Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S5 Ep206: Episode 206: Horror Stories that Mess with Your Mind

Episode Date: January 3, 2025

If you want to take ownership of your health, try AG1 and get a FREE 1-year supply of Vitamin D AND 5 Free AG1 Travel Packs with your first purchase. Go to www.drinkAG1.com/creepen  Today’s first fantastic offering is ‘In the Land of Black  and White, by Stephan D. Harris, kindly shared with us via the Creepypasta website and narrated with express permission:  http://www.creepypasta.com/in-the-land-of-black-and-white/ Today’s second tale is ''The Last One of the Family'' by Boe Whiskey, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all: https://www.reddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/7002zv/the_last_one_of_the_family Today’s phenomenal third story is ''Knock Knock'' by Bree NicGarran: (submitted via email) Today’s phenomenal penultimate story is 'Mr. Salesman' by Miss Lau, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all:  https://www.reddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/76o4u9/mr_salesman/ ‘What to Do with the Voices in your Head’ by aLooLoo, again kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all:  https://www.reddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/6hy9l5/what_to_do_with_the_voices_in_your_head/ Today’s final fantastic offering is a collection of short stories shared with me on my subreddit: ‘Someone’s Downstairs’ by Sammmy134:  https://www.reddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/6hb7h5/someones_downstairs_fiction_someones_downstairs/ ‘Signs and Wonders’ by BensTerribleFate:  https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/comments/6iviad/signs_and_wonders_death_contest ‘Laughing in the Dark’ by Sammmy134:  https://www.reddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/6hfwax/laughing_in_the_dark_fiction ‘Hunted’ by Boewhishey:  https://www.reddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/6gh5l5/hunted_fiction ‘The Charity’ by MidnightTalesUntold:  https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/comments/6j3ki4/the_charity

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Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon. Our stories mess with our minds because they tap into our primal fears and exploit the unknown, forcing us to confront what we can't fully understand or control. They manipulate our imaginations, filling the gaps with our deepest anxieties, whether it's the fear of isolation, the supernatural, the fragility of reality itself. The eerie music, chilling visuals or vivid descriptions linger, activating our survival instincts, even though we know we're safe. The psychological interplay between fiction and reality

leaves us both disturbed and oddly exhilarated, creating a thrill of fear all over again, 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. Then let's begin.

Tonight's first fantastic offering is in the land of black and white with Stefan D. Harris. I know of an anecdote, one about a little girl named Madeline. Little Maddie was seven years old, with dark chestnut hair and wide blue eyes. Everyone thought she would grow up to become such a pretty woman, and a smart one at that. Maddie loved to read books. All kinds of books, fairy tales and history, fantasy and mystery. Her parents were so proud of her for being so smart and pretty and brave. They knew she was special, but they were also scared.

You see, little Maddie was sick, very sick. She rarely left her bed. But she had her books and the love of her parents to keep her company. She was brave for both herself and them. Of course, Maddie didn't know any better. One day, on a sunny afternoon in December, not a dark stormy night in autumn. Just a few days after Christmas,

Maddie's parents came into her room, full of books and the leftover wrapping paper, all crinkled and sparkling in the sunlight that leaked through her window. They said that they'd have to leave her alone for a while. Not long, just an hour. Just enough time to meet with the doctor. They said that they would be right back, and that if there was any trouble, to call them with the phone that was kept on the nightstand, the one next to her bed, the red one. Maddie wasn't scared, and she knew it wasn't a good idea to move around too much.

She was just too brave. Her father kissed her on the forehead, her mother on the cheek. Maddie smiled and asked if they could open her window. It was an especially warm day with a clear blue sky. Some fresh air could be good. Maddie's father smiled back as he opened the window. Anything else? Her parents asked before they left. No, I'll be all right.

She said to them. I'll just read a story for a while. And then Maddie was alone. All by herself in that great, big house. No sound at all, except for the house. the beeps of the machine, the one that kept check on Maddie's heart. She tried to read her book, but the sunlight that fell on her face made her sleepy. Maddie closed her eyes for how long she didn't know. Not long enough to dream, but long enough to lose time. To her, it was just a blink and nothing

more. But she didn't open her eyes willingly. The squawk of a crow, a black crow, forced her from the piece of sleep. Well, it wasn't just a crow. Maddie also felt warm, too warm for December, in even the best of times. When she woke up, she saw that a crow had perched itself on her window, Still, she also saw something else, something that made her shriek. The chair that was kept in Maddie's room, the chair that her mother would sit in just before bedtime, the chair that should have been empty, had been filled by a stranger. To Maddie, it looked like a person, but also not like a person at all. a face with eyes and a mouth and a nose and all, and it had arms and legs, just like a man's.

It was even wearing a suit, a black suit with a white shirt and purple tie. But this stranger, this man, if you will, looked wrong to Maddie. His face had all the right parts, but they were mutilated in ways almost incomprehend. comprehensible, shiny and pink in some places, black and crackle in others. He had no lips, and his nose was made of two small holes that fled in and out as he breathed. His eyes were yellow and sunken, never blinking, not even once. His body, while never falling to ash, had small flames dancing up and down the lengths of his arms and face, flickering, hot, light.

His clothes were covered in the stains of blood. He looked much like a burn victim would before the fires were put out. The machine, the one that kept watch over Maddie's heart, began to beep quickly. Quickly and loudly, Maddie forgot how to be brave. Do not be frightened, Madeline, said the dark man, his words sounding like nails against glass. I am not here to hurt you. Who are you? Asked Maddie, feeling a bit less frightened.

My name is Lazarus, and I'm a bad man, for all the right reasons. he said back to her. Smoke was rising softly from the fires. He seemed to be in pain, but doing his best to ignore it somewhat stoically. Lazzarous. Maddie said out loud, pronouncing each syllable carefully.

That's a weird name. It's an old name, a very old name from a very old story. His eyes searched Maddie's face, looking for any sign of expression. But she gave nothing away. His eyes eventually fell upon the book in Maddie's lap, Alice in Wonderland. I see you like stories.

Maddie nodded her head. Everyone knew that she liked stories, even strangers. I happened to know a few. What do you like me to tell you one? we have some time to spare. Maddie didn't know what to say. She thought the burning man was being friendly enough, even if he was scary.

But Maddie was alone. She was always alone, she realized. She never got to meet anyone knew, so she decided it best to let Lazarus stay. Besides, she loved stories, even bad ones. Okay. You can tell me a story, but you'll have to leave before mom and dad come home.

I don't think they'd like you. Lazarus inhaled deeply. A wheeze through his mouth and an exhale of smoke through his nostrils. He nodded in agreement. There once was a family of rabbits, a mommy rabbit, and three baby rabbits. They lived in a rabbit hole in the forest. They were happy. The baby rabbits would jump and play all day under the shade of the trees or in the tall grass

of the sunny meadow while their mother looked for food in the forest. At night they would return to their hole and they would snuggle together in the warmth and safety. They were never worried about anything as there was plenty of food. and fun things to do. And they always had each other for comfort. Whenever they got sad or frightened, it was good.

But one day, while playing in the meadow, a fox hiding in the grass, approached the three rabbits, who were unaware of their impending danger. Their mother came out of the thickness of the forest, just in time to see the fox. but was too far away to call to her babies. She knew that she could not reach them in time

to get everyone into the safety of the rabbit hole. And even then, the fox would always know where to wait. What did she do? Asked Maddie. Lazarus raised his charred hand, motioning for Maddie to wait and listen. Well, The mother rabbit had a difficult decision to make.

If she wanted her children to get away from the fox, then she would have to take action. But all actions have consequences. She knew this, but she also loved her children more than she feared the fox. So she ran out of the forest as fast as she could go. She ran towards the fox that was hiding in the grass. And when she was close enough, she called out to her children, Go, run back to the hole, she yelled. The three little rabbits heard their mother just as they saw the fox.

But the fox was no longer interested in the little ones. The mommy rabbit had caught his attention as she led the fox further into the meadow, away from their hole and away from them. The little rabbits got away. But the mother was not so lucky. The fox had caught her and ripped her to bloody ribbons. But her children were safe, and that was all that mattered. Maddie was silent for a moment.

So was Lazarus. That was a sad story. Said Maddie. Lazarus nodded his head, because he knew it was a sad story. But then again, the truth doesn't pick favorites. I didn't like how the mommy had to die. Lazarus gritted his teeth together. She could have lived if she wanted to,

but then what would have happened to her children? She died to save them for the greater good and out of love. I guess so, but it's still sad that they had to grow up without their mom. Maddie looked at her windowsill. There were two more crows perched there. One of them stretched its wings and settled next to the others. She thought it was odd, but said nothing. Would you like to hear another?

We still have some time. It was hard to tell if Lazarus was happy or sad, or angry. His voice was always the same. His face never changed either. Before she could answer, Maddie coughed into a tissue. It was a long, hoarse cough. When she finished, she saw that there was blood soaking through the soft paper. I'm sick.

She said, looking at Lazarus, he leaned in closer, so close that Maddie could count each of his crooked brown teeth. He leaned in close and whispered. into her ear. I know. Do you have any stories about sick people? She asked. Once again, Lazarus, the burning man, nodded his head.

It doesn't have a happy ending either. That's okay. She said. I'll still listen. Lazarus placed his bony fingers on his lap and breathed in. breathed in deep. There was a small town on the shore. There were people who lived in this town.

All sorts of people, bakers, silk weavers, carpenters and many more. They lived happily and productively. They would work and play and marry and live long happy lives. But one day the people started to get sick. everyone, but quite a few, and more every day. The ones who got sick would grow black boils on their faces and necks. Their skin would turn yellow and green. It was a very painful sickness, one that would eventually kill.

The doctors of the town could do nothing to stop it, as there was no cure. The only option was to barricade the town to stop the great plague from spreading. No one was allowed to leave once they entered the town. One of the people who lived in the town, a tailor had a wife who was outside the town limits before the sickness had taken over. She had been away to visit her family a ways off. When she returned, she was stopped by a guard who said that she may not enter without permission. The tailor's wife begged and pleaded to the guard, telling him,

that her husband, the man that she loved, was in the town. The guard finally told her that if her husband would allow it, then she would be able to enter. He also warned her that she would not be allowed to leave again. Word was sent to the tailor that his beloved wife was awaiting his permission at the gates. At first he was overjoyed at the prospect of seeing his dear wife again, as he had been very lonely since her initial departure. But as he thought upon it, the tailor's heart began to sink.

