Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S5 Ep256: Episode 256: Secret Room Horror (audio fixed)

Episode Date: July 8, 2025

Today’s feature length tale of terror is ‘I Found a Secret Room Under My Kitchen’ an original story by Dopabeane, kindly shared with us at NoSleep and narrated with the author’s permission [full title: I Found a Secret Room under My Kitchen, I Think Something Lives There]:  https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/8ocgtm/i_found_a_secret_room_under_my_kitchen_i_think/

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please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepen's Dungeon. Secret rooms captivate us because they tap into a deep human fascination with the hidden and the unknown. Behind every concealed door lies the promise of mystery. Forgotten histories, forbidden knowledge or long-lost treasures. These hidden spaces feel like an invitation to step outside the ordinary world and uncover something not meant to be found.

Whether in old mansions, ancient castles, or even modern homes, secret rooms stir our imagination and awaken the thrill of discovery or dread as we shall see in tonight's feature length story now as ever before we begin a word of caution tonight's tale may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery if that sounds like your kind of thing then let's begin i bought a house a few months ago it was ridiculously cheap and big and I mean huge, a spiritual ancestor to the modern-day McMansion. Best of all, I could make some extra money by renting out the mother-in-law apartment and master suite, which has both a balcony and a sauna. I love it.

It isn't perfect. The master bathtub leaks, the electric outlets are wonky, and a tribe of raccoons lives in the balcony turret. The biggest problem, however, is the kitchen floor. It's made of oak floorboards. According to the realtor, it was laid in 1939. Two years after the house was built. Whoever lived here before me started to replace it and apparently gave up halfway through.

They tried putting everything back together with disastrous results. Dozens of inexpertly applied coats of varnish and lacquer pool unevenly across the boards, trapping layers of dog hair, spilled spices, and dust, specimens of mundane domesticity trapped like mosquitoes in amber. It looked awful. A bit like a frozen sea, what with the lack as uneven waves, and smelled weird, a little mouldy, a little rotten, and a little sweet, especially on warm days. So, I decided that replacing the kitchen floor

would be my inaugural home improvement project. I tore up the floor last Saturday, starting at seven. By eight, it was clear that I had two kitchens. That's right. Underneath the tragically misused floorboards was a whole other room. It was shallow, maybe seven feet deep, with a wood floor of its own. The boards were worn to splinters in some places, soggy and blooming with mold, in others. I glimpsed a small table surrounded by chairs, an old-fashioned oven and a tiled counter. Chinty wallpaper provided the final absurd touch. Honestly, I was over the moon. My damn house had a whole secret room. It was a childhood dream come true. I dragged my ladder into the house and carefully eased it down into the second kitchen. It hit one of the moldy spots and sank

unpleasantly before settling. I climbed down eagerly, accidentally stepping into the mouldy mush. Grimmissing, I smeared my shoe across a dry patch of floor and commenced exploration. The room spanned the entire length of the house. The kitchenette bled into a living area with a small rug, sofa and end table.

Beyond that lay four rusty bedframes, topped with mattresses in varying states of decay. The floor around the beds was black and spongy with rot. Every step left an indentation behind that quickly pooled with an oily substance. Past the beds was an empty stretch of floor. The boards quickly gave way to hard-packed dirt. I couldn't tell if they were buried or if it had never been finished in the first place. At the very back of the room, flush against the wall, was a bookshelf.

I tromped over eagerly. I love reading, I love books, and I love antiques. Maybe this will be a convergence of all three. But no. To my immense disappointment, the shelf was empty, except for a single title. Thin, wide, and rectangular. Obviously, a picture book. I picked it up curiously.

It looked almost new, with the kind of unremarkable glossiness I associate. it with elementary school libraries. The grey dust cover bore four fuzzy, child-shaped silhouettes. Each figure had round eyes and carried long sticks. The art style was weirdly charming, somewhere between Quentin Blake and Lane Smith. The austere title arced over the shadowed children.

The people who come after you. Excitement pulsed again. Maybe this was a scary kid's story. Or at least a playfully gory romp a la rauldal. The spine creaked as I opened it. It was empty. No words or illustrations to be seen. Blank black pages gently reflected my flashlight beam.

I flipped to the back. On the very last page were two lines. Neon green ink over dark paper. The people who come after you, you. Other people who come after you. Mildly amused, I turned the page.

Tucked between the cryptic little couplet and the M-paper were three Instax pictures. In case you don't know, Instax minis are basically Fuji-films' answer to Polaroid cameras. For some reason, I love the absolute shit out of mine. Since Christmas, I've probably spent more money on film and on coffee. The first photo showed a beaming man on my front porch. Arms slung around his

kids. It had to be the family who owned this house before me because I recognized everything. Familiar climbing roses snaked out the columns and my fat flower basket hung from the front beam. Even on paper, the family's joy was infectious. It made me smile. The next photo showed the kids together. The girl was a little older, with her father's apple cheeks and guileless smile. The boy looked timid, almost frightened. Something about him tugged my heartstrings. I know what it's like to be anxious in front of a camera. I love taking pictures, but I hate being in them. I tucked it aside and checked the last photo. My breath caught. It was me.

Me, trying to smile, but really just grimacing. I stood underneath the flower basket. The man was sitting on the top step, and his arms wrapped around my hips. The little girl stood to the side, eternally frozen in a truly impressive eyebrow. A low, pitter, patter, sounded behind me. I whirled around and swept my flashlight across the room. Shadows stretched and jumped, clustering in corners and dancing along the expanse of the wall. But that's all they were.

Shadows, with a lovely accompaniment of scurrying rats. I snapped the book shut and practically ran toward the ladder. I accidentally clipped one of the beds, sending it scraping across the floor. My foot sank into another puddle of wet rot. feeling high and almost buzzy, I looked down. A long tangle of wet black hair lay curled in the puddle. My foot had pressed several strands into the mushy wood beneath. It looked like a cross between vomit and a wet fossil.

I darted away and scrabbled up the ladder. The second I reached the kitchen, I kicked off my soggy shoes and ran outside. To my horror, the porch looked exactly the same as it did in the photos. Climbing roses, flower baskets, kitchy little decorative accents. They all belong to me. I clearly remember putting them all up myself. So how did they show up in the pictures of the other family? I'm not married.

No boyfriend even. I most certainly have no kids. So, what the hell was this? Someone's idea of a joke? I shuddered. Then set the book on the porch. I carefully flipped through it, scanning for things I might have missed. Photos, drawings, words, anything at all.

Toward the end, I noticed something strange. The opening lines. The people who come after you. You are the people who come after you, had shifted to the second last page. The very last page now bore an itchy, scratchy sort of watercolor illustration. It showed a bookshelf in front of a locked door, half hidden by a coat of paint. Underneath the picture were the words, The people who come after you dance and sing in hidden rooms.

slammed the book shut and took several steps back. Then I called my sister, Mariah, and asked point-blank if I had any kids or a husband. Her response was essentially, L-O-L-L-L, what? She asked if I was joking, then if I'd been drinking. My tension eased somewhat. Mariah's at my house all the time, and she's honestly my best friend.

If she says I'm an unmarried, childless mountain dweller, then I can trust her. I played it off as a joke to which I'd forgotten the punchline, easier than it sounds when you're a dizz like me, and asked her to come over for lunch to scope my secret room. She was predictably enthused and agreed to swing by at noon with a pizza. I waited on my porch, splitting my attention between the photos and the picture book.

I was too afraid to go back. back into the house alone. Mariah arrived at quarterpast, complaining about the crowd at the pizza parlour. She set the food on the porch and asked, What are you looking at? I hesitated briefly, then showed her the book. Cute, she said. Pointless, but cute. Then I showed her the photos. She scanned them unagreably until she came to the one with me. Her face lit up. Are you going to be a stepmom? Oh my God, they're all so cute. No. I took a deep breath and did my best to plan my words. I don't know who they are. I found all this in the room under the kitchen.

judging by her expression she thought I was playing a practical joke are they all hiding in your house are you going to surprise me with your new family I led her to the underground room her merriment quickly darkened into unease jeez you're not about to murder me or anything are you she paused by the end table

and picked up a stuffed turtle She gave her to shake, then tossed it on the sofa. Why is the floor so squishy? Did it flood down here or something? Suddenly, muffled music drifted through the room. It sounded low and weird, almost watery. The hair on my neck prickled. I took a few steps forward, carefully sidestepping the greasy hair puddle and listened.

