Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S5 Ep273: Episode 273: Crime Scene Horror Stories

Episode Date: September 8, 2025

Use the promo code SUPERBAD for 10% off your T-shirt! https://dr-creepens-vault.creator-spring.com/listing/the-devil-is-in-the-detail Our first offering is ‘The Mad Prophet’, an original work by L-K-L Mind, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all.  https://www.reddit.com/user/L-K-L_Mind/ Tonight’s second phenomenal story is ‘I Clean Crime Scenes and Hoarder Houses for a Living’ by Dopabeane, kindly shared with us at NoSleep and narrated with the author’s permission:  https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/8e7z4e/i_clean_crime_scenes_and_hoarder_houses_for_a/ Tonight’s terrifying final tale is one of my favorites ever on this channel: ‘The Collector’, an original story Janis Kent, kindly shared with me for the express purpose of having me narrate it here for you all:  https://www.reddit.com/user/janiskent/

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BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. Cleaning crime scenes is a job that delves into the raw haunting aftermath of human tragedy. Each scene tells a story of violence, loss and pain, etched into the walls, floors and belongings left behind. The emotional toll is immense, as cleaners face not only the physical remnants of death, but also the chilling knowledge of the events that unfolded. These are tasks requiring incredible mental fortitude, as they must compartmentalize their feelings to restore a space for grueling.

grieving families while carrying the weight of the unseen trauma that lingers long after the blood is scrubbed away, as we shall see in tonight's collection of stories. As ever before we begin, a word of caution, tonight's tales may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. And let's begin. The Mad Prophet Well, I've seen a lot of shit in my day as a detective.

from brutal murders committed by intelligent killers to simple killings from gunshot wounds to the head or chest. But the past year, I've investigated what appeared to be some type of ritualistic murders that didn't match up with anything else I'd seen or heard before. Each crime scene was the same. Four victims ranging from early twenties to late 40s. Naked, wrist-bound by rope, knelt down surrounding a tree with their heads snapped backwards where their faces were be facing the sky, except all of their eyes were missing. And each and every one of them had this strange eight-pointed star carved into their backs, with one eye in each triangle, and a monstrous mouth of teeth branded in the center of the star.

The killer had left no fingerprints, not a single trace for us to track down and find the bastard. That was until he called us from his own phone and gave us his exact address. He told us he was ready to be taken in. I didn't get to hear his voice since I was talking to my boss curious as to why he wanted us to find him but eager to bring down that son of a bitch we pounced on the opportunity this fucker lived out in the rural area of the state

SWAT and my partner and I drove all the way to this killer's house in the dead of night I can still remember that night vividly it was raining hard as hell the spring air was unusually colder than it normally was And even though my partner and I were anxious to get this bastard, we both couldn't shake this feeling of an old, subtle dread. 2.28 a.m. That's when we arrived at the killer's house in this clearing in the forest of oak trees, whose dark shadows seemed to give off this eerie feeling like they themselves were watching us.

The house was one story, almost the size of a trailer hub. Only the front room light of the house was on. It was this gloomy green. The swat teams surrounded the house and then busted in size. My parter and I followed behind them. Once we entered the house we were hit by this strange smell. It was oddly sweet yet stank simultaneously and all over the walls were ominous and insane writings and drawings of eyes in black paint in marker and in crayon.

We found the killer kneeling on the floor in the centre of the room with his hands cuffed behind his back. He seemed to have torn out his own eyes. There were still bleeding scratches around the sockets that ran up his forehead and all over his face. Then he lifted his head up to face me. I swear to Christ, I felt like he could see me as if he still had eyes.

Detectives, he said in a light, gentle voice, acknowledging our presence. Good to finally meet you both. Get him the fuck out of here, I told the SWAT members who had hold of him. They took him outside and escorted him all the way back to headquarters to later be interrogated. Meanwhile, my partner, Detective Thomas, and I examined the house with forensics and about five police officers while others examined the surrounding area of the house.

Now the writings on the walls, as I said, were somewhat deranged and ominous. I'll share some examples with you. Sees us all. Inside and outside, it watches us, knows us, wants us love and hate merely designs strings everything has strings everything is strings past present future see all at once everywhere all at once but where is it find where it resides outside i am its puppet i am its voice speaking to its own they got it all wrong they're all insane just like me but in different ways but I see I know and I know they come as they're

made to just like how I was made to call them after my last piece of the same message well that last message was the most coherent out of all of them and actually made the air feel like it had turned colder hey carra Thomas caught to me as he walked down the hallway to me from the bedroom he was holding what appeared to be a custom-made black hardcover book. Thomas handed me the book. Take a look at this. I flipped through the pages and saw the most peculiar and eerie sketches and drawings

of what I could best describe as masses of eyes with dozens of insect-like legs of many kinds coming out with writhing tentacles as well. Each sketch was varied in size, sometimes in shape and form too. Then I discovered that some were even humanoid yet still composed of the same lidless, multi-irist eyes with one single black pupil in the centre and writhing tentacles and insect legs. With each page I flipped, I felt this sense of unsettling vileness gradually build up more and more. I had to stop before the coming nausea got a bit too strong,

closing it immediately and handing it back to Thomas, who ended up handing it to the forensics. Wreckin' weird, right? Thomas commented. Yeah. I coughed. Anything else found? Yeah, the guy mostly had a wardrobe of Walmart cheek clothes. Black pants, a hoodie, jacket, Emerald Green, plain T-shirts. No jewelry except for the old black watch and the two rings he had on him. A cabinet of his paint supplies with the markers and crayons are in his bedroom.

Shells with some books on the occult, astronomy, psychology, ancient world history books, and two books are kind of, well, stand out among the rest. What are they? I asked. One of the forensic members handed me the two. One was titled The Existence of Pure Evil. The cover art was of a valley of red flowers, dark green grass and pine-green maple trees under a pinkish blue sky at sundown. I felt that familiar feeling of pure foulness and bloom again inside me. I quickly turn my eyes to the other book, which was titled in Violet Fontsay.

dark meditation, with a black silhouette of a figure in the lotus position, with an eye similar to the ones in the book of drawings in the center of the head. I handed the books back to the forensic member and said to Thomas, well, this explains quite a bit. Anything else? Not really, Thomas replied. She has some bread, cereal, and a cup of noodles in the pantry, some meat in the fridge with a couple of cartons of milk, some cheese and pears as well. How to say, though, I've never seen anything anything like this in 15 years man same for me thomas i agreed as i looked around at the writings and drawings on the wall a sense of wrongness lingered in the air this shit is something else i don't freaking like it any ideas where all the victim's eyes are if he kept him here or somewhere else

no clue yet well ask the sick fuck when we're getting back to headquarters all right well let's go ask him man. We headed back outside where it had finally stopped raining. Once we got back in our car, we headed straight to headquarters where we'd plan on interrogating this self-proclaimed mad prophet. An hour later we got back to HQ and were on our way to the interrogation room. Thomas told me he wanted me to interrogate the son of a bitch alone. I asked him why. He looked at me with fear in his eyes, a fear I'd never seen before. Now we've been in a few intense shoot-out, and seen some brutal shit, but he always kept his cool. But this, this was like he knew that if he entered the same room as the sick fuck we'd just caught,

that some fucked-up nightmare would come to life and swallow him whole. And lately I'm starting to think he was right. I just feel sick, he said softly, like he was trying his dandist to speak, but he was drugged and it was suppressing his ability to say a complete sentence. Something in that... Something in that house. Go home that man, I told him, patting him on the back. You had some rest and check with your doctor soon.