He realized that if he were to allow his wife to enter the town, he would only be condemning her to the same fate as so many others. He thought of her suffering through the sickness, the sores, the bile and rot, the festering misery. He could not allow it. He wanted her with him. Of course he did. But he loved her too much to let her perish along with him.

He was already showing symptoms of the plague. So it was with a heavy soul that he refused the messenger. He was so heartbroken. His eyes wet with guilt and grief. When word came back to the tailor's wife, who had been waiting at the gates all morning, her heart was also crushed. It wasn't until years later, after she had remarried and raised several beautiful children that she was finally able to forgive him. She understood that her first love's only wish was for her to continue on and to be happy. By now, the sun was no longer

shining. Overcast had made the sky a light shade of gray, almost white when compared to the crows on the windowsill. More had shown up while Lazarus had told his story. So many that there wasn't enough room on the sill for all of them. They were starting to perch themselves on a nearby tree. Maddie coughed some more. I liked that one better than the first. At least it wasn't all bad, she said after her fit of coughs. But... Why are you telling me all of these sad stories? Lazarus looked at Maddie, never blinking, never smiling. In a voice as black as coal, he said,

I think you know why. Maddie looked down into her lap. She did know why, but she wasn't scared. No, Maddie knew how to be brave, and not just for herself either. She turned to Lazarus, his face charred, and scarred beyond recognition of humanity, former or otherwise. When?

She asked. Lazarus turned his head to the window towards the black crows that had gathered. Soon. He said to her. The beeps from the machines, the ones that kept check on Maddie, they became irregular, slowing down. Do we have enough time for one more story? She asked him.

No much, but we can try. He replied. Maddie shook her head. She said that it would be okay, that she would still listen, even if it had a sad ending. There once was a sad ending. a sweet little girl with chestnut hair and wide blue eyes. She loved stories, all kinds of stories.

When Maddie's parents returned, they found her lying still in bed. She had stopped smiling, stopped breathing. They cried into each other's arms. What they'd been told by the doctor, they knew it was only a matter of time. Even still, they didn't think it would be this soon. Their souls had been profoundly crushed, shattered into oblivion. But, in a strange way, not in a callous or indifferent way, they were relieved. The weight of the inevitable had been lifted.

and in its place a sharp sting. They knew this as they wept, and while gazing out of the bedroom window, they were focusing on the sky, which had grown into a perfect and terrible shade of grey. They were so focused in their sorrow that they never even noticed the burns left on the chair. The crows had taken flight.

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Check it out. Today's second tale is the last one of the family. By Bo Whiskey. The day of the funeral was one of the longest days of my life. I could hardly hear any of the words of the eulogy or anecdotes shared by family and friends. All I could do was stare at the photos that passed in steady rotation on the screen. Whenever someone approached the front for their turn to share something, the projector will be blocked momentarily,

and I would be able to break my gaze and look at the floor. This never lasted, though, and within a couple of minutes I'd be back to staring at the pictures, lost in thoughts of how I would never see my sister's beaming face again. I felt my eyes began to well up with tears when an image of Lear, myself and our parents was displayed it was from our trip to the carnival we were all smiling and happy

I could never have foreseen the tragedy that would follow only a few short weeks later no one could have it happened almost a year ago Leah and I were at home when an officer came knocking on the door. Being the older one at age 17, Leah answered the door. I can recall hearing a thud and rushing over to find that she had fallen to her knees. Our parents had been in a horrible car accident.

The officer, a greying man that was probably in his mid to late 40s, Crouched down in front of Leah, asking if she was okay. She didn't respond. Once I was standing beside her, Leah grabbed my arm and pulled me down into a hug so tight I thought my rib cage was going to be crushed. At some point the officer asked if there was anyone he could call to come be with us. Shortly after, our aunt and uncle arrived,

Leah was in shock and didn't speak for hours. When she finally was able to mumble something, she ended up rushing to the bathroom and vomiting. She was hysterical for days after that. We moved in with our aunts and uncle in the days following the memorial for our parents. Life never actually normalized in the next year, despite trying to continue like the typical 17 and 14 year olds that we were. We were met with hesitant smiles that oozed pity for months. Everyone felt sorry for us. I was relieved when people finally stopped looking at me like a lost puppy. But here I was again, the lost puppy, sitting amidst a bunch of people I didn't care about

and waiting for my sister to be lowered into the ground next to our parents. No one seemed to really know what to say around me anymore. I don't blame them. What are you supposed to say when someone, who, within a year of losing both parents, had then lost her sister? The three people I grew up with were now gone. Even being worried about what words to use in my presence.

I knew what most of my parents. them were thinking. Poor Amy, losing her sister like that. How could Leah throw away her entire life? How could she leave her little sister? They blamed Lear for taking her own life. But I didn't. I understood.

Lear had never been the same after our parents. The funeral continued, and everyone moved to the cemetery for the burial, myself included. A few final words were shared. A poem was read and the casket was lowered into the ground. My body felt numb as I watched. Slowly everyone began to leave until the only ones left were my aunt and uncle, myself and the burial custodian who was completing preparations to return the soil back to the hole. My sister was. was now laid in. Amy, do you want to stay here for a bit longer?

My aunt asked me. Touching my shoulder lightly, I nodded. Okay, we'll wait for you at the car. Take all the time you need. My uncle chimed in. I only nodded again in response. I listened to their soft, grassy steps received and took a deep breath.

the exhale ragged and broken. I didn't want to cry anymore, but it would seem I didn't have a choice. The tears that had been welling up, off and on, throughout the day, finally made their way to the corners of my eyes, and began slipping down my cheeks. I knelt down and sat on my heels, facing the two headstones and open, occupied grey.

Absent-mindedly, I plucked blades of grass from the ground and began dropping them into a pile. I'm not sure how long I sat there with my family. The attendant left at some point without me realizing it. I was alone now, in every sense. I had my aunt and uncle, but they weren't my parents. They weren't Leah. How was I supposed to return? to school where everyone would be walking on eggshells around me how was I supposed to learn

to drive who was I going to share my crushes with when their silent tears stopped flowing I stood and turned away as I solemnly walked the car a single thought repeated in my mind how dare you Leah I didn't eat dinner I didn't feel like I could stomach a single bite of of anything. As soon as the sun started to fade, I shut myself in what was now only my room. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to escape everything. I just wanted to sleep. The black dress, stockings and heels that I had so carefully picked out that morning, now lay in a heap on the floor where I had thrown them. They felt dirty, tainted somehow. I donned a brown tank top and shorts before climbing under my combs.

Before lying down with my head on the pillow, I sat there looking around my room. It was a mess of clothes, books, various lotions, knick-knacks, pictures and papers. Despite this, it still felt empty, without leer in the bed. bed opposite mine. When I lay down, I couldn't help but feel a few salty drops sleep onto my pillow as I stared at the empty bed. My eyes fluttered open and blink sluggishly as I looked to the alarm clock on top of my dresser. It read 2.47 a.m. Why had I woken up? Instead of facing Lear's bed, I was now facing the wall on my other side. I watched for a few minutes as shadows grew and shrank on it from cars passing by.

I was ready to give up on trying to determine why I was awake when I thought I heard a soft laugh from behind me. I flipped over and sat up quickly when I realized it couldn't be Leah giggling from something she read like she used to. Leah was gone now. When I saw that the bed was empty, I sighed. She would never be sitting in bed reading comics ever again. I scanned the room and found it to be the same, devoid of any other life than my own.

I eased myself back down to my pillow, concluding that I must be missing Leah more than I realized. I closed my eyes, not to sleep, but to remember. Why did you have to do it, Leah? I loved you. You were my sister. So why did you have to do it? I thought back to our final conversation. It had been less of a conversation and more of a fight. She'd been going through a box of old notebooks and schoolwork,

trying to find something when she discovered the old composition notebook I used to use as a journal. She skimmed through it to figure out what it was, and when she came across an entry I had written shortly before our parents died, she confronted me. It quickly turned into yelling at one another. She demanded to know why I would write such things about our father. I tried to explain to her that it was all true. The nightly visits, the hidden bruises, the pain in... specific areas, the loss of my virginity. When she refused to believe me, I screamed at her that she was just like our mother,

who did nothing and ignored my pleas for help to make it starve. Leah just couldn't and wouldn't believe that our loving parents, the ones who did everything they could to give us whatever we wanted, could be so crass and malicious. She threw the notebook at me and told me that I was full of shit, that I just wanted attention, and I'd do or say anything to get it, that I'd always lie to put the spotlight on myself. I cursed at her and stormed out of the bedroom, then through the front door, slamming it with a loud bang behind me. Once I knew my aunt and uncle would be home from work, I returned for a quiet dinner. because it wasn't unusual for us to barely speak. They didn't have any idea about the argument

Leah and I had just had a few short hours ago. The following morning, I'd been jolted awake by a scream when my aunt discovered Lear in the backyard. It was ruled as suicide immediately and determined that the cause of death was strangulation. They speculated that she wanted to be absolutely sure she would die, as they found cuts on her arms and a large dose of hypnotic medication in her

system. No one could say why she wanted to meet death so desperately. It was heartbreaking, but people weren't entirely surprised, given how melancholy and miserable she had seen. Now, as I lay there in the dark, eyes clenched tight, remembering that final day with my sister, I felt guilty. The last things we spoke to each other were hurtful. I rolled onto my side and buried my face in the pillow. I sobbed until I couldn't breathe out of my nose anymore. Reluctantly, I pushed the blankets aside

and shuffled into the bathroom to retrieve some toilet paper. I blew my nose and discarded the snotty tissue. I tore off another piece and was wiping my nose when I took my nose. turned and saw the mirror. My blood ran cold. My heart stopped. My lungs captured a gasp and held it. I wanted to scream, but my vocal cords forgot how to function. Next to my own reflection was Lear. Her skin looked pale. Her brunette hair, stringy and lackluster. Her eyes, drab, but angry. She glared into my reflection. I spun around more out of reflex than anything else. I expected to see nothing, but there she was,

standing just behind me. Her material countenance was more terrifying than her reflection. Her skin looked thinner than when she was alive. Purple and blue. Vane stood out against the pale grey flesh that she now possessed. I saw the bruising around her neck from where the rope had tethered her to the tree. She grinned with blue-grey lips, as she held her hands out, palms up to me to show me the cuts along her wrists. Darken blood dripped steadily from the wounds and onto the bathroom floor. I backed up to the counter and gripped the edge with both hands.