There was no question. The music was coming from behind the far wall. This isn't funny, Mariah said. Well, maybe kind of, but not enough to justify the effort. Come on, we need to get out of here. What? No. I want to see what's behind you a scary bookshelf door. She strode forward and cried out as she slipped,

tumbling onto the ground. Her hand sank into the wet hair. She pulled it up, eyes wide and horrified as long tangles dangled from her fingers. I helped her to her feet and led her to the ladder, fighting the urge to scream as the music grew steadily louder. Mariah scrubbed her hands frantically, retching as the strands of hair slid off her fingers into the sink. By the time she finished, the music could cut out. I have to take pictures of this shit, she said. She whipped her phone out and pulled up the camera app.

She framed the shot and then frowned. What the hell? What? She restarted the app, then tried again. This is insane. I came up behind her and looked over her shoulder. The phone screen displayed a showroom quality kitchen floor, whole and very much in place. No holes, no missing boards, and certainly no hidden room. I tried my phone and had the same result.

We both saw the hidden room with our own eyes, but the phone cameras had other ideas. I ran upstairs and grabbed my Instax camera. I quickly shot. I quickly shot. several photos. To my relief, each one showed the kitchen as it truly was, torn apart to reveal a subterranean living space. The excitement evaporated once the implication hit me. Mariah and I quickly left, but not before grabbing the pizza off the porch. I did call the police. The music indicates that someone is actually living there. And in hindsight, the grease puddle. The grease puddle and loose hair. Well, they scare me. Since it's a non-emergency issue, the dispatcher gave me an estimated call-out time of six hours. Seems a little excessive, but Mariah's letting me stay at

her house until then. I don't know what's wrong with my house. I guess the cops will shed light on it in a couple of hours, but that doesn't explain the pictures of me in the family that doesn't exist. I hate to whine and plead for help. But, does anyone have any ideas? Yesterday, I found a hidden room under my kitchen floor. Inside, I found a bunch of things that don't make sense, including pictures of people who don't exist, and a weird picture book that keeps changing.

Toward the end, I discovered something is living under there. So, I called the cops for help. They sent someone out, yeah? yesterday. Now the cop is gone, and no one remembers him except me. He got to the house around 6.30 and introduced himself as Deputy Matthew Murphy, ma'am. By that point, Mariah and I realized that no matter what we did, images of the floor in the hidden room wouldn't show up on the Instax or the phone camera. Mariah convinced me to tell the cop about the pictures. Normally, I wouldn't bother, but apparently Murphy used to date Mariah. She had a high opinion of him

and promised he'd listen. He did for about a minute, then started an ominous line of questioning that made me paranoid about 51-50 holds. His callous dismissiveness brought Mariah nearly to tears. She stormed out of the house, leaving me to present the grand tour by myself. Murphy lost no time climbing into the basement. He carefully inspected the rotted floor, the furniture, and the appliances with an increasingly disturbed expression. You found this yesterday, he asked. I hovered by the ladder, unwilling to go too deep into the room. Yeah. He swept the flashlight beam over the ruins of the upper floor. I can't believe it didn't cave in. Did you know it was like this? No. I'd get my money back if I was you.

Murphy squatted by the sofa and checked underneath. A bunch of old toys under here. And he grimaced and pulled something out. It scraped over the floor, cleaving an eruption of oily wood mush in half. It was a short, narrow trident. Twisted and polished like a marble braid. It couldn't have been more than two feet.

long. The perfect size, I thought, for a child. Murphy frowned, then looked up at me. Is this yours? My temper threatened to break its bounds. No, I don't know what any of this is. He stood up, and then he yelled, as he slipped and spun over a slimy patch of rot. Yeah, they're all over the place, I said. Those soft spots, I mean. I see that. Murphy stepped further into the room, carefully examining the beds.

He caught sight of the hair, long and stringy, and soaking in its puddle of oil. Then he glanced at me over his shoulder. It was quick, and he did his best to rearrange his expression into something neutral, but it was too late.

He was suspicious. At that moment a cacophony exploded. I jumped and covered my ears. It did nothing against the onslaught of sound. But as quickly as it came, it faded. Soon enough, it was that familiar, muffled, watery melody emanating from the far wall. Murphy gave me an accusing stare. He looked flushed, even in the dim.

There's someone in here? Why do you think I called you? My voice wavered wildly. Dispatch didn't. A deafening boom shook the walls. By my feet, a half-congealed puddle of oil and decayed wood trembled like jello. The boom came again and again and again, repeating in an almost playful rhythm. Then I realized it was matching the beat of the song.

The couplet wound through my mind. The people who come after you, dance and sing in hidden rooms. I shuddered and bit back a wine. Murphy radioed for backup and drew his gun. Do you know how many are in there? No, I said, even as my eyes flitted to the quartet of steel bedframes and mouldy disintegrating mattresses. But it wasn't.

wasn't a quartet anymore. The fifth bed had joined the original four. No, not joined. It had already been there, and I just forgotten, misremembered. Hane pulsed through my temples, lancing like a scalpel, I looked away. Murphy ordered, go back up the ladder. The bookcase juddered and tipped, as if in slow motion before crashing to the floor. A doorframe stood behind it, covered in thick layers of flaking paint. The door rattled, shaking loose clouds of flaky dust, and then creaked open.

Darkness radiated from the opening. Murphy's flashlight couldn't quite penetrate it. A million motes of dust swirled in the beam, stopping just short of the entry. It's like it adjusted. hit a dusty, black curtain. Sheriff's Department, come out, Murphy barked. Hands in the air now.

Somewhere behind the shadowy curtain, too small golden pinpricks blinked to life. Murphy approached the door. Gun pointed right between those yellow lights. I said, come the fuck out. The lights drifted closer, tiny willow wisps in the darkness. Stop. Desperation tinged Murphy's voice. Drop what you're hoping.

Get on your knees and crawl to me. The lights went out. Murphy's flashlight flickered and died, shrouding that end of the room in darkness. The only light filtered in from the kitchen overhead. dim and yellow and far too thin. A soft, bitter patter, sounded near the sofa. I whirled around and caught sight of a tottering, big-headed, shadow, ducking low. Murphy!

My voice issued in a shaky, sick whisper, like all those nightmares where you're trying to scream but barely hiss. The yellow lights flared to life. again, suddenly blinding. Murphy's form turned into a flat, dark shadow, lined in spoiled yellow gold. More pattering echoed across the room. I watched, flabbergasted, as that toddling, misshapen form darted behind Murphy. In its hand I saw the trident. "'Murphy!' I weased. he whipped around just as the lights disappeared again silence fell broken only by my own ragged breathing then dry skittering filled the room it gathered in the corners and spread furtive and somehow unwholesome i scrabbled for the ladder nearly tipping it over in the process and hauled myself up on dangerously weak

legs. I'd barely taken a step when small, viciously strong fingers grabbed my ankle. I screamed and flailed. The hand tugged. I lost my balance and toppled the floor. The ladder came with me, clipping my cheek. Sharp, starry pain burst across my head. I lay there, stunned as the kitchen lights came back on. Then adrenaline researched. I kicked the ladder off and darted away, gagging as my hand plunged through yet another pond of rotted mush. I pulled it out, panicking as something inside pulled back. It twisted around my fingers, feeling for all the world like it was dragging me back.

With the final, desperate wrench, I freed my hand. A massive cluster of wet hair came with it. Long and light, maybe red or dark blonde. A sweet, moldy smell erupted from the hole, halfway between a flower garden and a dumpster. I tried to flick the hair away, but only succeeded in flinging drops of oily water across the room. Murphy!

I gasped. Murphy! be. He'd radioed for backup, I reminded myself. He called for help. I'd be here any minute if I could just hold on. A small, cold hand slipped into mine. I screamed again and reared back. It was a little boy with wet, filthy hair. Tear-track streaked sallow skin. He rubbed his and sobbed. To my horror, I recognized him.

