt to notice a different. set of lights pull up behind me. On the ground, hands where I can see them. Two offices approached, their weapons dropped. I followed their orders, but it was too late to run. My head was pressed firmly against the asphalt. My wrists choked with handcuffs. Still, I didn't allow the dancing

embers to leave my eyes. I was given six years, four in prison and two on a supervised license. My first cellmate was tall, bald, somewhere in his thirties, and missing an eye. The glass eye he once had was confiscated after he was caught trying to smuggle in illegal substances within the socket. He called it his secret pocket. It was evident that I'd never done time before, and he took it upon himself to show me some tricks of the trade. Well, salmates I'd have down the road were never as eccentric, but thankfully not problematic. The doors unlocked every morning at a quarter to eight. I was kept from kitchen duty and only given tasks that didn't include fire, most of the time laundry service or warehouse duty.

The day-to-day jobs were menial and mundane, but better than sitting in a cell with a dullness gnawing at your skull. Nights were the most difficult. Sleep felt like it was an entirely different span of existence. I could only sit there listening to the echoing footsteps, the awful snoring from the top bunk and the hysterical whales from the psych units. Those weren't what kept my thoughts so active. Oh, it was the withdrawal. I'd have killed to see that blaze again, how it swelled like a fiery cloud,

how it whipped tendrils of smoke into the air. Instead, I was trapped, shivering and dribbling with sweats, begging for that same release. On the day I was discharged, they sent me on my way with $75 in my pocket. Oh, the sky had never looked so blue as that, day. Finding a job can be difficult for anyone, but for an ex-con it was close to impossible,

unless you had connections. Now, give that ex-con a scar above his eye and no left eyebrow, and they may as well be hiring Freddy Frickin' Kruger. Oh, I answered countless ads, collected heaps of applications and rewrote my resume dozens of times to make it look decent enough, but no amount of polish could soften the blow of the question, have you ever been convicted of a crime. Check no to be considered. Check yes to be tossed into the furnace. There was the deal-breaker. Don't call us, we'll call you. Freedom is good, but it wasn't long before I realized that the sentence didn't end when the gates opened. Despite the stigmatized cross I was forced to bear, there were always silver linings. When your brain has to adapt to years inside of a barred-up box,

it finds any hopeful prospect to cling on to. My mother had left me her apartment and whining lemon of the car. Every room smelled like musty perfume fused with old candle wax. The bed was painfully hard and springy. The ever-building worry rolled around inside me, like a pocket of gas trapped inside a piece of coal. Just one light, only one small piece of charred paper in the parking lot would be enough to get through the week.

but still I resisted the urges. I'd successfully eluded it for years now, thanks to time and a lot of behavioural therapy. Whenever the seed started to burn, I knew how to extinguish the flare. Well, miraculously, I was finally able to land an interview. The hiring position was for a graveyard shift at Hitchhiker's Haven, a family-owned gas station run by a man named Bennett Crawford.

I rehearsed the interview dozens of times, drawing up every possible question I'd be asked and a golden answer to counterman. Hitchhiker's haven sat along a rural stretch of row between Redmond and sisters, the two closest towns for miles. The rolling green hills and farmland pastures surrounded it. The faded blue peaks of the cascades

were outlined in the distance like paintings. I met with Crawford, who insisted on being called Ben. The man was no grease monkey, which is what I'd envisioned the gas station owner to be here. his deep-set eyes were green and placid. The wide Cheshire grin he wore throughout the meeting didn't waver. I'm sorry for this. Ben started, which made my heart begin to sink. But I have to ask you, what landed you in the iron pan?

The question was inevitable, but still startling. A bit the inside of my cheek. Third-degree arson, sir. Ben's genuine beatific expression didn't fade. I tried to burn your last boss's house to the ground, eh? I rolled my shoulders back. No, sir. I'd never do anything like that, but after what he said to me,

I knew I could never work for him again. What did he say? You're fired. Ben suddenly looked surprised and then chuckled up my joke. I'll give you a pass on that one. That's one thing I respect in the man. It's a sense of humor. The interview shortly ended after that,

and we both shook hands. I like, you know what. You have a nice lie to you. Be it the demeaning you carry, all that cheeky tongue of yours, I feel you'd be a good fit for us. So, what do you say? Want the job?

I blinked, almost blurting out abs of freaking looted. But instead settled on, Yes, sir. Then came the question I'd spent sleepless nights waiting for. When can you start? Sooner the better, boss.

My first night shift started at 10 that evening. Outside, the metal canopy looming over the pumps bathed the lot in a fluorescent green glow. It was eerie, like a ghostly light guiding you from the dark stretch of road to an isolated gas station. Why Ben had chosen that colour was beyond me. Not a very inviting glow for hitchhikers. I was given the uniform, a grey, short-sleeved shirt, with H-H printed in bold, lining perfectly over the left pocket. Each aisle was four feet wide,

arranged in a grid formation across the interior, not as big as the competitors, but just as convenient. Each of the multi-sided racks was stacked with assorted products from chips and candy to on-the-road vehicle supplies and accessories. LED cooler doors lined the wall

across from the register, filled with their assortment of drinks. A plastic mat rested on the counter, designed like a map of Deshute County. dominating the counter space was a box of jawbreakers, a small stand of keychains, and a rack of colourful lighters I knew I'd have to ignore. Ben's grand tour lasted 30 minutes. We went over the nightly responsibilities, operating the register, the stocking shelves and coolers, replacing the bags in the outdoor ice machine and managing a clean workspace.

So, Ben said with a slanted look in his eye, think you can manage something like this? I gesture to my notes I'll be alright good he smiled which quickly melted into a ruminating expression given your history I should hope you had one of the crazies

I raised a non-existent eyebrow what do you mean the workers I hire for the night shift a good most of the time but once in a while you'll get one of the crazies honestly you wouldn't believe some of the tales people try to sell to me here

either way Here's to hope and son. His face held the vague nuance that there was more to say, but instead he nodded goodbye and left for a good night's sleep. Hours into my shift at roughly three in the morning, a set of headlights slid off the road into the lot. Four young silhouettes sorted in size. None of them could have been more than 17 or 18.

One of the teens, a gauntly-looking one who wore his hair like a young Kirk Cobain, led the quarter to the snack-up. Periodically a few of them erupted into a distinct, high-pitched squeal of laughter, like a pack of hyenas. Each of them grabbed a stash of junk food and formed a mountain on the counter. Cobain covered the bill, his pupils as big as hockey-pucks. Something about his glazed, absent-minded expression filled me with bitter-sweet nostalgia. I thought about the old days, when life felt so much larger than a box. I thought about the industrial bin and the beautiful fire spewing out of its melting gullet,

and then I stopped myself. The other nights that week went as precisely as I'd pictured it, slow and dead. A few faces would occasionally pop in and out, but for the rest of the time, Hitchhiker's Haven was a ghost lot dipped in green. I didn't mind the boredom. The pay year was good, the confinement coldly familiar. I felt like a member of society again, like the word convict. was no longer seared into my forehead.

But night owl or not, the weight of deprivation fell heavily on me, which is what happens when one fucks with their circadian clock. To counteract the drowsiness, I often retraced all the items on my to-do list just to keep my thoughts occupied. Clean. Check inventory stocks.

Clean again. I scoured online for survival tips, ate healthier meals, sometimes, caffeine my new god and then during one of those nights it started to rain despite the forecast never mentioning a late-night shower nor there being a speck of humidity in the air the rain thrummed harshly against the windows and spilled over the canopy in small waterfalls the automatic doors slid open and a person inched their way inside they were wearing a faded blue jacket with the hood

pulled down and their hands shoved in their pockets they wore it with a stiff gait, squeaking their wet shoes along the tiles to the register. Beneath their hoods, a white face stared at me, or rather the suggestion of a face. A vague nose, no mouth whatsoever, and faint depressions where I should be. A creepy, non-distinctive mask. Jeez, any minute now, I'm going to have a gun shoved in my face. Any minute now, I thought. Unable to hide the apprehension in my face.

The person raised one of their equally pale hands from their pockets, dropped change on the plastic mat, and reached for the box of jawbreakers. Their white rigid fingers curved and almost seemed to lock as they lifted it out by the plastic wrapper. The bundle of wet waters and pennies he'd left from me glinted from the overhead lights. The exact change for a jawbreaker. His candy in hand, he turned around and walked stiffly back to the door, retracing every waterprint. When the doors slid closed behind him, his vague outline passed between the green-tinged pumps and sank into the night's dark pellicle. I let out an eased breath. Thankfully he hadn't whipped out a gun from his pocket and demanded everything from the register.

But that didn't explain the mask. Why wear something like that if you weren't going to rob the place? As I sat there and pondered on it, I'd realised that the rain had ceased. It wasn't difficult to get my bearings back for the place. the rest of the ship. In prison you saw all kinds of weird shit and crazies to go along with it. Was this what Bennett warned me about? I shrugged at the thought. Every nocturnal job had its share of freaks waiting for the sun to go down. Why would a lonesome gas station be any difference? Whatever the case, I was confident I could stomach what hitchhackers'

Haven would throw at me. I hope so anyway. During another particularly dead hour with no customers, I busied myself with a second round of cleaning everything in sight. As either that or watched the coffee dribble into the pots. I moved the plastic mat off the counter, realizing I'd never cleared the dust from beneath it. Something was written into the countertop, carved by way of a knife into its surface. Don't talk to it.

I ran a finger along the deep grooves of the message, or rather the warning. A week of normality then passed before the next. next downpaw. I was ringing up a few items, Advil and five-hour energy shots for a red-eyed trucker. Together we heard the muffled applause of rain on the roof. Ah, shit, the man whined, scrunching up his lip hair. You still umbrellas too? I shook my head. Sorry. He huffed, and I had the watery skim that dribbled down the windows. Oh, bullshit weather. You just can't predict them, can you? He took his thing. He took his thing,

and beeline toward the semi, veering back to the dark stretch of road. Once he'd left, the doors glided open once again. A faded blue jacket stepped inside, the same man from before. He approached the front desk, one firm step at a time. A pungent whiff of damp clothes wafted off him, soaking wet again from the rain. Echoing the first time, his pale hand left his pocket and rested the wet change on the mat. Beneath his hood, the featureless man poked out, a sheen of light on his moist, non-existent expression, the same mask as before. Water dribbled off his fingers as he dropped the change, plucked out another jawbreaker and returned to the exits, transparent footmarks trailing behind it.

After that, the grey haze of boredom that had once fog the night shift was gone. Whether it was one week or every other week, the man always appeared. He'd saunter inside, completely waterlogged, leave the exact change and take a jawbreaker. Always a jawbreaker. The way he walked was especially strange to me, almost lifeless. Not in the undead sense, but more akin to a sleepwalker. As bizarre as it all was, the man wasn't especially difficult to deal with. Strange, yes, but not a taller hassle.

In a minute, he'd walk in and then back to the heavy rain. returning to God knows where. Congratulations, Ben. You found yourself a regular customer. In addition to the already weird repetition of it all, there was something else I couldn't explain. Moments before the man arrived, on the dot it would always rain.

No matter how bone dry it was prior, the storm would come sudden and hard, only stopping after he'd left. Sometimes in minutes, other times in twenty. Too often for coincidence, but too crazily timed to be sane. Every so often I'd lift the mat and stare at the words

chiseled into the counter. Don't talk to it. Probably left by one of the last graveyard workers here, one of the crazies, as Ben put it. They were, no doubt, talking about Mr. Noface, though calling him it seemed too dramatic. He must have really got to them. But a job was a job, and in my position I was not apt for many preferences.

I do what it took to keep it. It wasn't long for the rain to come back harder than ever. The gas station's exterior moaned as the wind howled in an almost whisper through the slide doors. Without fail, the man walked in with his rigid gate, drenched. But when he reached the register, there was no change out of his pocket, or jawbreaker picked out of the box. This time was different, astray from the usual routine. He bawled his rigid white fingers into a tight fist and slammed it against the plastic mat.