Leah took a step forward, bloodied arms still reaching out to me. Her grin widening. Aside from anger, I could see determination in her cold eyes. Leah was always the type to fiercely pursue what she wanted. She took another step forward, and I leave. Lean back as far as I could, the edge of the countertop pressing hard against my body. Frigid hands cut my face as my dead sister leaned forward, staring directly into my eyes. Oh dear Amy, mom and dad know what you did, cutting the brake lines on their car.

They and I also know how you made sure I wouldn't tell anyone what I figured out. Tell me, did you really think you'd get away with this? Think about your health for a second. Are your eyes the first thing that come to mind? Probably not. But our eyes go through a lot, from squinting at screens to driving at night. That's why regular eye exams matter. And at spec savers, they come with an OCT3-I health scan,

which helps optometrists detect conditions at early stages. We believe OCT scans are so important they're included with every standard eye exam. Book an eye exam at specksavers.cavers.cai-e. Eye exams are provided by independent optometrists. Visit specksavers.cavers.ca to learn more. Today's phenomenal third story is Knock Knock by Bree Nukagarin. On the night of October 27th, 2004. Several residents on E Road in B

called the local police station to report a disturbance at the home of one of their neighbours. The reports indicated that a possible home invasion was in progress, as a number of people in dark clothing had been seen moving furtively around the property acts. Later determined to be the residence of one Alice L, a single female in her mid-20s who lived alone. love. Some callers reported Ray's voices, which were taken to be indicative of a confrontation between the homeowner and a possible assailant. Officers arrived on the scene at 23-23 hours, approximately two minutes after a 911 call, indicated that a young woman was seen confronting

one or more possible intruders at her front door. However, the caller could not give further information due to a sudden search in the local electrical grid which shut down the power for the entire neighbourhood. When the responding officers searched the residence, the front door was ajar and there was no sign of Alice L. Investigators noted that there was no sign of forced entry or struggle inside the house. The subject's possessions were all intact, including valuable electronic equipment and a set of car keys left in plain view. The vehicle they matched was still in the driveway. The only evidence at the scene was a partial set of footprints in the gravel walk which led

around to the rear of the house, and these were discarded on the grounds that they were too small to belong to an adult. It is believed that they were made by one or more of the neighbourhood children, although investigators have not been able to determine which child in particular, not the child in particular, nor when the footprints were made. The following missive was found by police during the subsequent investigation. The pages were scattered on the floor of the living room. It is believed that they were originally stacked on a table in the foyer

and were blown off by a breeze from the front door, or disturbed by the entry of officers H and N. It is believed that the subject wrote an account of certain odd goings-on in the days and possibly minutes leading up to her disappearance. Investigation into the matter is ongoing, though the case officially went cold in the spring of 2010, and no new leads have been generated in quite some time. As of this writing, no trace of Alice L has ever been found.

The written document found at the scene remains the best and only insight into the subject's life immediately before she was. went missing. I'm not sure who's going to be reading this. I'm not even sure who would believe me if they did. But I have to get it down on paper. I have to. Somehow, it's not quite real when I tried to put things together in my head. But with writing, it becomes clearer. In any case, by the time anyone reads this, I doubt I'll be around to listen to their criticisms. I doubt I'd care. I'd care. even if I did hear it. Because

there are lots of stories in this world, real and imagined. And this one? Well, this one is mine. I've never been a big fan of other people. Even when I was a child myself, I felt out of phase somehow.

My classmates seemed to shun me, not out of any particular malice, but simply in the way that a round. round hole shuns a square peg. Of course, the fact that my family moved just about every other year for most of my life and didn't help Matt as much. It started when I was in grade school, and there never seemed to be any reason for it. My folks didn't have military contracts or job transfers. I'd just come home and find another for-sale sign on the front lawn. I spent so much time feeling disconnected from the people around me, but it started to feel normal by the time I was in my

20s. Living alone wasn't so much a choice as a necessity. I didn't have any close friends. I had no siblings, and since my teens, I had been getting a strong impression that my parents really wanted me to leave. That impression waned somewhat when they helped me lease a small house of my own for my 23rd birth but solidified again later. Overhearing a conversation expressing relief at your forthcoming absence will do that. Nothing like hearing your own parents say that they can't wait until their own kid is out of their hair for good. So that's how I wound up in this two-bedroom rancher. I have a job with one of those big software companies. So the second bedroom is my office and that's where I spend most of my time.

A lot of the clients were overseas, so my hours are pretty scattered and often extend into the small hours of the morning. It doesn't leave much time for a social life. I don't mind it much though. Computers are nice and predictable. Very few problems that can't be solved with a new patch or a look at the instruction manual. People are complicated. They don't come with instructions. They lie. They laugh at you. They kick you when you're down. Yes, it's people you have to look out for. It was on one of those late nights that all of this started. I'd just taken a break from a template redesign. I was walking out to the kitchen for a snack when movement out of the front window caught my eye. I went over for a close of look. There was a kid standing in

my driveway. I couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl through the gloom, but it looked like they were wearing a hooded sweatshirt. I figured it was just one of the neighbours' kids, sneaking out. I didn't know anyone on my street by name, so I couldn't have told you whose kid it might have been. In any case, it was none of my business, so I got my snack and went back to work. About ten minutes later Somebody knocked at my door Now Sometimes I order a pizza or take away tie

When I can't get away to cook something But on this particular night I hadn't Rumbling at the interruption I went to answer If it was that kid from earlier I was gonna be pissed Sure enough

I could see the same kid through a window Standing on my front step I went to open the door, ready to tell the kid to go the hell home. But then I stopped. Something felt wrong. My eyes were glued to the silhouette behind a frosted glass. My hand frozen on the door handle. A strange, cold feeling crept into my stomach.

Like I'd swallowed a lump of ice. For one split second, my entire being was. filled with an overwhelming certainty that if I opened that door something awful was going to happen. The figure outside raised a hand and knocked again. I nearly jumped out of my skin and then had to laugh at myself of being such a candy house. I'd handled living alone just fine, and I could damn sure handle one annoying little ding-dong ditcher, even if the kid was planning to try some stupid prank. Leaving the security chain latched,

I opened the door just enough to peer out at my visitor. The porch light cast the kid's face in shadow, but I thought I saw short hair and boyish features underneath. I couldn't decide for an exact age. An educated guest might have been somewhere in that indeterminate period between 11 and 13. His jeans were dirty, Likewise, the battered sneakers on its feet.

The red hoodie looked oddly down. Had it been raining? I couldn't recall hearing rain on the roof. More importantly, what was the kid doing walking around at this time of night? Hey, I said. Proud that my voice sounded firm and confidence. No trace of a wall. You need help, kid?

Can I come in? The question Sound rehearsed Like the kid was reading from some hidden script He made no move to raise his head And I still couldn't get a good look at his face Um Excuse me

Can I come in Are you lost Do you need me to call your parents or something I need to call my parents Let me in That chill rippled up my spine again Something had sounded off that time Not just like the lines were rehearsed

But as though the kid were using a stage voice It had just slipped Something was underneath that childish tone I couldn't put my finger on it But it was nothing good The security chain suddenly looked a whole lot less secure Listen, I said If you want me to call somebody I'll do that

Are you in trouble? Do you want me to call the cops? Silence for a moment. Then the kid raised a fist and banged on the door again. The sound echoed like cannon fight. The blow vibrated the whole frame, making the glass panes rattle. Hey, what the f-let me in! There was no mistaking the menace now.

There was such malice behind that voice. Such anger, more snarl than speech, and a strange undertone like the screech of tearing metal. That was not a child's voice. There was just no way. Another blow struck the door. I rushed to close it. The kid was looking straight at me through the gap under the security chain. I could see his face now, and it made that sick, chilly feeling creep into my gut again.

His skin was white, whiter than salt, whiter than cracked ice, whiter than snow. White like paste or paper with a too perfect finish, like someone had sculpted it, fired it and sanded it smooth, a facsimile of a child's face, a life-sized dog. But the eyes, oh, they... the worst. Pitch, black, pools of lifeless ink, horrible in contrast to the porcelain skin. The porch light made stars of half-consumed light in their depths, but only just barely. The child thing smiled, and one thin hand reached toward the gap in the door, toward the increasingly flimsy-looking chain. the only thing between me and this thing from the pit.

I threw myself against the door. The kid jumped back to avoid losing a finger as it slammed shut. I threw the deadbolt and leaned against it, waiting for another blow. It never came. After a few seconds, I heard footsteps on gravel and realized with a terrified jolt that the kid, the thing, was moving around the side. of the house. I dashed for the back door and bolted that too.

Barely seconds later, the knob began to rattle. Unlike the front door, this one had no glass panes, only a peephole. For once I was grateful for that. The footsteps circled the house for the next several hours. I closed all the blinds so no one could see in, and huddled on the couch in that living room. Baseball bat in hand, staring at the front door. At any second, I expected to hear another knock, or the sound of breaking glass from one of the other rooms.

The thought of calling the cops, as I'd threatened to do earlier, did cross my mind. But what could I tell them? 9-1-1, what is your emergency? Um, yeah, I'm trapped in my house and there's a creepy-looking kid walking around outside. At best, they'd laugh at me. At worse, I could be fine for prank calling emergency services. Either way, they wouldn't send help. No, I was on my own.

Story of my life. Around 5 a.m., I realised that I hadn't heard the footsteps in a while. I risked a peek through the blinds in several rooms. It showed that kid thing had vanished. I hadn't heard it, It was just gone, as if some distant timer had dinged, and the lurker had vanished with a snap of its chalk white fingers. I went through the rest of the day in a bit of a daze, trying to wrap my head around the night's events. Was it some sort of elaborate prank?