It was the little boy from the photographs, the one who looked so uncomfortable in front of the camera. His lip trembled. Why did you come down again? Fresh tears dripped down his face. Are you trying to come after us? A bobbing, bulbous figure rose behind him. Its outline flickered and morphed.

reminding me absurdly of a cheap cartoon, like Ed, Ed and Eddie, or whatever happened to Robot Jones. Another boom shook the walls as the eerie golden lights flared at the far end of the room. They were terribly bright, almost blinding. The little boy screamed, go upstairs! The lights bobbed and drifted forward. I feverishly lifted the ladder and wedged it again. the hole. I hesitated briefly, then extended a hand to the child. He shook his head. I can't, Mommy. Go up. Go up now. But it was hard to leave him. I wondered desperately if I could climb up

with one arm while carrying him in the other. I glanced at the lights again, fighting down panic as I thought of Murphy. They were hypnotically beautiful, like flames, made round and gentle. Don't look, the boy shrieked. Go back. Don't come after us again. We have to come after you. That misshapen little shadow stretched and splintered into a hideous, multi-limbed form.

Before I could react, it wrapped itself around the little boy. Together, they exploded into tatters of twitchy shadow. The lights were halfway across the room. room now. They approach with slow, silent surety of a predator. I tore myself away and climbed to the upper floor. As soon as my feet hit the floorboard, I ran outside, screaming. Disorientation immediately set in. Full sunlight flooded my yard. Not evening, not twilight, not even sunset. Just unmistakable midday. Mariah rushed to me.

What's wrong? Oh my God, are you okay? Did you get hurt? I babbled wildly about Murphy and shadows and tridents and little kids, quickly devolving into hysterical sobs. Mariah helped me sit on the grass. It was warm and damp. Rich smells of greenery and smoke and freshly watered earth surrounded us and slowly soothed me. Mariah brushed my hair away from my face. Jesus, next time I'll grab the damn marshmallows.

What? She looked at me strangely. I hopped to my feet and for the first time looked around. She'd lit the barbecue grill. Sheep hot dogs, graham crackers, chocolate bars and two-pronged grilling sticks were arranged nearby. I shook myself internally. Mariah, we have to go. There's something down there. There's people. Murphy. Something killed Murphy. What are you talking about? Mariah asked uneasily, who the hell is Murphy? I scanned her face for any sign of a joke. Pressure built in my chest, culminating in a rough, painful sob.

What? Long story short, Mariah doesn't remember Murphy. In a stark panic, I called the sheriff, demanded to know when his backup would arrive. They had no idea what I was talking about. No record of a Matthew Murphy on the force. No call out to my house. Certainly no backup request originating from my area. I went off on Mariah, berating her for making fun of me, and demanding how,

she'd managed to forget a boyfriend before collapsing into a quivering heap. Oh, it gets worse. Mariah doesn't remember seeing the room. As far as she knows, I invited her over for hot dogs and smoths. I'd gone in to grab the marshmallows and ran out screaming like a banshee two minutes later. She remembers the photos and the picture book, but nothing else. no subterranean room no music

no greasy hairy rot puddles and no Matthew Murphy Mariah made me go home with her at my request she entered my house holy shit she yelled upon seeing the room under the floor presumably for the first time

and gathered the picture book and the photos once I calmed down I left a voicemail for my realtor Then I sat down to look at the photos again I wish I hadn't The one with a little girl and boy has changed Behind them and off to the side Peering over the bottom of the frame

Is the top of an odd Lumpy head A blurry sliver of a misshapen eye is just visible Even with the poor definition I can tell it's green. Clear, unusually bright, sage green. The exact same colour as my eyes. I don't know what it means, or if it means anything at all. I check the book too. The pages have shuffled again. The first couplet occupies the third to last page. The second to last page now bears the line about the people singing and dancing in hidden rooms.

And the very last page has an illustration of a long, dark room. At the very end is an open door. Beyond that door is rich, almost fuzzy darkness, broken only by a pair of small yellow eyes. Underneath were the words, They have a master. He's called, Noon. Noon needs people who come after you. Poor Noon is grand and he is sad. Noon will eat them

when they're bad. Noon plays games that have funny rules. With the people who come after you. I stared at that silly watercolor picture, transfixed by those bright yellow eyes. And then I cried for a long time. I'm more afraid than I've ever been, but I think I have to go back. The thing that lives under my house ate a cop out of existence. Hell, it even ate the day and rewound the clock. What if I do have a family? What if that creature ate them too? They have to still exist somewhere. That boy called me mom, and I have these pictures. I have these pictures. I have these pictures? Maybe it's a trick. But what if it's not? If they're trapped there, if even one person is trapped there, how can I abandon them? I can't. So, unless something changes,

I'm going back tomorrow. I don't know who's coming after me, but I guess I'm coming after them now, without putting too fine a point on it. I recently learned that something lives in a hidden room under my kitchen floor. I woke up in a cold sweat the morning after the cop disappeared. I'd had a nightmare of a green-eyed monstrosity, lumpy and malformed, with hair and eyes like mine. The figure lingered on my periphery, even after I'd opened my eyes. Wet, funneled skin glistened in the morning light.

I quickly squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them again, it was gone. The first thing I did was call my realty office. They'd handled both sides of the home purchase. One way or another, they'd have records. But it didn't go quite as planned. After being on hold for a very long time, the receptionist told me,

ma'am, we don't have a transaction for that property addressed. this year. We handled a sale on it in 2015, but that's it. My head was already pounding. Can I speak to my realtor? At least I remembered her name perfectly. I could practically see her in front of me, short and vivacious, with laugh lines and proud streaks of white in her red hair. Eileen Harrington. The receptionist's confusion was nearly palpable, even over the phone. Oh, Mrs. Harrington passed away. My heart sank. When?

A hesitant intake of breath. About two years ago, she did handle the home purchase, but it was back in November of 2015. I thanked her and hung up. Didn't take me long to make my decision. I needed to go back. either I was insane, in which case no harm, no foul, or people were somehow trapped there. Mariah was already at work. I thought about waiting until her shift ended.

I thought about asking her to come home early. I even thought about asking every single person I knew to come with me. But then, I thought of the cop. I thought of the photos of the family I didn't have. If there was even a chance they were alive, I couldn't abandon them. Nor could I consign anyone else to whatever horror show waited in the house. So, I grabbed my phone and camera and went alone. I waited in my car for a few minutes.

I didn't have to do this. In fact, I shouldn't be doing this. But, well, what was the alternative? Call the police again. Wait however long that took, and pray the next one didn't end up eaten out of reality. sell the place to some other unlucky buyer, pay the mortgage on a house I couldn't live in, burn it down and hope I get away with it. That's what I wanted to do more than anything.

But then, what would happen to the people trapped inside? Finally, I got out of my car. It was another beautiful day. Buttery sunlight, gilded the grass and glanced off the white paint, infusing the flowers and trees with the glow that almost look painted. The air was warm and almost dusty sweet. All of that fell away the moment I stepped into the house, replaced with cool shadows and the sour, splintery smell of old wood varnish.

The massive hole remained, bearing that strange, secret room. The ladder jutted out inviting me. I took several pictures. first with my phone and then with the instacks. Each photo displayed an intact floor. Something had changed. The boards were smooth and pale in the photos, obviously freshly laid or sanded. The torn-up floor and subterranean room remained, of course, hidden from photos for whatever reason, but clearly visible in reality.

My flashlight waited on the wooden island, right where I'd left it. I flicked it on, tightening my grip as my hands began to shake and descended into the room under the floor. It was much bigger now, narrow but far, far too long, stretching past the beam's reach, and I had to go all the way to the end. I had to open that door to find whoever was trapped here and face whatever had trapped them. I walked carefully, sidestepping the rotten spots. My heart pounded as I glanced around. Things had changed drastically. Dozens of toys were strewn across the floor.

Several stuffed animals were arranged in tight rows on the sofa. Beady eyes glinted in the light, impassive and not quite lifeless. I shuddered and pressed on until the beds finally came into view. Five identical iron frames piled high with toys, filthy blankets and broken, decayed mattresses. The dancing flashlight beam made shadows pulse and jump. Fear overtook me and I stopped to take a deep breath. The shadows continued to move, like things were moving on the bed. Fear overwhelmed me.

