Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S5 Ep195: Episode 195: Really Weird Horror Stories

Episode Date: November 26, 2024

Our opening tale of the macabre is ‘It Breathes, It Bleeds, It Breeds'' an original story by EmpyrealInvective:  http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/It_Breathes,_It_Bleeds,_It_Breeds Our second story this evening is ''Waking Nightmares'' by Teddy: http://www.creepypasta.com/waking-nightmares/ Next up, we have ‘‘The Unfamiliar’’ by Alex Sorrow: http://www.creepypasta.com/the-unfamiliar/ Our penultimate tale of terror is ''Claustrophobia'' by Moonlit Cove: http://www.creepypasta.com/claustrophobia/ We round things off with ''Haggard’s Peak'' an original story by Michael Whitehouse:  https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/5m8j6x/haggards_peak/

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BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon. Weird things disturb us because they defy our expectations and challenge our understanding of reality. Humans crave patterns and predictability. When something strange or inexplicable intrudes, like an eerie sound with no source or an object that doesn't behave as it should, it disrupts our sense of control and safety. This discomfort, known as the uncanny, often stirs deep, primal fears, reminding us of our vulnerability in a world we thought we understood.

The unsettling power of the weird lies in its ability to make the familiar suddenly alien, as we shall see in tonight's collection of stories. Now, as ever before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's tales may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. And let's begin. Our opening story this evening, is it breathes, it bleeds, it breathes, it reads, my Imperial Invective.

I've always been a sick child. It was never bad enough to warrant a trip to the hospital, but it was always something that was hanging over me. I was smaller and less energetic than most kids my age. While they preferred to run around and play outside, I chose to stay inside and read. The slightest bit of activity was enough to exhaust me for days on end. It wasn't a bad life, but I can certainly see how it made me into the introverted person I am today.

I took comfort in books, and I experienced the world through them. It wasn't until I turned 23 that I began to question myself. Everyone around me seemed to be getting married and settling down, but I wasn't. I had a few friends at work. But no one I really hung out with in my free time. My family was gone. I lost my father at a very young age to a heart attack, brought on by a lifetime of high cholesterol.

And my mother passed away shortly after I graduated college from an extremely malignant form of pancreatic adenocarsinoma. My mother clung onto life for a few weeks before her body shut down. I remember my last memory of her in the hospital. She was so thin that it looked like the slightest breeze would take her from me. Her eyes were bright and feverish, and her skin was yellowed like the pages of an old book. The palliative, Demerol, that they were giving her to ease her into her final moments, robbed her of any coherent last words.

She just stared at me with her glassy eyes as the end came for her. I clutched her hand in mine, but it was like she wasn't even there. I told her I loved her. She didn't respond. She just closed her eyes and let everything go. I decided that it was time for me to do the same. I had no close family nearby or any real friends. I was alone in the world.

I put in my two weeks notice at the small company that was gracious enough to hire me, fresh-eyed out of college, and left town shortly after my mother's funeral. In all honesty, I didn't want to stay there any longer. Everything reminded me of what was gone and what I was missing out on. After selling our house and settling the matter of her will, I had enough left to get far away. I chose the countryside. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts for a while. I felt like I needed some time to work through everything and decide on my next course of action. My inheritance afforded me that privilege.

In hindsight, I realized that this was the worst possible choice in my life. Living alone with only my thoughts to keep me company, a mile away from my closest neighbor, only served to deepen my sense of isolation. I was alone with my thoughts, and I quickly realized that none of them were good. I think my mental state only quickened my descent into sickness. It began when I noticed a small mass on my left upper arm, just underneath the skin. It was about the size of a pea and I could move it around under my skin, about a quarter of an inch or so in each direction. At first I told myself it was a fatty deposit and nothing to be concerned about.

Under palpitation, I experienced a slight discomfort, but no more than that when manipulating any other section of my body. It wasn't until I noticed that it was slowly growing that I began to get concerned. I eventually broke down and went to see a doctor who assured me that it was likely a lipoma or xanthoma and was nothing to be concerned about. He reassured me that it was more likely a symptom of high cholesterol rather than a sign of cancer. He explained that while family history and genetics had given me a bad hand, that didn't necessarily mean I couldn't live a long, healthy life. I was still unsure about the lump, which led me to asking if we could biopsy it.

He reasoned that there was no real need to do so, that they were harmless. Since the mass was movable under my skin, it meant that it was encapsulated and was likely benign. He said that getting a sample would only confirm what we already knew, and would cost me about $400. He advised me to cut back on my red meats and come back if I noticed any change in the lipoma. I thanked him and left the hospital feeling comforted. That reassurance lasted about a month.

For the first days, I was constantly poking and prodding the small lump. After about a week, when I was confident that the mass hadn't grown any, I went back to my usual life of solitude. I woke up late every morning and read. I did some minor chores around the house and thought about what direction I wanted my life to go in and what field I wanted to work in. Sometimes I would go days without talking to anyone.

Looking back, I now realized how unhealthy it was to isolate myself after my mother's unexpected death. I was stagnating and I didn't even realize it. About a month after getting my lipoma checked out, I began to experience a stinging pain in my upper left arm. That discomfort brought back the memory of my visit to the doctor. The mass on my arm was now dime-sized.

I could still move it, but now the slightest touch felt like I was being poked with a needle. I left it alone for a few days, hoping against hope that it was all in my imagination but the pain continued I think some

sad part of me thought that it would go away if I just ignored it long enough to be honest I was afraid of going back to the hospital that was partly due to the fact that I was afraid of what the diagnosis would be a growth can be a symptom of cancer my mother's experience in the hospital

also kept me from going. I lived with the slowly growing mass for about a week before I realized how dire the situation was. It wasn't until I woke up one night with a stinging pain in my arm that I decided to go back to the doctor. I rolled out of bed, I went to the bathroom to look at my arm. I figured that I'd slept on it wrong or possibly struck it against something. and that was what was causing me pain. I realized how wrong I was when I flipped on the light switch and saw a small bit of caked blood around the area on my upper arm. I hopped into the shower to wash away the silver dollar-sized splotch of blood

and had a startling realization. There was a fingernail sticking out of my arm. At first I thought that I'd inadvertently rolled over and accidentally jabbed a clipped toenail into my skin. But as I went to pull it, I experienced a sudden tearing pain that actually made me gasp. It felt like I'd grabbed a nerve ending and pulled on it. I rinsed off the area and examined it. The nail appeared to be sticking out of my skin rather than piercing it. When I painfully shifted the lipona, the nail wiggled and receded further into my skin,

as if it was part of the mass itself. I made up my mind there and then to go to the doctor first thing in the morning. At first, the doctor tried to rationalise it the same way that I did. He said that it was likely a lipomer, and my constant worrying was just making it more pronounced. It wasn't until after I showed him the area that he began to be able to. to take me seriously. He concluded that the skin ruptured outward instead of inwards, which meant that it had come from under my skin and poked out. I asked if he would excise the lump so we could examine it, and he agreed, due to possible risks of infection, and to identify the cause for the

growth. I turned down his offer of a general aesthetic. He tried to convince me that it would be easier with one, but I asked for a local anesthetic instead. I remembered my mother's final moments. Even if it was going to be a simple procedure, I didn't want to experience anything like that ever in my life. A part of me realized that it was my fear of being in the same situation as her that made me so stubborn about the anesthetics. After he explained the procedure to me and its risks, I followed. followed him into the operating room, laid down on the table, and waited for him to begin. I did my best to look away while he worked.

I imagined turning my head to see what was happening, only to sneeze into the open wound, or faint from the mere sight of the surgery. I did gather up enough courage to look towards the end, though. I looked up into the mirror to see about an inch of skin peeled away, with a slightly red mass beneath it. It didn't look nearly as grotesque or as sickening as I thought. Instead, it looked clinical and clean. He set an object in the tray and proclaimed,

"'I think I got it. Now, let's just see what we have.' I heard him drop the heavy tweezers on the ground, as if something had shocked him. I went to look, but he told me I needed to stay still until he could suture up the area. He reassured me that the utensil had just slipped out of his hands, and it was nothing to be worried about. I waited for ten, agonizing minutes of uncertainty, as he sutured the area and swabbed it down again with Betadine. When he finished, I sat up and looked at what he'd set down in the tray.

It was a greyish mass that was about the size of a misshapen marble. Through the antiseptic scent of the hospital, I smelled something like spoiled meat. I felt my stomach turn, as the realization that this had been inside me and had just begun to rot. One end terminated in what looked like a fingernail that had broken through my skin. It wasn't until he asked me if I knew what the term fetus in fetu meant, that I connected all the macabre pieces of the jigsaw. Fetous in fetu, a parasitic twin. We went into the examination room where the doctor explained what he thought was happening

as he gave me a complete look-over. He posited that I'd started off with a twin, but somewhere along the way I'd absorbed my twin into my body it had likely siphoned off nutrients which explained my lethargic activity and smaller stature when I was younger he assumed that the mass had been reabsorbed

by my body over the years and there was likely nothing left except that small piece we had just removed as he palpitated my back and his face turned cold I knew that that was not what had happened. The doctor said he felt something just above my right kidney and that exploratory surgery was necessary.

He told me that the sooner they performed the surgery, the better. I agreed, and he asserted that I would need to be completely anesthetized for the operation. It was then that I was forced to accept my worst fear. I would have to be sedated like my mother was. I tried to talk my way out of the situation, but my doctor explained that this was a life-threatening issue that needed to be resolved. I eventually relented and consented to the surgery.

I spent a sleepless night in the hospital with my stomach growling at me the entire time. I prayed it was my stomach growling at not having eaten all day. rather than the partially formed fetus of my twin inside me. The anesthetist arrived about an hour after I woke up and taught me through the process step by step. She put the catheter in my arm and connected it to an IV back. She asked me if I was ready, and I nodded,

terrified about what was happening and horrified by my prognosis. She told me everything was going to be all right. and then hung the IV bag filled with saline, ativan and an anaesthetic. My last coherent memory, before going under, was of my mother and her final moments. What happened next was the worst five hours of my life. I remember hearing music in my days. At first I thought the surgery was over until I heard the surgeon talking over the music,

asking for a retractor to hold the surgical area open. I had two horrifying thoughts in that moment. The first being that Nikki Minarge's Anaconda was one of the most discomforting songs to hear playing in an operating room. The second was that I was going to be conscious for the entire surgery. They had taped my eyelids so I couldn't see anything, but I heard everything. As I laid there, unable to move during the gruff course of Ex-gonagivitia by DMX. The head surgeon asked if what he was seeing was really what made up the mass. I heard one of the assisting nurses gag as she excised the material into a pan.

She excused herself and someone joked that she wasn't good when situations got hairy. The people around him groaned at the pun that I wouldn't understand until they showed me what they had extracted. I was in surgery for five hours, conscious and paralyzed for the entire experience. Luckily, I felt nothing. While I heard every joke, jab and bit of gossip. I heard the sizzlers of the bovi. I looked it up later. Cut and cauterized my wound at the same time.

Those 300 minutes were the most excruciating moments of my life. It felt like I was on the table for an eternity, listening to music, puns, and the sound of my own operation. The worst part of it was the realization that I couldn't see what they were doing, and I had to imagine what was happening to me. My faculties returned a while after surgery. I didn't say anything to the attending nurse.

I wanted to believe that what had happened hadn't actually occurred. The nurse was hesitant to show me what they removed, but I explained that I needed the closure. She told me the surgeon would show me when he gave me an update. I waited for thirty minutes, imagining the horror that they had removed from me before he arrived. He took me to a back room where he showed me the mass floating in formaldehyde. It was the size of a baseball and covered with hair, tiny teeth and greying flesh. It looked like something pulled straight from John Carpenter's The Thing. He told me the surgery had been a success and they'd removed most of the growth.

He reassured me when he noticed my concern by explaining that a small mass had fused to my spinal column in utero and that it would be dangerous to attempt to remove it. He explained that my body had walled it off and encapsulated it and there was no danger. To attempt to remove it could have left me paralyzed from the waist down. I thanked him and recuperated in the hospital for a few days until I was able to go home. As soon as I got home, I looked into the mirror. There was a small line of stitches on my stomach and a divot on my back where they'd removed my parasitic twin. I just wanted to put everything behind me and forget about it.

what I had growing and rotting inside me. I wanted to forget about what I'd remembered from the surgery. I failed on both of those fronts. I spent the next month in a chemical days. The doctors had prescribed me oxycontin for the pain. At first I was hesitant to take it, given my history, but the pain soon forced my hands. To be honest, it was pleasant.