Something involving sclera contacts and voice modulators. Had I had some bad takeaway and just dreamed the whole thing? was I finally losing it after too many late nights been staring at a computer screen. Well, I tried to work, even though it was my day off. That was my usual go-to when I didn't know what else to do with myself. Work and more work. It felt safer outdoors while the sun was up, but when the afternoon started to wane,

I still made sure all the doors and windows were long. I finished early, so I made myself some dinner and settled in to watch a movie. A little bit of paranoia kept me glancing at the front door, but all was still. By 1 a.m., I had almost managed to convince myself that I'd imagined the whole thing. There was no creepy kid, that I should just pack it in and get some much needed sleep. And then, I didn't want to look, but somehow I had to. I crept to the front door and sure enough there was that kid-sized silhouette behind the frosted glass

one arm raised let us in that same inhuman tone that same underlying snarl it wasn't even bothering to pretend I wasn't dreaming I wasn't dreaming and I wasn't crazy this was happening

We know you're there. Let us in. Wait. Us? What did it mean? Us? A second set of knocks on the back door. My heart thumped so hard it almost choked me.

There were two of them. Go away! I yelled. Go the hell away and leave me alone. I'm calling the cops. Us in. Get lost! I grabbed my bat again.

Glad I'd locked up well before dark. I went to find myself up. The hell with being laughed at, and the hell with fines, I was calling the cocks. One weird little kid playing a prank could be ignored, but two of them, working together, two nights in a row,

that couldn't be ignored. I flicked over to the dial-pad and was about to tap in the emergency number when I heard it. Not on the door this time. God help me. It wasn't the door. It was my bedroom window. Heart hammering against my ribs, I turned.

And there, standing just outside the window, not even three feet away, was a little girl. I could only see her outstretched hands. in the top of her head, but that was enough. Her nose was level with the sill, and a pair of dead black eyes were looking straight in at me. The tiny hand that reached up to wrap against the glass was corpse white. The tiny fingernails were an odd shade of bluish grey, as if the blood that flowed beneath was something other than crimson. I heard her little voice through the window, tinny and nasal

Overlaid with a rising Yowl like an angry cat Let us in I yanked the blinds down And dashed across the hall into my office The window pane there was mercifully empty For the moment I wasted no time in drawing the blinds there too

I pulled the tall bookcase in front of the window For good measure The knocking continued for hours, as did the footsteps circling around the house. A few times they knocked on the window on the other side of the bookcase, but I stayed quiet, crouched inside the closet, waiting for the sun to come up. The next night they came back, and the next, and the next. With each visit, their numbers grew, until it sounded like there was a small, hand knocking on every square inch of the walls and windows.

A bevy of screeching whispers followed my every step and filled my dreams with a never-ending chorus of, Let's us in. I stopped sleeping. I barely made it through my work days. I only ever left the house in the broadest daylight, and I always searched each room thoroughly when I returned, I'm dreading that one of the little monsters would somehow get in and be crouched under my bed, all behind a door, waiting for me.

What could I do? The house was all I had. My parents weren't going to take me in. I didn't have any friends to call, nor did I have the money for a hotel. Moving was out of the question. And anyway, it wouldn't happen fast enough to help me. I was on my own. I covered my windows with newspaper to block out the sight of those small shapes darting by.

I couldn't tell exactly where they were, but at least they couldn't see me either. The baseball back was never out of my reach, not for one second. I didn't know how much good it would do against these things, but if they were determined to get to me, then I was just as determined to go down. swimming. On the seventh night, as I huddled in my office closet with bat in hand, I heard the voice of the boy thing from the very first night, right outside the window. Alice! I know you can hear me, Alice. Let us in. Get Ben, you little creep, I muttered under my breath. We have so much to tell you, Alice. There is so much you.

You need to know. Let us in, Alice. Adrenaline and anger flooded my veins, driving away the fear for a few blissful seconds. I thumped the bad hard against the wall, as if it could magically pass through and smack the creeper in his pasty china doll face. Go away!

I screamed at the top of my lungs, not caring how hysterical it sounds. Get the hell! off my property before I come out there and beat your rotten heads in. Oh, you won't do that, Alice. Crap, since when was calling my bluff part of the plan. Oh, we know you, Alice. You're ours.

You've always been ours and we know you so very, very well. Just let us in. That scared me more than anything. This wasn't random. These things hadn't just decided to torment someone. They'd happened to discover living alone on a dead-end street. No, they knew my name. They were looking for me, trying not to hyperventilate.

I put my fingers in my ears, curled into a ball on my closet floor, and stared at the bookcase covering the window until the feeble light of dawn glimmered around the edges of the dark wood. That day, I blew off work in time and dove headfirst into the internet, looking for information. A lot of wild theories circulated about weird creatures that looked like black-eyed kids who'd knocked on people's doors. Some sites said they were demons. Others insisted they were aliens. Still others had wild theories about the spirits of murdered children.

I was at a loss. There was too much speculation and not enough hard evidence for me to draw any sort of conclusion. The only thing the various sites agreed upon was that the only defence against these black-eyed kids was to lock your doors and windows and refuse to let them in. Not one mentioned what to do if they came to your house more than two nights in a row. Three more nights passed. knocking, more voices, more please for entry. I was in agony. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't even think. The whispers were echoing in my head in the daytime by that point.

I tried to block the sounds out with noise-counseling headphones, but the voices seemed to be inside my thoughts as well as outside my home, like a thousand tiny fingers tapping on the windows of my mind. The bat had ceased to be a comfort. Nothing felt safe. When the sun went down tonight, I knew they would come. Knew it long before the knocking began, before the voices leaked through the windows, before the whisper swelled into a scream, and my own ragged cries joined the cacophony. Alice, Alice! Let us in. Let us in. Sobbing, I bolted from the closet and made for the front door.

I don't know what madness drove me. I wasn't feeling brave or heroic or even angry anymore. I just wanted it to stop. I ripped the newspaper of the window beside the door and flicked on the porch light. I froze. I felt my heart gave a terrified, irregular jerk against my ribs, as if it too wanted to escape the sight. There weren't just a few of them now. Not even a dozen. They had to be close to 50, maybe more, all in those damp red hoodies, all standing stock still with those soulless eyes

fixed on the house. Hell's own child choir, a congregation of black eyes and whispering mouths, through whose pale lips I imagined a faintly glimpsed, jagged, sore blade teeth. I could hear them through the door. We know you, Alice. You belong with us. Let us in. Let us in. Let Let us here. Shut up. I banged my fist against the glass. Shut up, you creepy little bastards. I'm not letting you in.

Go away and leave me alone, damn it. The whispers stopped. The silence that followed was almost louder than the voices had been. They seemed to withdraw from the front porch ever so slightly. I didn't see them exactly moved. They were just on the step one second, and then I blinked, and there were several feet further back on the walkway. Another blink, and that familiar face was inches away on the other side of the glass. He seemed to have gotten taller somehow since that first night.

As if my fear was some sort of growth stimulant, our eyes were almost level with each other, and I stared into that pitiless darkness. terrified that if I blinked again I'd suddenly find him beside me inside the house deep in those hollow voids I thought I saw faint sparks the colour of rotten limes

Alice Up close his mouth looked like the moor of some primordial beast too large for his face and full of teeth that sprouted like shards of broken glass from pale greenish gums. He smiled at me and the grin stretched halfway around his head. It's been a long time. A long time. What the hell did he mean by that? Was this all some sort of sick jokes of them? I haven't seen you since you were very small. You've grown out of your pigtails and

into your very own house, our little girl lost, all grown up now. What the hell are you talking about? You're ours, Alice. We lost you when you were very small. But now we've found you again. Lost me. I was falling into the bottomless pit behind those eyes. Something was nagging at the back of of my mind, like pieces of a puzzle that don't quite fit, trying to put themselves together. Your parents asked for you, Alice, begged for you. They brought sweets to the toadstall ring and soft, dead things to the old oak. They pleaded and cried, told us their child was dead, asked us to give them another. So we gave them you. The world's seemed to fall away beneath my feet. This couldn't be real. My parents were my parents.

My mother had carried me, given birth to me. How many times had they told me this story of how my father had nearly fainted in the delivery room? They recounted it every year on my birthday, and they laughed. I had a birth certificate with their names on it. I was their child. wasn't I? But our children are not like human children. The thing outside the door continued. They looked like human children. Walk and talk and breathe and eat and cry the same. But there is always something just a little off. The mortal ones, they can't explain it. Can't even put words or reason to it when they feel it, Alice. They feel the strange in you.

Haven't you ever wondered why the world seemed to hold you at arm's length? Why no one wanted to get close to you. Why even your parents never seemed sure of you. I'd never even given it a second thought. I'd always assumed that other children just didn't like the new kid who'd just arrived at school. Or the weird kid playing at the edge of the playground. I'd always assumed that my parents hadn't wanted children. or maybe that I wasn't the kind of kid that they'd wanted.

But, looking back, everyone I'd ever met had given me the same look. Cautiously friendly at first, and then, inexplicably wary, uneasy, like I was some wild thing that might bite if provoked. Your parents did not honour the bargain, Alice. You were only meant to be there. for a short while before you came home, as all our children do. We tried to find you, Alice, for so very long we tried. But you just kept moving, popped scotching from one sound to the next. Whenever we came calling, they'd pack up and run. And then you grew up and they sent you away.

All those unexplained changes of address. The strain looks on my parents' faces when I'd asked why I had to change schools yet again. The silence of clenched jaws on an early morning car ride I could only just barely recall. Why had we moved so much? I felt a few more puzzle pieces slide into place. A picture was beginning to emerge. The grin was softening now. It looked almost friendly But now we've found you Alice And we've come to take you home

As we should have done all those years ago Open the door Alice The thing raised one hand and stick Thin fingers with tips the same shade as new moss Tap gently against the glass Let us in My throat was drier than a thousand desert It seemed to close on itself as I tried to summon the will to choke out the words.

Who, what are you? The sea of smiles opened in my yard, cavernous eyes lit with spring-coloured sparks. I almost heard the words before the whispers came. Family, family, your family, Alice. We are your family. The tall boy on my porch smiled, and there was something like affection in it. Alice, it's time to come home. I don't know quite how I ended up on the couch, but I know I've been sitting here for a long time, riding this all down.

Like I said, it makes more sense that way. makes the pieces fit together in my head. I check the internet too, just once more. And there's a word for this sort of thing. For stolen children, substituted children. You don't see it much outside of the old fairy tales, but it does exist. Changelie. Yeats even wrote a poem about it.

Come away, oh human child, to the waters and the wild. with a fairy hand in hand for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. There are so many more like me. People they've lost as children for one reason or another that they come to retrieve. But if those people have spent too much time away, they don't recognize their family anymore. They just know there's something strange, something off about the kids knocking at their door. and fear makes them run like I did. I don't know why my parents did what they did.