I squatted and set the flashlight down. flashlight down. The beam stilled, and with it most of the shadows. Except one. One of the beds continued to move. The pile rose and fell steadily, like something was breathing underneath it. My breath caught in my throat. The bed shifted suddenly. The spring squealed in a sheaf of long hair spilled from beneath, glistening like ober and gau. Awesome. An involuntary moan escaped my lips, shrill and horrifically loud. The pile fell still for a moment and then grew. Toys and rusted springs and pieces of decayed foam cascaded onto the floor as a woman sat up, one who looked exactly like me. Her eyes and mouth were stitched shut.

Wads of stuffing protruded from her ears. She stood and asked a question, muffled and wordless of course, but there was no mistaking the up-tilted cadence of the words, and then shuffled forward. Her hands flexed, closing experimentally on thin air. I grabbed the flashlight and forced myself to my feet. It was slow and painful, like walking through water. My foot plunged into a rot pit as soon as I took a step. The toe of my shoe brought up a clump of hair.

I kicked it off, whining desperately, and froze as the wood mush shifted. A thick bubble rose and popped, revealing a small, wrinkled hand. It grasped blindly for the ledge. Sobbing helplessly, I turned and ran. All around me the rot-hole spread, growing to insane proportions, then bubbled and broke apart. Hands and arms, but mostly hair, curly hair, dark hair, light hair, long and short, thick and thin, all of its slimy wet and rising up.

I reached the ladder and hauled myself up, hand over sweaty, slippery hand. My double followed clumsily, stumbling over toys and bubbling rot pits. Finally, I reached the upper floor. I jumped out and tried to run, but tripped and went sprawling. I rolled over, sobbing, only to see that the floor was whole. No ladder, no hidden room, just smooth, pale, freshly laid floorboards. I curled up and wept for a while. When I finally stood up, the picture book was laying on the counter.

thin, glossy and pretty, with that ominous title stamped across it in silver lettering. I'd left it and Marius, but no matter. I opened it hesitantly and flipped through it. The book had reshuffled itself yet again, in the process adding several more pages. I quickly found where I'd left off. Noon plays games that have funny rules with the people who will come after you. and continued to read when people who come after you play their funny games with Noon they divide in two, three, four, five

and so many more all are alive. Each one of them has different aims but everyone plays Noon's game. Games are the way to give Noon Jews and when Jews get paid Noon leaves you clues The people who come after you Sometimes make Noon's favorite clues

If you lose the game Noon needs you And the people who come after you Suddenly A series of thumps echoed from the upstairs Followed by a shrill giggle I immediately slammed the book shut and ran out of the house To my horror, twilight had replaced midday.

Worse, autumn had somehow overtaken spring. My apple tree drooped with clusters of ripe fruit. Small, lopsided pumpkins grew along the side of the house, covered in thick leaves and vines. Vibrant layers of pink, violet, and orange overtook the western sky, brilliance underscored by the dark, craggy hills in the foreground. as I spun around, trying desperately to orient myself, a car trundled carefully down the steep driveway and parked. Panic, immobilized me. Should I go back into the house? Stay put, run.

A tired-looking man exited, balancing a drink carrier and a bag of fast food. He need the door shut, lock the car, then approached with a sheepish smile. There was no question. He was the man from the photos. Hey, I'm sorry for snapping at you. The smile faded. Anxiety replaced it, followed for just an instant by resentful sadness. What's wrong?

The words didn't want to come, but I finally choked them out. Who are you? Crows watched us from the almond tree in the front yard, rustling and calling softly. The man's eyes shone in the blue twilight, tired and terribly cold. I'm going to call your sister. He went into the house. Heva? Raiden.

Dinner. After a moment of helpless confusion. I followed him just as two kids flew down the stairs and across the living room. I recognized them immediately. The little boy and the little girl from those pictures. Imaginary people. People who didn't exist. Except they obviously did.

The girl pulled ahead, leaving her giggling brother in the proverbial dust. When he saw me, he smiled widened briefly. Then darkened. He stopped in the middle of the room. Watching me as the girl turned on all the lights. She noticed her brother was no longer in pursuit and turned. What's the matter? She doesn't know who we are, the boy said in a small voice.

His chest began to rise and fall rapidly. Noon got us. Who's noon? I asked immediately. The father shot me a furious look. Guys, what did we just talk? about. Redden began to cry. It's okay, Kiva said weepily. It's not too late. The man wrapped his hand around my elbow and pulled me into the kitchen. I can't let you do this to them, he hissed. You, you have to go somewhere. Mariah, whoever, but you can't be here until we figure

out what's wrong with you. He bit his lip and stepped back, and then rubbed his face. Some of the Something told me I should feel hurt, but I didn't know him, didn't know any of them well enough to care. What I cared about was that perfectly intact kitchen floor. Are you going to tear up the floor? I asked. The man briefly pressed his hands to his face. We already did. We're done. Was there something under there? Behind me, Kiva started to cry.

A room or... Shut up! He snarled. Shut up right now. If you're seeing things, shut your goddamn eyes. If you're hearing things, shut your goddamn ears. I can't handle you. Our kids cannot handle you.

A shadow shifted weirdly on my periphery and I turned. Behind the kids, crouching at the foot of the stairs, was a small, misshapen creature, holding a little trident. Green eyes glimmered in the dim, the exact color and shape of mine. And the same, I realized, as the little boys. I watched helplessly as another larger shadow crept up behind it. The bigger one had the same, impossible proportions and ruined skin. It was the thing from my nightmare, down to the hair and eyes. The man fell abruptly silent.

I tore myself away and looked at him, wondering if he'd seen the monsters too. But no, he was transfixed by the kitchen floor. Before my eyes, dark rot bloomed across the floorboards. It started as pinpricks and swiftly expanded into vast blotches. They blossomed and spread, melting the floor away like acid. The darkness stopped. Just short of my feet and continued to eat through the wood.

The man grabbed my hand and tried to pull me into the living room. The instant he took a step, the darkness surged forward like a tide, dissolving the ground beneath us. We fell together, landing in shallow puddles of pulpy rot. Two little heads peered over the edge of the upper floor, staring down at us in horror. I tried to crawl away from the wet spots, but vast quantities of the water. of long, stringy hair tangled around my arms and legs. It felt alive, like a thousand tiny, terribly strong snakes.

The little girl started to climb down. Kiva! The little boy wailed. Kiva paid him no mind. She dangled briefly from the ledge. Braden tried to grab her hands and pull her back up, but only succeeded in loosening her grip. She dropped beside me with a girl.

grunt and quickly scrabbled away from the rock pool. Familiar, deafening music suddenly exploded to life. Braden screamed. Kiva ran to me and desperately struggled with the wet hair. It fell limp when she touched it. I took it off and stumbled to my feet. She immediately moved on to her father. I watched as hair continued to writhe in the puddle. It buzzed. bubbled up and broke the surface, revealing a glistening, misshapen head. Braden screamed again. The second Kiva freed her dad. The deformed figure shot up and grabbed her, quickly dragging her down.

I reached for her, but her father shoved me out of the way and grabbed her. The misshapen body threw Kiva to the side and grabbed her father, quickly and improbably submerging him. Kiva plunged her arms into the rock poor before I could do anything. Long hair and a dozen pale wrinkled hands rose and engulfed her. Without thinking, I grabbed her hands just as she sank out of sight. A terribly powerful current pulled me deep and quickly separated us. Mommy! Raiden wriggled over the ledge and fell beside me, gasping in pain as his ankle rolled.

He slapped the hands away and violently pulled at the hair. The music abruptly cut. All of the hands suddenly fell limp and retracted, floating like dead fish. Braden looked at me. Tears streaked his face and his breath hitched. Don't come after us again. The hand sprang to life, terribly pale and inhumanly long. Before I could react,

They pulled him under. No! I tried to reach into the puddle, but only met hard, wet floor. I punched it, sending up pathetic little splashes of stagnant water and pulpy rot. Fury overtook me. I stood and charged to the back of the room, to the bookcase, to that door, to whatever made that awful music, to whatever had stolen my family.