It felt like a ball of warmth at the centre of my core that spread out throughout my body thirty minutes after I took a dose. Those four weeks drifted by as a fuzzy and warm memory without anything interesting happening. It was so pleasant that I even pestered the doctor for another regimen of oxycontin under the pretense of pain. It was about two weeks after I finished the bottle that odd things began to happen. At first, I assumed my increased appetite was just me, getting back to a normal diet after surgery and a month of opioids suppressing my hunger. However, I was eating more than usual. Usually I would cook myself something to eat and sit down with a book. As I got lost in the book,

I would eat. Sometimes I would finish a couple of chapters before I realized I'd eaten multiple plates of food. I didn't think anything of it. I just assumed that the excise mass had cleared up some space in my stomach. The stomach pains were harder to explain away. I eventually broke down after the pain continued and went to see the doctor. He felt the area and we talked for a while before he explained that it was likely a side-effective of repeated opioid usage. He said it was common for prolonged usage to cause feelings of nausea, discomfort, and sometimes even anedonia. He looked at me in a way that implied I was going to ask for another prescription. I wasn't, to be honest, but the implication was enough to keep me from

pressing the issue. I agreed with this explanation and left without discussing my discomfort any further. The discomfort continued for a few weeks, before the breaking point. I woke up in the middle of the night, screaming in agony. There was a sharp pain in my sight, and in my confusion, I came to a sleep-addled conclusion. I had been stabbed. I looked frantically around my room for ever, any sign of an intruder. But there was nothing. I made my way to the bathroom to look at the area.

Oh, I wish that I had been stabbed. Instead, there was a quarter-sized chunk of skin missing from my back. I had been bitten. There was no mistake in the wound for anything else. I could see the area where teeth had scraped and cut into my skin, as if it had been pinched and torn into a ragged hole from the inside. I tried to block out the memory of what the mass that was removed from me looked like. It was that amalgamation of hair, greying flesh, and teeth. I won't lie. I had a complete mental breakdown when I connected all of the dots.

I curled up in a fetal position and began to weep uncontrollably. It was too much. A recurring thought bounced around in my head like butterflies in the stomach. Why me? I started to have a panic attack on the cold tile of the floor. Why? Me. I began hyperventilating and couldn't catch my breath.

Me? I think I went crazy at that point, because the next thing I heard was, It's okay. We're going to be okay. I looked around, half expecting someone to be in the bathroom with me. But no one was there. It wasn't until the voice repeated those words that I realized where it was coming from. It was coming from the hole in my back. Whatever was inside me was talking to me. I got up. I had to go to the hospital. I was having a psychotic episode and likely suffering from another mass. As I headed towards the door, it spoke again. Its voice no louder than the wheezing of a respirator. Don't go. They hurt me. I don't know why I responded. If I had to guess,

I would blame it on the ridiculousness of the situation and my complete mental breakdown moments earlier. Something was growing inside me like a creature from alien that could talk. I should have sprinted to the nearest hospital screaming, but instead I spoke in a shaky, uncertain voice. I have to. You're hurting me. If I don't, you might even be.

kill me? What if I didn't? I can shift while I grow. I can make it so it doesn't hurt until I'm ready and then we can work together to make it as painless as possible so we can both live. Ready for what? Until I'm strong enough to leave your body. Right now I'm not strong enough to survive of outside of you. I just need you to sustain me for a few months. Please, they'll kill me at the hospital. Brother, I can be your friend. I want to be with you. I don't want you to be lonely. Please don't kill me. To be completely truthful, I don't know what made me agree. I can only try to explain my mindset at the time. I just had the worst experience of my life in a surgery room.

If I had it my way, I would never return to a hospital ever again. I didn't want another repeat of what happened to me the first time occurring again. I also didn't want to relive the memories of my mother's glassy stare as I held her hand and waited for her to die. The thing growing inside me had promised it wouldn't hurt you. Oh, I don't know, but listening to that quiet tone was reassuring. It spoke in a way that reminded me of dogs whimpering and babies crying. The voice sounded weak and scared.

I promised that I wouldn't go to the doctors. I think those were the reasons that made me agree to the stupidest decision. I have ever made in my life. The first few days were the most awkward moments I have ever experienced in my life. Every now and then I would feel it shifting inside me and apologising when it moved away that brought me discomfort. It explained that the surgery had only mangled it. It would need some time to heal and regrow

as it was still in the fetal state. and could produce fetal stem cells to regenerate. It held up its promise and the pain I'd been experiencing for weeks went away. Now, a large part of me was still driven to go to the doctor and have my parasitic twin removed. I think the only thing preventing me from doing that was how frightened the voice sounded, and the realization that I would be murdering a living,

breathing person. It wasn't until dinner one night that I felt any real sense of connection with it. I just sat down to have a cheap microwave dinner when the voice spoke. What are you doing? I was taken aback, as it had previously only spoken when it was apologising for shifting. I responded that I was eating and reading a short story. We can remember it for you wholesale from an anthology. He asked me to read the story to him, and I did.

I would read a paragraph to him in between each bite of food. When I finished both the meal and the story, he asked if I could read him another story. We spent the entire night reading and discussing various stories. As I enjoy multiple genres, I read a wide range of stories to the voice as it quietly listened. It wasn't until the sun crept in through the blinds that I realized how much time it passed. I had lost track of time while talking to my twin.

We'd read dozens of short stories and spent hours talking about the ones we like best. I went to bed after I promised my companion that we would continue this later. It became a daily fixture of our lives. Sometimes the voice would talk to me as I did show. or cooked a meal. I would always sit down for the meal with a book. I would read it aloud while I ate. Sometimes I would have to stop and explain an event to them, but most times they just listen quietly and patiently. Afterwards we would discuss our feelings on the book, or what we thought was going to happen. A sad part of me realized that this was the closest thing

I had to a friend in almost a decade. I found myself looking forward to the discussions we would have after each meal. One night, a few weeks after their discovery, I heard the voice talking to me. I can only assume that it thought I was sleeping when it spoke those words. I had been asleep until I felt them shift inside me. What had once unnerved me, now reminded me of a baby turning. in their mother's womb. The voice twisted in my stomach and began talking. Soon I'll be with you. Soon I'll be able to touch you with my own hand. Soon you'll love me. I was so lonely all these years.

No one to talk to. I experienced the world through you. Now I want to experience the world through you. Now I want to experience the world with you. I want to feel the sun on my skin and the wind in my hair. I want to be by your side. I kept those words to myself. A sad part of me realized that I now wanted the same thing. I wanted to be able to look at them while we talked. I wanted to take them outside and show them the world. I wanted. a friend. Those words filled me with a warmth similar to Oxycontin and made me realize how lonely and depressed

I had actually been up to that point. I had no one I could talk to, no one I could relate to. Now I had a friend. Those words were lies. Subterfuge to convince me that it actually cared about me and made me suffer through the growing pains. The veneer of fraternity and friendships sloughed off to reveal the decay underneath.

I woke up early one morning to find that the owner of the voice had gone still inside me. It was asleep. I quietly made my way into the bathroom to do my morning duties when a macabre whim drove me to look at the look at the same. at my back. The small hole in my back had almost quadrupled in size since it first spoke to me. I treated and disinfected the fistula in the hopes that I could slide them out of the canal when they were strong enough to survive outside me. Through the fistula, I caught my first glimpse of my twin as it slept inside me. It is not my twin. It's not even human.

It has multiple eyes on its face that look more like a fly than a human. It is still in the process of development and in the 30 or so holes that pocked its face. Only a dozen were filled with actual eyes. Its skin is cracked, mottled and grey. Like maggoty pork with tiny hair-like cilia. breaking through its body. The thing's mouth looks like a lamprey eel,

a concentric circle of needle-sharp teeth with a grotesque sucking appendage in the center. I stared in horror for a few minutes before I realized that it was starting to stir.

I moved away from the mirror and did my business before it could fully wake up. I left the bathroom knowing that this thing was not to be trusted. It had grown faster than any organism should. In a few weeks, it went from the size of a softball to the size of a watermelon. It has swollen like a cancer inside of me, and only now do I realize how thin I've actually become due to it siphoning off my nutrients. I don't know where I contracted this thing, but it isn't in a business. But it isn't in a

absorbed fetal twin. It is a parasitic entity growing within me, looking to be birthed into this world so it can infect others and perpetuate the cycle. It'll find the weak world, the weary, the wretched, and it will take advantage of them. It'll promise them false friendship and hollow hope as it incubates inside them. It is not huge. Human, it is a nightmare incarnate. How else could it regrow so quickly after being torn out of me by the doctors? The growth they removed was a bud, likely ejected to cede another part of my body. I can now feel dozens of other lumps on my arms, legs and groin. Embryos in development. I am a heart. Now it's every movement sends waves of agony through me.

It is strong enough to survive on its own, and it doesn't need its wretched host anymore. I tried to hide the pain for fear that it'll realize how much of an advantage it actually has now. I know that the time of parturition is soon upon us, and there is only one choice left. It will likely kill me on its way out to prevent me from trying to stop it.

It is too late to go to the hospital. I am beyond hell. The creature will realize what I am trying to do and stop me. It will either twist and constrict my spine, leaving me as a paralyzed nest for it, or simply debilitate me with pain until I can't move

both are less than pleasant options even if I could make it to the hospital to remove them whilst to stop the host from casting off more migrating buds to grow into those fiendish things it wants out and I can't allow that

I have my own option The thing likely won't see it coming until it is too late. So, on to why I'm writing this. I always wanted to write. I spent so much of my left reading that it seemed like a logical progression. I don't know if it's irony, or if it's just the fumes from the gasoline I poured around the house that have now soaked into the rug, coated the walls, and furniture, and getting to me.

But it seems comical, and the only piece I write is basically my suicide note. I have to share this story before I strike the match. I can feel it stirring inside me as the fumes permeate the house, unaware of what I'm planning. This thing. It breathes. It bleeds. It breathes.

And soon, it'll burn. We'll burn. I know what will happen when the end comes, and it tries to break free and wriggle out of my shredded body. I'll hold it to me in my final moments. It will likely snap my spinal cord like a dead branch and paralyze me from the waist end. My legs won't matter though,

as I have no intent on escaping. It'll scream, seeth and shriek as the flames crackle and snarl around us. I will look into its horrifying visage and I will smile, even if its maliciousness made flesh. It is still my only friend left in this world.

As the flames lap at us, I'll press it against me and whisper platitudes into its malformed ear. I'll tell it about how lonely I'd been since my mother died. I'll tell it how glad I was to finally have a true friend. that understood me. As we burn together, I'll tell them how much

I love them. Our second story this evening is Waking Nightmares by Teddy. Focus on your breathing. Silence your mind. Drink warm milk. Stay away from electronics. Keep the room dark.

Take. pills. All the ways the internet had told me how to fall asleep. Bullshit. For most everyone else, sleep is simple. Really? Just lie down and suddenly eight hours have passed. Those people don't need to worry about what happens if they can't fall asleep. Not like me. Our entire existence boils down to the constant string of thought, weaving its way through our heads. Our thoughts are what we are. But when you're left alone with those thoughts, the hours and hours cut off from all external stimuli. That ever-present tiny little voice becomes something like torture. Very much like torture, in fact. I likened it to

Chinese water torture. The practice of tying someone up and having a drop of water fall on their head at fixed intervals. Drip, drip, drip, drip. It becomes a certainty. All that they can really focus on is the next drop of water. That's what it was like when I would try to sleep. One thought and then another, and another. And another. And another. Another and another, never letting my mind rest. It had been like that for as long as I could remember. Even as a little child I would lie awake in bed, silently conversing with my stuffed animals. As I grew older, however, my insomnia became more of an issue.

It held much more weight in my life than my old conversations with Mr. Teddy Bear. Of course, there were the obvious side effects. I lived like a zombie, only half in touch with the world. My mind, in its ceaseless need to think, jumped around, never able to focus on one thought. I was honestly fine with that part. The part I was not so fine with were the things that stood in the corner of my bedroom when I couldn't sleep. People who sleep normally sometimes experienced nightmares. Their own sleeping minds work against them to create terrifying situations. Monsters, spiders, murderers, there are no limits.

The thing is, though, that these people wake up and their nightmares are gone. But my nightmares were real, physical things. They were different every time. Now, I've had the typical fears, giant spiders, clowns, chainsaw murderers and such. But every now and then, I got creatures, horrid abominations that were particularly unpleasant. They had ways beyond my understanding of keeping my room dark, of preventing love. of preventing lights from working. So, I never got to make out more of their image than the moonlight would allow.

These occurrences, my own twisted version of nightmares, had been happening ever since I moved into my own apartment. Now, nightmares are generally a result of stress, so my theory is that the stress of moving out on my own caused these nightmares. But somewhere along the line, something went wrong. My nightmares were not confined to my head. I didn't know why. I just knew that they were very real.

The memory of the first time it ever happened is permanently engraved into my mind. How could I forget? It was the first week in my new apartment. I hadn't even unpacked. And I was swamped with work from my new desk job. accounting. All of the stress led to another of those, oh so familiar, sleepless nights, but it was distinctly different.

Rather than tossing and turning, I found myself to be lying quite still under my thin covers, unable to focus on anything other than my newfound headache. Headache is probably not the best way to put it. Hammering migraine is a better term. Pulsating waves of pain radiated from my skull. Even the soft touch of my pillow was enough to set my teeth on edge. I'd let out a groan of agony, and that seemed to be the start of it all.

A crackling chuckle, similar to that of a smoker, raspy and dry, came out of the darkness in my room, responding to my pain. And, just like that, my headache. was gone. But it was replaced with a skin-chilling fear that led me to sit bolt upright. The chuckle continued. It came from the far corner, and I very much knew that I was not alone in my new bedroom. It had been a cloudy night, so all I could do was squint into the darkness. Eventually my eyes managed to make out the dark outline. It was a person. Well, sort of.