The foreshook the counter's flat surface and vibrated the register. The countertop merchandise shivered in their displays. One of the keychains fell from the stand, a grey cat, winking at me. Before I could react to the ashen-toned fist rose again and fiercely dropped. The stand of light has toppled onto my side of the counter, their transparent bodies scattering near my feet. Then, from the still, plaster wall face, the hollow voice spoke out that left a sharp ringing in the air as though it were made of glass.

Would you like to see my face? What? The word blurted out of me, too late to reel back in. I was caught off guard, not expecting a question, let alone a sudden tantrum to come from him. At that moment I'd broken the golden rule of hitchhiker's haven, carved gravely into his bedroom. The man stood there only a moment longer before the parts of his blank face began to move. His pale cheeks, the vague nose, both eye depressions, extended outward, moving like an insect's plated skin. beneath them a gaping mask sank inward like a tunnel

its walls layered and glistening with twitching blackish mold a never-ending throat where white fragments of light pulsated like trapped stars my eyes went vacant I couldn't stop staring it a sense of distress raced down my spine I could feel the cords of my neck straining to make me turn my head but it wouldn't budge The lights within its mildewy void gleamed in rich, beckoning gestures, a universe of deep colours that wanted me. Every thought, every particle of myself, and for that moment I felt myself starting to sink into its depths.

But something kept me tethered, something starved and soaked in kerosene. I managed to tear my eyes away, grabbed a lighter and pulled a can of aerosol from one of the cabinets. without thinking I flicked on the small flame and pressed a finger on the can. A bright jet of orange reached out and fluttered over the cavernous pitch of its face. Whatever hellish material it was made out of, caught immediately, the fire smothered its head and latched onto the faded jacket. It flouted backward, batting fruitlessly at the spreading flames. No screams came from it, but an awful high-pitched ringing was stabbing my ears.

Thunder bellowed outside in an ullulating rumble. It toppled over one of the aisles, lighting up all the bags and products around it. Actred burning odours filled the air, and admittedly the hint of a smile crept up my lips. The rising smoke reached the fire sprinklers and set them off. Water ejected out of their flower-shaped heads and soaked the whole area. As the flames dampened, the blackened figure got back to his feet and hobbled. through the exit. I moved to chase after it, but by the time I stepped outside, it was gone, evaporated with the pouring rain, tried as I have. There's no coming to terms of what transpired

that night, or whatever demented thing it was that I'd seen. It made my brain feel loose, slowly teetering between total numbness in a manic episode. Bennett Crawford did not believe it, nor did I expect him to, and did not. not hesitate to press charges for the damages. In the span of a single night, I joined the ranks in his book of crazies. Given my track record, I was labelled as a repeat offender, a new title for the Pyromania. The hearing will be sometime next week, and until then, I can only wait until the gavel comes down. I still dream about those colours sometimes, right, they're still imprinted somewhere in my consciousness, beckoning for me to go back there. Whatever it is they

wanted from me, they were still calling. Will the next person Ben Hires see the man with no face? Or will it bide its time, waiting for the right stuff to pop the question to? Would you like to see my face? Yes. Show me your face. Show me those colors so that I can burn them all over again. Hitchhackers Haven will go up in smoke when I'm through with it. Then where will you go? Wherever it is, I'm sure it'll be raining. Hey Ontario, come on down to BetMGM Casino and check out our newest exclusive. The Price is Right Fortune Pick. Don't miss out.

Play exciting casino games based on the iconic game show. Only at BetMGM. Access to the Price's 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 your 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. In early April of 2016, a study was conducted on the psychological effects of solitary confinement under the influence of lights.

It was a Sunday morning when tragedy transpired for Guy Dacted. The quest we have omitted the names of those involved. who did not wish them included. He had just sat down with a frothy cup of flat white when the unknown number dialed his phone. Calling from a New York State Penitentiary was a prison chaplain, who opened the conversation with,

Good evening, Mr. Then, discreetly, the chaplain did not hesitate to add, I regret to inform you about this. The voice, as Guy describes it, was hollow and out. absent, but trying its best to sound compassionate, like an apathetic machine wired to read an empathetic script. The chaplain continued, it concerns your brother.

Last night he unexpectedly passed away in our custody. The remains have been released to a mortuary and must be claimed within 48 hours or disposition must be made, as provided by law. The call was then affectionately ended with. We extend our sympathy for your loss. One day after that, a letter of condolence was sent. At 3.15 a.m., March 13, Guy's twin had hung himself in his cell, ending a 70-day stretch in solitary confinement.

An officer had found his somewhat elevated body motionless and unresponsive. A bed sheet had been used, tied off. to a plumbing fixture, death by slow strangulation, very few ligature marks visible on the neck, heavy discharges of vomit from both nose and mouth, as summarized in the investigative report. It had been his fourth year of a 25-year sentence for second-degree murder. He had been convicted of killing a woman he was attempting to carjack. My little brother had issues. I've always known that.

Guy fought back the quivering tones in his speech and paused to wipe his eyes. We'd just graduated high school when our parents passed from a car accident. They were both killed almost instantly. We had no aunts or uncles, no trustworthy relatives. We just had each other. He got mixed up with bad people. They got in his head and led him down a bad, very crooked path. I gave him all the help he needed.

I did. It wasn't enough to steer him from that path, but I never gave up on him. After every phone call, every monitored visit, I told him I'd always be here, waiting for his sentence to clear. Guy also had this to add. I know I'm not alone in my belief that solitary confinement is a monstrous punishment to inmates. My brother had a lot of mental issues. He should have been in a hospital, not a prison.

let alone in an isolated lock-up. I believe we've forgotten what it means to correct bad behavior. Torture can't force a broken mind to repair itself. It only forces the mind to behave. That's not a solution or a correction. It's cruelty. Officials from the penitentiary maintained that there was little to know concern that the inmate had been planning to take his own life.

Had it been the case, he would have immediately been transferred. to a mental health unit, faced with a cruel separating agent of grief, Guy turned to his research for comfort. He knew that extinguishing solitary confinement was unlikely, considering its worldwide practice, so he instead focused on an alternative approach. His proposal, to capitalize on the benefits that seclusion does have for inmates, while also applying a more humanitarian method for their improvement. His work brought him to an isolation chamber, constructed within a former nuclear bunker somewhere off the outskirts of Hampstead, New York, a keepsake of the cold wall. After weeks of

lengthy meetings, countless emails and frustrating phone calls, guys' preparations were complete. For the next two weeks, he would lock himself inside the six-by-eight-foot space, trapped between the cement walls and all-encompassing darkness. I needed an environment as authentic as possible. Guy explains at the outset. I found myself drawing a lot of inspiration from the hole on Alcatraz Island, a pitch black, tight space without any human contact. Granted, not all isolation cells have these severe conditions,

but if we can still produce positive results from the worst treatment possible, imagine the success from less harsh conditions. Start from the bottom, work your way to the top. The room was equipped with a refurbished toilet, up-to-date ventilation, a metal bed frame, and a small table. Bolted atop the table was a lantern fitted with a bulb that could be changed to different colors via remote control. I have a very loud mind, and vivid thoughts are always trying to squeeze their way out, so there's no doubt that sensory deprivation will take a huge toll on me. That's where the light will come into play.

As it changes colors, my reactions to those different colors in my mind will be noted. Colors stimulate the brain. There is real psychology there. I hope that the changing colors will act as a tether that will allow my senses to cling on to something and will perhaps help me manage and endure my time in there with minimal negative effects. Thus, guide-dub this experiment, the light health. project. The ones overseeing the experiments, handpiged by Guy himself, were Ronald Westbrook, a retired clinical and forensic psychologist, Victoria Wick, a therapist specialising in PTSD patients,

and Brian Rexford, an independent radio psychologist. To protect the privacy of certain individuals, their names and identifying details have been changed. Each came from a different background, but each was equally fueled by discovery and Guy's compelling determination. Together, they agreed on their joint schedules and varying night shifts to observe Guy's behavior and safety throughout the test. They'd be stationed in a separate room rigged with different screens and connected to night vision cameras within the chamber. Internal audio would also be fed to them by the recorder Guy would have on his person the entire time.

Other than documenting and supervising the experiment, they were also to follow another important instruction. Do not, under any circumstances, stop the test. No matter what is said, screamed or begged, the door will remain locked until the experiment is complete. The only exception is if a hospital is needed. Before being taken to itself, Guy partook of several psychological tests and interviews. to examine his mental capability of taking part in the project. He'd take with him a month's worth of military food packets, drinking water, toilet paper, and batteries for his recorder.

When asked if he'd prefer a set of different sheets, Guy declined. With everything now in motion, the door was locked. The lights were cut, and the cameras were activated. Day one. Incarceration. Guy spends his first ten minutes in absolute darkness lying on his bed. Every so often he makes a popping sound from his mouth. Minute by minutes, the popping becomes a hum and then graduates into a whistle as Guy taps his foot impatiently.

After the 30-minute mark, he records his first log. Day 1. April 1, 2016. Audio log, 30 minutes. inside. What a bizarre feeling. My hand is an inch from my face and I can't see it at all. It's pitch black and dead quiet in here. I'm not even sure what to say at this point. I want to hear something other than my breathing bouncing off the walls. Four hours pass. Guy takes to wandering around the room, appearing to count the number of steps it takes to reach each wall. The result, not very many. Day 1. April 1, 2016. Audio log. Four hours inside.

Getting cold in here. I should have brought a heater or something in here. I've already lost track of how long I've been inside. Maybe that's a good thing. I have to say, this is the worst hotel I've seen. The service is God-awful. Room service, anyone? Guy, to his credit. Forces a smile for the cameras and masks the ever-growing anxiousness with humor. But as the passages of lightless time stack up, his mild uneasiness begins to shift into paranoia. Day one, April 1, 2016. Audio log, seven hours inside. What's with the crackling sound on this thing? Is it even working? I've said I'm cold 300 times now, and it hasn't changed a single degree. The blanket isn't helping that much.

God, at least give me a sign this piece of junk is working, all right? A knock, he's a tap, anything. Gosh, throw me a bone here. He sits up with his legs folded on the bed and tears open the first meal packet. He eats it slowly, as though to savor the taste and the new sensations it brings. Perhaps he's waiting seven hours to experience something new in the room's unchanging pitch before it becomes repetitive. If it isn't long,

until Guy takes to pacing the room to each of the walls. The audio captures possibly an old conversation he recounts with someone under his breath. Plausably his brother. It's not unusual, Rexford explains. Animals do the same thing when you place them in confined quarters. He's anxious, trapped and bored. The pacing provides input in his life, builds a mechanism to cope with. Eventually, Guy crawls into bed and tries to rest.

he manages to fall asleep for ten hours straight tossing and turning restlessly in his sheets when he wakes the realization takes a moment to dawn on him as he rubs his eyes and tries vainly to get his vision back he falls back into his pillow and sighs loudly that's right oh shh the audio captures

as an entire day passes in the chamber The adverse effects of his sensory deprivation begin to intensify and become especially more evident in his eighth log. Day 2. April 2, 2016. Audio log, 30 hours inside. They're everywhere, aren't they? All over the grainy darkness. So many of them. Spindly shapes are floating around me. I'm hallucinating, aimlessly drifting, bouncing off of nothing.

aimlessly. I think they're organic. Spores swarms at them all over the place. What day is it? Can anyone hear me up there? I said, I'm hallucinating. In view of this, he waves around both hands, sifting his fingers through the invisible objects his mind was manifesting. Before long, he claims to start hearing music in the corner. even snapping his fingers to the non-existent rhythm. For the remainder of the second day, the researchers take note of every hallucination guy experiences. Visual. A kite on the wall. Blooms of jellyfish, spores. Auditory.

Static from a radio. A piano's G major. Incoherent whispers. In the early morning hours of his third day, submerged in darkness, Guy reaches the threshold of his sanity. At 6.53am, he is sitting against the wall, his face buried in the crevice between his knees.