Thomas just nodded and walked quickly to the exit and left. I took a deep breath and entered the dimly lit room that saw through the one-way mirror into the interrogation room. A couple of security guards and Officer Phillips, one of the police officers, who was at the house as well, were watching the Mad Prophet, who was just sitting still, staring at the wall opposite him. Officer Phillips filled me in on the Mad Profits' personal information. His name is Rowan Linegrine, Caucasian male, open hair, 35 years old, 185 pounds.

State of birth is California, lives on his own, had the house for five years. family's been living in Oregon ever since he got the house while he's stayed in state what's he been doing he's just been sitting there humming to himself ever since the moment the SWAT team got him in their truck and brought him here

humming I asked kind of confused but not entirely surprised yeah just humming this weird creepy tune also the SWAT team that escorted him said they smelled a sweet stinky smell just like the one from his house Have you got any news about where the victim's eyes are? I asked Officer Phillips.

No, not yet, unfortunately. We tried getting the bastard to tell us, but he kept telling us that he'd tell you guys. Officer Phillips then looked behind us and noticed that Thomas wasn't with us. Speaking of which, where is Detective Thomas? He went home, I told him. My eyes locked onto the mad prophets. Detective Thomas fell sick, so I'll be doing the interrogation. by myself. All right, well, he's all yours then. I took another deep breath and walked up to the

door leading into the interrogation room. One of the security guards unlocked the door and let me in, closing and locking it behind me. Once I stepped into that room, I felt that same uneasy foundess in the air like back in the mad prophet's house when I was flipping through his book of drawings in that book, The Existence of Pure Evil. And, Rowan's humming of that unsettling song wasn't helping at all. It almost sounded like the Apex twins track Grass, but the pitch was lowered and distorted a bit. Rowan stopped humming once I sat down across the table from him,

where he sat chained to his chair. Detective, Rowan said with an unpleasant smile, Where's your partner? Well, he's not feeling too well, I told him. Now, since I've answered your question, How about you answer mine? Where's all 24 of your victim's eyes? I'm assuming you haven't found them.

Rose's voice had a soft and dreamy tone, but with a sinister feel to it. Are they in the deep of the woods at your place? I asked him. They're not there. You're looking in the wrong spots. You're looking in the wrong place. It doesn't matter anyways. They have them right now. They? Who's they? You've already seen them? Where? In my drawing book. You mean to tell me that those weird fucked up things you drew took all 24 of your victim's eyes? You know why? I don't like being lied to. Those weird fucked up things are called angels. I understand you didn't know that's what they are. I'm telling the truth and yes, the angels have all of their eyes. Besides, they don't need them where they are now. Why do you mean where they are now?

They're in a freaking morgue, no thanks to you. Rowan let out a vile chuckle. Their spirits, detective. Their spirits is what I meant. Not their bodies. Their spirits are in a much more beautiful place right now. Well, not beautiful to some, I suppose. What place?

You saw a nice little depiction of it. Rowan told me, and that vile air became gradually thicker. I know you looked at that book, the existence of pure evil. One of the best books, if not the best, I've ever read. I've been to that place as depicted on the cover and talked about in the book, and I strongly doubt you even read much of it. Would you like me to tell you what it talks about? The wonderful information and truth it shares.

It may help you understand why he killed those 24 beautifully violated souls. It may give you some of the answers you're looking for. I had to admit some suddenly sickening curiosity overcame me. I should have just asked the questions I'd left for him, but I wanted to know. For some odd reason, I wanted to know. No, not need, I just wanted to know. All right, then, I said with a deep breath. Tell me what it says

I'll do my best to summarize and simplify it as much as I can for you. Rowan told me with a sickly satisfied smile. But you'll learn more when you actually read the whole book for yourself, if you choose to. Oh, where to begin, yes. So let's start with the basic examples of evil. Evil is, can be people who steal, murder, abuse, manipulate and violate for their own benefit. Well, everyone knows that, I suppose. But what about pure evil?

To most religious people, pure evil is the devil or Satan. Ron let out another vile yet short chuckle. Bitch, please. Did they even read their holy books? Satan, the devil, or whatever the fuck you want to call him, rebelled against a lying version of God because he was a cocky or narcissistic guy who didn't like his dad or just didn't agree.

agree with him. Really? That made the guy pure evil? Did they even read any book on demonology? There are demons that are so fucking pure evil that every other demon, including Satan himself, despises them. Anyways, pure evil is not a person. Pure evil is a force, like a force of nature. An ancient force that's highly likely older than time itself, if that makes any sense. and sole purpose or intention, if it even has a consciousness to have intentions, violates everything and anything it touches, that it is even the tiniest speck of goodness and innocence in them. It violates indiscriminately.

Well, if we exclude, of course, the certain vessels it uses to spread its influence and presence, because how can you violate something that's already defiles? Hmm, and I'm assuming you're one of those vessels. I slowly said to him, noticing right at that moment that it was gradually becoming a bit more difficult to speak. Yes, Rowan replied with a grin of pride. I'm a bit of a prophet to spread its great word and spirit. Anyways, this force of pure evil doesn't really have a base form, not a form we can really wrap our minds around. But we can definitely feel it, and there are places where we can feel it stronger than others, possibly the strongest.

Such as the plays depicted on the cover of that book I mentioned earlier. That place really exists. Not here, well, okay, you can't really get there unless you make a bridge and cross it. Hence, I know. I know you'd like to know how. How? I asked. Speaking of getting even more difficult now.