I could make out two struts of curly hair shooting off the side of a bald head, all topped with a very tiny top hat. I didn't need to turn on my bedside lamp, which I was far too afraid to do regardless, to know that it was a clown. There had been a clown standing in the corner of my room, chuckling conunders. Continuously. Hours went by as I watched him, but he never moved, and he never stopped that damn love. I hadn't slept much around that time, perhaps as little as four hours of sleep in the previous 48 hours. And that lack of sleep is what nearly got me killed.

My thoughts were numb and out of focus, which is why at some point in the night, I managed to write off the clown silhouette in the corner as a fatigue-induced hallucination. With that conclusion easing my mind, it had been easy to eventually slip off into sleep. That sleep was short-lived. I was forced to wake by a pair of gloved hands around my throat, and all I could manage to do was flail my arms around, doing absolutely nothing to remove the weight from my winter. pipe. My entire body burned, desperate for air, and I felt that I was not going to see the morning until a dim light briefly illuminated my window. It was a lone car, a solitary set of headlights

in the night, and it saved my life. For the briefest of seconds I could see the face of my assailant, All the paint of a clown with none of the charm. The entirety of his flesh was white as a sheet, completely contrasting the horrid splash of red around his mouth. Blood or paint, it was still disgusting. The eyes were the worst part. The cold pupils were almost impossible to make out under the murky layer of darkness covering the surface.

but I could still tell they were looking directly at me as he crushed my throat. But the moment I saw him in the flash of the headlights, his grip released. All I could do was stare and try to suck in narrow breaths as the clown climbed off my bed and backed into his corner. Shakily I sat up, never looking away from the clown. and I reached over to flick on my bedside lamp. The room remained dark. I hit the switch again and again,

but the room remained dark. The clown once more began to chuckle. There was no way in hell that I could bring myself to move, to run, to call the police. All I did was sit and stare. and I could feel the clown stare back. It wasn't until the sun shone through my window that the clown disappeared. I just blinked and he was gone.

I didn't want to acknowledge it as real. I just wanted to dismiss it for what it was. A nightmare. But the bruises on my neck would allow me to do no such thing. yet if I went to a doctor I'd certainly be labelled as insane not to mention that if I called in sick so early in my career

I'd lose my job so I went into work made up some tale of getting jumped by a vagrant to explain the bruises and tried to get on with my life which was very difficult considering I was met by a different creature the following night

a large spider and the night after that a machete murderer and so on which is what led me to begin drinking my first visit to the local bar was two weeks after the first visitor the only sleep I'd had in that time period

where the few minutes at a time I was able to get away with work and 40 minutes during lunch Of course, at first I didn't take it lying down. No technology would work when they were present, and they only appeared during night hours. But I never had time to sleep during the day. I thought of everything a sensible person would think of. I thought about moving, about trying to sleep in other places.

A visit to a hotel yielded negative results. getting an exorcism and even briefly about ending my life. Those weeks were hell and I was quickly losing the motivation to push on. But on my first night of trying to drink the trouble away, almost as soon as I entered the bar, I became a cliche. I fell in love. The bartender, a soft-spoken lanky,

brunette, Kathleen, was the most attractive woman I'd ever seen. So, of course, I made a fool of myself trying to talk with her. I was sleep deprived and drunk, yet for some reason she took an immediate liking to me. She was quick to laugh at my poor jokes and didn't seem put off at all by my excessive complaining that I did about my job. Even drunk I managed to avoid bringing up my night time companions. Although, by the end of the first night with her, I felt as if I could trust her with that knowledge. But I held off. It's probably a good thing I did too, seeing as how she asked for my phone number before I left the bar. That night was the first time I'd been happy in weeks. I'd almost let myself believe all of my problems had gone away.

A pretty girl and a stomach full of beer was all it took for me to let my guard down. And I paid for it. That night I climbed into my bedside chair with no intention of sleep. I'd let my guard down, but I had in no way allowed myself to forget the creatures in the night. Even if I didn't mean to sleep, it became quite difficult to focus on staying awake, where my mind wandered to thoughts of Kathleen. Minutes, maybe hours, passed as I replayed our conversation. Now, I'm not a witty person when I'm sober, and I'm even less witty while drunk.

The last thought I had before losing the battle with my eyelids was that she must have been twice as drunk as I was to be laughing at my chokes. Searing pain in my legs woke me up screaming. The normal light of my window was blocked by a hazy figure, tall with jagged arms that bent in too many places, and the entirety of its skin rived with needle-like protrusions. I figured that part out because they were being used to shred the skin on my legs. I'm not ashamed to admit that I screamed bloody murder. It didn't deter the nightmare at all.

It just leaned further over me and reached towards my face with a razor tendril. The movement was slow and mocking. It was drawing out the anticipated pain. I was so focused on that one tendril. It almost drowned out the pain in my lips. legs. The creature slowly drew closer and it towered over me as it finally connected with my cheek. There was only a pinprick of pain. The moment the monster touched my face, my phone buzzed and lit up. Once I could see it and its entire horrifying figure, the nightmare receded to its spot in the corner.

My floor was soaked with the blood seeping from my legs, and probably urine as well. But all I could think about was grabbing the phone. I didn't understand at the time. Normally nothing electronic worked when the nightmares were watching me. Yet the phone lit up when I hit the button, and on the screen flashed a text from Kathleen. Sorry to text you so late. I couldn't sleep. I know you're probably in bed, but I just couldn't wait to ask if you'd like to have dinner sometime.

I called her. I was completely incoherent, sobbing and raving. I told her about the monsters in my room, the cuts on my legs, and how she had just saved my life. All at two in the morning, the night after I'd met her. But she didn't hang up. She listened. and bless her perfect heart she asked where do you live i'll come over i told her to let herself in and when she arrived i don't think she expected me to actually have torn up legs there was a lot of freaking out and rushing around

i imagine i lost a lot of blood which is why it all seems a bit hazy but i do know that kathleen forced me to go to the hospital or Rather, she called an ambulance without consulting me. But I'm glad she did. I woke up in the hospital to her smiling face. I was so confused. Where am I? The hospital.

You've been asleep for two days. A sleep? The word sounded so strange coming out of my mouth. Sleep was something for normal people. A fairy tale far beyond micro. sleep was something that came in 15 minute flashes here and there never in hours yes asleep they're still trying to figure out what happened to you they think some psycho broke into your apartments but i'm glad you're okay i've been here with you the whole time why far from the best choice of words to show gratitude why are you being so nice to me kathleen gave a tight grin in response. You just seem so lost. When I first saw you, it was like you were calling out to me for help. I don't really understand either, but I already feel so connected to you. Oh, was all I

replied, but in my defence I was still grokgy. Uh, thank you so much. We were quiet for a while until she spoke softly. Hey, when you called me, you said I saved your life. What did you mean? The memory of the creature flashed through my mind, and I must have grimaced. She glanced down at my cuts. You weren't planning on killing... On suicide, were you?

Did you do that to yourself? Oh, no, no, it's... Well, it's worse than that. I responded. It's just I have nightmares. For some reason, she didn't question that. Well, you're in no condition to be on your own.

How about I spend the night with you and try to get rid of those bad dreams? She offered, and then seemed to understand what she just said. I mean, just be there, nothing sexual. No, no, no, no. I cut her off. The thought of how she might react to the monsters or how they might react to her. No, I wouldn't have it.

You've done so much, and I still don't understand why, to be completely honest. But I don't want you to get hurt by this. She placed her hand on my cheek, opposite to where the nightmare had prodded me. I'm doing so much for you, because your eyes are the saddest I've ever seen. Whatever it is you're facing, it's time to stop trying on your own. I'm coming to your place once we get out of here. There was no arguing beyond that. The cuts on my legs were many, but not deep.

So, I was actually able to walk out of there on my own feet, with Kathleen refusing to let go of my arm. We made it back to my apartment, and I insisted on cooking for her. Then, we simply sat at my little kid. table and talked. We made small talk about everything and anything, yet there wasn't a single subject in which we had opposing views. She was the perfect girl, which is why it was so difficult for me to ask her to leave. Our conversation had been effortless and warm, but I shattered the mood. I... I need you to leave now.

It's getting late and you shouldn't be here overnight. She ignored the request. Ah, time for the meat of the matter. So, what are these nightmares that would compel you to turn away a pretty lady offering to spend the night? I suppose I just didn't want her to leave, so I figured screw it and tried telling the truth. They're not really nightmares. They're monsters. I know I sound crazy, and I probably am.

But for the last few weeks I haven't been sleeping, there have been these things in my room at night. Watching me. Waiting for me to stop watching them. If I look away, they come for me. I was almost strangled, and now my legs? You're not lying, are you? Her question wasn't patronising in the slightest.

She genuinely believed me, which led me to believe that perhaps I wasn't the crazy one, but I no longer have the strength or desire to refuse her, as she said, let's go to your bed. We'll face them together. A few minutes later, and we were doing something that few adults had ever done before, sitting in bed with a stranger they'd just met at a bar, yet doing absolutely nothing other than going to sleep.

I made sure to leave every light in the room on, and Kathleen didn't seem to mind. Not like it mattered, though. As soon as we both settled down under the covers, the lights flicked off on their own. Her breath caught at the same time as mine. The two of us slowly sat back upright in the dark, room and I had the unshakable feeling that I should not have allowed Kathleen to stay.

My voice was a hoarse whisper. They control the lights. They don't let me see them. She remained silent and I followed suit as it became clear that we were not the only ones in the room. An all too familiar rasping noise came from the far corner. Ah, my first waking nightmare. The clown, she could see it too. Kathleen's voice was faint even though she sat so close.

When did this start? When I moved in here and got a new job, I replied dimly. My blood ran cold as the clown led out its humorless chuckle and my mind ran rampant with newly formed fears. It was one thing for me to face the monsters. At least they ignored me when I focused on them. But what if the clown attacked Kathleen? There are more, she pointed out. I kept my eyes plastered on the darkness of the room, and dim moonlight leaking through the shades illuminated the awful fact that Kathleen was cracked. More creatures lined the wall. of the room, surrounding the bed, all staring at the two human occupants.

What actually happened to your legs? She asked faintly. I was too absorbed in our surroundings to realize the oddity of the question. I fell asleep. One of them got to me. And with a sinking realization, I saw the very same buzzing outline of the needle creature that had torn apart my flesh. But Kathleen continued to press on. What stopped it? You, you message me. And you said one of them tried to strangle you.

What stopped that one? Someone's headlights. I responded numbly as my eyes further adjusted to the darkness and revealed the four-foot tarantula clinging to one of the walls. More of the creatures appeared with every second. and all I could think about was the horrible things they were due to Kathleen if I didn't keep my eyes on them. Then, one of them took a step forward. I whipped my head towards it.

Ah, the machete murderer. But when I faced it, one of the other creatures drew closer. I couldn't watch all of them. Somehow, Kathleen managed to keep talking. They started when you had a... big change in your life and human interaction made them go away. We need to make a run for it, I replied, only half listening to her as the mob of nightmares closed in on the bed. There's never been more than one. I looked to my right and the spider was

no longer on the wall, but on the ceiling overhead. And when I looked back down, the needle monster was almost within arm's reach. No matter which way I turned, they managed to draw in closer. The clown stood at the head of the mattress, staring at both of us head on. All I could manage to do was whimper. Hugo, they just want me. She cut me off with a kiss. Her entire body weight flung against mine and pinned me against the pillows.

My mind was a panic. I couldn't see a single nightmare, so I figured they must be all about to pounce. But still, she pressed against me, and I guess I also kissed back. Might as well enjoy our last moments. But nothing happened. She broke away and we both drew in breath. And then I gasped as I saw the empty bedroom. around us.

The lights flickered on as she rolled back to her side of the bed. You told me yourself. She replied with a relieved giggle. Interaction makes them go away. Be it with a stranger driving by or someone texting you in the middle of the night. Or maybe the most intense kiss of my life. They're gone. It's all I could think.

And then? How are you so amazing? I'm not. I'm really not. I get lonely. I do stupid things like core crazy drunks I just met. And I work in a bar to make a living. I'm anything but perfect.

The monsters were gone, and I got the impression they weren't coming back. Not as long as Kathleen was with me. Now it was my turn to kiss her. And when it was over I said, well, she just grinned and curled up under the covers. Somehow ready to go to sleep. You need some sleep. And for the first time in weeks I was able to let my head sink into my pillow without worry. The end of a horrid chapter in my life.