Suddenly, without the slightest portent of warning, he chokes out a gasp and flings himself desperately to the toilet. He cramps two fingers in his mouth, prodding desperately at his throat as he vomits profusely into the bowl. Day three. April three, 2016. Audio log, 72 hours inside. Down. Oh shit, oh God. Something poisonous inside of me. Slid right down my throat. Will I die? Will I fill up with mushrooms? No, no, no. I don't want to do this.

I want out. Shut it all down, okay? I don't want to. Shut it all down, okay? I don't want to. want to be here anymore. Judging by his panicked utterance, he seems to believe he swallowed one of the spores. The silver lining behind Guy's severe episode was that it acted as the perfect gauge for the experiment's next step. Now that the deprivation and quarantine blackness has successfully pried away at his resilience, it is time to administer the treatment. In the next instant, the lamp, which was bolted atop the table, lights up. Due to Guy's eyes most lightly being weakened from his time in the same bleak enclosure, the white glow only shines as a dim, pale hue at the back of the room. At first, he backs away from it, his expression trapped behind pure shock. It seems he's completely

forgotten about the lamp's existence until now. A glint of joy shimmers across his face. Slowly, he approaches the table and gently rests his head over it. Nothing is said, but a distinct muffled sob can be heard. For the remaining duration of the test, the bulb will shift its soft glow into a different colour every eight hours or so. By reintroducing Guy back into the light, the overseers hope to negate his long days without stimulation and, in a sense, guide back his rationality.

To fit their increasingly differing, schedules. Each overseer agrees to assign themselves a particular color to monitor. Light exposure effects rating. One. Green. Westbrook. Subject's anxiety and overall mental tension of lessened considerably. His appetite is returned. Good.

Two. Yellow. Westbrook. Guy seemed uneasy about the room changing color at first. but he seems to be over it. Yellow, being a bold, energetic color, tends to support happy thoughts and optimistic thinking. We especially see this in his recent recordings.

Three, Blue, Rexford. The compulsion to anxiously pace disappeared with the addition of blue. It looks to be making him tired. He spent most of the time sleeping during the exposure. At least his circadian rhythm seems to be getting back on track. 4. Purple. Westbrook. Subject has a strong aversion to the color purple.

He started complaining, growing progressively more restless, possibly an emotional situation from the subject's past. Claims the walls are moving. The color was not active for very long. 5. Red. After looking over Geist's reaction to the purple light, I was especially nervous about what would happen with the colour I chose. It didn't dawn on me at the time,

but I soon realized that the only red-tinted rooms I could think of were from horror films. But his response has been a positive one. He's more active now, even performing different exercises and physical activities in the small space. Although he's been lying in bed for some time now. Oh, oh God, he's... Day by day, Guy, who has previously been screaming about swallowing hallucinations, starts to act like himself again.

As the positive effects become more tangible, the lights reveal their restorative power over his mind. In the early morning of the seventh day, as Guy stares in his sheets, something else appears in camera. Small, white, furry with a pointed twitching nose. A mouse scurries along the wall, apparently granted access to the room by way of an unchecked crack under Guy's bed, possibly even led there by the leftover crumbs from his food packets. It lets out a chattering sound, which immediately catches Guy's attention. He takes a moment to register the sound before hearing it again.

In a split second, he jumps to his feet and twists his neck all over the place to find the tiny creature. By the time he spies its sharp movement, it has already crept past him and into the hidden crack. After the discovery, he deliberately starts to leave pieces of food under his bed. A newfound habit develops, where he lies along the cold floor, constantly checking to see if the mouse has returned. While Guy's intentions are unclear, Rexford shares his thoughts in his report. my highly doubt guy was going to hurt the thing he's locked in stasis right now in a room that never changes save for the alternating lighting it's been a week now and we've seen a lot of improvement but it's far from a full recovery the mouse triggered something for him a reminder that there was something else other than four walls in a toilet it's a little piece of life for him to hold on to as many attempts as guy makes there's still no sign of his mouse lure working. Throughout the next few days,

Guy's overall temperament begins to shift, in spite of the light and the recuperating stepping zones he's taken. Haranoia starts to raise its way back, like a contaminating spill of oil. Day 9. April 9, 2016. Audio log. 216 hours inside. They've forgotten about me.

they forgotten about the test. I shouldn't have trusted them as I did. At some point my food and water will run out. What then? I'll disappear. What else? Pastest, torturers, lock me up and throw away the key. Are you still taking notes? Jut that down. Day nine, April 9, 2016. Audio log 18 hours inside. I don't want to see these four walls anymore. Every crack, every ancient smudge is leaving a permanent stain on my memory. Is this what you had to see? Is this the hell you lived in?

Most likely referring to his twin. I don't want to sleep in these greasy sheets. I don't want to eat this dry tasteless food, drying like sawdust on my tongue. Here is where I'll die. Not even God will hear me out there. It's back. That pressure I felt before, drilling into my red temple. It's been coming back more frequently lately.

Sometimes I think the walls are moving. When I close my eyes, it feels like I'm underwater, traversing invisible depths nobody cares about. The room is sinking further now and then. Sooner or later, it's going to crush me. Day 9. April 9. 2016 audio log 224 hours inside I need to move walk around a while the valves in my legs are

starting to swell from not moving hurts like hell I need to stretch them but I can't I can't leave the bed they can because I don't want to when I start to stand a bad feeling gnaws at me, like an overwhelming premonition, whatever it is. Don't move for the love of God. Don't move. Something is at risk of being stimulated. The pressure is worse than ever. It isn't leaving this time. Even the air feels different. Every breath leaves an accurate taste in the back of my throat, as though I'm sharing the air with a different mouth. Even with his growing protest to the confines of his bed, Guy finally succumbs to the stabbing pangs of hunger. He crawls, cautiously, out of bed and swiftly moves to his supplies. As he reaches for one of the packets,

he immediately jolts and stops. Winding around in a flurry, he retreats to his bed and grabs the recorder. Day 9. April 9, 2016. Audio lock, 230. hours inside. Gone. Torn to bits. My food. I can't. I don't. What happened? Guy has discovered that five of his once sealed food rations are torn to shreds, gnawed open. The flexible pouch packaging gutted by some unthinkable means. With the lack of any footage, the researchers deduced that mice were the most likely culprits. If one had found its way inside, what was to stop more from sneaking in and raiding the unguarded stash?

Although it's unexpected, there is still plenty of food left untouched to make do until the experiment's final day. A day Guy's rattle mind has transfigured into fiction by now. His already withered nerves are shot, so Guy's refusal to leave the safe boundary of his bed is only magnified. The soft light draped over the table is not. not providing even a sliver of comfort. Unsurprisingly, he can no longer fall asleep. Sometime later, between the hours of 3 and 4 a.m., a scream resounds in the chamber.

The cameras reveal Guy scrambling backward, pressing the small of his back firmly against the wall, with his eyes bulging and his fingers hooked into his chest. Day 10. April 10, 2016. log. Two hundred and forty hours inside. Right at the edge of my bed. Oh God. I heard something.

It sounded like movement. Something rustling about. Then a growl. A horrible growl. I'm not hallucinating. I know I'm not. There was a growl. The air's thick.

There's a potent rotting taste in my mouth. Something was there. Something. was watching me. The captured audio does not interpret Guy's growl, but the feed does suffer a few stuttering distortions in particular places. As the next sluggish roll of hours passes, Guy complains frequently about a growing sickness he feels, the increasing hidden pressures, the thickening rot in the air. The tension builds until his body ultimately demands to purge itself. He gags, covers his mouth, and then recklessly

balls to the toilet. When the vomiting sound stopped and the shaking in his leg ceases, he finds the strength to stand up and return to the safety net of his bed. Suddenly, he stops. The already fleeting colour drains from his face. His hands quiver nervously,

pinned to his sides. A lingering thread of bile runs down his chin. The team begins to worry he's having some sort of stroke. Luckily, his motor skills returned to him as he falls backward in a series of chaotic steps and collapses in the opposite unlit

corner of the room. He sits there for some time. Eventually, he searches for his device and presses a trembling finger on. Recall. Day 10. April 10, 2016. Audio log,

245 hours inside. There's some of it. nothing here. I felt it just now, standing a few inches from me. Why? I see nothing, but it was there, looming over me, waiting for me. Adopting the shaded corner as his newfound security. Guy does not return to his bed, or the light blanketing it. Even as the bulb alternates the different colors, none of them spur a different reaction. He merely sits there, staring into unoccupied spaces

and craning his neck as though seeing something. Day 10. April 10, 2016. Audio log, 248 hours inside. There's movement. I'm sure of it now. I'm no longer alone. But what are they? Ghosts, no. too active. At first, I thought the walls were moving, but I was wrong. It's the light

that's moving, rippling and being sent as they pass through it. The darkness is properly marinating my brain to see them. Sometimes vague silhouettes, sometimes textualist shapes, sometimes shifting and then reshifting, moments of motion, sometimes clicking their teeth. Mowler against mola, clack, clack, clack, sometimes scraping nails on the floor. They're drawn to the light, moving only where it touches, hiding in it like a blanket. I don't think they can see me. Not yet. One notable piece of footage reveals Guy making a poor attempt to reach his food and water rations. His head scans the room in a back and forth motion.

as if checking that the vacant coast of space is clear. Slowly, he drifts back into the reaching glow, inching closer to the supplies. When he's nearly there, he freezes. He turns his head towards something that the cameras can't see, something under the bed. After a moment of staring, he aborts the mission in a mad sprawl and retreats to the shadows of the corner.

Day 11. April 11, 2016. Audio log. Two hundred and sixty-five hours inside. I saw a mouse under the bed, picking at one of the scraps I left. Then it started screaming and squirming all over the place. Blotches of blood were left wherever it rolled. And it stopped.

It started to float, as though it were caught in something's invisible jaws. Digging into it, opening it up. Entrails dangling like wet ribbons. I'm not safe. Day 11. April 11, 2016. Audio log. 273 hours inside. I know how they're getting in.

Small space is in the room. I want to call them pockets. They squeeze their way in. The horrible stent returns. They squeeze their way out. I think I know where the pockets are too. One on the ceiling, one under the bed, one on the left wall. They're everywhere, getting more and more numerous, getting louder.

Clack, clack, clack, clack. I've lost count of how many now. I have to stay away from the light. It will only make me easier prey. Please, if you can hear me, turn off the light. The visual hallucinations haunting him only grow worse, from there. Every audio log received grows primarily more fearful about the unseen things coming in and out of the room. While there are no remains of a mutilated rodent found under the bed,

signs of discolouring on the floor are present. Despite the three hellish days he is spent in the dense, unlit veil, Guy refuses to leave the shelter of that corner. The light, which had previously hosted his sanity back was now what he avoided. What should have nullified the other appears to only intensify it now, as though summoned by misfortune. The researchers face an anomaly they did not prepare for. Both the cameras and Guy's recorder begin to malfunction. The stuttering audio distortions from earlier worsen. What sound does manage to leak out of Guy's device is corrupt. His with hisses of static and delays. Unable to fix the issue, they are forced to make a decision.

End the experiment early and collect the accumulated data, or follow Guy's original instructions and proceed to the final day. With two in favour, Westbrook and Rexford of continuing, and one opposed, Wick. The decision is made to endure until the 14th day. even if the audio is no longer functional there's still plenty of visual input to extract guy's mannerisms only continue to deteriorate he no longer sleeps or forms an effort to reach the food and water let alone to even use the bathroom instead he takes to urinating and defecating in the opposing ill-lick corner piles and pools of his excrement gather like the accumulating waste of a caged animal things were bad

Rexford shares from the following interview we honestly should have stopped and packed everything up then and there but we had precise instructions to see it out to the end there was one night Victoria and I were working together I remember stepping out to get some fresh air and coming back to her gasping her hand cupped over her mouth in shock I quickly checked the cameras and saw exactly what had her horrified. Guy was digging into his excrement and smearing it over the wall. At first,

I thought it was nothing but a smothered mess of unintelligible garble. But then I saw exactly what he was writing. They, everywhere, turn off, light. After that, Victoria wanted nothing further to do with the experiments. She told us she was done being party to torture. Westbrook was also losing the amount of time he could give, so things mostly fell on my shoulders. I didn't mind it much. I wanted to be involved. I wanted more than anything to see the success of the experiment, with two days left of Guy's confinement. Rexford takes it on himself to make the final push. I was trying to think of a way to ease him back into the light. So, I thought of a plan. Little by little, I was going to amp the lantern's voltage until the room was nothing but light. No more dark corners for him to hide in.