Why they asked for me. Why they held on for years to a child that they couldn't bring themselves to love. Why they didn't just give me back when it became apparent. I was too strange. Too other for their safe little world. Maybe they wanted to keep trying. Maybe they were desperate. I don't know.

It doesn't really matter now. The kids in the red hoodies are still outside, but there's no more knocking, no more whispering. They're just standing there, like they're waiting for me. These fay inhuman things. My family. And I think, I think I'm ready to go with them now. A penultimate story this evening is Mr. Salesman.

Miss Lau. It was raining that day when I heard my doorbell ring. What can I do for you, sir? I asked the tall, well-dressed man, grinning ear to ear on the other side of my front screen door. First, may I come in? He asked as the rain began to pour harder. Please, I just got this dry-cleaned. He gestured at his already soaked grey suit. Zying, I opened the door. I couldn't let such a fine suit. be ruined in the rain. It'd be a pity to let the money go to waste for dry cleaning. The well-dressed man in his suit almost pushed me as he rushed into the house, allowing drops of water to spray onto the beige carpet, beloved. Mmm, a lovely place you have here. You live here with your boyfriend, Miss, he spoke as he

made himself, still drenched, mind you, comfortable on my newly-bought sofa, with his legs spread wide open like a hole in an Amsterdam broth. For a salesman, I found him to be the most bold I'd ever encountered. Clearing my throat before I answered him. No, I live alone. Oh, how embarrassing. No man of your own for such a lovely lady as yourself. I shrugged off his unnecessary question and went right into it.

What is your business? Ah, that. How rude of me not to introduce myself. "'Call me, Mr. Salesman,' he said, then bowing like a gentleman once he got up from the sofa. As he bowed, I noticed that there was no damp spot where he'd sat. In fact, all evidence that he'd been in the rain was gone. The carpet wasn't wet, and his suit was as dry as an old woman's private parts. He must have noticed I was alarmed at this, because he said,

Well, not to worry, madam. My suit is made of the finest thread. Soaks water up like a sponge. I see, I said, stepping away. So, uh, Mr. Salesman, what do you want? I want to help you. Help me. Sorry, sir, but I'm fine. Exactly, miss. You're fine, but fine isn't good. And good isn't great.

What you need and so well deserve is something better. Something, I felt his breath as he whispered in my ear. Exquisite. Panicked, I jumped from him, making myself as far away as possible as I leaned back against my window. How did he get next to me so fast? Please, I panted. Don't do that again, sir. Or I'm throwing you out in the...

I turned to point out the pouring skies, but found myself looking at a clear, sunny sky. Huh, I breathed as I stared in disbelief. I'm going to get some lemon... I turned to see the man holding two fucking glasses of lemonade in his hands, smiling at me as if he was offering the keys to paradise. A lemonade, he asked before laughing. Want some?

is made from the finest of lemons. The Bahamas, I think. He took a sip from his glass. No, Florida. Still good, though. What in the ever-living fucking? I thought aloud as I accepted my drink. Ah, please take a seat.

Defeated at trying to make sense of things on my own. I sat down in my armchair as I sipped my drink to find a hint of vodka in. This made me down the drink faster than a recovering alcoholic drinking vodka for the first time. The odd man in my living room began explaining. As you have already noticed, things are not what they should be around you. In the past few minutes you've seen things that defied the very rules of science. Humanity has ruled out. For instance, it was pouring a moment ago.

It stopped in merely an instant at the moment your eyes glanced away. Then there's the fact my suit is dry along with your furniture and floor. And now you drank something I gave you just for desiring it moments ago. Certainly, something is happening. And my dear, don't fret because you aren't going insane. It's just that things in this world can be manipulated by the right things, so to speak. My head was now spinning from trying to comprehend what I was being told, or from the alcohol.

Either way, the denial of my reality began to seep through me as I rambled. I must be dreaming this. You aren't real. Nothing about this should be real. He shook his head and he sussed disapprovingly, as if I were a child with an active imagination that blamed a creepy doll for spilling his juice. Oh, Miss Evans.

He now sat on the coffee. table in order to sit in front of me, gazing into my eyes as he spoke. You know better than that. Someone like you, who has studied the sciences, should not deny any evidence to what's real, despite what they believed to be true. It goes against everything scientific you've studied, doesn't it? I was stunned at the moment he caught me by my maiden name. A sense of fear shortly crept up my spine. As his eyes held mine, it felt as though he was looking deeper, penetrating my subconscious mind, and unlocking what I'd forgotten or hidden. Quickly, I retreated my hands and averted my gaze. How did you know my name?

Ah, I know all my potential clients, Ms. Evans. I'm currently learning more about you as I speak. I'm learning that you didn't use to live alone. I know it was a man who lived with you, quite dear to you. I also know of how depressed you've been because of his departure from what emotions have been expressed that remain in this room. Oh, the intense gloom I feel is almost suffocating, so very suffocating.

I felt it from a mile away and followed it, because that's what I do. That's why I'm here. Who are you? I asked. My voice was now trembling. I told you, Miss Evans, he claimed. I'm Mr. Salesman.

I think you should go, I said, calling bullshit. He sighed, disappointedly, as he got up and headed for the door. I guess you won't get to see your husband again. What a shame. I bet he's dying to see you, he taunted, as his fingers wrapped around the door handle. Falling for the taunt, I responded weakly. What? Let's see.

What was his name? Ricky. No. I can see Nikki. Ah, Nikki. Well, yes. But you've dismissed me, he said as he opened the door. Now, excuse me, as I must...

In my drunken, vulnerable state, I rushed to him and forced the door shut. No, no, stay. I begged, please, Mr. Salesman smiled. Please. We soon found herself sitting at my dining room table across from each other. I gazed nervously in my fingers as I waited for Mr. Salesman to speak. The sound of paper sliding across the surface of the dining table broke the silence, causing my gaze to rise to see an unsigned contract and quill before me.

Sir, how do you expect me to sign this with just a quill? I question. Still grinning, he spoke. I'll get to that in a moment. Before that, may I have your left hand? His left hand reached between us, waiting for mine as his beckoning gaze captivated mind. Almost instantly, without a second, my hand lay gently on his with my palm upward. With his index finger he sliced my palm open with his nail, creating a diagonal cut. I gasped in response, as I expected pain, but it was met with a tingling sensation. My whole hand was numb from what I later assumed was an anesthetic. Without a word, he tilted my hand. Blood trickled down into an empty ink model, which I swear wasn't there before, but at this point, I didn't care. In all the

events that followed after and would follow after the drinks appeared, logic was no longer present. Because of this man, whoever or whatever he was, the only factor I'd come to know to defy the laws of any and every science. In a sense, my brain was numb as well as intoxicated. It was as as if I was high on the strongest psychedice. I no longer saw the point in focusing on how or why, because all my mind was focus on was, when will I see my Nikki again? Only later would I come to realize I was under extreme hypnosis by just looking into his eyes.

My mind swirled as thoughts of my dead husband rushed in. It didn't take long for me to sign the contract with my own blood. A contract I desperately wished I'd read before signing. At the moment I put the quill down on the table, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. When I woke up the next day, I conjured up all that had happened the previous day and thought it was just a dream.

Until I saw my dead husband making us the usual breakfast he'd done when he was still alive. Obviously startled, I stared at him in disbelief. There, my husband, who had been dead for five years, was standing making scrambled eggs. I must have gassed, because he quickly looked in my direction. Everything okay, love.

You look like you've seen a ghost. Hearing him speak almost moved me to tears. I'd forgotten what his voice sounded like. God, I had missed him. I blinked the tears away as I quivered out. Yes, I swallowed. You just make me so happy, Nikki. He laughed.

All right, then, weirdo. Food's almost done. I sniffled as I sat down. Don't you have work? Work, he said as he sat down a plate of scrambled eggs before me. I haven't been employed for five years. Oh, I said confused. But don't we have an issue with money?

He came to sit adjacent to me, wearing a face of extreme concern. The back of his hand rested gently against my forehead. Then he spoke. No, of course not. Sweetheart, are you feeling well? Never felt better, I said, honestly. When did we pay off the debt? Your father did five years ago.

I scoffed. My mother was okay with that. Uh, sweetheart, don't you remember? Remember what? I said, absolutely confused. Uh, the hospital. What are you talking about? I asked.

Feeling myself getting nauseous by the second. Uh, the accident? The eyes whirled up in tears, remembering how drunk we were when we decided who was more able to drive that night. I shook my head as if to shake the memory away, as I whimpered. Oh, please, no. Yet the flashes of that traumatic day came flooding back. Red ambulance lights flashed in my vision as I lay heaving on the cold, wet concrete. I heard a man's voice in a calm tone say,

Ah, it'll be all right, Miss Evans. before losing consciousness. I woke to see my mum standing over me, holding my hand as streams of wet mascara stream down her face. You're awake, she said. Can I see Nikki? I faintly remembered saying

before my mum wrote down in front of me. And then I knew he was gone. Then, unfamiliar flashes replaced the old ones. One by one, I no longer saw us crashing. I no longer saw myself in a hospital bed screaming for my husband. I no longer stood by his casket with my family by my side at the wake. No more weekly visits to his grave or therapy sessions about him with my therapist, illisement.

Instead, I remember receiving a call five years ago. So, vividly, it felt like it was currently happening. Mrs. Yates, a young woman's voice could be heard. I spoke, tiredly. This is the Yates residence, emberley speaking. This is Miranda at Mercer's Medical Hospital. Edward Conwell is at the desk wishing to speak with you. Let me speak to him.

I interrupted, almost immediately, becoming alert and aware of the urgency of this phone call. My brother-in-law spoke calmly on the other end, with what I guessed was muffled crying in the background. M, I have some bad news. You might want to sit down. I sat down on my bed as I felt my husband behind me sitting up. My stomach churned as I tried to prepare myself for what was to come. Em, you should come as quick as you can.

Lauren is here with me. She's okay, but he sighed. It's your parents, Em. I twisted the telephone cord in my hand as I felt myself tremble. What about my parents, Ed? He blurted. They were in a car accident. I found myself up now, standing as I yelled.