Blinding light suddenly engulfed me. Bright and yellow was Noon's eyes. I tripped and went sprawling to the ground. Under my hands and knees, I felt warm grass. I opened my eyes. I was back in my yard. It was midday again. A colorful cacophony of flowers filled the garden. Bumblebees drifted past as birds sang. My car waited in the driveway, coasted. with dust and pollen. Crying, I got in the car. My phone was in the cup holder. To my surprise, it was at less than 5% battery. It had been in the high 90s when I drove the car over here. Worse, I had over a hundred missed calls and as many texts, all from Mariah and my boss.

The reason soon became apparent. according to the calendar app, I'd been gone for days. I drove to Mariah's house immediately. She wasn't there, which made sense. It was the middle of the day on Friday. She'd be at work. I put my phone on the charger and immediately called her work number. She didn't answer, so I left a message.

I've been waiting on her couch since. Amazingly enough, I actually fell asleep for a little while. When I woke up, the people who come after you was on the coffee table. I opened it up and found one new page. It's crowded with dozens of shadow figures, frozen in a morass of frenzied violence. The text beneath it reads, You might not win, it's very true. So here's an important clue. If noon first eats the other youths, you'll find people who come after you.

I don't know what to think. I looked up local property records. Sure enough, despite all memories to the contrary. I bought the house in 2015. I was the only buyer though. Maybe I'm insane, but if my husband and children were pulled out of existence, of course his name wouldn't show on Pung any legal documents. I'd be inclined to think I was crazy, if it weren't for the book, and for the marks on my arms and legs.

My skin is covered in bruised welts. Some are long and thin. Some are shaped like odd, long-fingered hands. Maybe I should let it go. Except that I escape noon, whatever he is, and just go on with my life. But I don't want to leave anyone behind. Even if I don't remember them, I have kids. They're trapped there because of me.

I can't leave them. According to the book, there are other versions of me. Feeding them to noon is my only hope. If quantum self-cannibalism is what it takes to save my family, I guess I'll do it. The last foray into the house hurt me badly. nestled within a map of bruises were thin wounds, the kind made when you tie your arm with string

and pull far too hard for far too long. Those long, bruisy welts continue to swell long after I'd left the house, until they, too, split my skin open under the myriad shades of skin, puffy white and angry red and ominous purple, was a bright, wicked yellow, like I was jaundiced,

Over the course of several days, I watched that yellow radiate outward like blood poisoning. Under these, well, and all other circumstances, returning to the house unprepared, seemed especially idiotic. So I did my research. First, perhaps unsurprisingly, there's never been a children's book called The People Who Come After You. Second, I combed through every available public record and found nothing to indicate that I've ever been in a marriage or domestic partnership. I don't even have any joint accounts on my credit report. Third, I bought a house over a year ago. The deed transferred to me several months before I remembered even seeing the house, let alone buying it. And finally, I found

the person who sold me the house. Her name was Martha Clark. To my dismay, she died several months ago. Fortunately, her daughter is still very much alive. She invited me to her house, which turned out to be an assisted living facility. The moment she answered the door, I knew something was wrong with her. She looked both distant and wary, like she wasn't all there, but had just enough of her wits about her to know she was being followed. Hello? I'd like to talk to you about your mother. mom's old house, I said. Of course you do, was the response.

She gave me a pained smile. I think it must be mold, or something in the paint. Paint can do strange things to people. What did it make you do? Unsure of how to respond, I stammered. I found pictures of myself with people I don't remember. They look like a family, like my family, but I don't have one. "'Got to be mold,' Miranda fretted.

"'A hallucin energetic fungus. "'You should fumigate the house.' "'I will.' "'Did you have any experiences like mine?' "'Oh, Mom did.' "'A long, nervous pause took root and spread. "'When she finally spoke again, "'a quaver entered her voice.

"'Martha was a terrible mother, "'but became especially unhinged on Miranda's 12th birthday. That was the year Martha became convinced that Miranda had a sister called Sarah. Except Miranda was an only child. There had never been a Sarah or any other sibling. But Martha was a panicked, inconsolable mess. As the summer sun blazed overhead, she tore the house apart looking for Sarah. But as soon as evening fell, she forgot everything. She forgot Sarah, forgot her outburst, even forgot Miranda's birthday. When Miranda asked if she was okay, Mother said,

I'm fine, why wouldn't I be fine? You were crying about Sarah. Who's Sarah? She went to bed calm and happy, but by noon the next day, she was once again a screaming hysterical mess. For two weeks, this was the pattern. Around midday Martha began to scream and rant for a child that didn't exist, call for help, and eventually demand birth records, school records and all manner of things.

This was all to no avail. Sarah did not exist. No one had any records for Sarah. By nightfall, Martha invariably returned to her usual self. Martha's midday madness have finally culminated in the wholehearted destruction of the kitchen floor. There was a room underneath, according to Miranda, a strange room filled with furniture and yellow lights. Sarah's down there. All of the Saras are down there. I don't know which one is mine. Martha descended under the kitchen and disappeared. Miranda waited, crying, until a man came into the house.

She didn't know him, but he immediately went down after Martha. Miranda waited until long past dark, but he didn't come back. Her mother, however, returned in the middle of the night. Don't come down, Martha whispered. Stay up here. I'll be back for you later. Miranda stayed in her room for three days, emerging only to drink tap water from the sink. I don't know why, she told me.

I don't know why I hid. I was old enough to know better. her. She fretted and cooed about this for a while. Oh, it's because I saw things. Things that weren't real, because of the mould. Right, I said. You couldn't help it. Thus soothed, Miranda continued. I went downstairs when I got too hungry. It was night-time, but it looked like day because there was a big yellow light in the window. But it wasn't really there, Miranda told me.

It was the mould making me see things. Like what? Like Sarah. I saw Sarah. She tittered nervously. Not really. There is no Sarah. But I saw her.

And I saw three other people. Two were my mother. One was the man. He and one of the mothers were... They were hurting the other one. She tittered shrilly. Isn't that strange? Miranda told me she crept to the front door, but the first mother noticed and asked where

she was going. To the neighbours, Miranda said. The first mother nodded, then returned to torturing the second mother. Her neighbour returned with her, only to find an empty house. She stayed at the neighbours for the night and came back in the morning to find Martha cheerfully making breakfast. After relaying this story, Miranda sat in silence for a long long time. time. Her face worked and twitched, sometimes on the verge of a smile, other times close to tears.

I went against my gut and pulled out the book. The green lettering reflected the warm daylight. Do you know what this is? Miranda's eyes flicked to the book and then to my face. She smiled absently. That's a fake book. Sarah had it, but "'Sir, it isn't real. I don't remember her.' Miranda and her mother lived in peace, until Miranda turned 21. Mother had become frail and could no longer attend to Miranda's needs. So she put Miranda in a home.

"'It wasn't as good as this one,' she said. "'This home is much better than all my other homes. "'No mould here?' Her gaze drifted toward the window, and she said no more. Her face continued to change in odd ways, running the gamut from ecstasy to despair. After a minute or so, the day nurse came and ushered me away. Afterward, I sat in my car with the windows down. A warm breeze drifted through, an incorporeal caress that did little to dispel the growing heat.

The picture book felt heavy on my lap. After several minutes, I opened it. Noon plays with time and makes far soon, and makes soon far what to do. Remember he plays games with time. Time doesn't matter when you fight you. Go to Noon's rooms to pay your dues. Those you hurt will pass through too. Remember, whatever you do, that these, These people will come after you." That was the end. Every page was filled now with simple couplets and playful, itchy, scratchy drawings, but no

worthwhile information. Nothing that told me what had happened to my family, to me or to the cop. Nothing that told me what those horrific, mis-shapean creatures were. Nothing except the intimation that I'd have to go all thunder-dome on other versions. versions of myself, with no explanation as to how those other versions came to be. And for what? For people I don't even remember? People who, for all intents and purposes, weren't even real. I threw the book in the back seat and drove to Marias. She wasn't home. That was fine. I wanted to be alone. Except I didn't. The moment I entered the house, I panicked.