To set this plan in motion, Rexford starts by amplifying the soft blue hue within the room. The light begins to lick up the walls and climb over the bed. Guy quickly takes notice and noticeably shrinks further back. He tries to protest vainly. according to a recording of garbled feedback. Day 13. April 13, 2016. Audio log. 315 hours inside.

Stop. Drowning close. They will find me. And off light. They will find me. ignoring Guy's clear objection Rexford shines the light more strongly as it inches closer burning away the shadowy blanket of Guy's position

In a desperate animalistic effort Guy resorts to slamming his fists against the locked door clawing at it fruitlessly with his nails Simultaneously as the last shade of his protective layer evaporates away Guy makes a mad dash toward the lantern with a desperate flail of his fist he punches it shattering the bulb in an eruption of glass like an aerial firework shell

as the darkness once again overlaps the room and with the adrenaline still racing through his system he grabs handfuls of broken shards and shoves them in his mouth the corrupted bits of audio still capture the sound of sharp bits breaking between his teeth Rexford immediately abandons his post and rushes for the chamber. He opens the door to find a room with protein-stained bed sheets, hieroglyphic feces on the walls, and their test subject collapsed over the table.

The smell took me out, Rexford comments, an amalgam of different odors, composites of sweat, urine, feces, blood, rotting, and, other questionable smells I don't care to describe. I tried to block it out. The last thing I wanted to do was vomit as I pulled him out of there. He was sputtering something to me, or spitting out globs of blood and broken glass. Something about his back burning.

When I checked it for him, I had no idea what I was even looking at. Wednesday, April 13th, at approximately 9.05 p.m., guys taken to Nassau, University, medical center, where he receives several stitches for his hand and also the loose flaps of tissue in his mouth. He is constipated, running a fever, severely dehydrated and malnourished. When examining the peculiar bruises lining his spine, Dr. Marion Cobb asks if Guy has been assaulted. When told no, he shares his thoughts.

In Vietnam, we refer to unexplained bruises as ghost bites. marks that appear without injury and have no business being there. It could run the risk of an underlying medical problem, or even a risky blood disorder. Well-perform a complete blood count for any irregularities. He added, skeptically, however, if that is the case, I've never seen any of this prominently shaped before.

The blood tests come back normal. As Guy recovers from his testimony, time in the bunker, he repeats the same series of tests and interviews he took before his incarceration. The tests to do with his memory show that it had been impaired. He struggles with even the simplest questions and takes 65% longer to complete each task. While admitted to the hospital, he is adamant that the nurse keep his room light off. As for the aftermath of the project, New York College journalist David Saxon, after months of evasion, he is able to conduct a short interview with Guy on the first sunset of August. He goes on to describe the house where the exchange took

place. Dark, not so much as a flicker in any of the rooms. All the bulbs were screwed out of everything. Even the windows were spraying painted black. When I asked if the light from our camera would be acceptable, he hesitantly agreed. The reporter added, from what I could see of Mr. He looked very tired. His eyes were sunken and his skin was pale, like the pigment was being sucked right out of him. Question.

Here's the description of the experiment, as written on your website. And no, effort to diminish the harrowing effects of solitary confinement through the use of light manipulation. Guy nods in his chair. Question. You've since retracted that statement. Why is that? Isn't it obvious?

The result was not the one I wanted. Question. Right. In hindsight, do you think that you underestimated what two weeks in the bunker would be like? Perhaps. In the beginning, I thought I'd taken every precaution imaginable. I believe my mental fortitude could overcome any obstacle. I was wrong.

Question. If you're comfortable enough to answer, I'd like to ask you more about your time in the bunker and about the hallucinations you experienced. Oh, yeah. There were countless hallucinations in that place. Animals, toy cars, music, you name it. But that isn't what you're asking about, is it?

Question. Well, no. I was referring to the things that, um, killed the mouse. I can't tell you how many nights I spent praying that what I witnessed in that place was a simple fabrication of the mind. But it isn't that complex. A light was on in a dark place, and something took a liking to it.

For a time, I believe what I saw in there wasn't real. That was, until I started seeing them at home. things rustling around doors inching open nails raking in the kitchen tiles looking for me question

is that why your house is so dark I'd like to ask you something now do you have any kids at home question yeah I have one with another on the way Why do you ask?

Do they still sleep with a night light? Question. What's the relevance of that? You may want to tell your friend to turn the camera light down. They followed me home. Hopefully, they won't follow you. Question. What do you mean by that?

No further questions are answered. The day's all started with a briefing room. a wall-to-wall palette of aged pastors and stark hospital grainers. In the centre of our little room, an oval-shaped table dominated the space with every seat filled with a tired nurse. From one of the windows, the bar of morning light often slipped stubbornly past the shutters. It was this drab room where we discussed things such as the population of our current patients and whether to up or down their medications.

In a work environment prone to shifting each and every day, such meetings were vital to maintain the facility's pulse. As I sit my morning coffee and slid the bitter warmth down my throat, I couldn't help but I the newest face of ourself. A young man with a sharp, short haircut and a stony, unsmiling face. Alec Barnes. A pest. Throughout the entirety of our meetings, he could never just keep quiet.

Sit and listen, as we resolved any daily conflicts. No, he had to chime in at every moment he could, bringing everything to a grinding halt to interject with. I have to disagree. Well, where I came from, we did this. If I could just stop you there. A pest indeed. Every clinic had at least one of his sort.

fresh out of college, hungry to get out there and feel out the unit they'd soon be running. We affectionately referred to them as Weisenheims, those who can do no wrong, instant virtuosos of the field. These people were easy enough to spot. Postures tense with self-conviction, nodding impatiently as you speak to them, as though already knowing what you are about to say, and you're simply moving too slow for their patience. and you only you are the one doing things wrong i can still recall one in particular a young know-it-all who'd been well become quite a nuisance during our labs and clinicals chattering in on how we've been doing everything

incorrectly and not by the book that is until one day i'd spied the bag of dopamine she'd secured for a patient draining itself into the sheets the sheets never Faster had I seen anyone's face flush so red. And what happens to all that self-importance after moments like this? They are jettisoned out, left to the scorn of those they'd obnoxiously reprimanded. And you can bet your bottom dollar, Alec Barnes will get his eventually. Reality has a way of compressing our egos. After the meeting was finished and the charge nurse had assigned our patient loads for the days,

I set out to complete my daily tasks. Within the confines of our 25-bed units, our patients mostly consisted of those recovering from injury, whether accidental or purposely inflicted. Attempted suicide was a frequent conviction here, and most patients were more of a danger to themselves and others. That being said, there were always those we had to be wary of. In my years as a psychiatric nurse,

I've been kicked, scratched bitten, punched, and for the better half of a day, verbally threatened. Still, I never let it sodden my spirits, no matter how much saliva or curses will hawk to me. Contrary to how social media or cinematic horrors may portray them, psychiatric wars are not twisted places littered with crazies. They're places of healing of alleviation, a haven for those physically alive, but internally tormented. Yes, some kicked and shrieked in the halls until their throat split, but a good deal held a much quieter unseen pain. That's why I was here to help ease the cold terrors of their

futures. And, for the case of our newest arrival, Roland Boor, I've become my next big project. It was raining on the night they brought him in. Despite him rolling, on a stretcher, his cold face wet and dripping, his eyes flickered with transient consciousness, perhaps barely grasping the shapes and sounds around him. For a moment we actually held each other's gaze as he was whisked away to the intensive care unit. Ten paper clips, eight marbles, and five drywall nails. These were the objects removed from Mr. Boole's stomach. He was diagnosed with pika, an uncommon disorder in which one has an urge to ingest in edible objects, though one this severe was especially rare.

Encompassing that fact, he'd also been diagnosed with depressive disorder, severe anxiety, and post-traumatic stress. Despite my history in the psychiatric field, I couldn't help but feel woefully unprepared for him. If only, I'd had even the slightest clue. I stopped at Mr. Boul's door, surveyed my notes once more, and came. carefully let myself inside. The room was reminiscent of a college dorm with a single window providing a glossy view of the parking lot. Mr. Boole was awake and currently hunched over his table, a wilderness of hanging, stringing hair, covering his face.

His legs were crossed at the ankles, both shoelaces removed. He appeared to be writing vigorously into a crossword puzzle with one of our rubber ballpoint pens, and not lightly against the door, which prompted him to turn toward me. Good morning, Mr. Bull. I smiled as I introduced myself. How are you doing today? From out of the mesh of hair, a thin face stared back at me, giving a look I'd describe only as a tight-lipped vacancy.

Eyes wide as possible, but not quite focused. He appeared somewhere north of his forties. From across his chin and up his cheeks, a scattering of scars was etched into his features. Possible self-harm, my thoughts mused. I continued the greeting. My name is Jason. I'm one of the registered nurses here to ensure everything's all right, and your time with us is a good one. Is there anything I can help you with?

His eyes held tired water between them, inspecting me up and down, trying to get a read on me as I was. was him. His mouth then pulled into a small grin, which rumpled the scratch marks. You have piano fingers. I'm sorry, I asked, caught off guard by his statement. He lifted his hands and flexed his fingers. Piano fingers. Father had him too. He used to play all the time in his office. Most of the gymnoped is and a tad of Chopin. You play at all? Despite his craggy appearance, his voice carried a genuine playfulness behind it. Not at all, I chuckled. My mother had one of her friends give me lessons when I was younger,

but unfortunately none of them stopped. Yes, Mrs. Brown was an avid teacher of the arts, but now I could only remember the reek of bone broth carrying her breath. Anyhow, it was nice officially meeting you. Please don't hesitate to let me know if you need anything. we'll do everything we can to help well of course he answered rubbing a finger along his scar-fringed chin it wasn't long before we realized the true extent that mr bull needed to be monitored from the television room he plucked out the power button as well as both volume buttons from the remote and swallowed their small plastic bodies from his bathroom he twisted a cap off one of the soap dispensers and negotiated it down his throat and he'd twisted it down his throat and before we could catch it, he'd already swallowed the flexi pen we'd given for his crosswords. As arrangements were made to have them removed, we mulled over different treatment options for his condition.

At most cases, Pico was caused by an iron deficiency in the body, leaving it craving something to replenish the lacking minerals. Therefore, we prescribed him an iron supplement. After a few weeks of the dosage, two tablets a day and an iron-rich diet. his pining for non-food items had considerably relessened. I was ecstatic about the progress, thoroughly convinced that before long his symptoms could be entirely gone. Unfortunately, I would come to find out

we were only scratching at the surface of roll and boot. As far as the supplements had taken him, he'd soon discover that his hospital bracelet had gone missing, not so mysteriously. I'd come to find that he'd seen, that he stopped taking the tablets completely, hiding them under his tongue only to spit them out later. On top of that, he'd entirely stopped eating anything we provided him with.

The next evening, I stopped by his room to once again check on him. Roland was yet again seated at his writing desk, his spine stiffly straight and his neck bent towards the window. A tray of food sat on the bed next to him, cold and uneaten. I scooped it up for him. you really should eat something Mr. Bull. Otherwise, they'll have us given you a feeding tube. The food is much better, trust me.

He didn't acknowledge me, merely holding that gaze toward the grayish smear of asphalt outside. Protests like this weren't out of the ordinary, especially for patients coping with anxiety and severe depression. As a turn to report back on his state, a thin, withered voice crept out of him. It's coming. His lips were shaking.

What do you mean? I asked. Trying to dissect what he just said. What's coming? But it was no use. He'd returned to silence, maintaining the glade stare out of the window. Evidently our conversation had ended.