Are they okay? Your dad is in a critical condition. I asked, weekly. And mum? I helped my brother. breath, waiting for his response. Is my mom okay, Ed? I repeated angrily.

Ed inhaled before speaking. Now, Emma, she's gone. No, I heard myself saying as I dropped the phone. My husband rushed to my side before picking up the phone as I sobbed. Later, at the hospital, I was told my father would survive, but my mother had died on impact. I sat next to my father as I cried quietly, while he, He rested in his bed. My mother's wake was the following Monday, and the funeral came a day after.

Family, friends and co-workers came and attended both services. The flash of unfamiliar memories didn't stop them. Oh no, it got much worse. On the anniversary of my mother's death, I found my father's lifeless body on the floor of his study, with an empty bottle of pills inches from his open head. the span of the next few years, the rest of my family members would die until I was the only one left of the Evans family. During the first year, Lauren, my sister and her two children would be killed as her home caught fire in an explosion due to a ghastly and faulty wiring.

Edward came to stay at my home for a few months after until he fled the country, fleeing from his past to hopefully start again somewhere else. I'd come to grieve the end of our friendship. The next ago, a year and six months after my sister's death, which was expected but still made me grieve. It was my grandfather, Francis. After three years of being diagnosed with stage four lung cancer, Francis died at the age of 87. Luckily for his wife, she was not related to me, and she lived. And no one died. But a week after, the two-year peace period, my uncle, his bitchy wife, who I shed no tears for,

and my beloved cousin Angela died as their plane exploded as they took off for panic. Apparently seven people who were going on that plane got off and were spared, but most of them would dilate it because obviously death is a real asshole. The last relative to go was my younger, mentally deranged cousin, who had killed my aunt and uncle long before this shit went down. However fucked up he was, I still couldn't hate him for having untreated schizophrenia, which my uncle Tim believed could be cured by nature's medicine or psychedelics. Tim died an idiot and also high, along with his wife.

Unfortunately for my cousin, he was sentenced to a whole life in a mental institution instead of being properly medicated with the right meds until he was diagnosed with the right disorders. However, the damage was done, and he had become an absolute madman by the age of 20. He wasn't dangerous anymore, but his thoughts and belief were bat-shit insane. He claimed his name was a man from the future, Kevin Narwhal. Yes, the animal, who needed to get back to the future to take care of his hamster, Walt. His name was Dave, and he was deathly allergic to hamsters.

Dave died from asphyxiation at the age of 28. My husband shook me back to reality, as I found myself. of rocking back and fall, sobbing into him as he comforted me. The next several years were much harder than the last, as I grew to cope with the tragedy, trauma and grief that I had. Nightmares and sleepless nights came to be my reality. Most of these nightmares were about that damned Mr. Salesman in my dreams. Oh, look what you've done, he'd say between fits of laughter. As the nightmares went on, I soon saw that fucker everywhere. At first, I thought it was just due to hallucinations from trauma or lack of sleep,

until I was prescribed with medicine. No meds could make Mr. Salesman go away, and that's how I knew he was as real as I was. It wasn't until I was pregnant with my first child, but I stopped seeing that man who'd haunted me for years. My mental state improved as the month's power. Therapy sessions reduced from three times a week to two, then twice a week to once a week. That once a week became every other week until I stopped going altogether.

In my last weeks of pregnancy, I was finally at peace. The day came when my waters broke. My husband drove me to the hospital, where I'd spend the next several hours experiencing pains unlike I'd ever known before. The birth came. It felt like an eternity pushing a child out of my body, but the joy and relief when you finally hear the sound of your child crying makes all the pain worth it. Immediately I wanted to see my child but something had gone wrong. The sound of my child crying stopped along with my breathing as I saw the hospital staff haul my beautiful baby boy away from me. Where are they taking my baby? I cried. My husband was yelling at the staff as he

followed them out in the hall. He came shortly to my side, sweating. Where is he? He squeezed my hand as he spoke, reassuringly. In the emergency room, I started to sobbed in. Sweetheart, he choked out, trying to stay strong where I could tell that his own heart was breaking. Please don't cry. I can't lose my son. He hushed me as we held each other.

Eventually I passed out from how exhausted I was. When I woke, a husband was walking around with our child wrapped in his hand. A wave of relief and happiness swept through me. I smiled as I sat up, watching my Nikki swaying out child. His grin widened when he saw that I was awake. Mommy's awake, Johnny, he cooed. You want to see Mommy? Has he been awake for long?

I asked my husband, with my arms ready to finally hold my child. For a bit, yeah, he answered, taking his way over. Maybe you can get him to sleep. Nikki carefully handed me the newborn. Oh, cooing, hey, here's your mummy. My joy fled, as dread came the moment my son and I looked into each other's eyes. Staring back at me with the same cold, dark eyes that had haunted me these many years. Well, my dear friends, I hope you had a lovely, relaxing weekend,

and are ready to join me once again for six tales of murder. Delighted this evening to present many stories from Dr. Creepin's Vault, the subreddit that I set up so that you could send your stories directly to me for reading. Quite a few of tonight's stories come from there. Big, big thank you to all of those who've sent in the stories. I'll try and get around to reading as many of them as I can. So, without further delay, are you ready? Got a real treat for you this evening. Sit back and relax with your favorite drink, my dear, dear friends, because it's time.

to listen. Ah yes, here it is. My descent into madness reaches an ear-splitting crescendo. My last whisper of sanity reeks of whiskey and stale breath. I take a final swig of sullen comfort before violently smashing the empty bottle on the grimy, tiled floor. The voice calls to me, taunting me, James, didn't your doctor tell you to breathe deeply and relax?

A string of curses escapes my mouth. Its mocking laughter echoes throughout my head, forcing my face into a contemptuous scowl. Eventually, I concede to the voice and laugh along with it manically. Shards of plastic ricochet about the room, as I hurl a bottle of antipsychotic medicare. at the wall. I suppose alcoholism preceded my psychosis. At the very least, it was around the period

of heavy drinking, subsequent to my wife's unceremonious departure, that the voice began haunting me. The welfare and disability checks continued flowing in. However, all available funds were inevitably squandered

on cheap liquor and cigarettes. My mind spiraled into a state of self-pity, self-loathing and self-pouring. destruction. I started to lose control in the most peculiar manner. Let's just say that getting black out drunk daily had quite disturbing effects. I would wake up in strange circumstances, such as naked in my musty cellar, using a dirty floor mat as a blanket. Another morning I woke up to an unpleasant draft and found that every window and door in the house was left wide open. In these instances, I had absolutely zero recollection of my intoxicated shenanigans, nor did I give a shit.

I simply reached for the bottle and scorned my pathetic existence. So, given my bizarre sleeping habits, it didn't surprise me when I awoke in my bathtub beneath a pile of soiled clothing. However, my heart exploded in fear when I heard deep chuckling echo through a the room. I shouted loudly, Who the fuck is there? I scanned the room frantically, but couldn't seem to locate the source of the sound. A voice cooed warmly. Why? It's just me, dear chap, the voice in your head. Fuck you. I'm phoning the police, you sicko, I screamed, darting out of the room.

well fuck the police were unable to find anything despite scouring the house thoroughly i recalled the voice seeming to come from the heavens and pointed the officers to the ceiling vents a sweep of the cop's maglights revealed a dust-ridden decrepit interior with no apparent signs of activity ain't nobody living in those dustments you washed up drunk see a shrink instead of wasting our time. I laughed at myself after the cops left, surmising that my perpetual intoxication had led to the decay of my mental faculties. This provided me with some comfort until that dark chuckled boomed over my laugh, making me go silent. I know what you're thinking, James. Maybe that police officer was right about you being insane. Don't visit a psychiatrist however, for if you can't hear me, won't we both be so alone? I tried to ignore the voice, but it kept pestering me, making it clear that it wouldn't accept my silence.

The voice was clearly female, yet it had a sick distorted timber that unsettled me to the call. What do you want? I croaked hoarsely. Rich bellowing laughter flooded the room, somehow pouring into my ears from all directions and engulfing me. Ah, yes, there we go, sweet James. I knew you'd come around. She cooed.

I just want to listen to your problems. I can make everything all right again. I can make you happy. I just want to help. Disturbingly, I found myself quite enjoying my conversations with the voles. Even if I was likely insane, she was beyond mentally unstable. Hearing about her sick fetishes for gore and disembowelment, I couldn't help but chuckle manically. Needless to say, I booked an appointment with a psychiatrist as soon as possible.

I was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. How completely and disgustingly predictable. I recall the doctor looking at me sternly and asking me solemnly. Does the voice in your head ask you to hurt anyone? I pondered for a moment, reflecting on the voice's disturbing comments. Well, despite expressing a clear preference for Gore, she never specifically asked me to commit such an act yet. Uh, no, not at all, sir, I replied. Multiple doctor visits, several courses of antipsychotic medication, and months of intensive counselling sessions later, and I was still bat-shit-crazy.

It was around then that she started questioning my lifestyle. James, James, James, you're wasting away. Why fight your insanity? Embrace it! She purred. And stop drinking alcohol, dear. It's such a pathetic crutch. I sat on my worn-out couch,

dumbfounded by her sheer nerve. Gathering my thoughts, I slowly replied. Well, that's an interesting proposition. But am I truly insane? Your voice seems quite real to me. Out of nowhere, she snarled. Don't kid yourself, you crazy alcohol. alcoholic bitch. You're wasting your fleeting time on this earth, and for what purpose? While you

wallow in self-pity, a father weeps over the warm corpse of his dead daughter. A cancer patient inhales her dying breaths, emaciated village children fight over meager rations, and youths indoctrinated by false prophets marched to their deaths. Meanwhile you, with the opportunity to have great twisted fun, just sit here and rot. I silently stared at the floor as her words resonated with me. By God, she was right. What great fun could I have? I stuttered. Shut the fuck up, you sack of crap. I'm sick of your shit. I'll come back when you have your shit together. She bellowed. Wiping gin off my lips, I smirked. In what circumstances does an imaginary voice disappear from a mind of a lunatic? She won't go anywhere. She can't. I need her, I thought,

as the gin put me to sleep and the world faded to black. When I awoke to a throbbing headache, I didn't receive the usual sarcastic greeting. I called for her. helplessly. Are you there? I'm sorry. I will stop drinking, I promise. I cried desperately. But my hollow promise fell on stale air.