The room was too still, too hot, bathed in too much bright daylight. The car felt similarly repulsive, a small cramped, overheated little oven, so I decided to go for a walk. Mariah lived downtown. The quaint little district was perfect for an afternoon stroll. A light breeze created an illusion of coolness, soon shattered by the heavy heat. Sweat beaded my hairline and soaked the back of my shirt. My scalp felt like a tiny oven, buried under my hair. When I reached a sweep, a sheaf back from my forehead, I almost recoiled in shock. God, it was painfully hot, like I'd been baking under the noonday sun.

I turned on to the main thoroughfare, momentarily blinded as the sun came spilling past a tall brick building. If the house and car felt too small, the road felt too big. too open, exposed. The sun glared down, bright and unforgiving as the eye of a god. I crossed my arms, all the better to hide my strange jaundiced wounds, and began to walk. I wandered toward the war memorial in a daze. Clusters of benches surrounded the glass monolith, empty except for a solitary visitor. I sat at the farthest one and stared down at my arms. Long, winding welts spun along my skin, yellow as lemons and painfully raw.

Suddenly self-conscious, I glanced at the other viewer and froze. He was unremarkable, but familiar. Terribly familiar. It was the man from the Instax photos. A man who told me I had to live somewhere else, because our children couldn't bear to live with me anymore. The husband, I recognized, but didn't know. He turned to face me.

I froze. Should I go to him? Should I run? What if he didn't know me? What if he did? His eyes flashed yellow. Yellow like the sun. Yellow.

Like noon, horror bloomed in my chest and slithered through my limbs like vines. I stood and ran. Cars, trees and storefronts ribbon passed in a multicoloured blur. I turned the corner, accidentally clipping a shopper in the process, and sprinted down the street. Three blocks back and two down would take me to Mariah's. And then? What? I couldn't bring myself to think about it, so I just ran, ignoring the pounding heat and the sweat streaming down my back.

After a small eternity, Mariah's house finally came into view. The tree-choked front yard looked like heaven. I could almost feel the shade gliding over me, cooling my skin and leaching the burning heat from my scalp. Just as I reached the gate, my husband turned the opposite corner. He walked to the curb and stopped under the neighbour's almond tree, yards away from Mariah's fence. Yards away from me. With a choked whimper, I fumbled with the gate. My hand shook, jamming the key everywhere but the lock.

My husband watched a moment and then strolled over. His feet rustled the grass. Sunlight spilled through the leaves and dappled his head. The key finally slid into the lock. I turned it just as he cut the nape of my neck and turned my face in his direction. His skin was scorching hot. His eyes a murky, spoiled gold. You don't win, he said quietly.

Do you? I asked. He looked at me a moment longer. Somewhere in my mind, I felt a rustle of memory. a baby bird spreading its wings. He let go. It was like a spell had broken. I opened the gate and ran into the yard. When I reached the front door, I turned around.

He was still there. Those strange yellow eyes shone and shifted like molten gold. I tried to speak, but the words caught in my throat. What could I ask? And how? Finally, I choked. What happened to you? One of me came after you.

He answered. He's still waiting for you. And he turned and drifted down the street. I waited till he turned the corner and went inside the house. Mariah was in the kitchen, pacing back and forth as she spoke into the phone. Wait, do I have to pay for it to be told? Because it's not mine. I knocked gently on the doorframe.

She whirled around, wide-eyed. How the fuck did you get in here? Is that your car in my driveway? A weird, anxious smile spread over my face. Mariah, this isn't funny. Get out of my house! She lingered by the counter, expression equal parts fear and fury. I reached into my pocket and withdrew my key.

You gave this to me, dipshit. I've been here for a week. She ended her call, then dialed another number. I'm calling 911. You better be gone when they get here. I searched her face for any hint of merriment or cruelty. Any sign that this was a joke, and found none. I only saw anger, shock and fear. I held my hands up in surrender and step back. I'm going, I said. I'm going, Mariah. Who are you? She snarled.

I'm your sister. Are you high? She advanced, forcing me backward, through the living room and to the front door. No, I said and left. I hurried to my car and screeched out of her driveway. Only when I'd reached the little two-lane highway at Snake, up to the mountains, to my home. Did the import of what had happened hit me? She didn't know me. Mariah didn't remember me. If noon plays with time, did that mean I was already doomed?

That he gets me no matter what I do? The road grew wilder, suburbs and storefront swiftly giving way to a golden vista carpeted with poppies and framed by rolling hills. I slowed as I approached my house. My heart jumped into my throat when the yard came into view. There were people there. Seven people running around my yard. This was it then. Something had happened. Maybe in the past, maybe in the future if the book was to be believed, and I no longer existed. I parked across the street and stared. It wasn't a new family playing in the yard. It was mine. Me, Braden, and Kiva, playing tag under the apple trees.

My husband sat on the porch, snapping pictures and hiding his phone whenever my double caught him, twined around one of the columns, just inches away from him, was that shadowy, malformed creature, covered in lumps and weeping sores, with a misshapen head and eyes like mine, but bright. I rolled down the window to get a better look. Something was wrong. It was midday, one in the afternoon, if I'll take a few minutes, but the yard was dark, suffused with a deep, violent tinge of dusk.

They were trapped in a bubble of evening. Not trapped, separated, existing in another layer of time. So, why could I see them? I thought of Mariah's angry face, of noon's yellow eyes bobbing across the hidden room, with my husband's burning skin. A lump rose in my throat. I had to be insane. Memory loss, memory fabrication, blackouts, hallucinations, delusions.

I was crazy. The curtain swayed in the living room window. I watched, transfixed, as long discolored fingers. pulled the drapes back, revealing a long, angular face. Curls of blackened skin lay over swollen red flesh. Blisters peppered the ravaged skin, and a pair of molten gold eyes burned like tiny twin sons. I felt them all the way across the street, concentrated beams of dry, relentless heat.

It beckoned, then disappeared. I gasped suddenly. It was like a trance had been broken. The yard had darkened. Braden and Kiva were now alone. I heard their voices, but couldn't make out their words. Something flickered on my periphery. I turned and gasped.

Burn scars bubbled over its skin. A living relief map. Whips of auburn hair sprouted from the devastated ruin of the scalp. One eye was fused shut. with a stiff glob of tissue. The other shone a clear, olivine green. It was me.

Sick, hysterical laughter threatened to explode from my chest. You need to see what they're doing, my double said. Hurry, the game's almost over. I hesitated, but what could I do? I had no family, no sister. Soon I might not even have a house

Or life as I knew it And if this was real If I had children I had to help them So I'll get out of my car and I followed her What happened Noon went after them The kids

I don't know all of Noon's rules He prays on the kids He plays a game with them I don't know what it is only that the game targets the adults. If Noon wins, he gets everyone. If the children win, everyone comes back. Did they win? No. Why are there multiples of us? A new version appears every time someone makes a rescue or escape attempt. Failure makes time reset somehow. It's one of Noon's rules. We all keep failing.

How many are there? 27 Kivas, 25 Bradens, four Christophers. Christopher's our husband. He got out of the house, but didn't kill his other selves, just like you. He'll burn alive soon if he hasn't already. I thought of his fingers, burning my neck like soft irons. Then I thought of my yellowing skin and shuddered. How many of us?

19. I killed most of them. We stopped just short of the yard. Within that bubble, dusk had settled, swiftly darkening to evening. It was beautiful and insane. A pocket of cool spring night nestled in the stifling heat of summer. Now there are three. I hesitated.

Are you the real one? We're all real. She nudged me toward the yard. Inside. Brisk evening swept away the suffocating heat, inducing a pleasurable shiver. This is the only way in, Kiva insisted. It's small.

Noon can't get out. If they open the floor again, Noon gets out. If they open the floor, then they can help. Braden insisted. They can't help. You know the rules, was Kiva's bleak reply.