It was like I was drugged, but I wasn't, though. That unholy feeling in the air was getting so. stronger. How to make a bridge to a place where pure evil is stronger or strongest? Rowan began. You must defile something considered holy or pure, like a holy symbol or holy place or a holy statue. No, I'm not talking about humping a statue of the Virgin Mary. I'm talking about painting the vilest ship possible on it or on the walls of the chapel. Oh, like what I did. carve an eight-pointed star that represents salvation from Judeo-Christian beliefs. But I carved in the eyes of the angels you saw in my drawing book

to make the bridge stronger and also to mark the victim more easily for the angels to come pick them up. You see, the angels as they are referred to in the book, are angels of pure evil, as you've probably figured out by now. They are its much more ancient servants and also helpers of those who want to complete. the bridge and cross it. What about the mouth? That's supposed to symbolize the mouth of pure evil itself, swallowing the spirits of its victims into its depths.

And honestly, the symbol I carved fitted perfectly, especially since, you know, eight points. Eight symbolizes infinity. Pure evil is infinite, that whole thing. So, after I mark the victims, one of the angels comes to take the four victims' eyes. And oh my frickin' God, is it the most blissfully violating feelings ever? Well, violating if you were still somewhat pure or whatever. Still, when they arrive, that vile atmosphere they bring is so intense.

It'd make an entire city of people feel like they were getting violated by their loved ones in a cathedral. But for me, well, it was pure a pleasure. The way you moaned that last sentence in foul pleasure began to make my already sickened insides, feel like they were tearing at each other. But Rowan continued. And just for your information, you only need eight victims to do your little sacrifice to enter that lovely place where pure evil can be felt near its peak.

But I decided to add 16 more, because why not? Well, I enjoyed it. I wanted more people to experience that beautiful place, which finally brings us to the details about a place of pure evil, a place to have pure evil's presence, at its strongest must be a place that looks beautiful,

or a place that looks like it was once holy or sacred. And that place is defiled by pure evil itself. Now this place isn't reachable on this earth without a bridge, but you can cross that bridge finally after you've sacrificed your eight or more victims by simply reciting some verses or chance found in the book, which I'll leave you to find out for yourself. After those last words of his,

It went quiet for two straight minutes, which I swear to Christ felt like hours. For some damn reason I couldn't explain at the time that I knew I just knew that Rowan was telling me the truth about every single thing. But I'd find out for sure myself later that month that what he told me was real, that it is real. I got up from my chair and had the security guard unlock the door for me. quickly I left the room but once I got into the hallway I fell to the floor onto my knees almost dry heaving hey detective car officer phillips caught to me he ran up to my side and asked you feeling okay need me to call you an ambulance no i stopped him with a gasp as i shook my head gradually i started to feel better but i needed to get as far away as i could from rowan take that fuck

back to his cell please after i get him at home, of course. I got back up to my feet, my breathing slowly becoming less and less heavy. This is freaking weird, Detective Carter. Officer Phillips told me. I forgot to mention this. I don't know why I forgot, but when he was brought here to HQ, we didn't find any disease or chemical-related shit on him. Nothing that caused people such as yourself to dry heave and get sick like that. Plus the guys who were in the truck with him, watching him. I said they felt ill after that. to getting him in there. Not like with the flu, just, well, sicken the gut and uneasy as hell. Something just feels very wrong about that bastard. I don't like it at all. I doubt anyone likes it.

I replied as I wipe some of the sweat from my face. But I've got to get back home. I've got to get some rest. Keep a careful eye on him, Phillips. You call me right away if anything happens. Well do. Just make sure you get some sleep. Yeah, I muttered as I walked to the exit, if I can sleep at all tonight. I did get some sleep, but my dreams were some of the most vivid nightmares I'd had in years. And what happened next somehow made things worse, even though Rowan was behind bars. He died in his cell. Rowan somehow died around 8 a.m. while I was asleep back at my house.

While I rushed right over after Officer Phillips caught me as soon as they'd found him lying cold in his bed. I showed up, still in my clothes from yesterday, and walked quickly to his cell where office Phillips was standing dumbfounded of what had just happened. How the hell did he die? I asked Phillips, I checked Rowan's body for any sign of poison or self-inflicted wounds. I don't fricking no, detective, Phillips answered me. We checked the video feed watching his cell and it showed nothing but him going to sleep, nothing of him slid in his wrists or neck or swallowing anything that could have been poisoned.

When Rowan's body supported Phillips' story, I couldn't find a damn trace of any self-inflicted wounds. Officer Phillips let me check out the video footage of Rowan's cell, show every second of what he did, and he was right. There was not a single moment where he swallowed anything or even where he'd cut his vital arteries on neck. All we could do was hope the autopsy would show something that we believe we might have missed.

But still, it wasn't right, with Rowan being dead before he could have gone to, to court and be tried for his crimes, and when the families of his victims would have seen him rightfully executed. And what officer Phillips told me next didn't make things any better? All the other prisoners close by him told us the same thing of around the time Rowan died. Phillips told me as we walked down the hall to the front doors. They all said they felt something vile, something so foul that they almost began to cry.

Cry, I asked, as we passed through the front doors and out. into the cool morning air. Yeah, almost began to cry from complete fear. Oh, fuck. I have to check up on Thomas and update him on this. Hope he's doing all right. Also, uh, Phillips, I've got a favor to ask you. Sure, what?

I'm going to need to have printed photocopies of two of Rowan's books. Yeah, sure, Detective Carter. Philip said as he pulled out a pen and notepad. Which ones? I need photocopies of the existence of pure evil and that dark meditation one as soon as you can, especially when I get back after I check up and update Detective Thomas on this whole situation. Got it. I'll get those two copied for you and ready by the time you get back.

Thanks. I tried calling Thomas' phone once I got in my car, but he didn't pick up at all. So I drove to his house, which took me about ten minutes. He lived in the suburban area of the city, same place where my house was at, except I was about ten blocks away from where he lived. Once I quickly parked in front of his lawn, I turned off the car and walked quickly to his front door, knocking on it loud enough to hopefully wake him up. Thomas did eventually end up opening the door.

He was in a tank top and gym shots. Carter, he asked with squinted eyes, looking like he'd just woken up. Hey man, how's it going? How'd the interrogation go with Rowan? Thomas, I said to him, looking into those brown eyes of his. Rowan just died this morning. No wonder I feel better. His reply took me by surprise. Wait, what? I stuttered. I gotta be honest with you. The fuck made me feel sick of him literally.

Even without touching the bastard, I felt like I was going to seize up. or vomit from just being in the same room as him. That's why I'm grateful you did the interrogation instead of me. Because, to be honest, if I did it with you, I probably would have ended up in hospital. Don't ask me why. I just know that that's how it would have played out. Something was really wrong with that fuck,

and I couldn't be happier that he's dead. And I, well, I know it may sound weird, especially after that last psychopath we caught back in 2017, how I handled everything fine back then, but I honestly couldn't wait till Rome was dead. I'm glad he is. Anyways, was there something else you wanted to tell me? No, not really. Hey, did you call you a doctor at all?