All thanks to the amazing bartender at my side. She was my hero, and I had to find a way to put it into words. I needed to express my true gratitude, and it took a while, but I got it. I wrapped my arm around her and said, You're a dream come true. Our next story is the unfamiliar by Alex Sorrow. The darkness is insurmountable here. The air reeks of salt water, decaying fish, and other human stenches that I cannot even begin

to imagine, even if I felt the desire to. An unearthly black fog has settled over the city, as it does every night. And I yearn for a daylight that feels as though it may never come. The night in Malaviera is oppressive, almost as though it was not night at all, but rather the natural state of the world around the city. Of course, there is hardly a problem with the town itself. The problem is what inhabits the town. Beneath the cover of darkness that invades the streets every night, I can hear the sounds of shuffling, weary feet, drunkenly stumbling towards some unknowable destination if one actually

exists. From outside, I can hear the sharp words of ghouls wandering around, starting fights and wreaking havoc. The one place that they never venture is Port Luna, for all of Malaviera knows never to descend to the seaside before the sun has broken over the horizon. Stories of disappearances and unexplained occurrences led to the superstitions and urban legends of deceiving demons and malevolent spirits haunting the area. Instead, these creatures, for they could never be called human, roam the streets throughout the rest of the city, a nightly disease that infect once dusk falls, that is purged as soon as the sun rises. Life here is almost unthinkably dangerous, and yet I call Malaviera home.

The grim undertakings of the nocturnal do not consist of life in Malaviera, rather as a mere part of life. During the day, the city is an entirely different place. The ocean-side air carries a scent of tranquility and freshness through the streets. The people who fill the roads with a daily hustle and bustle are polite and kind, and I used to have friends among them. The sun overhead shines down, and when I look out to the sea from the port and behold the glistening waters, shimmering beneath the warm sunlight, I think that there is no jewel upon this earth that can rival its beauty. If the city truly is cursed, it only reveals itself at night when the sky takes on that dark blue hue. The clouds fade under the cover of night. Families retreat into their home. and locked doors and the sea loses that glimmering beauty. I too barricade myself in my quarters to wait out another night. It has been that way for as long as I can remember, and it will be this way until the ocean itself rises, seizes the city in its wet grip,

and drags Malaviera down to the briny deaths. I would be content with this crude system, were it not for a particular night that I spent outside the safety of my home. I am a man who survived a Malaviera night, but at the unexpected cost of my very sanity. Whatever still dwindles within my head presents you with what I can recollect of that terrible night, but with this dire warning, Never go outside in Malaviera at night. I was a young man of about 24 years when it happened, and, I am ashamed to admit, I was not of an agreeable reputation.

Indeed, I had made mistakes in my life regarding my career choices. Though were not it so damned easy, I would not have been bothered. At my side was a fellow whom I had long revered and called a friend. His name was Amicus, and together we managed to successfully swindle many sailors out of their money. Our original scam was a relatively simple one. In addition to docks holding large ships from faraway places, Port Luna also held a thriving market that began at dawn and ended shortly before dusk. Sailors would come to trade with the local merchants, and Amicus and I would disguise ourselves as such, in order to be. to fool the sailors into buying our goods. The items in question, such as fruit or spices,

were actually purchased from other stalls. We would then sell them to eager sailors for twice the price, which meant that we would purchase a dozen apples or oranges for six pieces, and then sell them to sailors for 12 or 13, on days we felt particularly bold. On one occasion we sold a dozen oranges to a group for 30 pieces. They were outrage, but begrudgingly paid the 30 pieces. After we informed them that, due to a drought, it had been a difficult season for the harvest. The sailors, who had been out to sea for so long that they had become desperately in need of fruit, were pitifully easy to fool. Over time our scams became more elaborate.

We would take simple balls and paint them to resemble fruit before filling a crate with them, stacking real fruit on top in order to conceal the deceit. We would then deliver the crate to a newly arrived ship for the ludicrous price of 50 pieces. And the captain, upon inspecting the fruit on the top, would pay us. Soon we realized that painting all of the balls was an unnecessary effort and instead wedged a large piece of cardboard halfway into the box filling the bottom part beneath it with sand to make up for the difference of weight

and give the illusion of it being full of fruit we garnered a notorious reputation around Port Luna though our tricks continued to prove effective for many months as sailors would not fathom our treachery until they had long departed out onto the sea, at which point it was far too late to voyage back to Malaviera. Of those who were so infuriated that they returned to the port to seek us out, we would simply leave the port and not return until we were absolutely sure that it was safe. It was in this fashion that we operated for months,

until the day came that I had never anticipated, would find me, trapped on the streets of Malaviera after dark. Amicus and I were convincing the captain of a crew of newly arrived sailors, of the quality of our product, which, for the curious, was a simple crate containing a dozen or so oranges, our carefully made fakes and the sand, when a delivery boy happened to pass from the same store that had sold us the oranges a week prior.

He caught on to our trick once he spotted the oranges and loudly informed the captain of our attempted trickery and stated that the oranges were not only soon to be overripe, but were no longer fresh. However, the captain still seemed uncertain, and we may have still salvaged the scam with our pride intact, had the delivery boy not gestured to Amicus's face, and declared it a dishonest face. This short remark irritated Amicus so fiercely that he, holding the crate with one arm, made to grab the boy with the other hand and were so careless as to let the crate fall from his grip. Upon hitting the dock, the crate broke in half, spilling ripe fruit, balls and sand at the captain's feet. He must have been warned of our scams by other sailors.

For at the revelation of our deception, his face became quite red, and he reached for the cutlass at his belt. The first few raindrops of a seaside storm fell as Amicus and I hurried away, leaving the crate where it lay, like a monument of our shameful falsers on the dock. Amicus and I were forced to flee from the wrath of not only the sailors, but also the police overseeing the market, when the delivery boy alerted to, them to our tricks. Amicus and I tore out of Port Luna into the streets, spurred onward by that fabled adrenaline rush of fear as the sailors yelled profanity as they pursued us, and the policeman blew their whistles as they attempted to maintain order. I remember roughly bumping into a woman on the street as I hastened to keep pace with my friend, knocking her to the ground and sending the foods that she had been carrying in a basket into the air.

though we hardly noticed at the time. Instead, all that mattered was our escape. Fortunately, at that moment, the clouds opened, and a downpour of rain fell. Seaside storms are hazardous, and in the chaos, as people fought for shelter, Amicus and I believed that we would make our getaway down an alleyway, until we heard the captain's boots still clambering after us in a determined hunt. I could feel the polished blade of his cutlass whistled through the wind behind me. At that very moment, much to my relief, his foot landed on a recently made puddle of rainwater, and he slipped

and fell onto the cobblestone. Amicus and I were free to make our getaway, but at that moment, some fool pulled a large horse carriage at the end of the alley and stopped, blocking our route of escape. Behind us, I could hear the captain rising to his feet to resume his chase. Our time to escape was limited, and I began to panic. The driver had stopped his carriage with the wheel blocking any hope that we had of climbing beneath it. Amicus did not hesitate. With his superior height, he leapt into the air and seized hold of the carriage's roof. His boots kicked the side of the carriage as he pulled himself atop it,

and he looked back to cast me one last pitying look, before he disappeared over the other side of the carriage, leaving me to my fate. The captain advanced upon me. But at that moment a policeman appeared at the far end of the alleyway. loudly blowing his whistle. The captain lowered his cutlass in confusion and turned away from me to face back to the policeman.

Behind me, the door to the carriage opened and a man in a black hood, a man whom I'm presumed to be the carriage driver, peered out at the scene in the alleyway. I wasted no time in pushing the man out of my way and climbing into his carriage before opening the door on the other side and tumbling out. falling to the ground in the process and dirtying the sleeve of my jacket with flecks of mud.

Behind me, the man in the black hood closed the doors to the carriage and whipped the reins, spurring the horses onward. I fought to climb to my feet, and I fled, leaving the encounter with the captain behind me. I wandered through the streets of Malaviera, but there was no sign of Amik. The rain fell like a veil, cloaking the figures on the street from my view, making it even more difficult to find my friend. The storm was overpowering me now. A screaming gale nearly forced me off my feet. I knew at once that I should seek shelter. Unfortunately, or through some cruel, carmic retribution by the will of an angry god, my residence was on the other side of

Malaviera. The storm was growing in intensity, so much so that debris was beginning to fly amongst the fierce winds. Water was flooding the streets as puddles formed, overflowed and grew to consume the bricks. I was desperately in need of a place to wait out the storm, so I began searching the shops that adorned the sides of the street for one that was open, but to no avail. I was getting far too late for any respectable establishment to have its doors open to customers. Rather unwillingly, I found myself huddled deep in an alleyway. The rain soaked my clothes and chilled me down to the bone. It was there that I suffered for an unknowable amount of time,

though the buildings around me weakened the wind to a slight, frigid breeze, and the downpour was barely tolerated. By the time the rain stopped, I was shivering. My clothes were damp, and each movement that I made sent droplets of water flying from my body. My shoes were nearly ruined from being submerged for so long in the growing ocean that had once been the street, and my toes were numb from the icy temperature. When I exhaled, a cloud of white mist emerged from my mouth. mouth and my spine would quiver. I was shaking, though I know not if it was from the unbearable cold

or the sudden realization of my predicament. Even from where I was hidden in an alleyway, I could see the sky above, though even though I already knew what would be waiting for me, my stomach sunk deeper and deeper, as I slowly left my wrist, refuge for the Malavirian streets. My gaze still fixated on the sky, a waning gibbous moon, cloaked behind clouds of stone, hung within an abyss of black that sparkled with white stars. I was in disbelief, though I could not tear my eyes from the sight of a night sky. I hadn't seen one in so long, and I believe that I never would so long as I lived in Malaviera

but here I was I was so suddenly overcome with emotions of such a powerful fear that when I finally did manage to tear my gaze from the moon my face contorted in a wide smile and I began to laugh until tears were streaming down my cheeks and my breathing had turned ragged and tired

A memory of an event that had taken place mere months before that night had come to mind as I stood shaking in the frosty night. I had been in my den, taking shelter for the night, when from outside came a sudden ruckus, panicking man was running from house to house, banging on the doors. Even now, so many years later, I can remember the sound of his screams. I'm not one of them. I don't belong out here. He was shouting, pleading to be led inside. I had the blinds pulled over the windows, yet I still ducked down in front of my desk when he came to my door and wrapped his fists on the wood. Please, somebody, they're coming. I froze in place.

I did not dare to rise from my chair to cross the room. From where I was safe inside my own home, I listened to the man attempt to rush to the next house, but I never heard him knock on the door. He began to scream, and then his screams turned to howls and the howls to whimpers before all outside was silent. As quietly as I could, I rose from my chair and went to my bedroom before closing and locking

the door and tiredly climbing into bed, where I would toss and turn for the rest of the night. The morning after, I left my home to see a tattered jacket lying in the street in the same area that the man had been shouting. People trampled on it as they made their way down the street. that to be my fate, to fall victim to whatever foul nightmares prowled the streets in the darkness. It appeared that my only chance for survival would be to seek shelter in my own home on the other side of Malaviera. I feared that if I remained in place much longer, whatever unseen monstrosities that I'd heard every night would soon be upon me. I had no time to. I had no time to

waste and I began my long trek. I strode along the streets, weary to be traveling in plain sight. I looked to the shadows of the alleyway, thinking that they would prove an invaluable hiding place. But the darkness was so absolute that I could not tell if there was anything moving within the shadows. And it was then that I caught my first glimpse of a denizen of the night. He looked to be old as his hair was ashen and his black eyes seemed sunken and filled with a hollowness dug through years. His crooked teeth smiled at me beneath a wide brimmed black hat and his black trench coat seemed long, almost too long. He was a tall man, so tall in fact that at first I believed he was levitating in the air, startled by his sudden appearance. I quickened my pace, leaving that vile alleyway behind me.

I dared not look back over my shoulder for fear that he would be following. It wasn't until I reached the end of the street that I ventured a quick glance over my shoulder and saw, to my immense relief, that there was no one. My relief was short-lived as I looked back down the street and was met with a shock. I was fully aware that the amount of night-time ghouls wandering the streets of Malaviera was vast, though I was not aware of the full scope until that very moment. The street was lined with a wide array of strange creatures, and I now knew that my assumption of these nighttime stalkers not being human proved to be true.

The pungent stench of decay and squalor filled my nostrils as I stood paralyzed by the horrifying sight before me. Creatures sat in doorways, motionless, paced the streets, restless, or stood huddled in unsettlingly close circles, whispering in indiscernible voices. None of these nocturnal freaks seem to pay me any attention, however. So I wondered if it might be possible to simply walk down the street.

My only other option was to detour through an alleyway, but without knowing what sinister entities lurked in the shadows, I could not bring myself to enter the alley. Trying to keep myself from shaking so harshly, I began walking down the street and past the ghouls. As I wandered past a circle of people who had no colour to them whatsoever, not on their skin or clothing, I could catch only a few select words, gates, oblivion. Before the group went silent when I approached, while keeping their heads bowed in the circle, unmoving.

I passed by a man in a faded grey cloak, who was lying against a shop, and peered at him as I passed, only to discover to my horror that he had no face beneath his hood. Though as I stared, two eyes began to push outwards through his skin before the skin opened, pushing the eyeballs out onto his face, where their brilliant blue radiance watched me. When more eyes began to appear on his cheeks, forehead and chin, I walked a little faster and hurried away while feeling the heat of their intense gazes on my back. It took everything that I had not to break into a sprint, though my face glistened with sweat, and I now buried my hands in my pockets to hide the shaking. My breathing was heavy, and I struggled to quiet my gasps.