This is their third game, my doppelganger said. They already killed Kiva's first version, cut her throat as soon as she grew from the floor. But they miss Braden's. The first ones are the worst. Neither Braden nor Kiva seemed to notice our presence. I watched in horror as they pushed and tugged at a

large wire grate. What are they trying to do? They're going under to kill themselves, their other selves. The grate fell with a loud clatter. Kiva and Braiden exchanged a terrified look. Then Kiva lowered herself down. Brayden released a sob and followed. I stepped toward them, but my doppelganger pulled me back.

We have to go through the floor. She led me around the house. The quality of the light changed as we approached the front door, dusky evening giving way to the crisp, rosy illumination of early morning. We went inside. The kitchen floor was intact, smooth and clean, sanded and awaiting its final coat of sealant. The Instax camera sat on the kitchen island, right beside the flashlight.

Impulsively, I picked the camera out. and snapped a picture. It developed quickly, showing an image of a torn-up floor. Someone stood in the corner. I recognized the long, dark hair and sharp, fine-featured profile. Mariah? Goosepumps spread over my arms. I glanced up, but of course I didn't see her. Why don't the cameras show what's really here? I asked. They do, but cameras are like everything else. The rhythm and inflection of her speech

sent tendrils of panic through my heart It was too familiar and too alien at once Trapped in the dominant layers of time Layers are all equal here But the camera, like our eyes, can only show one A shrill scream sounded from outside Kiva I lurch for the door

But my doppelganger pulled me back you can't break the rules suddenly maria's form materialized in the shadows huddled and gasping greasy wet hair hung from her fingers like marionette strings blood drenched her clothes without thinking i went to her she recoiled

how many are there she demanded how many do I have to kill a warm draught whispered past I don't know. Since when? She screamed. I turned helplessly to face my doppelganger, but she was gone. In her place I saw a hole in the floor.

It grew as I watched, floorboards pulling themselves apart to reveal the room beneath. The ladder appeared, an alien, inorganic flower extending itself. Mariah screamed. I whipped around just in time to see a snap out of sight, like an animation cell peeled off its background. Kiva screamed again. The thin whale echoed, not from outside, but from underneath the floor. Maybe I can walk out of here, I thought.

Mariah didn't remember me, but so what? Was that worse than whatever waited down there? My husband came to mind, yellow-eyed and burning hot. That was worse. That, and of course abandoning my children to a violent and seemingly endless fate. I grabbed the flashlight and a butcher knife, the only thing is in easy reach, and descended the ladder. Down below, it was almost too hot to breathe. Shallow pools of wet rot dotted the floor, bubbling like witches brew. Faint figures flickered to life and trail past. Bright on my periphery, but fading to nothing the moment I tried to focus.

I wondered if any of them were coming after me. And if so, which were coming to save me, and which were coming to end me. Then I wondered if they would eventually become one and the same. A chorus of voices suddenly exploded, out of key, and almost hysterically jubilant. Men, women, and children. All shrieking in an alien hymn, in Noon's hidden room. Something shifted in the nearest corner.

I spun around, aiming the flashlight straight ahead. It was Murphy. He was prone upon the floor. Oh, he'd been flayed. Chest reduced to tattered curtains of flesh, bearing a raw ribcage and improbable spurts of blood. His eyes were gone. His scalp a roasted ruin.

Curls of smoke drifted out from his skin. Help me! Weeping sockets somehow fixated on me. Wet, hollow caves in the flashlight beam. You brought me here. You have to help me. He fell abruptly still. His face crumpled, eyebrows knitting pathetically.

No, no, no, no, no. Shadows gathered around him. thickening and solidifying into a body. It turned to face me. A familiar badge glinted on its chest. No. Not just a person. It was another Murphy, but it was wrong.

Rotten and lumpy, with blackened skin that undulated weirdly. Sunk an eye shone like dirty glass. I stumbled back. Murphy's double knelt and swept his sword. suppurating hand onto the sofa. It extracted that strange, bony trident. Before I could even scream, it jammed the trident into Murphy's open chest. Murphy choked and screamed. For a second, he matched the key and note of the chorus shrieking behind the walls, and then he fell limp and silent. The deformed double pulled the trident from Murphy's chest and held it out to me.

When I didn't take it, he tossed it on the ground and strode toward me. I darted away, suppressing a panicked sob, but there was no need. He went to the ladder and climbed up without a backward glance. A sudden, ear-shattering shriek made my heart stop. I whirled around. Halfway across the room, I saw myself on one of the beds. Something was attacking her. Instinctively, I ran toward her.

but stopped. I had to kill all my others to get out of here, right? So, why would I stop someone who is already doing the job for me? I drew closer, squinting to see past the stream curling from the hair puddles. Another version of me huddled on the bed. I caught a glimpse of thick black stitching across the eyes and mouth. A male voice met my ears. hushed and furious.

I'm not letting you out. You're why I am fucking here. A flicker of memory suddenly exploded into full-blown recall. We made a pact, my husband and I. We didn't know all Noon's rules, but we knew we were playing a demonic game of Highlander. There could be only one. Let's make a pact, he'd whispered shakily.

We were crouched by the bed Watching as our other selves drifted in and out of being Right That's not against the rules, is it? We can help each other kill the others' others My stitched-up self-mueled helplessly Dragging me fully back to the present My husband snarled at her

We don't need you He shoved her onto the floor She flailed and kicked But to no avail He pulled her close and wrapped a thick, greasy rope of hair around her throat. It took every bit of my self-control to tiptoe past, gritting my teeth against the sound of my own death rattle. Noon's door waited at the end of the room, partially blocked by the fallen bookshelf. By this point, the shrieking hymn wasn't just deafening, it was maddening.

I tightened my grip on the knife and reached for the doorknol. An overpowering force slammed into me. I crumpled to the ground and rolled, only to find myself face to face with Christopher. The hair rope swung from his hand, glistening faintly. No, he breathed, eerily echoing Murphy. No, no. Noon's jubilant choir evaporated. The ensuring silence made my ears ring worse than the song.

Christopher lowered himself to his haunches. I tried to squirmaray, but he grabbed my ankle and pulled me close. Glad you came back, he gasped. I guess you figured out the wrong me helped you. There are no wrong ones. It was my voice, but not me. How many times do I have to tell you? Something heavy whistled through the air.

hitting his head with a horrific, meaty crunch. His eyes bulged, then popped from their sockets. He swayed briefly, then crumpled into a heap. I looked up and saw my burnt, rotten, double. The trident glimmered in her hand. She held it out to me. You have to do it. She said,

There's not enough of me left. I can't save them. I took it without thinking. She rolled my husband out of the way and then sat down. Blisters and open wounds leaked pus and water over her skin. Chest or head, she said, Take your pick. Memory flickered again.

Not a strong one. Not enough for me to truly remember, but enough for me to know that she was right. There was no other way. I lined the prongs up with her eyes and plunged the trident. into her head. Her skull felt soft and half rotten. Pulling the trident out was unexpectedly difficult. It continued to sink, driving itself through her head and into the floor. When I finally

reached it free, it was clotted with brain and spongy, dark bone. I gagged and threw up, accidentally splattering her ruined head with vomit. The chorus immediately shrieked to life again. Blinding light flashed everywhere. So painful, I closed my eyes. Slowly it dimmed, but continued to flash in an odd, inorganic pattern. I peeked through squinted lids and looked up. Yellow and white lights blinked and flashed across the ceiling, reminding me absurdly of a nightclub. As I watched, the lights consolidated into a single, bright stream and drifted down, rippling like a pennant in a high wind. Suddenly it went dark, not just the light stream, but everything,

leaving me alone in a profound darkness. After what felt like an eternity, dimness flickered in the abyss, thin, pale light, too indistinct to make out at first. Then those flickers deepened and brightened and thickened. Before I knew it, I was watching time, all of it, every layer all at once, snaking past like bright eels caught in a dark whirlpool. I didn't possess the capability or faculty to recall more than a few images. A green-eyed, deformed monster bubbling up from a rot puddle and wrenching itself free. Myself, crying and cowering as Christopher raged.

Kiva and Braden, pale and shell-shocked, pinning another version of me to the floor as their father stitched my eyes and mouth shut. Christopher brandishing a baseball bat as Braden stared numbly at a vibrant smear of blood. Then, all of us, standing together, hypnotized by the blinding yellow eyes of a monstrosity that existed beyond time. Finally, everything became dark again, isolating me in a soft, suffering. suffocating nothingness. Then my children began to cry, just beyond the door. Light, normal light, the flashlight and the daylight filtering in from upstairs, returned and with it panic.