No, didn't need to. Like I said, I'm fine now. Work up feeling much better than last night. I'll come into the station in an hour. I just got to take a shower and get some breakfast. Okay, I'll see you there then. Thomas just nodded and closed the door in front of me. I got back into my car and returned to the station

after picking out some breakfast on the way back. When I got to my desk, I noticed a pocket folder with the words dark meditation written on it, with the photocopies of the actual book paper-clipped together inside. I flipped through the pages and noticed there were eight chapters and 150 pages in total. There was no author listed anywhere in it at all. Thomas showed up right when he said he would,

and to be honest he actually looked much better than he had the night before what you got there he asked me as he sat at his desk across from mine dark meditation i answered him as i began to read it from the beginning i asked officer phillips if he could photocopy those two books we'd found at rohan's house for me i'm assuming he's still working on getting the other one copy right now well enjoy reading that spooky shit he joked i'm going to work on letting the families of the victims know that the bastard's finally dead After I let the Bars know that I'm okay, or fine by me. Thomas left, and I stayed glued to my chair, reading every passage of my photocopy of dark meditation. The peculiar and obviously dark book talked about the history of the ways of how to gain grim ancient forbidden knowledge,

how to communicate and come in contact with dark otherworldly entities from nightmare escapes, simply called the dreadful ones, and unwelcomed alien beings known as the, foul angels, oh, and how to travel to those nightmare-scapes and places of evil. Most of the methods to achieve what one desired of what was listed in this book was performing sinister or considerably unholy in strange rituals. The last two methods were chanced to gain that dark knowledge and communicate with a dreadful one.

It took me about four hours to finish the whole damn thing. As I was going over it again to start highlighting stuff, Officer Phillips came up to me handed me another pocket folder with the words, the existence of pure evil, written on the front. I got this one done for you, he told me as I skim through it. He noticed I had dark meditation opened up with a few passages already highlighted. Found any valuable info in that one?

He asked, pointing his finger to it. Some, I replied, as I continued to skim through the other photocopy book. You remember those weird creepy sketches in that drawing book he had? Yep. Well, the descriptions of some of these foul angels that are mentioned in the book match a few of those drawings. What about the others? Nothing. I think he saw the rest himself. Hallucinated them or dreamt them.

Besides, the ones listed in the book are only examples anyways. Three out of the twelve, to be exact. As for the other beings talked about. Weird. Well, I'm going to go home. Done with my shift. Good luck with all that. Thanks. Later that day Thomas told me how talking to some of the families are gone and we went over all the shit that had happened with Rowan from his first killings to his unexpected death

as the next two weeks passed by I read both photocopies of dark meditation and the existence of pure evil thoroughly highlighting specific passages that stood out to me while the existence of pure evil went into more detail about the foul angels and the places of pure evil along with a perspective written about pure evil as a force itself also with murderous rituals that almost exactly aligned with what Rowan had done. As I read that particular book, Rowan's words to me echoed through my mind. What he told me during his interrogation matched perfectly with what was detailed in the book.

The thing is, when he told me these things, he said it with such confidence and conviction like he himself actually met with the foul angels and went to those places where pure evil's presence was at its strongest. and, as I mentioned in the previous part, I really believed him. And reading those two books just supported my belief and my gut feeling that he had told me the truth. The horrible thing, though, was that I was soon to see for myself the reality of it all. On the Thursday night of the final week of that month, out of an ever-growing insatiable curiosity to see it for myself, out of some insane need for some deranged form of closure, I performed one of the rituals listed in dark meditation.

11.15 p.m. is when I began the ritual, naked in my very home. Rather than killing innocent people, I took the ashes of my deceased wife and carefully poured them onto the velvet red carpet into an eight-pointed star and drew an eye in each triangle and a horrific mouth in the centre, just like the one Rowan had carved into his victims. I then pushed myself to masturbate and use my semen to smear the ashes into the carpet. And I began the incantation in a soft-spoken voice with my eyes closed. Oh, angels of pure evil, I spoke softly. O foul angels of the one true God. I make this unholy mark as a sacrifice, an offering for you,

for one of you to come unto me. Come unto me, or great foul one, for I desire to go away. the presence of the one true God, pure evil itself, is strongest. So I may bathe in its violating touch and experience its vile beauty. Come unto me, all foul one. Come unto me, come unto me. Suddenly I began to feel something awful getting closer to me. I can't say where from exactly.

It was as if it was coming from every direction. The vile feeling became stronger and stronger, soon surpassing the intensity of when I was in the interrogation room with Rowan. And then it got to a point where I began dry heaving and eventually vomited red bile right into the center of the mouth drawn from my dead wife's ashes. My eyes were watering as my hands gripped the fabric of the carpet tightly. Then something told me to lift my head up to face the wall across the room. And that's where I saw it appear, fading slowly into existence.

It was an atrocious abomination to reality, to my very eyes. The form of it was mostly transparent, but with a gloomy, greenish light to it. But I could see its numerous writhing insect-like legs that came from the outline of its sphere-like centre, where there were countless soul-penetrating eyes. It felt like this went on for hours, that foul one violating my mind with images of every unholy ritual and vile atrocity it had committed. And then, suddenly, all of it stopped, with my vision going black and the feeling of vileness quickly dissipating. My vision came back slowly, but I was no longer in the living room of my house.

No, I was somewhere else, somewhere that I should never have gone to. A valley of nauseatingly red flowers, dark, grotesquely green grass and sickly pine-green maple trees blown by a lukewarm breeze under a vile pinkish blue sky at sundown. No, I groaned in slowly building fear. No, no, no, no. And then it began. A feeling of pure evil found a mat of the abomination I'd seen in my house, quickly flooding through my entire being.

Oh, God, no one should ever feel something like that. It felt like I was being violated while I witnessed my wife being raped in front of me over and over and over again inside the very church we'd been married in, but intensified beyond what my mind and soul could endure. It felt so fucking violating, so overwhelmingly violating, that I began to cry out of absolute fear, not just for my sanity, but for my very soul. I wish, though, I had been driven insane. that would have been a mercy. But there in that seemingly beautiful place

with the most vilest feelings in all of comprehension, I wasn't allowed to have my mind shatter into the blissful obliviousness of insanity. No, I was forced to endure it all every single nanosecond. I would writhe and roll back and forth as I groaned and screamed through my clenched teeth like a feral animal as tears constantly ran down my face.