That same evening, a scream resonated down the walls. It was coming from Mr. Bull's room. I was the first to arrive, quickly bursting through the door and witnessing him flailing in his sheets. His hands clawed and grasped at nothing while his thick heels kicked helplessly about. Assessing the situation, I tried talking him down first to calm his nerves behind the frenzy cries. He was unresponsive, lips curled back from his gums and his eyes squirming wildly in their sockets. Then, in a quick motion, his thrashing hands converged and closed around his throat.

locking into a death grip. I moved, Price's hands off of him, trying to carefully break the chokehold he had on himself. Even with his throat being wrung in his own grip, a press scream still squeezed its way out. As his grip started to slackenly, howling was suddenly stopped and replaced by an, er, ur-r-h-h-south,

the tell-tale sign of someone about to wretch. Not wanting him to vomit flat on his back, I moved to push his body to the side, all the while looking eagerly towards the doorway to see if more help had arrived but as I turned back toward him everything stopped my heart increased to a dreadful acceleration I tried to take a breath but couldn't oh there's something so dark and different when an unspeakable shock hits you like every nerve in your body every sensory input to the outside world has suddenly been cut your voice is too brittle to speak your eyes

are too afraid to close things perhaps semblances of thoughts beat desperately toward your brain only to drown before reaching its surface it had happened so quickly i could only barely process the ghostly outline of roland's face or the sudden misshapen lump in his throat fingers long wet fingers were gleaming between his teeth reaching outward from the dark pink depths they were bruised with blackish purple colors strings of shiny spittle stretched and snapped between their wriggling joints. A pungent bacterial odour reeked from those gangrenous tips. Roland's eyes rolled upward as his body heaved and let out a wretched gargle. The fingers bent forward, curling over his face like a spider on its backside and began to tug at his jaws, trying to pull them wider. Their jagged split nails scraped across his chin, his cheeks,

his nose, digging grooves into his flesh. The sound of footsteps entering the room brought me back. Another nurse had arrived. I appeared once again at Roland's face, coated now in a webwork of fresh bleeding wheels. No fingers. None at all. Together the nurse and I restrained Roland and safely injected him with a dose of B-52, 2-migram Ativan, and 5 milligram Hald in one needle, 50m. 50,000. milligram Benadryl in the other. With the collective effort of three different drugs coursing through his system, the struggles finally ceased. A lot of damage, the other nurse commented, surveying the marks on his face. We should have put him under long before this. Well, I realised then the help was none other than Alec Barnes, the Weisenheimer. Whatever

he said next never reached me. I'd already left to get him. I'd already left to get him. get some ointment for Roland's cuts. I didn't sleep well that night, dozing in and out without any hope of catching a dream. Before long I was awake and standing over the sink of the bathroom, both hands against the porcelain. Amidst the rubble of my thoughts, my brain was scavenging for answers, something that could explain what had transpired. But the answers came up short. There wasn't enough substance to it, not enough material to grasp onto. I could only imagine those fingers, their rotting paws, their twitching knuckles, jutting out of a man's mouth, trying to hoist an even larger something out of the tube of his throat.

The image made my insides feel wretched and rolled a brief nausea around my belly. Absurd. I snapped back at the disgusting thoughts. Ludicrous and disgusting. Get a hold of yourself. To give such a thing credence was unacceptable. It was a stressful moment, a fabrication of a rattle mind in a stressful situation. That's the end of the matter. No further discussion required. I gargled some mouthwash, clapped both hands against my cheeks and returned to bed, repeating the same determined temper.

But when I finally did sleep, there was no protecting my dreams. I was back there again, standing in Roland's room while his blurry shape screamed and writhed in the sheets. I tried to restrain him before he could harm himself, only to have my arms reel back on their own and grasp my throat instead. The last whiffs of breath poured out of me. In the pit of my gullet, something begins to move, clawing its way upward. I lurch forward, squeezing my eyes open and close rapidly, trying to wait myself up, but it's no use. I can only retch desperately as my head flops back and the thing inside my throat. but it forces its arrival.

My eye finds the wall, just as my shadow spouts a new bouquet of spidery horrors. The next time I saw Roland in person, it was during his supervised access to the outdoor patio. It was to give patience an airy reprieve outside the ward. Flower pots hung from the fence that enclosed the space, along with a wall painted into a mural and a few basketball hoops. Oh, Mr. Ball was adamant that I was the one to supervise

him that day. The new scratches etched into his face had healed, breaking off into faded fractal patterns. He took a seat at one of the diamond blue benches and sucked in a deep breath of air. Rain's on the way. Can you smell it? Well, hopefully not before my drive home, I sighed, catching a whiff of it myself, the freshness just before a storm. Hmm, he hummed passively, and after a short point, pause between us, popped the sudden question. You saw it, didn't you? This question sent a jolt up my spine, and, if only for a moment, flashed on my face.

He took notice of this, the liveliness in his voice kicking up an octave. He did, didn't you? What are you referring to? I asked, rolling my shoulders back. He leaned against the thermoplastic backrest of the bench. You're scared to admit it. I get it. I do. But, well, neither of us can be so lucky to deny it. My eyes wandered the patio, looking rather self-consciously for anyone else around. We were alone. He can have to be more specific for me. I'm not quite following you.

His tired, watery eyes focused on me then. That's a way for you to see them before I could say anything. otherwise you'd never believe me. I know you wouldn't. Then his split lips curled into a smile. But if you don't listen now, you won't know what you saw and you'll always be left to wander. I didn't answer, but perhaps it was the absorbed look on my face

that it queued for him to continue. I'd started with ice, he said, pausing as if to mull over that fact. I loved the texture of it, the feeling of crunching it. between my teeth in tiny crackling bits. One of the few things that could quell my anxiety. When that wasn't enough, I turned to chewing on paint chips

and sucking on coins for a good while. I was a very anxious boy, you see. A gust of wind whistle through the fence and bobbed the hanging flowers. His tongue lapped between his lips. I grew up in a wealthy home with wealthy parents. One of them was as sweet as can be, while the other was emotionally aloof. Can you guess which one father was?

He asked with a grin. The stereotypical provider, who considered the financial support to our family enough of a bond between us. Naturally, we weren't very close, and as my tendencies intensified, he and mother were thoroughly convinced it was merely a phase. Don't ask me why it wasn't, I couldn't tell you. All I knew was that my cravings for the indigestible and grew worse as I got older.

I stayed silent and listened, not daring to say anything else to throw him off points. I felt a responsibility to understand him. He'd finally opened up, no longer disappearing behind that flat stare out the window. Answers were best found during the low tide, after all. Surprisingly enough, I wasn't the only one with compulsions in our household. Roland chuckled. Oh, it was a collector. Enough of coins or old dusty vinyl.

He dabbled in other things. A canteen once slung over the shoulder of a dead soldier. A worn noose used to break necks in the 19th century. Even an ancient skull with half its dome cleaved by some horrible means of torture. Yeah, these were the things that interested him. Much to my mother's dismay. Little pieces of the dark, he enjoyed fighting. I'm not even sure where he got these antique piano, but I know that every so often I'd hear the same two keys get struck in the middle of the night.

So one day, while he and mother were away on a business trip, I snuck into his studio to look at the private collection myself. One of them caught my eye, a piece of jewelry that once belonged to a dead woman, said to have cursed her with an early death. I felt drawn to it like an impulse that compelled me to believe that somehow it was mine, that it belonged to me. So, I swallowed it. A look of distress then crossed him. I was scared that night, absolutely petrified that he'd come back to find the ring missing out of his collection. Then the following night, it had passed through me.

I fished it out of my waist, cleaned it intensely, and returned it back to the collection on harm. My father was none the wiser. Soon enough, I did it again, this time with the bone of a black cat used in a witch's hex. It started to feel like a game, but soon it became more of a ritual between us. He'd bring something home, I'd swallow it, even if just a piece of it. Wash off the blood and stool as I passed it, placed it back there. Well, sure, there may have been some pain and slight discolour in here and there, but never enough of him to notice. I felt good, celestial even.

A father and I finally found something in common. We both had a liking for objects. His face then fell, becoming ghostly stoic as his voice had lost its shape. When it came time for me to move out and move on with my life, I had to put an end to our little game. He never did find out what I've been doing to his collection, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I'd managed to, so I thought.

to wean myself off of them. But as time passed, I began to have strange thoughts about all those cursed, hearted things, like how they felt suddenly different in my hands after I'd passed them. Almost like the energy they once held was no longer there, like it had been left behind somewhere inside me.

What if all that energy, or whatever it was they had, was then left to brew and ferment over the years, until they just ate it into something else. He rubbed a pale hand over his eyes. chest something that finally once out as his voice finally trailed off into silence i spoke up what do you mean once out exactly the glaze over his eyes had returned i'd like to go back inside now please that was the last and the longest conversation we'd ever have together and he was done sharing that day i tried to stray my thoughts away from that conversation conversation. It was too much to digest. But the rest of that day I no longer felt like myself

inside the ward, almost like the weight there had become too crushing, like something were about to crest over the rise, and all I could do was brace for an impact I couldn't see. What happened next occurred on a late Sunday evening, three days after Roland Bull's unshakable silence. I was making my usual rounds in the ward and stopped by to check on him. I knocked three times, opened his door, and stepped routinely inside. Roland was not in his bed or stationed at his usual spot at the writing desk. The door to his bathroom was inch slightly open, the sound of a sink running coming from inside. Here, Mr. Boor, just here to check on you. Is everything all right? I called.

There was no answer. Mr. Bull, are you all right? Still nothing, only the steady draw of running water. Without warning, the bathroom door swung open, rebounding off the rubber stop, and then rebounding again off Roland Bull's body. He'd blundered out backwards on his heels, both hands locked around his neck. His face was flushed into a darkish plum color, heaps of phone dribbled out of his mouth, rolling over his lips which had gone blue, tears streamed out of his eyes which bulge from their sockets. A single sound emerged from him, the gargle note of air trapped in his throat. Choking, my thought screamed.

Oh, he's choking. I grabbed at him, spinning his body around as both my arms locked around his waist. Never in my life had I performed the hymnick, but in that moment it was due or die. I pressed hard into his abdomen with a quick upward thrust, practically lifting him off his feet. His body jerked back, but there was no luck dislodging whatever was inside his throat. The door opened. Someone else had heard the commotion. I looked feverishly toward them, while administering another ineffective thrust.

The other person was none other than Alec Barnes. Even amid a panic, I despised his presence there greatly. What's wrong? What's happening? he asked, which only infuriated me. Joking, I snapped, yanking Mr. Bull back yet again. Hot blood coursed through my arms. I forced down a swallow, trying to wet my dry mouth. But in that same instant, with both my arms fastened around him, I'd felt something peculiar,

the sudden shift of his insides, an almost tumbling motion, far too pronounced to ignore. The Weissenheimer stepped back into my peripheral. Let me do it. I can... I've got it, I hissed at him, hoisting Mr. Bull's body upward again, harder than I ever thought I could. His chest heaved as more stern.

strained gasps came out of it. Bits of his spittle slopped over my arms. He then lurched forward in my grasp. It felt as though his inside as it all decompressed at once, like an airtight container being popped off. His throat opened. He let out a watery scream of pain and retching. Somewhere near us, Alec made a noise.

Something that sounded like, Oh God, dear God. Something heavy hit, hit, the floor. Roland Bull went limp in my arms. Alec Barnes let out a scream. Frantic movement skittered across the room, like the sound of a fish flopping about a dock, followed by something being torn out of the wall. My eyes raced around like the slew of everything at once had sucked all the blood from my brain, flushing its data. I checked on Roland, who had slumped over like a puppet in my arms. He was unresponsive, with his eyes staring blankly forward and his lips hanging loosely open.

I checked for his pulse and found no rhythm. Lying him on the ground, I lined both hands on top of the other and pumped until the strings of my wrist burned. Then I pinched his nose and forced air down his windpipe. He wasn't working. As I did this, my eyes traced the floor, following the thin film of blood and bile that trailed away from us. First to the bathroom and then to the vanity, where the air vent below it now hung open. The right side of its grill pulled entirely out of place. Alec Barnes was frozen in its spots.