At this point, I hadn't even made it halfway down the street. Nothing about this was natural. The monsters were real. and they had come. I passed another circle of colourless people, catching a few more words. Ends. Corsair.

Syndicate. But I was almost wheezing. Finally, I reached the end of the streets where a raven-haired woman wearing black clothing and holding a white umbrella was standing with her back to me. She looked around at me

and caught my eye. Her face was pale. Her skin almost ghostly. The lady turned to face me, slowly reaching out a weak hand. Please, are you here for me? She asked in a voice that was little more than a whisper. So empty, so cold.

No! I stammered, backing away as the empty lady slowly moved closer. Her hand still extended. I'm sorry, I can't help. Suddenly, a rough hand clamped down on my shoulder and pulled me so violently that I was nearly yanked off my feet. Instead, I whirled around to find that a sailor, completely covered from head to toe in a muddy grime, had grabbed me in his cold, unyielding grasp. His eyes flashed darkly, filled with a bitter malevolence, but his beard seemed to be made of something other than hair. I felt my stomach sink when I saw his beard move and realized

it was made of fingers, some twitching, others pointing toward me as if trying to grab me. You ain't one of us! He creaked in a hollow, gravelly voice. that sounded as though it had come from an abyss at the end of the ocean floor. You don't belong here. Let go of me. I struggled to pull away from his hold. The empty lady was still crooning behind me. He was slowly pushing his face closer to mine, and the fingers reached out for me.

At the last second, I pulled my head back and threw it forward, feeling a satisfying crack where his nose was as he stumbled back, releasing me from his powerful grip. But the clammy fingers seized hold of my face. Shrieking, I pulled away. But the fingers did not relinquish their hold. His beard stretched as though he had a long arm protruding from his face. And I could hear the gruesome sailors cackling in my ear.

It was only when I opened my mouth and bit down on the fingers trying to climb inside that he howled in pain and the fingers retracted. Disoriented, I scrambled to get away, my footsteps sounding like thunder on the bricks as I ran for my life. I paid no attention to the freaks lining the streets or the circles that went silent as I neared. Instead, I was so caught up in my mad dash, to even remember which direction I was going. All that mattered was getting away from the monsters,

but that feat was impossible, in a city filled with them. My fearful run began to garner the attention of the creatures. Some seemed uninterested. Others called after me, but some lunged to catch me. A woman with long, greasy black hair dove at me from a familiar alleyway. Her lips parting sideways to reveal a jagged, broken teeth, and she hissed at me. Panicking, I nearly lost my balance trying to turn in a new direction, and ended up running beneath an archway and into Port Luna. The nocturnal forbidden area, where no stalkers were. would dare wander after dark, for forces far more chaotic and malign than they inhabited this area.

For a moment, I thought I caught sight of the ghostly sailor, wandering the edge of the port with a lantern in hand, but his beard was not as proclaimed, and he was wearing the garb of a captain. The sudden howling of a wolf somewhere nearby startled me, and I reflexively tensed up at the sudden sound before it abruptly stopped. Everything seemed so quiet in the port, which I thought was odd at the time. But the reason why did not occur to me until much, much later. During the day, in addition to the roundiness of the market, there was the constant crashing of waves against the docks and the squawking of seagulls. That night, the ocean was in mind. possibly silent. And the only living things were watching from the shadows. Their presence felt,

but unheard. I so desperately wanted to run from that unholy place, but my feet seemed locked in place. I was paralyzed with fear, my whole body tingling with shivers. It suddenly became very cold. When I looked out over the ocean, the moon did not illuminate the waves. Instead, the water was blacker than the sky, so it more resembled an endless abyss yawning over the horizon. It felt as though my blood were turning to ice as I stared, numb at the unnatural, unrecognizable sight before. Rather unexpectedly, I felt an ancient presence nearby. And all of the other malevolent entity seemed to disappear as it drew nearer. Sweat rolled down my brow as I felt it moving over the cobblestone to my side. But I did not

dare to look. Instead, I stood in mute terror, trembling and squeezing my eyes shut, praying that tonight was not the night that I met an untimely demise. When I opened my eyes, the ancient creature had passed me by, and I caught my first sight of its massive form. From what little that I can remember, it had skin white than anything I'd ever seen, and it seemed to be twisted and pulsating while it prowled on four legs. Whether they ended in pause or claws or some other appendage I did not see. It turned to face me with a deformed face, though I could somehow tell that it held a mildly interesting, musing expression. Its eyes were hollow, but all seeing.

Its mouth was permanently open, as though it had not finished what it had to say, and it never would. This indescribable creature surveyed me for a moment, and then it spoke in a voice unlike any humans. This was a voice that a human would be incapable of making. for it resonated with eons of life and whispers of debilitation. It did not move its mouth to say those three words that have haunted me ever since that night,

echoing in my dreams and hiding between the sentences of everything that anyone has spoken to me since. At once, I regained control of my body and turned to flee from that repulsive port, and I have never returned. I do not recall how exactly I returned home, for my mind was a spiral of madness for many months after my encounter with the ancient entity, but despite my slow recovery, I have not remembered. Even most of the creature's form is a blur in my memory, as the mere sight unraveled my mind for quite some time. From what I have been told, I was found in my house the next day. raving like a madman and laughing to myself. I spent many years in a recovery clinic,

and I have not seen amicus since his abandonment that night. Now, years later, I live my life quietly in Malaviera. I've found honest work, and I'm often inside my house hours before and after. Night falls over the fair city. Somehow, I know that I will never be able to leave, but those three words that the creature spoke are forever engraved in my mind.

Even writing them now sends shivers down my back and a dull pain through my head. Despite my uncountable nightmares about the ancient entity saying those three words, I've tried to forget. I now write them, hoping that I don't know. find some solace in revealing my knowledge and praying, whomever reads them, will someday find that they do not also remember these three words. Welcome home, human. A penultimate tale this evening is Clostrophobia by Moonlit Coe. Things have simply not been the same for Dalton Whitworth since the carriage accident. Colors are not as vivid.

music not nearly as pleasurable. Every meal he consumes is bland and leaves an unsavory aftertaste. Days filled with sunlight are no longer warm, enjoyable experiences. Oh, on the contrary, he finds the light to be oppressive, causing his eyes, head and neck, to be in a constant state of discomfort and torment. Dalton had previously enjoyed these simple pleasures in his life, even as recently as last month until the accident

that took away his beloved Rachel now he feels as if he spends all his effort avoiding everything he dreads having to eat yet another tasteless dinner he stays indoors as much as possible only daring to venture out long enough to acquire the necessities for survival

he goes out of his way to avoid huge human contact. Even though his circle of acquaintances showed great care and sympathy for him upon the loss of his wife, he would much prefer to be left alone now. If, by chance, he did encounter a familiar face in public. He knew the conversation would invariably turn toward his tragic experience, forcing him to relive the nightmare. He would again see in his mind the spooked horse on its hind legs. The carriage, jolting harshly, Rachel letting out the briefest of screams as she is thrown from her seated position atop the open-air coach. The cobblestone pavement, the blood pooling

under her lifeless form, his helpless inability to alter the outcome. Dalton cannot bear these images any longer, and he is frightened of closing his eyes for fear of being accosted once again by these horrific visions. He passes the days in his apartment, reading by dim gaslight, anything he can get his hands on. Novels, textbooks, newspapers and other periodicals, packaging for common household products, anything that will let him escape. When he is not. He is not. He is not. He is not, he is reading, he extinguishes the gaslight and sits in his armchair near the only window in his tiny quarters. He pulls back the heavy, dense curtain, just enough for one eye to ingest the world outside. He is careful not to allow an overabundance of sunlight into the dark room.

People outside go about their happy lives, content and oblivious to the dark matters that one who has suffered a loss must endure. On one particular morning when Dalton awoke, he was immediately confronted with an odd sensation. Something wasn't quite right. He was in the habit of standing at the foot of his bed every morning and facing the mirror as he dressed. He did so this day as well, but with the exception that the image being reflected did not appear as it had other days. He wasn't able to pinpoint its inaccuracy until he attempted to button his jacket, the same jacket he wore most days. This day, the button second from the top, was no longer visible in his reflection. This had never been the case before, and Dalton was uncertain of how such

a discrepancy might have occurred. Have I grown shorter overnight? Has the mirror been raised on the wall? Huh, nonsense. These options were impossible. All throughout the day, as Dorden made his way around the apartment, his rhythm seemed to be off. After years of living in the same rooms, amongst the same unmoved furnishings,

one develops a sense of rhythm to their comings and goings. Eight steps to the armchair. Five more to the front door. A slight inward turn off the left foot while entering the bedroom, lest one's toe be stubbed on the protruding dresser again. These are all subconscious, of course. There is no actual counting or calculation involved. But the human mind takes note of these nuances internally and builds its own map of the landscape. Movements are subliminally adjusted to achieve the utmost efficiency.

to the point where it is possible to flawlessly navigate the surroundings, even incomplete darkness. Dalton was not in complete darkness, and yet he continued to stumble throughout the day. The sides of his shoes bumped corners of walls. He approached the bookshelf from his armchair in seven steps instead of eight. His top hat grazed the overhead gas lamp in the main hallway. At dinner, he slid his chair out. from under the table to the point that it was touching the wall, and yet he was still barely able to squeeze himself between the table and chair

in order to sit for his meal. Later that night, he finished his reading in the dim light. He reached up to extinguish the lamp, and clumsily jammed his finger against the brass fixture. It hadn't been so close last night, he thought, while rubbing the pain away. Sleep did not come easily that night. Dalton tossed and turned in a feverish heat of sounds and images in his mind. The horse neighing loudly as it bolted away.

Rachel helplessly tumbling from the side of the accelerating carriage. Dalton lying next to her on the ground, calling her name, trying to rouse her, fighting his tears. The following morning, Dalton noted his red eyes and the dark circles underneath them as he dressed in the mirror. However, this was not the only startling revelation. As he buttoned his coat, he also noticed that the top button was no longer visible in the viewing pane. A rush of adrenaline flowed through his body, leaving him with a brief pain in his chest and a sweat beginning to run.

emerge on his brow. He took a step backward, but it was not enough to bring the button into view. One more step backward, and he stumbled against the footrail of his bed. This can't be. Am I going mad? He pondered. He became lightheaded and was overwhelmed with the urge to sit. He made his way down the hall to the armchair and fell into its velvety. comfort. After a time of rest and catching his bearings, Dalton proceeded to the bookshelf. He could have sworn it was only six steps this time, to peruse for an item to read. Once he selected his book, he settled into the chair once more to immerse himself in a world far from his own. Dalton awoke abruptly.

He had no idea how long he had slumbered in his reading chair. The remaining light in the apartment was dim, and one quick glance behind the thick curtain revealed a deep indigo dusk sky. To his astonishment, Dalton realized that he'd passed the bulk of the daylight hours unconscious. He had even forgotten that he had been reading until he found the book face down on the floor next to the armchair. He arose from the chair and stumbled a bit, still unstable from his lengthy nap.

Upon making his way to the bedroom, he nearly ran full steam into the wall at the end of the hallway. He had reached the end a full three paces sooner than before. Suddenly, he felt fully awake. his annoyance at this scenario having grown to its peak he decided to investigate further to prove once and for all that he wasn't going completely stark raving mad

he retrieved a broomstick and laid it on the hallway floor with its end touching the wall he marked the other end with his finger pressed tightly against the floor and then slid the stick forward until it aligned with his marking finger repeating this process all down the corridor he determined that it took six full lengths of the broomstick with a remaining space of about ten inches that last portion he estimated in his mind to reach the front door he noted this dimension on the inside cover of the book he picked up off the floor and vowed to measure again soon

Before going to bed that evening, Dalton paused to have a look at his reflection in the mirror once more. He stood with the back of his calves touching the footboard of the bed. He almost broke down into tears when he saw the sickly man in the reflection. A shadow of the man he was before losing Rachel. Aside from his startling visage, he also took note of the trunk of the trunk of the trunk of the trunk of. incated image. Now, his face was only visible down to the chin. No neckline, no buttons on his coat. He reached his arms out before him and was able to touch the wall with his fingertips, something never before possible, as the wall had always been a good seven feet away from the foot

of the bed. Defeated, he hung his head, removed his outer clothing and crawled into bed. hoping to sleep indefinitely, not minding if he never awoke again. But awaken he did. He had slept soundly all night long, only stirring momentarily when thoughts of the accident attempted to encroach on his dreams. It was morning light now, and the first thing that Dalton noticed was something pressing against his bare foot. Still in a fog, he bent his already stiff neck downward to catch a glimpse of what it was that had come into contact with him. A swell of panic and fear overtook him when he

determined that it was the wall with the mirror on it, pressed all the way up against the footrail of his bed. Dalton jolted his neck the opposite way to see the space. behind the headboard. It was still snugly against the opposing wall. His heart raced with dread at this unexplainable event. His mind did not know how to process this information. He exited the bed on the left side and squeezed past the pressing walls and threw the doorway into the hall. After retrieving the measuring broomstick, he employed it to measure the wall. He employed it to measure the hallway a second time. His hand shook, but he was careful to line up the stick accurately at each interval. Upon reaching the door, he nearly fainted to find that he'd only counted

four and a half lengths of the stick. What is happening to me? He cried out, to no one as he collapsed onto the floor. He sobbed openly. Not only because of the strange predicament, but also for his current condition, and for Rachel, who had brought such peace and contentment to his life just a month prior. Oh, how things could change so quickly. After regaining his composure,

Dalton was overwhelmed with the desire to flee, to get out of that oppressive apartment, even if only temporarily. As much as the idea frightened him, he decided to pass the daylight hours outdoors. Where exactly he would go, he did not yet know. He picked himself up off the floor, found his hat and overcoat, and made his way to the front door, noting how it took fewer steps to approach it.