I tried as much as I'd. could to pray to whatever God to save me from that evil place, but the mental prayers I tried saying in my mind wouldn't last more than five seconds. They be interrupted and replaced by horrific images and scenes that are too sinister and depraved to even describe. All those poor souls were violated in both comprehensible and incomprehensible ways, and I could see my wife among them. Was it weeks, months, years or decades of my mental and spiritual agony there? I can't tell, forcing myself to look back now. It never got darker or lighter. It was eternally sundown, just like that. I don't remember how I got back. All I do remember after

that was waking up, back in my living room. I spent a good hour straight, crying out of fear from what had just happened to me. But as I was, I was just a little bit of fear. But as I was, I was a I felt something dripped down my thighs from my anus. The relief of being back from that horror place was soon torn to shreds. I touched the sticky substance from my inner thigh and looked to my horror. It smelled like a sickly sweet and stinky smell. Later, I tried washing and cleaning the stained symbol out of the carpet, but it had left its mark permanently.

I managed to get most of the ashes out, though. Still, I regret doing that with my wife's ashes and I regret reading those books I regret doing that ritual I deeply regret it all but I have to live with that now for the rest of my life and quite possibly for the rest of eternity I burn those photocopies of the books but all of what I've read from them are seared into my mind every night I have dreams of that foul place and of that foul angel I'm thinking of tearing up the red carpet and getting a new one, but I'm conflicted because my wife loved that carpet, yet I defiled it with what I've done. Nothing helps distract me or gives me relief from what happens, and nothing will help. And the worst part of it all is that I have this deep, strong feeling in my gut

that after I die, I'll be taken back to that place of pure evil, and we'll stay there, forever. Well, my dear friends, I am delighted to introduce this story to all those of you who haven't heard it before and apologize to those who have. This is one of my most beloved, most popular stories ever on the channel, and due to erroneous copyright claims, I've had to make some changes, let's say. But it is in its all original glory as close as I could possibly make it. So, I'm really, really delighted to reintroduce or introduce for the first time to you. I clean crime scenes and hoarder houses for a living. I dope a bee. I'm a hazmat cleaner in a very specific niche.

Basically, I clean hoarder houses, as well as family homes after traumatic deaths. It's a necessary job. Okay, first, imagine the worst thing that could possibly happen to you. Like being a parent whose teenager just shot herself, or the survivor of a murder-suicide. Then imagine going home after the reports are filed and the detectives are done, and having to scrub your loved ones' dried brains off the walls. Yeah, that's where I come in. It's surprisingly easy to acclimate to corpses and gall.

Depending on the situation, bloodstains can be hard to deal with, only because they're always in context. the splatter on the children's sponge-bop quilt, the smears across the cheerfully rustic kitchen, the violent spray over family portraits. The stark evidence of violence over the normal trappings of a family home can be disturbing. But even that gets easier over time.

The hardest part is the smell, sweet and almost gooey, with undertones of vomit and fomit and furtimes. fetid swamp, sweat and unwashed skin. The stench strengthens and weakens seemingly on a whim. Sometimes I swear it moves, drifting across a room or directly overhead, or lunging forward to swallow me. But the rest really doesn't bug me anymore. Even mattresses dripping with decomposition juice get unremarkable after a while. Well, a couple of days ago, I was assigned to a suicide house.

The victim was a middle-aged lady with hoarding issues. She lived alone. Her much older brother lived in a nursing home. She called him like clockwork once a week. Suddenly, she stopped calling. Four weeks passed, and he was frantic. He has dementia and other issues. his sister was his only family.

The only one other than the parish priest, whoever came to visit, so he felt her absence keenly. By the time his caretakers finally called in a welfare check, his sister had been dead for at least three weeks. Gee, it was pretty ghastly, as this advanced decomposition tends to be. The only one good thing I can say is at least it's been a cold spring out here. Low temperatures alleviate the stench somewhat. The house is a neat, narrow, little two-story with a slightly overgrown yard and a tiny grove of apple trees out back. Nothing out of the ordinary. Inside was another story.

It's hard to describe bad hoarder situations. Entire rooms are overwhelmed with literal mountains of trash. Clothes and stuffed animals, books and papers, cheap gas and, figurines, cat litter, dead animals, old electronics, the list is endless. And somehow, it all looks the same. Just a morass of garbage and forgotten belongings, steadily claiming the house from its human occupant. This lady was no different. Treturous slopes made from old newspapers and books filled every corner. Christmas trees, stuffed animals, dishes, garbage, pillows and so much more filled out the rest.

Costerophobic, filthy and foul-smelling. As cleaners, we typically just throw everything away. The filth and biohazard issues make donation impossible. If we find something valuable, jewelry, antiques and so on, we set it aside for the estate. For the most part, though, these belongings are worth less than the trash bags we put them in. Again, this lady was no different. It took two days to clear a path to the back of the house, and three days to actually empty out the rooms.

It took a full day to clear the stairs, which, for some reason, were literally coated with dried vegetation and what looked like a metric ton of table salt. According to real estate information, which we always dredge up before entering a home, the second level had two bedrooms and an office. Yes, this is where things suddenly got weird. The bedrooms were immaculately clean, which was impossible.

The entire stairwell had been packed floor to ceiling with garbage. There's no way this lady would have been able to clean up here. Even if she'd been climbing through a window every day, the entire situation defied hoarder behaviour. Ignoring a sudden case of the creeps, I inspected each, bedroom, while thoroughly permeated with the stench of the ladies' recently removed corpse, they were utterly spotless. The paint on the walls even glistened. The office was more like it, stuffed from floor to ceiling with dead plants, specimen cases, and paintings. About a dozen

taxidermy animals sat in neat row facing the wall. It wasn't as filthy as the downstairs by any means, but it was much more in line with my expectations. Due to the smell, most of the stuff, and cruel as it was, couldn't be salvaged. There's just no reliable way to get three weeks of steadily worsening corpse stench out of house or belongings. Even so, I took a good look at most of it. I'm an amateur zoologist. Thought I was going to be Steve Owen when I grew up, majored in biology and everything. So, this.