The shock that it distorted his face was almost too vivid to be real, and even as more staff arrived, he still remained there, stricken with fear. Roland Bull was pronounced dead by a medical examiner, the manner of death and esophageal rupture. Several tears had perforated the walls of his throat, along with a dislocated jaw, entirely unhinged from his skull. We weren't yet sure what had caused the rupture, nothing could be traced other than the aftermath of ruined tissue. But rumours had floated around between staff of possible causes, but did not hold much water to them. Truth be told, not many of us knew how to handle the loss of a patient, not otherwise terminal.

As for what came of Alec Barnes, he, He'd quit spontaneously and left without further notice. Try as I did to pry information out of him. He dismissed me, shaking his head and repeating that he'd see nothing. End of story. I could see the panic in his eyes, held back by two thin sacks threatening to tear at any moment. Not a single particle of self-importance left.

Or perhaps I've even felt the same way that perhaps I did catch a glimpse of something that day. A grey sleek of a shape pulling itself through the opened air duct. Membrinous, slug-like. But I must avert those thoughts. Sort them out properly, dissect them one by one. That's the only way I can keep myself together. Yet despite all these, the strangeness around our ward has continued to circulate.

Patients have been claiming to hear something in the walls. Even some of our staff had reported it as well. A quick, insipid scratching, coming. from the ducks to the point where they believe an animal is trapped up there. As many times as we've had those vents checked, there's still no proof for such a claim. I've heard it myself from time to time, sometimes even awfully close by, just on the other side of the duck's cover. But I do not peer inside. I don't even risk what I might see. The source of the noises. The wards.

newest arrival, where the caterpillars die, fear is only as deep as the mind allows. That was my mother's favourite idiom. Growing up, she never hesitated to use it against my childish fits, whether I was upset about sleeping alone in my bed or trying to convince her there was an ony in the closet. It's what she lived by, even as the cancer finished eating her lungs. When the light in her eyes disappeared, I grew to loathe every syllable of that him burning with a blistering hatred i knew that i would never hear it spoken in her voice again and it became a cruel reminder of change and yet without it i wouldn't have survived the horror

i'm about to share it's funny though how something you've rejected for half your life can turn out to be the only thing holding you together so when i was 13 three months after mom's passing my father told me I'll be going to Akita to stay with my uncle during dad's marine exhibition in Hokkaido I wanted to die but not literally of course only about as much as I wanted to die in the dentist chair before the needle slid into my gums but this pain wasn't going to be a quick pinch and it was going to last for the next week wasn't seeing uncle hoary I was dreading though it was my cousin Sauta. Dad's cell phone rang.

Moshi. Moshi. Yes. Pulling in now. Okay. A fair size two-story home with a thatched roof came into view. It fit perfectly with the other picturesque houses in this secluded community straddled by deciduous forests. A slate path of stepping stone stretched to the front door when my uncle waited.

A woman stood next to him. Probably the new girlfriend, dad had met. She was wearing a Nordic grey sweater. About time, Horrie called to us as we poured ourselves out of the car. Did you get lost or something? My father closed the door. Or maybe if someone knew the specifics of their address better. Learned to listen better,

Horri jeered at my father, exaggerating his smile. Now, where is my yuki? Hi, Uncle Harry. I grabbed my bag from the trunk and walked over. His arms wove around me in a tight heart. He then gestured to the woman next to him. Yuki, this is Hina. Hina Otori.

She nodded her head at me and extended her hand. I smiled and shook it. Her black hair was very short and complimented her young features. Oh, it's nice to finally meet you, she said, with an ivory white smile. You'll be staying on the upper floor, second door on the left, Ori said. Sauta's room will be right next to it, so. Go say hi to him. I wandered upstairs and found the guest room

while my father caught up with his brother-in-law. Although my uncle and his ex-wife had separated months ago, the room still had Aunt Marquis' decor scheme, a tiny space full of bright, vivid colours, and furniture that screamed dollhouse for a special touch. I imagined an unblinking eye peering in around the flowery curtains and shuddered. The entire house had probably looked like this

at some point before the divorce was finalised. I plop my bag on the tatami floor mat and sighs. What week, my thoughts groaned. It's just a week, right? The door beside mine was the restroom, which had a sign on the door. Broken, use other downstairs, it read, next to what was most likely Sauter's room. I stepped up to the door and stood there for a bit. I knew that it would be rude to not at least say hi to him, but I couldn't help hesitate.

My cousin wasn't a rude or overbearing person, but his obsessions worried me. We're both going to be 14 this March. Our birthday is precisely a week apart. The majority of my memories of growing up with him involved his eerie fascination with insects. At family gatherings, he'd often be outside interacting with creepy, crawly little things that he could catch. But Sota wasn't the kind of kid who enjoyed pulling off bugs' limbs or pitting them against each other in a plastic content. a deathmatch, he preferred to treat them as friends. He gave them names, voices, different personalities. All he was missing were tiny clothes. And, uh, well, he collected insects. I ran

from them. That was the gaping chasm that separated us. I didn't doubt that his latest collection of new friends waited for me behind his door. I'll pop in, say hello, and pop out, my thoughts. As I was about to knock, I had a muffled conversation on the other side. Soto was already talking to someone. Just as I decided to say hello later, he said, come in. I did so and shut the door behind me. The inside was dark, very dark, save for the bright laptop screen outlining a seated body, a few streaks of sunlight peeking around the floral curtains. You can turn on the light, he said, distracted awareness sure your majesty I sighed flicking the light switch after the darkness melted away I saw the hanging scroll paintings and mounted pieces of

calligraphy that covered his walls where I expected several diagrams of different insects synatomies joined them a frame picture of Aunt Markey sat on his desk situated on a table below his window was a miniature cherry blossom tree with missing branches sharing the space next to it was a foreboding glass terrarium. Upon hearing my voice, he turned to look at me. Oh, hey, he said quietly, rolling towards me on the chair's castor wheels. We gave each other a light, two-second hug, and then he returned to his laptop to shut it off.

I saw you pull in, I wasn't sure when you'd gone back. I shruged. You sounded like you were already talking to someone. Oh, that was just my mom, he replied in the same monotone. she scypes me from her trip whenever she has time where is she i asked europe she's touring france right now oh he suddenly cried with spontaneous eagerness catching me off guard do you want to meet someone he rolled his chair toward the window and ushered me to follow he was no doubt referring to the glass container "'It must pop in, pop out,' my thoughts reminded me. "'Pop in and pop out.' At that moment I wanted to tell him I wasn't interested,

but the words never reached my mouth. It didn't take much to hurt, sort of. His feelings were like pieces of peppermache, living in a world of knives. He stared at measily, sure, wafted out of him. I'd feel awful destroying that ray of excitement on his face within the first five minutes. As long as I didn't have to touch anything, There was no immediate problem. As I joined him at the window,

repulsive images were already firing off in my head. A spider outweighing my hand with its hairy limbs, a mantis with those alien claws folded in prayer to thank the evil gods for giving it wings, horrible things like that. I looked down, peaked inside and saw a horrible, enormous, nothing. The missing branches of the cherry blossom were planted, in a patch of black soil.

Can you see her? He asked eagerly. I finally did. Attached to one of the brittle stems was a worm-like thing, but no worm I'd ever seen before. This looked much worse. His bloated, squishy skin

was black and orange with a dark, pointy tail. Four spindles protruded from its backside like black curling tendrils. Goose pumps puffed up my arms. Fear is only as deep as the mind allows, my thoughts repeated reluctantly. Her name is Kodami. She's a Brahmin caterpillar.

So to lower his finger an inch from its chewing mandibles. When she turns into a mott, she could have a wingspan of up to seven inches. How do you know she's a she? I mumbled. I just do, he shrugged. Do you want to hold her? They don't bite. No, no, no. I'm good. I said, promptly backing away. Just the thought of that thing's rippling, squishy mass, touching my skin made me want to die again.

I tried to think of anything I could say to change the subject. So, um, what do you think of Hina? I asked. His smile melted. Dark cloudiness replaced the enthusiastic look. He bit deeply into the skin of his bottom lip. It was clear I had accidentally struck a nerve. Before I had the chance to apologise, he answered me. I don't know.

Mom isn't going to like her when she comes back, though. I wasn't sure what he meant by that. You mean, after her trip? He looked right through me and tightened the left side of his face into a smirk. Yeah, after her trip. I finished unpacking and waved my father goodbye as he left for his new venture, leaving me to sulk over mine. I spent the rest of the day killing as much tight.

as possible with the books and handheld games that I brought. And that wasn't enough to sedate me. I'd wander around the tea garden in the backyard. I slept well that night and thankfully did not wake up to an eye watching me sleep through the windows. When morning came, I went to the kitchen. Hina was there standing over a purple kettle. Good morning, Yuki, she said, flashing that same ivory smile. Breakfast isn't ready, I'm afraid.

Care for some Ulong while you wait. Oh, thank you. I took a seat at the table. The aroma of dry roasted leaves graced my nose. She poured some tea into a mug and placed it in front of me. Your uncle always likes a hot batch waiting for him when he wakes up. It's the only tea he ever asks for. I blew on it, slurps him up, and then gasped.

Oh, burn yourself, she asked. I looked at my dark reflection in the brew. The complex woody flavour mixed in the... nicely with a subtle creamy nuttiness it wasn't perfect but it was close for a moment i felt happy then the next moment i felt sad oh sorry it's just my mom used to make her tea similarly it was her special tongue and who do you think showed her how my uncle said strolling in while heena preemptively handed him a cup he smacked a quick kiss on her cheek i blinked at him but mum said had a secret method.

Well, he grinned at me. She may have perfected it, but I'm the one who gave her the idea, mind you. I don't think ours will ever be as good as hers, though. His grin fainted. Sotter then walked in and poked his head into the fridge. Hey, kiddo. His father greeted him. How did you sleep?

Gina asked. He didn't ask her, just muttered under his breath. Would you like a cup of a... No, he interrupted. audaciously. Sauta, Hori said, uncharacteristically stern. His son gave him a passing glance and returned to the stairs, leaving an invisible heaviness behind. Sorry about that, he told me, pressing and massaging his left temple. I took another sip of tea. And later that same day, Sauta wanted to show me one of the nature trails near their house. If anything, I figured it

would help the day pass a little faster. Horri's only condition was for us to be back before sunset or we go to sleep hungry. Luckily, the day still have plenty of its golden hours left, just in case he made us take the tactical flashlight that he kept in the garage. We followed the neighbourhood's gently sloping hill, which quickly led us to the park. Behind its empty playground was the trail entrance, a boardwalk that cut through the old growth forest. The cold breeze sighed between the beech tree canopies. So to what a walled, we had whistled every time he heard his. The wooden path brought us to a bridge hovering over a small crepe. The moss floating over the surface smelled like wet fertilizer, the kind of janitor used

on the school lawn, only much more pungent. Before I had a chance to cross, so did his hand clamped over my wrist. I want to show you something cool. His eyes suddenly had that electric eagerness again. What is it? I asked cautiously. In one swift movement, he leaped over the wooden railing and walked headfirst into the foliage. Come on! His voice whipped back at me. Really? I groaned angrily and sluggishly followed.

What else was I supposed to do? The sheer lack of a distinct path to follow made me nervous. But it appeared he was following the creep. Some gangly saplings crunched under my shoes. No matter how many times I tried to coax him back to the tree. trail, all I get was one of his whistles harmonising with the wind. He came across an abandoned railroad track. It was, for the most part, buried beneath a bed of weeds.

Whatever root its ancient metal and wooden tithes had once followed now belonged to the underbrush. A rusted rail spike was jutting from its iron harness like a snap bone. I thought that this was maybe the cool thing my cousin wanted to show me, until he stepped over it and continued. The tree-top thickets above us darkened the area. Less and less sunlight slipped through. Piles of dead leaves were everywhere, the occasional bell-shaped mushroom poking out of them. The trees here were different, too.