I reached for the door but paused. Words were painted on the door, another couplet, written the same, or steer lettering as the picture book. who came after you, wait for you in noon's hidden room. You only get to bring back two. I all came to help and heard you through. The door creaked open. Darkness flooded out like a tide.

I went inside. And immediately I was outside, in my front yard, staring at the porch while my husband struggled to hang a flower basket. Kiva and Braden screamed with a joy and ran to me. Did you come for us? Kiva bleated. One of her eyes was gone, replaced with a smoking hole. She nudged my arm. I reached for her hands, but encountered only a warm stump.

Braden came up beside her, sniffling. Dark runnels of scorched flesh marred his face. stretching from scalp to chin. Yes, I whispered. Kieva buried her face in my belly and began to sob. Braden grabbed my elbow. We have to hurry. I turned around, but I only saw the street.

The door was gone. Of course it was. We were outside, after all. Into the house, he said gently, and down under the floor. I glanced at Christopher, who didn't seem to notice us. No, Kiva said. I shoved my kiss through the yard and toward the side door.

I opened it and found myself face to face with Braden's lumpy, malformed doppelganger. No, Braden whispered. I was here longer. But I did more to help, it said, then ran Braden through with the Trident. Kiva squealed as Brayden collapsed. It's okay, I told her senselessly. We're all real. Deformed Brayden stepped aside.

I ushered Kiva into the house. To my horror. Another Kiva waited in the living room, whispering gentle assurances to another Brayden. My Kiva suddenly wrenched the trident from deformed Braden. They wrestled madly for an instant, but she had the element of surprise and managed to stab him in the head. She shoved him away, disgustedly, and focused on the other pair.

Take them. Her breath hitched and she started to sob. I don't want to go without my breeding. Kiva, I said. The word was strange on my tongue. She took her head as tears streamed from her remaining eye. Do it, Mama. Please.

The other pair watched with hollow faces. I love you, Kiva. I lied and killed her. Then I went to the other pair. Come on, we have to hurry. They only stared at me with empty eyes. I tried to grab their hands, but they pulled away. I don't think that we came first, Raiden said.

"'So we aren't the real ones,' Kiva added. "'We're all real.' Kiva should go ahead. "'You better run before Dad comes.' At that moment the front door creaked open. I turned and a Christopher stepped inside. "'It's okay,' Kiva told me. "'We still love you.'

My husband lunged at me. I dodged and ran into the kitchen. There was the hole, and under it the room, and rising from it the ladder. I descended quickly, sobbing as Christopher watched. The second my feet touched the floor, the screeching chorus started up again. I started to scream along with them. Bodies, living and dead, littered the room. Ravaged corpses, smoking bones.

tatters of flesh and shreds of organs laying across the room like snowfall from hell some were me some were my husband some were keva some were braiden and some were mariah they grabbed at me pulling my clothes and scratching my skin that screeching him issued from the mouths of all the ladder began to rattle i spun around and saw my husband climbing down after me The children came after him, looking nauseous and curiously blank. I turned and ran, kicking away the supplicating hands of all the people who came after me. I feverishly checked for anyone whole, anyone who looked alive and undamaged, but all were burnt and destroyed, torn to pieces, rent limb from limb.

My husband had the only unharmed pair. I ran to the back of the room. The iron beds were reduced to smouldering ash, dying embers pulsed within, reminding me of hearts. The door to Noon's chamber was open, bleeding darkness like a wound. Primal relief flooded me.

Then two hot yellow pinpricks blink to life and drifted forward. I skidded to a stop and slipped on a sheet of greasy hair. It tangled around my ankle. I tugged desperately, and to my horror brought up a head. Mariah?

Her eyes opened. The floor buckled and broke apart, leaving her free to claw her way to the surface. I'm coming after you, she screamed. Now, take me back. I ignored her and crawled to the door. The lights, noone's bright yellow eyes, bobbed forward. I felt relief again, but of a different kind.

Not the relief of escape, but the kind of relief peculiar to the end. Dimmints of memory lurched and nibbled the edges of my mind. I've done this before, I realized, more than once. I don't remember the specifics, but I know somehow that this is the farthest I've ever come. in Noon's game. Blinding light suddenly shafted down, devastating and burning hot. The floor shook, and the mad, shrill hymn finally cut out for good. That memory burst forth, so powerful it was like I was reliving it. I was kneeling before those dancing yellow eyes. My children's corpses lay before me. Her heads were bloody.

ruins. Braden's ruptured eye lay on his cheek. Pain consumed me, a profound, hysterical despair that was heavier than the earth. Noon stared at them while I sobbed. Finally, I begged, Will you let me play, too? His eyes exploded into yellow fire, and I screamed. The floor quaked, pulling me back. back to the present. Those burning, blinding lights slid across me, leaving damp cold in its wake, and then silence. After a long time I looked up. I was in my living room, kneeling in front of the fireplace. Yellow flames danced, giving off too much heat for such a small fire. Braden Kiva were huddled beside me. Tear-track streaked their faces. I tried.

to remember them. Their births, infancy, holidays, anything, but could not. What was the game? I asked. They exchanged a frightened look. Braden began to keep. Kiva tried to comfort him, then said, Noon gives wishes when you follow the rules. What did you wish for? Her lip quivered. Better parents, Braden wept. We didn't know what Noon would do. I'm sorry, Mummy. This is what I learned.

Christopher and I had had a bad marriage, the kind of abusive time bomb that kills everyone when it explodes. I used to be mentally ill. Drown your babies in the tub are ill. I was nice when I was healthy, but Christopher made it hard for me. me to be healthy. The kids met Noon the day we moved to this house. They don't know a lot about Noon, except he loves a son and plays with kids. But Noon isn't a person and doesn't always give the

kind of help that kids want. He offered them a wish if they won his game. Keeve a wish for a nice dad, and Braden wished for a happy mom. Neither Kiva nor Brae never Keeva nor Braden would tell me what these games consisted of, only that they kept losing. So Noon kept making mummy sicker and daddy mean her. Finally he took them away entirely. So Braden and Kiva came after us. Noon let them play more, but they kept losing. So as punishment, Noon stole us again.

And again, and again. And again. They kept losing. They lost so much. Noon finally took them, too. But then, I went after them. So did Christopher. It was an endless loop of people coming after all the people who kept coming after everyone else.

Somehow, each attempt resulted in another version of the rescuer coming into existence. This was a problem, because while any number of... of doppelgangers can exist with noon in his sphere of dismantled time, only one version can live in the real world. So the people who come after you, the people born of your selfless rescue attempts, have to come after you to kill you, because while we all exist, only one can continue to exist. I finally put Braden and Kiva to bed. Then I sat in the kitchen all night, staring at the floor. At some point I realised the waltz on my arms had disappeared,

along with the ominous yellow patches. Within a week, I put the house up for sale and left town. On the way out, I went to see Mariah, but she isn't there. A small family lives in her house. They told me they'd lived there for six years, and have never heard of my sister. I cried for days

and found myself wishing my children had disappeared instead of her I think she's gone because she failed to kill all of her doppelgangers like Christopher who'd escaped the house and ended up burning alive for his trouble I think that's why I was turning yellow I'd left without finishing off the other versions of myself if I hadn't gone back I don't think I'd be here either Well, I wish I could tell you more, but I can't.

I don't know what happened. I don't know what noon is. I don't remember his game. I don't remember my children. They know me, though, which is something. And they no longer remember their father. I think that's for the best. I may not remember much, but in my heart of hearts,

I know my children are the only ones who played Noon's games. I think I won. This means I got my wish, whatever it was. I'd like to know what it was. I'd like to know what the game entailed. I'd like to know how I won. But mostly, I'd just like to care. 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 favour of you Wherever you get your podcast wrong Please write a few nice words And leave a five-star review As it really helps the podcast That's it for this week

But I'll be back again same time, same place And I do so hope you'll join me once more Until next time Sweet dreams and bye-bye