Dalton walked along the cobblestone path through town. He stared at the ground as he walked, hoping that no one would try to speak to him, or even make eye contact. No one did. Turning the corner near a leather tanning shop, he had to divert his path as the store owner came bursting from the front door of the shop and threw a bucket of waste water into the street, nearly wetting Dalton's shoes.

Hmm, how completely rude and insensitive, Dalton thought, though he did not speak to the man. He continued on toward an air. area free of businesses, buildings and the commotion of life, a park-like area with benches, a pond, and trees displaying their colourful autumn foliage. Doughton sat on the nearest park bench upon entering the clearing. It was relatively calm and peaceful since it was mid-morning on a weekday. The only other patrons were a mother feeding ducks in the pond with her toddler son. an elderly gentleman sitting on a bench opposite Dalton reading a newspaper and the occasional

pass-a-bye on their way to do more important things. Dalton sat and observed until he felt his eyelids getting heavy. The breeze and the silence lulled him. The cloud cover was a thick grey blanket preventing any harsh sunlight, much to Dalton's delight. Even so, it was unseasonably warm which only furthered his sleepiness. As he was on the verge of crossing the threshold into dream territory, he saw a woman in a pink dress passed by in front of him. He was startled and followed her with his eyes as she approached the pond.

Jolting to full alertness, Dalton's heart began to pound. as his mind guided him towards this inevitable thought. My God, she looks just like Rachel. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his neck. He stood and slowly approached the woman from behind. When he was standing just adjacent to her, he mustered the courage to speak. Rachel?

He asked in all. almost a whisper. His voice weak and quivering. The woman turned and looked him directly in the eye. It's her. By God, it's her, he thought. Dalton! Her voice was filled with relief and longing, as if the wife of a military man being reunited with her husband after long months apart. They immediately embraced. Rachel's head pressed tightly in her. to Dalton's shoulder. They both wept. Dalton repressed the confusion in his mind of how this could be possible. It didn't matter to him. His precious wife had returned to him, and he wanted to revel in that fact. Plausibility be damned. The longer the embrace lingered, the more Dalton

noticed the heaviness of Rachel leaning on him, the slackness of her body. The slagness of her body. soon it felt to Dalton as if he was supporting her entire weight she had gone completely limp in his arms still holding the embrace they collapsed to the ground together Dalton attempting to ease his wife's descent it wasn't until they reached the ground that her head fell away from his shoulder revealing the truth Dalton recoiled in horror on seeing the decayed face of his once lovely bride. Her eye sockets were sunken and deep. Her jaw slacked open to an impossibly wide angle. Her complexion was grey and flecked with dry, cracked areas. Her hair, previously beautiful and one of Dalton's favourite features about her, was now thin and stringy, matted to the shape of her head.

Rachel's lifeless body fell away onto the stone walkway as Dalton pulled his arms away in disgust. He felt the pain of losing her all over again, fresh as the day it first happened. Dalton jolted awake to find himself still sitting on the park bench. He nervously looked around to see if anyone had noticed his startled awakening. He hoped he had not screamed out in his sleep. He was relieved to find that there was no one around. The woman with her young boy, gone. The old man reading the paper.

Gone. The sky was now a much darker shade of grey. The clouds had thickened to the point that it appeared it may rain at any moment. How long had he been sitting there? what felt like minutes could possibly have been hours. As Dalton stood to make his way back to his apartment, the first raindrops began to fall. He was thoroughly soaked as he stood in the front of his apartment door

and fumbled with the key. In his haste, he dropped it into a puddle, then bent over to retrieve it. Once he finally managed the lock, he pushed the door open, but was dumbfounded when it hit a hard object after having only opened up a third of the way. He backed the door up a few inches and pushed again with the same result. Dalton turned sideways and stuck his head and right shoulder into the dark foyer

in an attempt to observe the obstruction. Press firmly against the door was his favourite velvety armchair. This is madness! He said aloud, still standing in the soaking deluge. He took several steps back out into the street. The building appeared no different on the outside. He returned to the doorway and pushed hard enough to slide the chair a small amount, just enough to squeeze through and into his apartment.

What he found was completely astonishing. The size of the space, inside diminished at the point that the furniture was gathered in the centre of the room, walls pressing in on all sides. He'd had to remove his hat and crouch down, lest his head hit the ceiling. There was no need for Dalton to measure in order to confirm his suspicions. The room was so small now that he could not even walk through it without stepping over furnishings that had once been placed feet apart from one another. The hallway was practically non-existent, and he reached his bedroom in only three steps,

turning sideways to squeeze between its walls. He had to step up onto his bed as he crossed the threshold into the room. The walls touched the bed on all sides, and the mirror had fallen onto the foot of his bed, face down. Dalton sat on his bed and turned the mirror over. He did not recognize. the man staring back at him. Pale, gaunt, sickly, haunted. Not knowing what else to do, he lay on his bed and waited. Waited for what? He didn't know exactly. For the walls to consume him,

he supposed. For the ceiling to drop down and crush the last breath from his lungs. He was ready. He was resigned. There was rumbling when the walls and ceiling shifted again. This was the first time Dalton had witnessed the movement himself. It was alarming at first, but he knew it was inevitable. He accepted the dust that flaked onto his face as the ceiling dropped inches more. He welcomed it even. The head and footboards of his bed cracked and splintered as they buckled.

under the pressure from the wall on either side. The gaslight fixture mounted on the ceiling, touched the mattress next to him. He held the mirror flat against his chest. There was no longer room enough to stand it upright. More rumbling. The mattress bent and formed a tomb around Dalton. He closed his eyes and waited.

He waited until he lost consciousness and all was black. Dalton's eyes slowly opened. He was enveloped in complete darkness. He felt groggy and his head was pounding. It took several minutes for him to come out of the fog, but once he did, it was as if he hadn't felt this clear-minded in quite some time.

He was alive. Not only that, but he wanted. to live. He felt the energy of revitalized life flowing through him. Memories came rushing back. In his mind's eye he saw a lovely day with Rachel. He saw them mounting the carriage together after their evening meal at DuPont's bistro. He saw the spooked horse rear up. He remembered the severe jolting of the carriage. He saw his wife plummeting to the ground. He also saw himself falling harshly onto the pavement stones, his head slamming against them violently. Everything after that was blackness.

Dalton was barely able to move. When he finally regained a small amount of control over his limbs, he felt around for his surroundings. He was lying on his back, on something plush and soft. his hands found the edges of his confines quickly they were soft sat in like walls up against his shoulders and inches from his face the ceiling directly in front of him felt as if it had an arch shape to it awakening further he determined that he could not move his body beyond this position as he was lying in a depression that fits snugly against him the air was thick and musty barely breathable. It hurt his lungs to inhale it too deeply. Sweat formed on his brow as he

realized the full extent of his environment. Panic set in. No, he yelled, using up some of the remaining stale air inside. I'm not dead! He banged his fists against the lids as best he could within the limited space, but it only created a muffled thud on the soft interior. Dalton screamed again and began sobbing. When he tried to take more air into his lungs, it felt like someone had placed a pillow over his face. He labored to inhale again. Approximately six feet above him was a marker which bore two names. Rachel A. Whitworth on the left side, and Dalton G. Whitworth.

worth on the right side. Below each was inscribed a date of birth and a date of death. The dates of death being identical. In between the names was chiseled into the stone. Together in life, together in death. Two days after the burial, two lone mourners, co-workers of Doughtons, visited the gravesite to place flowers. They stood in their top hats and over, coats, staring solemnly at the headstone. It's a shame he didn't recover from his coma. One grieving man said to the other. Indeed, the second man responded.

I do wonder, though, said the first co-worker. Do you suppose someone in that state knows? I mean, are they capable of thinking or dreaming? After some thought, the second man dismissed the idea. Nah, I doubt it. But Dalton Whitworth, if he were here today, would beg to differ. Yes, he would say, we are capable of thinking and dreaming. And it is as vivid as life itself.

We round off this evening's podcast with Haggut's Peak by Michael Whitehouse. Folds of grass mounds dipped and rose as we climbed the cliffs. At their peak an old cottage stood, the time of its construction long forgotten. We drove and had been driving for hours. It was all I knew how to do. Our house foreclosed. My dreams, our dreams, repossessed along with them. I sat in the driver's seat, my wife alongside me, and our two children in the back.

It was good that they couldn't see my expression. How could I face them? How could I explain that our lives had just been cut loose, taken out by a nameless tide, swathed in empty bank accounts and red letters, typed harshly demanding final payment? I had failed. Lauren knew she hadn't spoken since we started driving. The men had come.

We put the last of our things in the small caravan, which now towed behind us, filled with the echoes of our previous lives. Our home had been lost, and the rickety caravan, which had been my aunts, was now our only hope of shelter. Thank God it hadn't been taken from us as well. What will we do now? Lauren's words still rang in my ears,

a wife unsure, swirling through my mind for the duration of the drive. The kids had laughed and giggled, excited by the adventure, but their sweet ignorance was more painful to me than any bailiff. The children were happy, but for how long? We were now miles from the city, climbing up the incline to Haggut's Peak, away from our neighbours, our friends, our church group, the school. Their world was undone, and yet they didn't know it.

When we found ourselves in the car, driving along the motorway with a caravan in tow, I just wanted to go somewhere safe. somewhere comforting. The kids would be on their summer holidays just a few days later, and so I didn't see the point in staying in that bleak city for one more day. I needed to think things through, far away from any reminder of the bad decisions I had made. As the night drew in and a small dusting of rain patted on the roof of our car, one place spoke to me through the darkened, red,

tainted sky. A place which reached out from my childhood, like a comforting embrace. Haggards Peak. The name didn't sound appealing, but I'd spent several summers there when I was a boy,

playing on the beaches and exploring the hills, and felt the air of the sea would be as good a tonic as any to the poison grip of the city. I wanted to relive that feeling of freedom. When hope was The boundless and the realities of life were nothing more than a darkened cloud hovering in the distance.

The car struggled in several places. The ascent steeper than I remembered. But as we rose up above the rocks and thrashing sea below, my daughter Beth let out and excited, Wow! As the moon broke through the clouds above to provide a brief glimpse of the landscape. The sea warped and undulated below, as the rain made countless impressions on its surface. Hills and cliffs dotted the land into what could be seen of the horizon. As we reached the top of Haggard's Peak, the old cottage at the summit brooded, frozen in white and grey stone. A small red wooden door locked against the encroaching moonlight, and its solitary chimney reaching up to a sky which threw nothing but rain down in reply.

The years hadn't changed it, and if anything, it appeared even more resolute against the elements than I had remembered. No one had lived there when I was a boy, but how glad I was to see that it had survived the years a little less battered than myself. Why here, Joe? I turned to my wife to answer, away from everything. I looked out at the sea and to the cottage, which now partially shielded us from the wind. My aunt used to take me here in the summer. I feigned a smile of reassurance.

The kids will love it. Lauren was concerned about the place. She worried about the cliffs, but as we parked on a small patch of grass where others before us had visited, I assured her that the kids would be quite safe as long as we kept an eye on them. The summit rolled with thick, long, dark green grass, as we sat in the car far away from the precipice to the rear of the cottage, which dropped down to the violent seas hundreds of feet below. Yes, we'd be quite safe. The cottage was now at least a five or ten minute walk from us,

and the cliffs further than that. We set a table in the caravan as night finally fell, and treated the kids to a midnight snack before putting them to bed. Beth complained about not being tired, as any seven-year-old would, but our youngest, Ross, was all but asleep when we'd. tucked him into his bed. As the wind crept up and shook the caravan gently, I told both of them they'd be safe, and that we would be going home in a few days. It's a terrible thing when a parent lies to their children, hoping that somehow their words will come true. I lay awake next to my wife

in the small room next door, listening to each creak and rattle. The wind seeping out from the night. Perhaps Lauren was awake, running the same bleak thoughts of homelessness through her head, searching feverishly for an answer. But I didn't know, as I could not bear to face her. I just stayed in the darkness, hoping that in the morning a way forward would be clearer to me.

I focused on the sound of rolling, waves in the distance, but then notice something peculiar, light sounding at first, yet becoming more pronounced as it neared, a shuffling through the long grass outside. I dismissed it as a bird simply rustling through the undergrowth. I lay there until finally sleep came to the pleasant backdrop of wind and rain and sea. In the morning I woke, numb to the world with a momentary loss of memory, not registering the house being repossessed or the drive toward Haggitt's Peak. Soon the comfort of a fogged mind passed, and the reality of my situation, of my families, filtered through. I struggle to rise, feeling no clearer about it. I struggle to rise, feeling no clearer

about what to do next. Lauren seemed brighter, but as the children dressed to go outside and explore their surroundings with us, I saw a glimpse in her eyes. A look which told me she was hurting, putting on a brave face for our children. Something I was not sure I could do.