Their bark was covered in sunken dead cankers. Slimy brown ooze leaked out of them like pus from a popped zit. The visual made me cringe. I didn't like it here. It was cold. It was different. The air felt stale and damp. Here, sort of said merrily, finally breaking the awful silence.

The Tory gate stood over us, the sort of gate you'd find leading into a Shinto shrine. Its large structure was held flimsily together with decaying wood. The horizontal crossbar connecting both pillars had a tablet caiting slime mould in its centre, impossible to read. It was honestly a miracle of the gate was still sanding. beyond it was a set of rocky steps covered in fuzzy orange clusters that led up the hill in a disorganized mess i found this place two months ago don't bother asking how i did just happened it's where i met kadami your caterpillar i asked to which he nodded i clamped my nose shut to keep out the musty smell of wet socks and rotting cedar okay you showed me can we head back now "'Not yet,' he answered, and began hiking up the rocky steps towards the top of the hill.

I followed, losing my footing a few times on loose patches of dirt. Situated atop the incline was a large dead tree. A clamber to the top and joined him. The foul odour infecting the air was stronger up here. He pointed at something in front of us. A sculpture stood at the foot of the lonesome tree. It was clearly of a naked woman. roughly the same height as one too.

Her copper skin was dark and coated with a film of green residue. Spiny black catkins with red and black spindles covered the majority of her body. A disturbingly thin neck was bent to the side as though broken. Not just that, but her mouth was opening a tooth bearing grimace that displayed a set of uncomfortably realistic teeth and guns. Her tight skeleton-like arms were digging their fingers into her chest, portraying great agony. Watch this, Sota whispered.

He clutched a small rock and then tossed it at the woman's leg. The rock clacked loudly against it. The sculpture's skin started to move, wriggling and squirming with life. The slim, spiny objects I'd mistaken for catkins were caterpillars, swarms of them all writhing over each other in tight jerking clumps. They warmed out of her eyes, her open mouth, her ears everywhere nightmares could reach. I staggered back and fell over, nearly sending myself spine first down the hill. I leaped into my throat. My muscles tensed and refused to move.

I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. I wanted to run, but I couldn't. All I could do was let the deafening static wash out my thoughts. The static always came when the fear started to be. blossom. I couldn't turn to any fight or flight instinct buried within. I could only freeze. Eat your hard out natural selection. Praming caterpillars, every last one. Sota muttered. They all come to the sculpture, lots and lots of them, but none become moths. They just die, sooner or later. He wasn't wrong. The ground at the woman's feet was riddled with their dry, deflated bodies.

Kadami didn't want to be here. She wanted to come home with me. His eyes then scanned the small corpses. What kind of caterpillar never wants to fly someday? He sighed and then lifted his sleeve to itch his arm. Something was written on his skin. Before I could read it, he tugged his sleeve back down. He turned to me and smiled wildly.

It's getting dark. We can head back now. We made it home just before the... the peak of sunsets. Hina was cooking tapaniaki. Ah, the cornerstone of our love, said Uncle Horry. Unfortunately, she didn't join us to eat any of it afterward, which sort of seemed cheerful about it. For the last few weeks, Hina had been experiencing spontaneous episodes of feeling unwell.

Sometimes she felt better in minutes, and other times it took hours. The food looked great, but my appetite had shriveled up and crawled away. I couldn't stop thinking about it. woman, the horrible woman, drowning in a living, wriggling coat. I tried to push the thought back. Useless. That god-awful image wasn't going anywhere. Later that night, I dreamed that I was back there, standing in the abandoned shrine.

The woman's grimy face and broken neck faced me. The mouth started to move. Yuki, the hushed voice said. Where are you, Yuki? The voice was cruelly familiar. I gasped. Mom? Yes, Yugi, she whispered and crumed.

Oh, I miss you. Mom! I screamed and ran to her. The ground squelched and clung to my souls like thick, muddy pools. The face staring at me was no longer the pain-infused face of the woman. It was Mom. Her neck wasn't broken. and she was smiling.

I want to move, you, keeper. My legs won't bend. She said softly to me. Will you help me move again? I wrap my arms around her cold metal skin. Yes, please come home. Please come back to me,

I screamed, unable to wipe the cascading tears. Her mouth elongated, and a flurry of brahaming caterpillars slither out. I engulfed her swollen, her body up into a twitching silhouette. Will you help me, Yuki? I'll do anything, I wept. Just come back.

Mommy will come home, but first you must let me in. Let me breathe again. Let me move again. Let me inside. Yes, I blubbered, thoughtlessly digging my hands into the mesh of lava and pulling out two meaty handfuls. They struggled and jerked in my grip.

all at once I forced them into my mouth their flexible squishy bodies pop between my teeth their spindles cut into my gums in the roof of my mouth like a dentist's needles bitter slimy flavors covered my tongue as I choked them down I startled myself awake looking wildly around for a few blurry seconds

no shrine no caterpillars just cold sweat in a miserably tight bladder climbed out of bed and wore next door the pleasurer's downstairs sign was mocking me still not fully awake i grogily stepped downstairs and crossed through the dining room to reach the west bathroom after relieving myself i washed my hands and headed back but this time i froze the lights were on hena was sitting on her knees at the dinner table it had to have been two or three in the morning by then why is she up so early i thought I passed by her, intending to apologize if I'd woken her up. Something wasn't right. She was doubled over the short table, blowing out deep, concentrated breaths,

and the blue sleeves of her jimbe hung loosely from her wrists. Her neck was bent, and her shoulders were hunched and locked stiff. A black pool of sumi ink had been spilled on the table with a pungent, sickly, sweet odor. She was dipping her fingers into it, a slopply writing on her left arm, repeating the same characters again and again. Offering. I leaned towards her. Is everything all right?

She abruptly twisted toward me. Her sleepless eyes were bloodshot and rapidly rolling around in their sockets, utterly independent of each other. She croaked through a grimacing toothy smile. The wall touched my spine before I realized I was backing up. Hina stood up, and her neck slumped to the side and hung her. She turned to me, eyes swiveling like a camellions, streaks of saliva slipping down her chin, and slowly approached.

Her legs seemed rigid as she clumsily forced them to bend, like a puppet learning how they were. I pressed further against the wall, wishing I could fade away into it. My mind was saying, run, but my muscles run. rejected the order. The static was taking control. Just scream, my thoughts echoed. Wake someone up. Just scream. Her wet fingers grasped my wrist. She leaned forward, her musty breath, smelling like old, used up mothballs, and pressed a finger against her lip. She let go of me and trudged awkwardly

to the front door, where she disappeared into the night. My trembling legs drop me to the floor. I'm not sure how long I sat there, trying to take back control of my sporadic gasping and disabled motor functions. Once I was able to feel my legs again, I rushed into Horace room, nearly giving him a heart attack in the process. What is going on? He jumped up in a drowsy panic. I told him what had happened, showing my wrist, smeared with black fingerprints. He poured himself up and wandered into the dining room. The black pool of spilled inkless coagia.

on the table. Ori reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone and dialed a number into it. From the front door came the vibrating z-z-z-z-d of a cell phone on the floor. Heena's cell phone. He picked it up and glanced at me, concerned. Did she take the car? Before I could answer, he was already checking the garage. The car was unmoved. I heard him curse under his breath. I'm going to take a look around. Stay here and keep. case she comes back, all right? I nodded to him and sat on the chairs while he got dressed and headed out with a flashlight. He'd come back shortly after, flustered and empty-handed. She isn't anywhere close by. Let me make a quick call. The call was to the police. An officer came by shortly

after the call. His barrel-shaped chest protruded out of his dark blue uniform. He had dry scabby lips that screamed for chapstick. My uncle talked with him while I wait to in the kitchen, washing the ink off with a wet cloth. I idly wondered if I should wake soda, but decided not. The officer came in and asked me questions, one after the other. How do you feel about your uncle's girlfriend? Has she ever acted differently around you? Has she ever told you about any secret?

Well, I answered him as best I could. He smacked his chap lips together and finalized his notes about Heena's physical description, and the jimbe she was wearing. Given the circumstances, we aren't able to conduct a search for an adult who just doesn't wish to be home. I can hold on to the information you've given me for the time being.

If you've not heard anything for at least 24 hours or have any reason to fear for her safety, we can provide more assistance. Please keep us in form. He bowed and returned to the park cruiser. We watched him drive off. Uncle Horrie looked at me. Get some sleep.

sleep, Puky, I'm sure she'll turn up in the morning. I nodded to him, I went to bed, where I laid for hours staring at the ceiling. As exhausted as I was, my mind had no intention of resting. I called my father, who answered grogily. I told him what had happened and how scared I was. He promised to cut his Hokkaido exhibition short and said he'd get me the day after tomorrow. Twenty-four hours never felt farther away. I was scared, I'm not quite sure what to do with myself.

Why had Hina ridden on her arm? What was wrong with her eyes? What was happening in this house? The next morning the cold breeze from the day before I brought an overcast grey sky. Orr he was making Oolong tea alone in the kitchen. He didn't say too much, his look of exhausted defeat said enough in itself. Sleep must have been scarce for him also.

Soto was in the backyard, seated in the garden. His elbow was lifted and pointed outward as though striking an invisible person. He was giggling and talking out loud, a jaunty ear-to-ear grin radiating from his face. I thought he was talking to himself at first, before spying the glass terrarium in his lap and the caterpillar's four spindles crawling across his arm. "'I can't believe it!' he sniggered quietly. "'I just can't believe it, Godham!' He didn't hear from Hina that day.

nothing but silence through the morning, noon and evening. All we could do was wait while the pale clouds wafted over us. Despite this sort of upbeat attitude never left him. He was joking, smiling, and perkier than usual. I'd never seen his spirits higher. It wasn't right, and it also didn't seem real. He was hiding something, and for both Horrie and Heena's sakes, I had to find out what it was before tomorrow.

Around sundown, or he left for another drive around the neighbourhood, another attempt to find her. It was now or never. Just as I was about to tap on Sauter's door, I heard him talking on the other side. I pressed my ear to the frame and listened intently. "'Don't understand,' he said softly. "'It's okay now. Your trip can be over.' Distressed weight lowered his voice. another voice replied too quiet and distorted to make out clearly but i was almost certain i heard the word

complicated there was a bang on the table i don't care he cried i did this for you so why can't you do this for me you need to be here dad needs you here more distorted words more complicated his voice rose to a volley of incoherent screams. There was another loud thump and muffled sombing. No more talking. The discussion must have been over. I creaked open the door, slid inside and gently closed it. The room was dark and the laptop's white void screen once again blinded me. Curled up on the bed where the light couldn't reach was a vaguely outlined body. A desk chair lay on the floor, probably thrown there. "'Was that your mother?' I asked quietly. "'No, answer.'

I scooped up the desk chair and planted myself next to him. Whenever I was upset, my mum would tell me to cheer up before my face got stuck that way. The dark lump that was my cousin didn't move. His stifled sniffling sounded in the sheets. "'Come on, just talk to me, okay?' "'It did everything right,' he spoke faintly. everything right everything the woman said to do and it still isn't working and she said it would so why isn't it i rolled the castor wheels closer reminded myself of one of those psychiatrists you see on

tv what woman the woman in my dreams he said rolling over to face me his eyes were wide and drenched with tears blotches of light reflected off his wet pupils she came because i brought "'Kodami here. That's how you let her in, through the caterpillars. "'She said Hina would leave and mum would come back. "'She's real, Huky. I've seen her. "'I didn't like the serious Nilsini's voice. "'The look in his eyes was both real and terrifying. "'I mean, sure, there was living in your own world

"'where bugs had voices and their own personalities, "'but this was different. "'This was the real world, where people went missing. "'Look, it was just a dream you had. "'Probably from that creepy place. I had one too. Listen, if you know what happened to Hina or where she is, you have to tell me. Abruptly, in a whirlwind of speed, he leaped out of bed and paced around.

Words in flaky, dried ink, were written down his right hour. Hina, Otori. Curse! The woman is a liar. Why didn't it work? She came because of Kodami, so if I take Kadami back home, then maybe she will leave two. He dashed to the glass case and scooped it up in his arms. I can fix this.