I grogily recalled making that very same promise so, so many times to my sweet ex-wife. I violently facepalmed, realizing that it was futile to try coaxing a voice in my own head with lies. I clasped on my bed and shivered. I was alone. Pathetically, I cried into my dirty pillow and drifted back into a restless sleep.

Strangely, I woke up with a clear mind and a newfound sense of resilience and determination. I set about tidying my house with a silly grin plastered on my face. Over the next few days, I cleared the house of trash and debris. pouring my stash of alcohol down the sink. I no longer had a thirst for liquor.

I no longer needed a crutch for my shattered psyche. My government checks were no longer squandered. I bought healthy, nutritious food and saved any remaining funds. For months, I honed my body with a rigorous exercise routine, strengthening my muscles and enhancing my cardio. Needless to say, I was diligent in avoiding any government detection of these activities, lest my disability funds be rescinded.

I felt better than I ever had in my entire life, and yet something was missing. Her voice, I yearned for it, that smoky and darkly sensual tone that used to resonate throughout my disturbed mind, coaxing me further into depravity, She had abandoned me due to my alcoholism and lack of productivity. Yet, after such a long period of sobriety, her voice had not returned.

No, that's not it at all. A wicked grin spread upon my face, my eyes narrowing into gleeful crescents. All the twisted fun I'd been missing out on became apparent. John was a hard-working businessman, a doting husband. and a loving father of two. He furrowed his brow in anxiety as he strode about the vacant parcade, his briefcase swaying as he rushed to his sedan. The corporate manager was incredibly demanding,

forcing him to work ridiculously late. His wife would surely be frustrated by his absent, and his children would be quite upset that he missed their usual after-dinner playtime. John absent-mindedly entered his car, and shoved the key in the ignition. Oh, how surprised John was, when I leapt from the back seat and stabbed a needle into his arm,

emptying the syringe into him. Oh, how he squirmed, as the powerful sedatives put him to sleep. I tucked his body beneath the blankets under which I had been hiding all day and drove back to my house. Her voice murmured gleeful compliments as I coiled rope around John's unconscious body,

binding him securely to a metal chair. Oh, what a great job you've done, my dear James. She cooed as I stuffed a cloth into John's mouth, slapping duct tape on to seal his lips. John's eyelids fluttered briefly. He's awake. Can I slash open his guts now? I asked.

No. You absolute dun. We must wait until he regains complete consciousness. Plus, until the sedatives wear off, he won't feel the maximum amount of pain. My stomach churned in disgust. The idea of murdering someone previously seemed quite exhilarating, but now I felt quite uneasy about actually putting that absurd idea into practice.

The extent of the voice's insanity became apparent to me. Before, I'd assumed that the voice was a byproduct of my insanity. Though my conscience tugged at me to abandon the act of depravity, I was about to commit. No, I can't do it. This is beyond fucked up. I just can't. I croaked hoarsely. Don't be a fucking pussy, James.

You signed up for this when you decided to become a lunatic. She screamed at me. When John regained complete consciousness, he struggled unrelentingly to free himself from his binds. But the thick ropes were tied meticulously around him, rendering him hopelessly immobile. His eyes widened in true fear, and he made muffled screams through his duct-taped mouth, as I went to work on him with an assortment of sharp instruments. I threw up frequently while torturing him.

But each time I begged to stop inflicting pain upon the poor man, her cruel voice chided me and convinced me to push forward. At last, the final flicker of life left John's eyes, and his frantic heart stopped pulsing, his bloody, mangled corpse dangling limply from the chair. Following her instructions, I incinerated the body, and buried the ashes deep within a forest several miles outside of the middle of nowhere. For days, guilt consumed me, and I relapsed into alcoholism. What I did was beyond disgusting.

It was heinous and revolting. I've tried to commit suicide, but I've always been a coward, and inevitably I returned to the bottle to drown my sorrows. So, now, here we are. Her voice echoes in my head, complimenting me, telling me to lighten up. She says that what I did was a beautiful work of art, my initiation to bloodlust. But she is wrong. I harbour no urge to kill another.

I am disturbed by the vile, demonic excuse of a human being I have become. My descent into madness reaches an ear splitting crescendo. crescendo. My last whisper of sanity reeks of whiskey and stale breath. My heart slams against my ribcage as I heard a loud crash. Dust spills about the dimly lit room as an emaciated figure slowly descends the ladder from the attic. I emit panic screams as I stumbled backwards trying to escape. Who the fuck are you? I scream. A toothy grin spreads across her pale face

Why, James, I'm the voice in your head. When Serena was five, her mother had left one cold and miserable day in late October to pick up some milk at the grocery store in town and never come back. That was nine years ago,

and now Serena was 14 and could barely remember her. The memories she'd managed to keep of her mother was of her sitting by the window day after day, staring out at the dense woods surrounding their house. She always had a worried look on her face, like she was scared of something hiding within them. The rest of what she knew about her mother came from photos of holidays and birthday parties, and the occasional disgruntled mumblings of her father. Serena's dad was almost as absent as her missing mother. It wasn't because he was a bad man,

It was just that Serena had the misfortune of looking exactly like her mother. She had her mother's thick blonde hair, fair skin, and her almond-shaped blue eyes. She also had her high cheekbones, small chin and slender build. She looked nothing like her father, who was very broad and dark. Serena's father often used his work as an excuse to avoid her. He always went into work at the crack of dawn. and usually worked late into the night, a night like tonight. At ten, the sound of the front door opening and heavy footsteps on the wooden floors downstairs

announced his return home. The house phone began to ring. Dad, can you get that? she called out. She'd finally found a comfortable position under her covers and she didn't want to get up. The sound of the footsteps stopped. But the ring of the phone did not. Anoyed, Serena threw off her cover and ran into the hallway. She grabbed the phone just before the person on the other side hung up. Hello? Serena said.

She could hear her father begin to climb the stairs. He would want to know who was calling this late. Hi, her father answered back. Serena's mouth went dry. I'm just calling to say I won't be home tonight. I'm going to stay overnight at the office. You mean you aren't home right now? And you're not downstairs?

Serena asked. Her voice cracking in the middle. No. Why? The footsteps had reached the top of the stairs and someone was standing behind her. She felt their hot breath caressed the back of her neck. Because I heard you come in and now you're standing right behind me, only it's not you.

A pause at the other end. I love you, Serena. Her father said into the phone. I'm hanging up now and calling the police. Serena began to cry. Not because she was scared, but because her father had said he loved her. She hadn't heard those words in a long time. It was a bitter, sweet moment.

I love you too, Dad, she said. Right before two massive hands reached out and cut off her air. Dear diary, today's the day. Today I get to be bitten by a snake, just like Daddy. I've been waiting for this since the first time Daddy picked up a snake at church. He said the God had come and told him that he could pick up snake. and he did. He picked up a big rattler and held out his arm and he bit him. A lot of people screamed. I did too. But except for a little blood, he didn't die. He read from the good book about picking up

snakes and drinking poison and other things. It was really cool. Later I heard him tell him mama that he finally figured out how he can save all of our people. Daddy's real smart. He knows a lot about God and about snakes too. Daddy's picked up his snake a lot in the past two years. I call him Sammy. Daddy keeps him in the garage and feeds him mice and stuff. Oof, it's icky.

Jimmy says there are other churches that pick up snakes. But Daddy's the only one that lets his snake bite him like that. God must like him a whole lot. Jimmy pulled my hair again yesterday. He makes me so mad, but he also kind of makes me smile. Every time Daddy lets Sammy bite him, he says it's a miracle.

He says that whenever a miracle happens, we get to see the face of Jesus, and that makes us blessed. I think he's right. blessings have been happening to people in our church Jimmy's folks got a shining new car Daddy clicked his tongue and said he didn't know if that was such a good idea but I hope Mr. Jones will take me for a ride soon

I bet it goes fast and Mama asked Daddy if we could go someplace fun next month since the Peterson's just got tickets to Mexico Daddy said now is not a good time Maybe they could talk about it later, which means no. Daddy and some of the other men went out in the hills and got more snakes. Enough for each family.

He said we should all be better at the same time. I'm excited to be special too. But I don't know about something. When Daddy first got Sammy, he took him out into the garage. I don't think I was supposed to look, but I did. Daddy was messing with Sammy's mouth. I think he took something out of his teeth. He caught me looking and told me that he was doing God's work and healing Sammy and that it was our little secret.

But he didn't heal the new snakes. I guess they just weren't sick. I can't wait for this afternoon. We're going to have a big meeting and everyone's going to be there. I like Daddy's sermons more since he let Sammy bite him. He used to just talk about how bad things were, and how the world was going to hell. But now he talks about heaven, and how great it is there. Sammy really seems to make him happy.

When Daddy put me to bed last night, I asked him if he thought we'd see Jesus' face today. He smiled and kissed me on my forehead and said, I know we will, honey. I really want to see Jesus just like he does I have to go we're starting soon I'll tell you all about it tonight when we get home love

Ruby if you happen to find yourself alone at night on Oakwood Road with no moonlight nor a friend at your side pray that you don't hear the laughing coming from the dark behind you It starts out as a small laugh, a schoolyard giggle. It's high and sweet, like that of a young child.

You turn, startled by the sound. You thought you were alone on this isolated road. And why is a small child out so late at night, especially on a road like Oakwood? Then you wonder why you're alone on a road like Oakwood so late at night yourself. especially when you hear that laugh again but this time it isn't so sweet it's louder this time

it sounds like the laugh a twisted little kid would make after he pushed his mother down the stairs how can a laugh sound like that you don't know your head snaps around and this time you see something standing in the middle of the road about five yards back. It's small, about the size of a child. It looks like a kid dressed up for Halloween back in the early 1900s. You know, one of those homemade costumes,

but it is nothing as innocent as that. The custom is nothing more than a brown sack with two holes cut out for eyes and a blue onesy. The eye just pushed my mummy down the stairs, laugh, is coming for it, but not for long. It soon begins to croak, like father came home, found mummy dead at the bottom of the stairs, and is ringing the wicked child's neck. Then there's a snap. All goes silent and its head falls to its side at an unnatural angle. and that's when you run you get all the way home and crawl under your covers you can't stop shaking

what was that did you dream it or did that really happen that's when you hear a tap at the window a cold sweat breaks out on your forehead and your eyes slowly inch towards the glass square You see a shape pressed against it, and you feel terror rise up in your gut.