After breakfast we went outside to stretch our legs and to let the children explore the imposing scenery. In the summer morning the sea breeze momentarily blew away my anxiety. And, while looking out across the bay below, the tide receding to reveal patches of sand and stone, ground out from the ancient coast by eons of tidal movement. The beauty of the place spoke of hope. It was sad to me that there was no other caravans on the hilltop, as the long, luscious grass provided more than enough space for a large number.

Indeed, the cliff-tops followed the coastline for miles, something which I was sure would provide the kids with plenty to do, under a watchful eye, of course. I remembered when I was younger, Haggard's Peak dotted with caravans and all the kids, strangers to each other, thrown together in fleeting friendships for the summer. There's long, warm, glorious days when life was simple. After taking in the now-misted view of the sea, it wasn't long until Beth and Ross turned their attentions to the old cottage, that remnant of a past life which stem back much farther than my own.

Can we go outside? Beth asked hopefully, curling a strand of her blonde hair in her fingers. No, the cottage hasn't been open for a long time as far as I know. As those words slipped out of my mouth, I felt apprehensive about the statement. There was no doubt that the cottage was looked after. The small garden which sat in front was mowed, with several flowers and shrubs clearly planted along the inside of the black and rusted iron fence, which surrounded the building at chest height.

When I was there as a child, we used to play in the ground. until my aunt told us off for not respecting the absent owners. Thinking back, it was taken care of even then. I assumed that it was a listed building, as it was clearly several hundred years old. And the pristine nature of its impressive rear gardens spoke of care and nurture, when there seemed to be no other indication that someone lived inside. Yet the building itself set against the backdrop of where ocean met sky, seemed rigid and imposing. Far more so than its size should otherwise have reasonably mustered.

The children giggled as I unlatched the iron garden gate, which squealed as we pushed it aside. Lauren protested against us going in, but I had experienced adventure in long, innocent summer days on Haggard's Peak, and wanted my family to experience the same carefree sentiment. No one lives here. It's fine. We wandered into the garden, the slabbed path which cut through the lawn leading to the front door and around the back. It was then that I noticed that Ross had refused to follow.

He stood by the garden gate, looking at the windows which were blackened by a vacant inside. I took him by the hand and told him everything was fine, but he wouldn't budge. Someone's watching you, Daddy, he said, before cowering behind his mum's legs. Lauren looked at me sternly. Why must you always push things? She said before walking Ross back to the caravan. Hmm, why must I always push things, indeed? something had certainly perturbed my son.

He'd only just turned four, and I could understand how the place might have spooked him, but as I walked towards the cottage front door, I felt a caution wash over me. The door was dark red. The paint peeled and bubbled, revealing a greyish wood underneath. There was no handle or, stranger still. any sign of a keyhole. The door seemed in every way an exit rather than an entrance.

I realised then that I was alone, that my daughter Beth was nowhere to be seen. Knowing that the cliffs were nearby, I panicked. I shouted her name but received no reply. Looking at the caravan across the hilltop, I hoped that she'd wandered to it. My eye was then drawn to the garden path, which, after meeting the doorway, moved off to the side and then the rear of the house.

I rushed down the path quickly, surprised by the length of the cottage. I felt hemmed in by the large hedgerow, which marked its boundaries, running alongside me as tall as the house. After passing through an arch of vines, I found myself in the garden, which ran. ran long and terminated just a few feet from the cliff edge. It was surrounded by a pristine hedgerow, the sides tall, keeping the place from prying eyes. Yet at the foot of the garden, it gave way, allowing for an unimpeded view of the rolling seas and cracked rocks far below. A wooden bench sat down there, facing the waters, offering itself up to me. In the centre of of a sprawling lawn there stood a small orchard of a few apple trees. And in the middle an old

wicker seat surrounded by vine arches, similar to the ones I'd passed through before. And on the seat was Beth, looking up at the rear of the cottage. I called her name. The only reply, a swishing of waves and a swishing of sea air. I called her. I called her name. The only reply, a swishing of waves and a swishing of sea air. I called again And finally she broke from her stillness and looked at me The colour had drained from her face And she looked dazed

Someone lives here daddy She said Her eyes falling slightly as she did so I'm beginning to think so myself Let's go back to the caravan, okay? I could tell that Beth had something on her mind The same look she gave me when she'd stolen a toy from a neighbour's garden the previous summer and experienced true guilt for the first time.

She's watching us. I looked around and it was then that I noticed the strange construction of the cottage. From the front it looked like any other, bar for the unusual door without a keyhole. But from the rear, it became utterly unique. The roof arched up slightly to reveal a solitary window, a large spherical port-hole, held together by a metal frame which met in the centre to create a huge cross. The glass appeared substantially thicker than a normal window, warping slightly and twisting rays of light to create a dull, murky and blurred impression.

From the front I would have sworn that the house only had one level. but that strange window allowed the world to glimpse a half-floor or attic, which was not immediately apparent. What unsettled me more than anything else, more than the strange construction, was that there were no other windows, and that the entire rear of the ground floor was encased in a wall of grey, brick and mortar. I couldn't be sure that someone hadn't been looking at us. And while I saw no evidence for it, I did feel unwelcome in that pristine garden. So much so that I had to look away from the window and reassure Beth that no one was nearby, even though I didn't believe it.

We walked out of the garden together, and as we did so, the light warped and moved through the thickened window. The sound of gulls broke the silence, carried by the winds, across the shore. That evening we had a family dinner, followed by a board game to entertain the children. There were moments when I forgot about our situation, no longer suffocated by our financial plight. When the children went to bed, however, the reality of being homeless and its effect on my marriage were brought to the fore once more. Lauren was unhappy, and she had ever right to be. How long are we going to stay here? It's a holiday, Lauren, I said pointedly. I don't know. Maybe a week or two. I can take the time. My boss doesn't mind, but you need to find a job as

as soon as she can, she said, half whispered, half shouted. Look, I know this is my fault, but I, we all need some time. All I want to do is stay here on the peak for a few days and to figure out a way forward. I smiled and leaned across the big table, touching my wife's hands. Maybe we could all do with a bit of relaxation. We don't have time to relax. We need a home. Lauren turned away from me, no doubt hiding her tears.

Don't you think I know that? All I'm asking is for a few days to get my head around what's happened. I wrap my arms around her. I'm so sorry. I promise I'll make this right. There was a pause, and in that moment I could sense a gulf between us, one which was growing by the day, and if we weren't careful, we'd soon all fall in.

Lauren turned to me, wiping her cheeks. I know you will, honey. I know you will. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders as we went to our tiny room and climbed into bed. If she'd wanted to, Lauren could have left me, but she was so committed to our family. As I drifted to sleep, our body's close to one another. I knew how lucky I was. I fell asleep listening to the grass, fluttering the breeze below the caravan. It was that same breeze which woke me, but now it filtered through the caravan and under the door into our room, the salt in the air stinging my nostrils. A low hum droned outside, accompanied by a subtle whistling as the wind filtered through the nooks and crannies of our belongings inside. At first the sea air made me feel alive.

enraptured by the clean breath it provided. But then the unease of the situation swept over me. The door to the outside was clearly open. I woke Lauren, putting my fingers to my lips, intimating that she should remain quiet. I think someone is in the caravan, I said, trying to appear in control of the situation. But in my depths fear festered.

Slowly I opened our bedroom door and stepped into the cold darkness. My eyes watered, the stench of salt and sea far more potent than I'd ever experienced before. A low, audible creek sounded as the door to Haggard's Peak moved in the breeze. Looking around, I saw no one nearby, and then closed the door, sure that the old lock must have given way during a rough wind. Then, another creek joined the chorus, and a profound terror gripped me at the sight of the source. The door to Beth's room. Forgetting quiet steps and eschewing any element of surprise, I ran towards the noise only to be greeted by an empty, utterly empty bed. I cried out,

Beth! As I checked on our son to find him sleeping soundly. Lauren appeared from the room and let out an aching gas, but the realization that our daughter was not in the caravan. Everything's going to be okay, I said, trying to still the anxiety coursing through my body. Stay here with Ross, unlock the door. Don't let anyone in unless it's me or Beth, okay? Lauren nodded as I jumped out of the caravan, half-dressed with a coat wrapped around me.

The cool morning air put its fingers gently through my hair, the smell of salt and sea with it. Yet there was something else in the air that day. A faint scent of rotten fish. I looked around. The sun was low in the sky, but Haggard's speed. peak was fully lit, and in the slow breeze it appeared almost still, like the holding of a breath. B'ath! I screamed, as only a parent searching for a missing child can. No reply. A sick, turning sensation gripped my stomach as the waves in the distance filtered through the panic.

The cliffs, they were far enough away. for children being watched, but a child on her own could wander to them in ten minutes. How long had Beth been gone? I ran across the grass of Haggard's Peak, shouting, yelling, crying out, my voice breaking in waves of fear. I couldn't see her. There was no sign. Then the old white cottage fell into view. It's two two. front windows like eyes, glaring at me across the grass peak. As I approached, a strange thought entered my mind. The house was laughing at me. Entering the garden as fast as I could, I grasped for air as I ran along the side of the house, under the arch of vines and then to the rear. I felt the adrenaline shooting

through my veins, my heart racing. And finally, as I reached the sprawling lawn at the back, I let out an audible gasp of relief. Beth was there. She was standing in the middle of the grass, facing the house, facing that strange old circular window with thick, warped glass. Beth, what are you doing? I shouted, grabbing hold and hugging her as if I hadn't seen her in a decade. Hi, Daddy, she said, and her tone seemed unusual, distant as if her thoughts were focused on other things. I turned and looked at the warped window, the sight of it providing a creeping sense of unease. the same I'd felt the day before.

Beth, why did you leave the caravan? Anything could have happened to you. I don't know. I don't really remember. She looked at me with a puzzled expression. Who is that person in the window, Daddy? I froze to the spot.

The sea air washed over me, and I replied in a cold sweat. A stillness then settled all around. There were no squawking gulls above or on the cliffs. No waves crashing against the rocks below. There was nothing. Just the beating of my heart. I turned around slowly and looked at the house.

Beth was right. Someone was standing behind the window, looking down at us. The figure was grey in colour But it was impossible to tell If it was a man or a woman As the thick glass twisted and contorted the image Like a fun house mirror There it stood

Watching us Looking down Someone was in that cottage after all I suddenly realised that I was trespassing And so picked Beth up gently She put her arms around my neck in a warm embrace. I walked towards the side of the house, and, as I passed underneath the window, I raised one arm to wave, acknowledging that we shouldn't have been there. But the figure stood still, stone-like, and gave no response.

By the time we exited the front garden, Lauren had dressed Ross and was walking here. him around the peak looking for Beth. When she saw her, she cried out and ran to her daughter, taking her out of my arms and walking straight back to the caravan with both our children. I turned and looked to the cottage. I scowled, and it scowled back. Lauren didn't say much to me when I returned to the caravan. She was more concerned with Beth, as she should have been. When she found, she was. finally did talk to me, we agreed that something needed to be done about the lock on the caravan door, just in case Beth should go sleepwalking again. We went for a picnic that day, trying to put the

unwanted excitement of the early morning behind us. I thought it best if we explored a little, and so we walked along Haggard's Peak until we found a nice, grassy grove, which was sheltered partially from the breeze by two large grey rocks. For a while we laughed and joke, until Beth asked, when are we going home? Lauren looked at me, hurt flickering across her face like a wave quickly broken.

I'm not sure, darling, she said. I knew then was as good a time as any to broach the subject. Kids, we're going to find a new home, somewhere exciting. I tried to put the most positive spin on the situation I could, but that's a difficult task when your home is being repossessed. Will we live near my friends? Beth asked. Um, we're not sure yet, I replied.

Can we live in the white cottage? She said. That request brought forward a fragment of the panic I'd felt when Beth was lost. No, we need to find our own home. Someone already lives there. No one lives in the house, Daddy. We can move in whenever we want. Beth bit into a chicken sandwich, spilling some mayonnaise on her chin. You know fine while someone lives there, Beth. Remember the person at the window this morning? They don't live there, Daddy, she said, taking another bite.

I began to grow uneasy. What do you mean they don't live there? She's just waiting for someone to take the house. And you know all of this, sweetheart? Lauren asked. Beth took a drink of her raspberry diluted juice and nonchalantly said, She whispered it to me when we were in the garden. Haggard's Peak had been a place I'd loved as a kid.

I remembered the old cottage, but it didn't seem ominous to me then. As an adult, that had changed. I wondered if I'd been just as oblivious to the eerieness of the place when I was my daughter's age. I snapped out of my contemplation and tried to explain to Beth that she couldn't have heard the woman at the window. If indeed it was a woman, from where she was standing.