where it all gets awfully strange. First, the specimen cases. These are the small glass displays, usually around 12 by 12, that people used to pin dead bugs and blossoms, you know, like butterflies and beetles. Now, these things were definitely bugs, but they weren't normal. For example, one was a coppery caterpillar with a flat, almost humanoid face. pinkish skin wrinkles eyelids sinking down into empty sockets and everything another was this arachnid thing with a blush crab-like body and a single desiccated eye peering up from the thorax yet another looked underdeveloped almost fetal

yet had wrinkle sage-coloured flesh and long ears that reminded me of a basset hound at this point i was pretty sure i'd stumbled on some eccentric ladies collection of gag gifts. The taxidermy animals made the joke theory a lot harder to believe. The first one I saw was this tiny, slow-eyed thing, with beautiful features corrupted by unnatural proportions. The second was basically a giant, lacquered anemone, with what must have been a thousand rot-rimmed holes boring through the tentacles. The worst looked like a person,

with a frozen, open-mouth smile that spread to its ears, and five glassy eyes arching over the upper lip. By this point, I felt paranoid, even frightened. This wasn't right. None of this was right. A typical hoarder house on the first floor blocked off from a pristine, empty second floor. A typical hoarder house on the first floor blocked off from a pristine, empty second floor. And what were these things?

sophisticated fakes somebody's forgotten art installation but how did these things get up here and how were they all so clean because I was no longer sure if these items qualified as garbage I carefully sorted and stacked everything and then I got started on the walls

paintings cluttered every inch literally fitting together like puzzle pieces most were more or less unremarkable, if cool looking. Lots of surreal landscapes and stylized creatures, which are catnip to my fantasy-loving self. But one painting in particular trapped my attention and wouldn't let it go. About seven feet tall and maybe three feet wide, it dominated the room. Rendered in a hundred shades of green and black and grey, it depicted a misty, primeval forest drenched in moonlight. luminescent flowers sprouted along upraised tangles of tree roots.

At all, a forbidding figure peered through the trees, half-cloaked in soft darkness. No features, but the suggestion of strength was clear in its broad shoulders and long sinewy limbs. A curtain of hair reflected the moonlight. I couldn't discern the colour, the shadows were too deep, the lines and hues of the figure too indistinct to even begin to guess. After a few minutes, I realised all the hair on my arms was standing on him. With a huge, cathartic shudder, I spun around and pretended to survey the room, or rather, pretended I wasn't afraid. As I stood there, trying to mentally reset, a draught swept the room.

Wet, cool, almost inviting. And, after the endless odor of human rot, beautifully sweet. Trying to remember when I'd opened the window, I turned. For a long, mesmerizing minute, I couldn't understand what I was seeing. That enormous painting had come to life. Tendrils of strange leaves swayed in that chilly, fresh wind.

The glowing flowers bobbed, flattening slightly against the roots as the wind buffeted them. Somewhere deep in that unearthly landscape, a high, atonal song sounded. Wordless and open-throated, I imagined it echoing off icy peaks and down below in low, swampy valleys. It made me think of forests and mountains, wild rivers and endless plains. The only thing I couldn't picture was the creature singing the song. The figure stood silently. Only its hair moved, rippling in the wind like a band.

Then it took a long, sure-footed step forward. Moonlight glanced off its face, illuminating an impossible sharp cheek-roar and a dark, cavernous eye. I bolted. I tripped down the stairs, falling flat on my face at the landing, then scrabbled up and ran out of the house. I don't think I even locked the door. I know I shouldn't go back. I don't know what that thing in the painting is. honestly I'm not even convinced it's real

but the thing is I want to go back not because I'm fearless far far from it but because I want to know more I'm not the only one am I I mean

how do you look at this stuff and not ask why or how how do you not want to cross the threshold into that painting and see what's there I don't know Part of me definitely wants to call in sick for the next month, but part of me wants to go back, maybe even tonight. Like I said, I don't think I even lock the door.

I won't necessarily go upstairs or anything. I'd just be making sure the place is secure. Before I go, if I go at all, has anyone encountered something like this? Do any of those taxidermy creatures ring a bell? I know it's a shot in the dark, but if you have any ideas, I'd like to hear them. I went back to the house early this morning. The smell of human rot still clung to everything like invisible fungus. But, other than that, it was starting to look all right.

The carpet still had to come up, but everything else on the first floor was done. I wasn't brave enough to go into the taxidermy room by myself. I did, however, check out the preternaturally clean bedrooms. The first one was as spotless, impersonal and unremarkable as I remembered. More like a hotel room than a bedroom. The second had a dirty plate on the bedspread, on a crusty old coat crumple on the floor. Someone had broken into the house last night, all because I'd been too chicken shit to go back and lock the door. Heart pounding. I'd shake the closet and under the bed.

Nothing. Then I prodded the coat. It looked to be big enough to cover a person. A massive pile of brown fur encrusted with dark dirt. Handfuls of tender green shoots sprouted along the shoulders and back. I plucked one, feeling a mixture of curiosity, confusion and inexplicable paranoia. Then I looked at the plate. Crumbles of dirt and greenery mixed with what looked like sticks, all overlaid with an odd

gossamer shimmer. I leaned in and almost immediately reared back. Long, dark spider legs and tiny translucent bug wings. Shuddering, I swept through the house for intruders. I even peaked into the taxidermy room, but found no one. The isolation and general weirdness got overwhelming really fast, so I went outside and waited. My boss, let's call him Kurt, pulled up around seven.

When he saw the taxidermy animals, his exact words were, just fake freak show shit. A lady used to work for a circus. Guess you found her mementoes. He looked the giant, whole-filled anemone up and down with a grimace. Ech, real nice. Anyway, you're right. We need an appraiser.

What about the other rooms up here? They have beds and dresses. I hesitated, but didn't mention the sprouted coat or spider likes. I'm not sure why. I know it was dishonest. Gotcha. He stepped toward the door, already set to leave. I'll make some calls.

That way we can be sure we're not throwing away anything her brother's going to want. And after that, we... He cut off, frowning. Just as a painfully cold breeze knifed through the room. "'Hugh! Why is it so cold in here?' I glanced at the painting involuntarily. Kurt tracked my gaze and froze. Long, fern-like leaves swayed in the damp wind.

Hazy moonlight filtered through thin ribbons of clouds, reflecting off a pristine scrim of snow that most certainly hadn't been there yesterday. Dead knots of flower vines clustered around icy tree roots, further testament to the senseless passage of time within. Kurt approached the painting with the same care and stance one might use on a growling pit wall. I wanted to stop him, but didn't quite dare to.

Not like I could do anything anyway. I'm built like Frodo Baggins, and he's basically Geralt of Rivia, except clean. He tapped the picture frame experimented, and then reached inside. The ambient light from the snow reflected off the hazmat suit, turning it an almost angelic white. It's so cold.

Did you know about this? Yeah. He frowned, studying the feathery leaves on the trees. For future reverence, this is not the kind of shit you sit on for 12 hours. He pulled his arm back, briskly rubbing some heat back into it. it. Then he turned and beeline for the door. A terminal case of the creeps overtook me the second he crossed the threshold, so I hurried after him.