And then he bolted for the door. I grabbed his shoulder and tried to yank him back. Wait, wait, you need to calm it. Something struck me in the head. It took me a moment to realize it was his elbow. Pain throbbed in my temple and blood rushed to the forming goose head. My knees buckled and dropped me to the floor. I could hear the sound of feet pattering and swinging open the front door.

Hot tears left dark blotches on my shirt. I thought about Hina, I thought about Ulongtie, and I thought about Mom. I'm sorry, I blubbered pitifully to myself. Felt like I was losing her all over again. That stupid idiom bounced around my aching skull, and I wanted to tell it to shut up. Why was I even crying? and sort of said he'd come right back, but what if he doesn't? I blinked my eyes, both marinating in tears.

But what if he doesn't? Here I was crying my eyes out while he was going to that awful place all alone. No, I couldn't let something happen to him. I couldn't let Horrie lose him too. I reached into my pocket and called Horri's self. It rang emptyly and delivered me to the voicemail. A few more attempts, same result. Of course, why not?

I thought sorely. I texted him a message filled with misspellings and panic. Well, he'd read it eventually and it'd probably give him a heart attack, but it was all I could think to do. Before any more regretful thoughts could sprout up, I grabbed his tactical flashlight from the garage and rushed through the front door. I raced down the sloping street to beat the sundown clock. I'd find Sauter and bring him back.

Then there'd be no more need for hysterics. Well, I hope so anyway. I crossed the empty playground and reached the trail entrance. As much as I tried to fight them back, poisonous thoughts were still breaking through the monsoon. Riggling caterpillars all over her skin. I pressed on, tried to ignore them. A slender, a broken neck.

The damp, mottie smell hit. when I reached the bridge that grimacing open mouth those real looking teeth both my hands gripped the wooden railing let me in Yuki let me in sharp already I mumbled to the ugly thoughts and hopped over if not for the creek I've completely lost my sense of direction everything looked the same especially with so little sunlight breaking through the canopies it's only gonna get done darker from here. Something metallic crunched under my shoe. I reached the abandoned railroad track. Still no sign of him though. He must have already crossed. Something also felt different about the

tracks, like something was missing. Regardless, I pushed forward. The forest was losing what little light it had left from the day. My eyes were playing tricks on me, meshing the branches and shrubs into monstrous shapes. Then I saw Sotter, hunched over against a tree. He was breathing heavily, clearly exhausted from the run here. He pressed the glass terrarium carrying his precious cargo into his side. I quickly caught up with him. Are you done running away now?

He didn't raise his head. No, I... I still need to... I still need to take Kadami back there. I rest of my hand on his shoulder. It's getting dark. Your dad's going to be worried about us. Do you think he needs that on his plate too?

Please, Yuki. He lifted his red, weary face. A thread of spittle dangled from his mouth. Just let me do this first. I have to do this. Then we can go back, okay? Why not squish the thing and be done with it? He shook his head.

She'll come back. I don't know how, but I know she will. I took her out of that place. Now I have to take her back. I sighed deeply. I thought of wrestling him all the way back to the trail and then dragging him back home sounded miserable. It'll be quick, right?

Yes, he said with exasperated relief and started walking again. I'm sorry I hit you. I didn't mean to. It's all right. I'll just have to get you back for it later. The shrine gate in all its decrepit glory was waiting for us. That pungent, rotting smell was back, floating through the air.

It had gotten worse somehow. The earthy wet sock smell had intensified to an outhouse full of mouldy meat. I'm going to wait here. You go do it and come back. I don't want to see that thing again, I said, clamping my nose shut. Before he took another step, we heard a sound. A crackling of dead leaves being repeatedly crunched. Footsteps, coming closer.

A set of fingers curled themselves over one of the gates supporting pillars and pulled a trudging body forward. It was Heena, slugging towards us with unbalanced steps. Her bare feet caked with grime. The seams on her dirt-stained jimbe split to the point that it was virtually falling off of her. Her head swayed limp, on her shoulders. Stretched across her face was that ugly, twisted smile, and those eyes, they were still twisting freely in their sockets. Things were moving all over, clusters of spindly caterpillars scrambling endlessly across her body. Before I even realized it, the crippling fear had already squeezed between my joints. My heart rattled around in my ribcage, trying to burst its way to freedom. sort of stepped forward and dropped to his knees in front of her he was saying something but it was difficult to hear anything over the deafening static sorry take back didn't want this

he had clenched a handful of his hair when he screamed and struggled in her grip dropping kadami's terrarium into the dirt she breathed stiffly and croaking moans that sounded like from behind her back her other arm branded. Brandished between her dirt cake fingers was a rusted train spine. I stood there, succumbing to paralysis. My thoughts couldn't free themselves. I was losing myself to the static. This isn't real. It's just a bad dream. No, it isn't. I'm somewhere else, somewhere safe. No, you are. A scream broke through. Is that soda? someone's hurting him i have to help you're gonna have to move before even realizing it i'd fired into a sprint the day's muscles in my legs were pumping like steam-powered machinery i was scared absolutely terrified that it didn't matter i was moving my mother's idiom rang off the walls of my skull

guided by her voice fear is only as deep as the mind allows I swung the tactical flashlights. His toothed-haired met Hina's face and splattered a caterpillar on her cheek into a blue-green paste. Her neck swung back with a loud grunt. Although she stumbled a bit, her finger still clenched Sauta's hair. Three bloody wheels opened on her still smiling face. Put her back! Sauta yelled, batting at Hina with his small fists. Put Kudomi back!

All rationality was gone. Maybe he was right. Perhaps everything would turn back to normal. The terrarium was lying on its side. I ran toward it and shone the flashlight inside. The caterpillar was crawling along the tipped black soil. I took the flashlight into my pocket and cupped the small thing in my hands. I couldn't believe what I was doing.

The feeling of its small, grubby legs tickling my palms and it shivers up my spine. As I ran for the gate, Heena swayed in my direction. Her fingers unhooked from Soda's hair, and she hurled herself at me with a shocking burst of speed. I started out the slope, doing everything in my power to ignore the harsh, throaty sounds behind me and the tickling sensation between my palms. The hand locked around my ankle, I tumbled forward into the dirt. When I looked back, Heena's eyes were no longer rolling. they were dead set on me her arm rose displaying the rust-coated spike i screamed trying to kick my free leg at her but my awkward position on the slope made it difficult she struck with the spike i forced my body to roll to the side my ankle her hand still clamped around it popped sparks flues the train spike struck one of the stone steps tight searing pain resists

from my ankle up to my leg. She made a guttural, cackling sound and hoisted the spike again. But this time Soto was behind her, the glass terrarium held over his head. He smashed it over her, sending a fine spray of glass and grime everywhere. Her grip slackened, just enough for me to escape. I pushed off my elbows and got back to my feet. I trekked the rest of the way up the hill, fighting through the sharp pain in my hands. ankle. The sculpture was waiting for me below the lonesome, rotting tree. Its frozen grimace matched

Heena's perfectly, and at this time there wasn't a single caterpillar on its filmy, green skin. Heena tromped up the hill as I staggered towards a sculpture. I wasn't sure what to expect. Would this even do anything? A horrible, guttful scream came out of her as I forced the caterpillar between the sculpture's realistic teeth and into its coppery gullings. The train spike slipped from Heena's hands. She took a few weak steps and fell limply to the ground like a filthy ragdoll. The numerous caterpillar she was wearing all toppled off of her and curled into unmoving ovals. Her clasped.

My swelling ankle couldn't handle any more. So to help me back up, supporting me with my arm over his shoulder. I'm sorry. He was weeping uncontrollably. I'm still not sure if he was apologising to Hina or me. We left her behind with the sculpture and the caterpillars, who worshipped it no more. Just as we staggered out of the trail's entryway,

we saw Horry in the parking area speaking to the same barrel-chested officer as before, most likely because of my message. He quickly spied us and dashed from the officer to meet us halfway. He pulled us into a tight embrace. What happened? is everything all right i'm so sorry i didn't answer your calls the officer followed shortly after my cousin and i looked at each other with the same adult uncertainty the aftermath of everything and left our minds haggard and broken even i wasn't sure what exactly the truth of what happened was

we found her in the forest sort of said quietly to the man with the chap lips a tear trailing down his cheek and know where she is I can take you there. An ambulance and a few other officers arrived at the scene. Both Sotter and his father accompanied them back into the woods while I stayed with one of the EMTs to have my ankle treated. They gave me some ice and wrapped it in an elastic brace. After some time, everyone returned. Horri was wearing a face I'd never seen before, a dazed, foggy stare, like a ghost trying to remember how to feel. they asked him to remove us from the scene and to return home for the night maybe in touch the drive home was long and quiet we poured into the driveway walked into the house and quietly went to our beds no one said a word i wanted to say something or anything but absolutely nothing could clear that troubled air none of us were going to find sleep that night i kept the closet like to say something

light on it provided some comfort from the shadows that were continually morphing into an upraised arm waiting to pierce my heart with its rusted spike when the sun rose again i started packing my things now and then i died the window expecting to see my father's car pull up at any moment i heard someone crying downstairs the kitchen was empty but the crying came from the connecting hallway "'Horry was standing there facing the wall, his face buried in his forearm. "'I could tell he was doing his best to stifle the sounds, but failing miserably. "'There had to be something I could do. But what?' "'An idea struck. I hobbled to the purple kettle.

"'When he came into the kitchen, a cup of oolong tea was waiting for him on the table. "'He looked at me, puzzled at first, but then he gave me a subtle smile. I watched as he picked up the drink, blew on the steaming liquid, and sipped. He suddenly winced. It was probably the poor taste. Sorry, I'm a lousy tea-maker. I shook my head. No, no, he said, waving his fingers at me.

It just called me off guard how familiar the taste is. It's perfect. My dad eventually pulled into the driveway. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to give Sauter a proper. goodbye through his locked bedroom door. It was later released that Hina Autori was found dead at the scene. But according to pathology reports, her time of death was the night she disappeared. The same night she'd walked out the front door.

The next time I saw Sota was at the memorial service held for Hina. For the most part he disregarded me, every so often granting me a passive glance. It wasn't until the end that he pulled. me aside and started talking. Everything has gone, he said in a rattle, trembling voice. There was no gate. There was no sculpture. Only Hina and the weapon. Where did everything go, Yuki? Was it because of the adults I brought? Is the woman somewhere else now, looking for someone else to let her out of that sculpture? I didn't have any answers for him. How could I have? We both felt crazy. We probably were both crazy, but there was no denying the horrors we'd witnessed that night.

They were real, sickeningly real. Something tried to stop us from returning to that sculpture. The nightmares that followed were constant, almost every night. That place haunted me. The Tori gate choked with slime mold, the rotten, pus-bleeding trees, the woman bearing her open-mouth grimace. the place where the caterpillars went to die. Without my mother's idiom, the fear of falling back asleep would have caused me to collapse mentally, but progressively the nightmares became less and less frequent.

I guess even bad dreams can grow bored of their hosts. Even now, when one manages to claw its way back and wakes me in a cold sweat, I always pull myself back. But it became increasingly difficult for me to keep in confidence, contact with Sauter. He seldom returned my messages. Horri mentioned to me that his son had been seeing a therapist on a regular basis, most likely to help him cope with the dark guilt on his shoulders, reshaping it, making it easier to chew up. Regardless, he'd have to live with it, the ungodly force

that he'd conjured and used to rip Horri's new love away, or for the sake of keeping his father from moving on. Well, I've changed a lot since I last saw Sauta, but how much didn't strike me until recently. I was typing a last-minute essay trying to beat my midnight deadline. Something fluttered in my peripheral. A large moth had flown in through the window.

Two intricately patterned eye spots on its wings resembled skulls. Its black and brown body was robust. I didn't know until later that it was. a Brahmin mob. Taking an interest in the light from my computer monitor, it whiffed over and landed on the screen. It was so close that I reached a finger out and touched its feathery antenna. It was kind of cute. And so once again, we reached 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 and 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.