She whispered it to me, Daddy. Her voice sounds like waves. I changed the topic of the conversation. Sure that she must have dreamt the entire episode. But in my gut I felt that something was wrong with the peak. And for the first time, I started to doubt whether it had been the right place to go during our troubles. We went home to the caravan, the only home.

we had. After another round of board games, we put the children to bed. I double-checked the lock on the door and then placed two suitcases in front of it, making it almost impossible for our nine-year-old daughter to sleepwalk into the outside world. Lauren snuggle up to me and passed out quickly. It had been a long day, and the worry of nearly losing our daughter had taken its toll. But I couldn't sleep so easily. I listened in the darkness to the sounds outside. Sounds which had comforted me as a child. Waves breaking on the cliffs.

Wind rustling through the grass underneath the caravan. And the occasional call from a bird or two. I thought about these birds, how, when the wind gets up, they take to the sky, wings outstretched. letting the ferocity of the world carry them upward. And there they glide, hoping to weather the storm. I fell asleep thinking of those birds, hoping, dreaming. When I woke it was early morning. A roar of wind was in its element,

bringing with it a heavy downpour of rain, which sounded like hail as it battered against the caravan's roof. I could see through the net curtains to the outside peak. The sun hadn't yet fully risen, but the sky was a dark blue, hinting that soon it would be light. I reckon the clouds would do their best to keep daylight to a minimum. The wind howled, and the rain seemed angry somehow. We were in for a storm. Once awake, my worried mind, filled with finances and dwind.

windling bank accounts wouldn't allow me to return to sleep. So I stood up out of bed, left our room as Lauren slept soundly and wandered into the kitchenette and living area. I breathed a sigh of relief when I turned the light on. The suitcases were still tight against the door, which itself was locked to the outside world. Good thing too, as the weather was horrendous. I poured myself a glass of water and sat for a moment. The caravan moving as each gust of wind caught it, sending a shiver through its bones. But for me, that shutter took me again back to my childhood,

to those summers on Haggert's Peak. Even if the weather turned, there was something undeniably cozy about sitting inside a caravan, thin walls of wooden metal, the only barrier between you and the elements. It was safety, and that was exactly what I yearned for most. Safety from the world.

A gull flew outside, no doubt hovering in the wind. Its shriek filled the air above, traveling downward through the storm, through the rain, and then through the caravan's outer shell. with the muffled remnants reaching me. In the low light of early morning, the sound took on a more sinister form. It contorted once more,

and then I realized it sounded more like a shriek than a call. The girl's call sounded painful. It sounded like it was away, separated from something dear, from safety, from its family. The noise shrieked again. The air outside muffling it, shaping it. When it finally reached me, I was amazed how human it sounded, like a child crying out.

A shiver ran through me, and the storm lulled momentarily outside. And in that moment the gull squealed again, the shriek clear in it, unimpeded with less rain and wind to contend with. It sounded human all right. It sounded very human. I rushed to my feet and opened Ross's bedroom door. He lay there, sound asleep. Then I went to the next door and opened it. I was blasted with a cold, salt-filled air as the storm reaffirmed itself outside. But it was more than that.

The air had invaded our cancer. caravan. Not through the front door as it had done the previous day. Not through an open window, no. The outside world had crashed through our sacred little barrier, through a large hole in the floor. What I thought was a bird or the sea breeze ruffling through the long blades of grass beneath us the previous two nights was something else. It had indeed been moving. been touching Anne prodding below the caravan. It had broken through the floor, and it had taken Beth. My mind was frantic.

I cried out to my wife that her daughter had been taken, as I pulled the suitcases from the front door, unlocked it, and ran out into the darkened sky of a storm-strewn early morning. Lauren shouted behind me, but I didn't respond. The wind threw rain at me, my dressing gown fluttering in the wind, soaked in the madness, a mixture of sweat, panic and rain. I gasped as each wave of air and rain blew against me, putting my head to the side just to catch a breath.

I knew where I was heading. There was no doubt in my mind where Beth was. I struggled against the gale, and as I did so, the old white. cottage grew more menacing. The red door, a bloody beacon in the now unnaturally darkened morning. When I reached the house, I ran to the side, once more under the arch of vines, and then to the garden at the back. I ran down the lawn, I searched the small orchard, I made it to the very foot of the garden to find the old wooden bench, complete with a nameplate. But Beth was nowhere to be found.

I stared down at the rocks below as a ferocious wave crashed and smashed against the cliff face. My stomach turned at the thought of my daughter among them. As I ran back up the lawn to continue my search, a chill went through my bones. I didn't feel like I was being watched. I knew I was being spied upon. I looked up and threw the warp glass window at the rear of the house, I saw that strange figure again, tall and twisted by the glass, grey and lifeless.

Then another figure joined it from the darkness. A child. smaller, more fragile. The rain threshed down once more, and the realisation hit me. Beth had been taken into the house. That strange place with only one door, one exit. I ran as fast as I could to the front. Just then, the wind calmed slightly.

The rain still fell, but it was. was less harsh, less angered. In that moment I looked into the darkness, a darkness which leapt out from inside the cottage. The door was lying open. Turning to look behind me, in the distance I could see the caravan, the last piece of my home. How I wished to take my family away from that place. away from the cliffs, away from the peak,

away from the old house which now called me inward. I stepped forward and I was inside. My eyes took a moment to adjust. The hall was antiquated, the brown floral wallpaper reminding me of my grandmother's house. On the walls were pictures, some older than others. old metal frames colourless photographs

and the subjects all wearing clothes from another era my guess was that they spanned the 1800s and 1900s I opened my mouth to shout my daughter's name but I changed my mind at the last moment the house felt still and yet there was something in that stillness something which made my insides ache for the outside world. The walls were lit with old lamps.

They glowed dim, and, while they were electric bulbs, they looked decades old, surrounded by glass which would have looked more at home around a Victorian gaslight. Stepping forward, I expected to hear a creek, but there was none. Another footstep. Still no noise from the wood beneath my feet. It was as if the house were resolute against my presence. The hall continued on, lined as it was by dim lights and old photographs. But it was upstairs, to the half-floor at the back of that strangely constructed house,

where I had to go. where my daughter was being kept. Finally, I found the staircase. It rose up to the next level, narrow and awkward. And, as I ascended it, my shoulders touched the sides of the walls. It was as if the staircase narrowed with each step. At the top was a solitary door. and I knew what was behind it.

The room with the warped glass window. The room where my child had been taken. It loomed large and brooding, and had Beth not been on the other side, I would have run for my life. Away from that house, that snapshot of the past. I pushed the door, but it didn't creak open.

The house lay silent. I felt as though even my breathing didn't make a sound there, and the storm outside couldn't penetrate the walls of the old cottage. When the door lay open, I saw that the room was an attic of some description, but I didn't take the time to look around. Beth stood alone at the window,

and so I rushed to her, "'Daddy!' she screamed with delight. I picked her up in my arms in front of that warped glass window and hugged and kissed her. "'Daddy! Daddy!' she cried again, burying her head into my shoulders. "'There was a man here. I was out playing and he brought me here. "'It's okay, honey. We're going to get out of here.' I said reassuringly. I lifted her up and caught a little. glimpse of the glass window. The glass was strange as it did not warp the outside world,

as it had done from the outside. Indeed, the garden below seemed vibrant and clear. I could see the small orchard. I could see the pristine lawn. I could see the bench at the end of the garden, and I could see Beth sitting on it. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, off, waiting. it so long, the thing in my arm said. And as it did so, the strange, deep, gravel tone broke through its words. I looked down and saw that the dress was not Beth's. It was old, once pink, the ruffles torn and ragged. The hair which sat next to my face as it latched on tightly to me was grey and white. I'm so happy you're here. This house needs a family, the voice said, sounding older and as haggard as the peak. The child in my arms pulled back its head and showed me

its features. It stared straight into my eyes with warped, wrinkled skin, warts and grey dust. I stumbled back trying to prize it away from me. It clawed at my face as I pulled it from my neck. Finally, the old child fell to the ground as I staggered and tripped over a broken wooden rocking-horse. My head smashed against the wooden, silent floor. I lay there days for a moment, coughing as I inhaled a thick sheet of dust on the ground.

Old skin and dead things long. lingered, which burned in my throat and lungs. I turned my head and looked as the old child scampered to the corner of the room, where it was darkest, and hid behind a wooden wardrobe. But it wasn't a wardrobe. It was something else. The first creek I ever heard in that house was when the figure the old child was hiding behind stepped forward. But it wasn't the house. It was bone and age which shuddered. It had a wooden walking stick in hand and, and whatever clothes it had once worn, had all but rotted away, with a few pieces of rags scarcely covering the grey, crumbling skin and bones, which hobbled towards me.

An old bandage was wrapped around its eyes, and when it opened its mouth to speak, I heard only a groan, what was left of its tongue wriggled between its broken teeth, and it was clear to me that, at some point, the tongue had been severed. I staggered to my feet as blood ran down my face. I must have cut my head open in the fall, and it left me feeling sick and woozy. The crumbling figure moved towards me steadily, as the old child peeked out from behind. and on its withered face I saw what looked like a smile.

I ran for the door and as I did so the child screamed in its low, gravelly voice. Stop him! The old rotten corpse with a walking stick turned and moved, but it was too slow. I had reached the door. The old child scampered towards me on hands. and feet. And it was then that I first noticed its stoop. Regardless, it moved quickly, and as I reached the doorway, it slammed the door in front of me. You're going nowhere, Daddy. It said. The blinded figure moved close behind me, and a thought entered my mind. You will never leave here.

That was enough to push me through the madness. I tried to yank the old child aside, and when I did it lurched forward, opened its mouth, and bit down onto my kneecap. I felt the crunch of cartilage. Fluid and blood seeped out through the holes, mixing with my attacker's putrid saliva. I screamed in agony, and as the old child and blinded figure lay their hands upon me, I managed to pull the door open, knocking the larger of the two to the floor before I lost my balance and fell down the narrow staircase. I tumbled. Down and down I went.

It's a miracle I didn't break my neck as I lay on the crumpled floor, jammed between the two walls. I heard a muffled voice from the room above. Daddy! Daddy! Are you okay? the gravelled voice said but it wasn't me it was talking to it was the blinded figure with an almighty effort I pulled myself through into the hallway the pain in my knee agonizing as I made it to my feet I heard a scream but this was different I knew it it was my wife Lauren and it came from

the house. I followed the yell and in that moment I was in a bedroom on the ground floor. Lawrence stood there holding Ross, our son, covering his eyes from the grisly scene. The room was the same as the rest of the house, aged yet not decaying. Creekless, soundless, as if time was not welcome there. The walls were adorned by photographs, and in the centre of the room lay a bed, which held in its embrace the rotting corpse of a woman. The only remaining hint at her gender, the dress she was wearing. Lauren had seen the door to the cottage lying open and had come in to search for Beth. I told my wife that Beth was safe in the garden and that she should go to her and take her to the caravan.

I left moments after, but not before I took with me a holiday memento of my visit to the old white cottage on Haggert's Peak. The corpse in the bed held with brittle skeletal fingers, a book, what looked like a journal. I don't know what possessed me, but I took it and hoped that it would make sense of the place. We returned to the caravan. Beth told us what had happened. She had woken up with another little girl, but not a little girl, in her room, who took her through the hole in the floor. But that was all she remembered.

She didn't scream, and it was as if she hadn't wanted to either. After patching up my knee, we drove down the hill, still panicked, desperate to leave that place behind. As we passed the cottage, we saw that the door was once again, firmly shut, and that was at least something. I had wanted to find a piece of my childhood there on that peak, something which would make me feel safe, like the summers of old when the world didn't seem so cruel. But instead, we'd all been put in jeopardy. I returned to the real world, the world of bank statements and repossession, not looking back to that place, never looking back at all.

When we returned to civilization I had my knee looked at by a doctor. I said I'd fallen and he seemed to believe me. The wound didn't look like teeth marks, not any I'd ever seen anyway. Just several puncture wounds, which, after an x-ray, we'd have to wait and see whether they required surgery or not. They did not. But I did walk with a slight limp for quite some time afterwards. As for the journal, I read it over and over.

But it was the ramblings of someone caught in a spiral of dimension. or madness. All I could gauge from it was that the woman in the bed had been trapped in that house for decades, as I nearly had. She was to play mother to something hideous there. The daddy in the attic room, he was enticed there well before even that, and in a moment of spiteful rage, the old child had cut out his tongue and clawed out his eyes when he wouldn't play with it I know now that I was close to being a replacement and God only knows if my family would have been trapped there as well

I only visited that place once more a few weeks later as Haggard's Peak haunted my thoughts in the night I poured petrol over the red door. I splashed over the walls and roof, hoping that something would catch. And then I lit it. I don't know why, but I was compelled to walk to the back garden and to sit on the old bench at its foot and look out at the sea, occasionally turning to watch the fire. The flames climbed higher and then fizzled out without leaving a mark. Somehow I knew that it was It would be hopeless. That house had been there long before I was ever born.

And for a long time more it would remain. That was when I read the plaque on the bench, the one I'd seen when searching for Beth. It read, To mommy and daddy, I'll find you one day. I hate to think what brought that creature into this world. And I hope, if I'm lucky, to never cross past with it or its creed, ever again. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen.

Now, I'd ask one small favour 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.