To my mingled, dismay and excitement, Kurt decided we were going to explore. He pulled ropes, pullies, and harnesses out of the van, and got to work. I did tell him about the figure I'd seen yesterday. rather than fear or trepidation, a wild, almost feverish excitement lit his face. So, there are people in there? We harnessed up and anchored the ropes,

as if preparing for a descent rather than a simple walk. Of course, he went in first. I washed, heart in my throat, is that silvery, wraith-like light washed over him. The tree branches cast spidery, shadows that played over his form like living things. Ice crunched under every careful step. He grew confident quickly and kept moving, growing steadily smaller until he disappeared into the trees. By the time the rope pulled taut, he'd been inside the painting at least five minutes.

I strained to hear. Except for the gentle rustling of the wind, everything was silent. finally the rope went slack a breath i hadn't even realized i'd been holding whooshed out of me several minutes later kurt's form finally came back into view jarringly anachronistic and terribly terribly small against the prime evil backdrop the towering forest spilled into a field of boulders almost eclipsing him the trees and enormous tangled roots in the foreground framed the landscape strangely. Baved in that cold, hazy moonlight. It all looked like something out of a fever dream. Excitement coursed through me, overtaking my fear. I could barely wait for him to get back. I wanted to go in there more than I'd wanted anything in my life. He finally emerged, shivering and immediately reached for a water bottle. Mud leaves

and a delicate webbing of moss coated his gloves. It's caught in there, he breathed. I can't believe how fucking cold. I can't believe it's fucking real. I clipped my harness in, and we switched places. The second I stepped across the frame, I gasped. The chill was so powerfully shocking, I felt like I'd been punched.

I tried catching my breath, but the stunning, even alien, beauty of the scenery made it impossible. Everything was so much vaster inside. The boulders in the near distance were at least the size of houses. Trees easily ten times my height towered on all sides. Enormous nets of moss hung from the branches, drifting dreamily in the wind. Thought of entering that ancient forest made me shudder, so I veered to the right instead. The snowy landscape extended several hundred yards, terminating in what looked like a ridge. I walked briskly, trying to ignore a highly uncomfortable, unnerving sensation.

It felt like my muscles weren't contracting correctly. It's hard to explain, but you know how whenever you breathe or take a step everything contracts and then expands. It's like I was stuck in that expanded state. Like my body couldn't tighten up again. leaving everything unnaturally loose. Wind strengthened dangerously as I trumped toward the ridge. The snow seemed odd, possibly re-frozen,

crunchy, thin, and deceptively slippery. I moved carefully, steering clear of crystalline rocks and the occasional struggling sprig of greenery. I searched the sky for stars, but the dreamy haze created by the moon reflecting off gauzy clouds, obliterated whatever constellations there might have been.

Steadfastly ignoring the unsettling, boneless quality of my movements, I made it to the ridge. Straight down, a sheer, rocky slope, glittering with ice and deep blue veins of crystal set a dark valley. Nestled in the centre were labyrinthine ruins, dominated by a looming black pyramid.

arranged in weathered steps it looked both inexpressibly ancient and eerily futuristic. The side facing me reflected the sky like a hallucinatory collection of enormous silver mirrors. The rest of it was indistinct shadow. It looked alive somehow like sentient darkness masking itself in a facade of light. At the top of the pyramid stood a tall, thin figure. face turned to the sky long hair whipped wildly in the wind bright and filmy as the clouds overhead a heavy gust of wind shrieked past buffeting me dangerously close to the edge i turned sharply and hunched out hurrying back to the house temperatures dropped as the winds grew and soon enough i was shaking ice and moon and bright snow mingled together creating a glistening, dreamy atmosphere. Tree branches groaned as the wind tore their delicate nets of moss away. Somewhere in the distance opposite the pyramid, that strange atonal song echoed.

My bones and muscles felt looser than ever. The vibrations from that voice course painfully through my body, and for a few delirious moments I was afraid the frequency would rupture my insides. Finally, the warm, mundane glow of the taxidermy room appeared among the trees. I caught a glimpse of Kurt's face peering around the edge and I rushed inside. After the bitter chill of the painting, the room felt dangerously, oppressively hot. What do you see? Kurt asked. I described the pyramid as best I could, as well as the slender, long-haired giant,

gazing at the clouds. What about the thing making that sound? The song continued to echo in the distance. Brimming with emotion, I felt too insignificant to comprehend. Did you see it? No. Kurt started pacing, all the while staring nervously at the painting. If you put all these things on the manifest?

Yeah. Redo it. Take it all off. Kurt? What? What's your solution? You really want to put all this? shit up for auction? Don't know about you, but I don't want to end up shot by the fucking

men in black. He paused and took a deep, shaky breath. Okay, tell you what, I'll take care of the manifest. That way, nothing's on you. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut. We're done with this house in a couple of days. Then you don't have to worry about it anymore. panic and anger exploded no you don't get to take it his eyebrows crawled all the way up into his hair my incis instantly withered but i held my ground i found this painting i could have stolen the damn thing and he wouldn't have been any the wiser he didn't get to steal it from me kurt's expression and smoothed, and to my surprise, I saw a hint of relief. It's not like I want to do it alone, kiddo.

You scared me there for a minute. Thought you didn't want anything to do with it, and that's all. Well, I do. Good. He peeled his gloves off and absently scratched his palms. We'll leave it here till we clear out on Thursday. Give ourselves some time to figure out what to do with it. Sound good?

Yeah, I answered, because, well, there was nothing else to say. I spent the rest of the day pulling up the carpets downstairs. He wasn't scheduled to help me today, but... But he understandably wants the house clear as soon as possible. I'm not complaining. At this point, it looks like I'll be getting paid to explore an alien world. Kurt cut the day short after developing a pretty, ugly, allergic reaction to the filth under the carpet. Even with the hazmat suit, he ended up with huge hives spreading from his fingers all the way to his

elbows. I wanted to stay and finish it, but he didn't want me alone with that painting. That's fair enough, I think. On the way out, I asked to spread fresh salt along the stairs, and sheepishly told him why. He made fun of me for believing superstitious bullshit, but let me do it anyway. Honestly, I'm glad, Kurt knows, and I'm relieved he's taking the lead. Having someone else in charge makes this less frightening and more exhilarating. I'm scared, don't get me wrong, but for the first time in my life, I can't wait to see what happens tomorrow. Last night I had strange nightmares, elegant men with decayed faces and beautiful women in jewelling crusted bull headdresses, towering horned shadows and spidery monstrosities with wet, rotten flesh swinging from their bones.