But it's only a tree branch. Ah, you need to stop. This is silly. You didn't really see that thing back there. It was just your mind playing tricks on you in the dark. The sound of your front door opening causes you to sit up in bed. Did you lock the door behind you when you came in? You came in in such a hurry that you don't think so. You hear footsteps climbing the stairs.

It feels like an eternity before they reach the top. Then there's a sound of small feet running down the hallway. Your door flies open and then slams shut. If you hadn't been feeling terrified or, already, you are now. But instantly your mind tries to rationalize it. Maybe one of your family members mistook your door for the bathroom door, or even the door to their own bedroom, although you aren't sure why they would be coming in this late at night. From the darkness of your bedroom, you hear a small laugh, a schoolyard giggle.

It's high and sweet, like that of a young child. It's coming from under your bed. You lie there, frozen, unable to move a muscle out of fear. Even as you hear it pull itself out from under your bed with its small fingernails. Even as it climbs into bed with you, even as it wraps its cold little hands around your neck, begins to squeeze. It's been lost as to when exactly it happened.

When they came. At first it seemed like there were just a few of them. They weren't too much of a threat. Some of us would go missing from time to time, but it wasn't enough to really worry anyone. Every living thing has disappearances from other creatures or simply losing one's way. Eventually they came like locusts, like a plague.

they were everywhere they were taking over our homes tearing them apart to create their own crude structures they brought with them unimaginably loud noises and screaming then along the way one of us found out that they those things were they were eating us more and more of us began to disappear, and sometimes one of us would stumble across the body, strung up, cut, gutted, lifeless, butchered beyond recognition. Those creatures would carve off pieces of flesh, add some kind of dirt to them, or an odd liquid, some sort of unusual seasoning, perhaps, then put it in a pan or other cooking means. And the smell. And the smell. Oh God, the smell.

Have you ever smelled the flesh of your brother? Father, sister, neighbor, someone you grew up with, someone you knew. The smell of them, it's horrid. We weren't the only ones though. No. They snatched up just about any other species to feast on, to make meals off. Over time we gave up and moved into the forests. Some of us lived on the edges, roaming close to the things and places that these creatures created.

Some of us pushed deep into the woods in an attempt to hide and try to live a new life, away from the gnashing teeth of those things and the horror they brought with them. But in the forest, our chances of survival dwindled as well. dwindled as well. We now had to be careful of other predators, mountain lions, bears, wolves, coyotes, anything that ate meat. We didn't have the spaces to hide from these threats anymore, and those demons, those alien things, that pushed us deeper, also pushed animals that would hunt us deeper into the forest as well. Although we still used the sun to see, we grew accustomed to the dark moor, and we could easily

move around. It was easiest to search out food in the between times, such as dusk and dawn. Those things weren't as active then. We learned what areas to avoid, when we could creep up to their buildings and homes to find some sort of forgotten treat long missed by our mouths. Sometimes a night of searching for something to put in our bellies and sustain us was met with disgusting horror. Finding bodies of fallen brethren on the sides of the roads. Mangled, broken, twisted.

If we were lucky, the bodies we came across weren't too badly mutilated. But sometimes, sometimes they were worse. The body might be cut in half, looking as if something ripped it apart. rather than cut it. Blood would be splattered around and intestines or other internal organs would be spilling out of whatever unnatural hole was nearest to them. The eyes would stare at nothing. Dark, lifeless, haunting. All you could do was cringe, hope that they didn't feel too much pain before they died and walk or run away from it all. Many times we tried to take solace in the fact that if one of us was found dead on the road, we knew at least it wouldn't be eaten by one of those

lanky, groping, angry things. They treated us like nothing. We had become nothing. I'm sure we were just kept around and our population not completely wiped out. so they could have some sports, some entertainment. But they didn't even really care if we were hungry or tired, or just wanted a little food, just wanted our family. Most of the time they would just break us and throw us aside if we even crossed their path. By the time I came into this world,

this was the type of life we had known for generations, living on the edge of a world that was stolen from us, doing what we could to survive, sometimes going hungry for months, and sometimes I was so hungry. This morning I woke up that way. Well, I say morning, but it was actually just before dawn.

I stretched and stood up, walking the sleep off with my cramped limbs. My stomach grumbled almost immediately, I hadn't eaten anything substantial in a few days. I'd kept to the forest, foraging for what I could find that nature provided. I knew there was a clearing not far, but it was dangerous to be out in the open for too long. The air was getting cold at each day, and frost could be found on the grass in the mornings. It would be winter soon, and seemed like it was gearing up to be a rough one.

My stomach groaned at me again And I knew I had to risk it With winter Food would become more scarce So I needed as much as I could get right now Maybe I wouldn't have to get too exposed Maybe I could just go to the edge of the clearing And find something I could use to satiate my stomach for a bit

When I got there I could look around and make sure that it was safe Take my time to be sure there were no lurking predatory Then push into the clearing where I knew I could find some bushes with berries at least. I made my way slowly to my destination, stopping at a stream along the way to drink some of the cold water. It felt icy but good slipping down my throat. Before I knew it, I was in the trees at the edge of the open space. It didn't seem like there was anything around. I'd seen a few others through the trees on my way, but I didn't see anything that would harm me. Still, I waited

a while, circling the little clearing and looking for anything good to eat as I did. Eventually, I'd walked twice around it, and there was still no sign of anything or anyone lurking around. I stepped hesitantly out of the tree line and thought I heard a noise. I jerked my head up and looked around for a second, then froze and strained my eyes to hear it again. Nothing, just the normal sounds of the forest, birds chirping, wind rustling the leaves of it, small animals scurrying around. The night around me seemed to be getting just slightly lighter, and I looked towards the sky, knowing the sun was inching its way around to bring on the day to our corner of the world. I shook off the feeling that something was out there since I'd heard nothing else.

Just a few feet into the clearing, I could see a bush. It was a bush full of beautiful, delicious berries. My mouth watered just looking at them. Still moving slowly and carefully. stepping gingerly through the grass in very calculated motions. I approached the berry bush. By the time I reached it, I'd still hurt nothing and felt at ease now, relishing the thought that I would get those juicy berries into my belly soon.

I bent down to pull a berry from a small branch when I heard it. This time, it was unmistakable. leaves being crunched slowly and methodically under feet. I looked up again, searching for where the sound was coming from, but couldn't quite tell. Then I saw it. It was one of those things that liked to cut us up, to torture us,

then dined on our seared flesh and body parts, until it could no longer stuff any more into its stomach. It was coming from just ahead of me, stalking quietly, partially covered by the trees surrounding it on the opposite side of the clearing. Eyes staring straight at me. I needed to move and fast. My thoughts all ran and screamed in my head. My bones burned with the knowledge that they needed to run.

My blood pumped with the adrenaline trying to make my limbs respond to what my brain knew they needed to do. I started breathing heavy and quick. I screamed in my head to tell myself to just run, get out of here. Finally, as the creature lifted its arms, pointed toward me, wanting me, and was almost to the edge of the clearing. My legs remembered how to work, and I spun around to run as rapidly as I could. Suddenly, an intense, burning pain shot up through my back, and I crumpled to the ground. I was too late. It had me.

I tried getting up, but my left leg couldn't move, and then pain rippled through me. I heard it coming up to stand over me. The last thing I saw was that thing, pointing something at me. I could see the top of his body at a sort of bright skin, orange and blinding in the rising lights. The last thing I heard was it say Your antlers are gonna look mighty fine on my wall Then the human shot me again Ending the pain

The rain always made me miserable There was nothing worse than getting mail from across a wide street Dodging cars on a slippery road often upset me Yet I jogged to the rusty rustic old mailbox which screeched open with age. The thick envelopes of bills filled my hands. One particular small square package stood out, labeled, Save Their Lives Fund.

Normally I would never bother with these packages, but I would still set them aside out of curiosity. I crossed the wet, car-sped street and entered the house, throwing the mail on the table. Oh, I realized again that I was late for work. After a long drive through the bad weather, I made it to my dead-end job, where my boss was waiting to nag my ear off about how close I was to being fired. Most of the employees knew that he needed me, so I considered his threats as empty words. Now, I work in the credit card fraud department, overlooking serious changes on accounts of people.

people who have more money than I would make in 40 years. I won't lie. I have been tempted to use accounts to take some extra cash, but I've always chickened out. After a long shift, I headed home to rest my feet and watch Netflix, while turning on my PS4 and waiting for the menu to show up. I caught a glimpse at the plain charity package from the mail this morning. It wasn't much to look at, but I opened it and out-slip pictures of sad Nigerian children, followed by a cheap DVD which showed more Nigerian kids in tears. I placed the DVD into my PlayStation 4, which activated a special app to download from the disc.

I accepted and the app played. Like Skype, the app showed a real-time video of numerous Nigerian kids crying in a dirty, dimly lit room. They were malnourished and wore tattered clothing. Urine, fecal matter and some blood stained the floor. Two old Nigerian men came into the room. One faced the camera as the other grabbed a screaming boy. The man facing the camera said,

These children are in dire need of money. So, with your generous offer of this, $30,000 American dollars. You can save this boy's life. The other man gripped the boy's hand and cut off four of his little fingers. The child screamed in agonizing pain as the man lifted the boy's blood-spraying hand

up to the screen. I didn't think this was real. Maybe it was a special effect. The man then said, So, Daniel Parson of 5-677, Lake Drive, Austin, Texas. Will you do what it takes to save this boy's life? The app I had installed had hacked my PS4 profile.

We showed my exact information and location. He gave me two days to donate the money. I was thinking about calling the police. Then the man broke my thought process by saying that if I went to the authorities, they would kill all of the kids. I witnessed the injured boy. being taken away with his blood trailing behind, still crying from the intense pain.

So, I went to work the following morning and stole some account numbers. Twenty stolen accounts granted me the money I needed in two days. I turned on the PS4 and got into the app. The men asked if I had the money. I agreed while sending the amount. we humbly thank you for your generous donation Daniel the man said as the other man let the boy go I was relieved until he grabbed another screaming child ready to do the same to that boy as he did with the other the other the man looked directly into the screen and said so don't are you ready to save another life and so once again reach the end of tonight's podcast My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen.

Now, I'd ask one small favor of you. Wherever you get your podcast wrong, please write a few nice words 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.