By 4 a.m., I was trapped in that dreamy, high-alert state of paranoia, peculiar to exhaustion. Sleep wasn't a possibility, and it's not like I was eager to welcome more nightmares anyway. So, I got ready for work, suited up and drove to the suicide house just as the sun rose. I ripped up the last of the downstairs carpet and hauled it outside, struggling to ignore a sense of feverish, almost overpowering, excitement. Terrified as I was, I couldn't wait to re-enter the portal. The anticipation was almost painful. The only thing keeping me from hurtling in there, on my own, was cowardice. Kurt still hadn't arrived by the time I'd finished the carpet, so, mindful of the squatter issue from yesterday. I'd check the upstairs bedrooms. One was normal, as expected.

heart lurching I tentatively opened the second room and froze tangles of vines draped the walls and clotted the bed a cool, earthy scent permeated the air reminding me of wet woods after a winter

rainstorm the morning light filtered through the leaf coloured window infusing the room with an eerie green radiance in the corners and under the bed clusters of half-open blossoms glowed faintly in the dim. I stepped inside, jumping when something crunched underfoot.

A vine had snapped. I kneeled down to take a look. The dark stem burst with leaves, furled blossoms and long, wicked thorns. Silvery drops of resin seeped from the broken stalk. Carefully avoiding the thorns lest I tear my suit, I strode to the window. Greenery coated everything, masking all but the faintest hints of furniture. Unbidden, I thought of where the wild things are. That brought to mind the furry, sprout-covered coat I'd seen yesterday. I found it by the bed, covered in a mound of greenery.

I gingerly tore vines away, grimacing as clumps of filth-cake fur came up to. Pretty soon the coat was in tatters The vines had wormed through and separated it to the point of ruin And before long I found myself holding patches of fur And tanned brittle hide I pulled out the last few pieces Working it free of the stems and thorns When something shifted

It rolled under the vines Rustling the leaves and flowers as it went I reached for it I was so shy short, my fingertips barely grazed the hard, rounded surface. With a careful, calculated strain, I hooked it with my thumb and pulled it out for inspection. It was a skull, brown and uncomfortably soft, with a massive snout and no eye sockets. Disgust and panic subsumed me.

Before I could think, I tossed it into the corner and stood. It took all my willpower to leave the room slowly. The only thing keeping me in check was the certainty that the thorns would shred my suit if I wasn't careful. Fighting off a shudder, I finally exited, decided to check the taxidermy room. I pushed the door open, half expecting a pile of thorny plants to tumble out. The window here faced away from the sun, leaving everything shrouded in shadow. Even in the darkness, something felt terribly wrong. I studied the room for several tense moments before it hit me.

The taxidermy animals. Yesterday and the day before, they'd been neatly arranged against the north side of the room. Now they stood around the portal, facing the door. The five-eyed humanoid with the wide mouth took pride of place, positioned directly before the painting. The long-haired figure had returned to the frame. It rested on its haunches, poised like a sprinter about to take off. I slammed the door and ran downstairs, struggling not to hyperventilate. Salt crunched them pleasantly under my feet.

The way the house trapped the thick, syrupy morning light reminded me of my nightmares, all shades of orange and gold and red. I ran outside. The door clattered loudly behind me. Across the street, a blonde neighbour lady stopped and stared. I avoided eye contact and pretended to busy myself with the equipment in the van. My hands shook as I struggled to calm myself. It was 7.30.

Kurt would be here any minute. He'd sought shit out one way or another. Just a few more minutes and... "'Excuse me?' The world around. The neighbour woman reared back nervously. "'I'm sorry to bother you. I just got back into town.'

Her gaze drifted curiously over my shoulder, then snapped back to me when she noticed me watching. I was wondering, with that suit and whatnot, is everything okay?' I shrugged and gave the party line. Oh, I'm with a cleaning company man. I don't know anything about this situation. Oh, her tone turned mildly aggressive.

It's just that I spoke with my neighbour about a week ago. I just thought he would have mentioned a cleaning company. She looked my hazmat suit up and down with a tight, meaningful smile, especially a serious one like yours. A week! Yeah, Kurt said the occupant had been dead for almost a month before anyone found her. But this lady had spoken to her a week ago. And what was this about a mail-name?

Ma'am, I'm sorry. I'm just an employee. I can show you my credentials, I'll give you my boss's number, but... She backed off immediately. No, no, it's fine. No worries. Just a little concerned. We're tight-knit here.

I waited until she crossed the street, then called Kurt. He didn't answer. Maybe he was driving. and he only lived 15, maybe 20 minutes away. He'd arrive any second. Half an hour passed before I gave up and went to his house. When I got there, both his vehicles were in the driveway. He didn't answer the door, so I tried the knob.

Locked, of course. Kurt? Fighting a surge of panic, I felt around for a spare key. I found one tucked into a crack in the doorframe. It took a minute to pry out, but it fit the lock just fine. Kurt, it's just me. I... He sat, naked and cross-legged in the living room floor,

right in the middle of the light streaming through the window. He looked up at me. Sunlight threw his features into sharp relief and turned the beads of sweat on his face to diamonds. Stay there, he whispered, and shut up. I looked him over, horror building in my chest. My gorge rose. Holes.

A hideous, tripophobic nightmare spreading from his biceps to fingertips. Hundreds of them, small and dark and round, like termite burrows, all rimmed in red, welted flesh. They don't like the sun, he whispered. I think it kills them. My stomach heaved. Kill what? Have a look.

Bruzy bags puffed out under his eyes, making him look 20 years older and terribly sick. Keep your suit on. And now beside him and forced myself to look. Sunlight bounced off the bottom of the holes, revealing soft, glistening white flesh. At first I thought they were deep boils, then I noticed they were quivering, and finally I saw the eyes, tiny and fish-like, flitting wildly to and fro. I emitted a low wine that made me want to shoot myself.

Don't, his voice broke. Look, some are already dead. He rolled one of his wrists, and sure enough a few of the holes had bubbled over with jelly. Two of those golfish eyes were suspended in the murk, glinting like tiny coins. I tried to call 911, but Kurt threatened to attack and infect me. The thing is, he's four times my size. He'd have no trouble hurting me in the short interval between the phone call and the ambulance's arrival. I'm pretty tough, but the thought of those holes, of those quivering jelly worms

burrowing into my skin. Oh, no. I'd let him die before letting him pass those onto me. He asked me to sit with him, and I obliged. Every once in a while I'd hear a small pop. Then he'd gasp as a geyser of translucent echo bubbled out of the holes. After a while, that viscous gel covered his arms,

shining with an iridescence that made my stomach churn. eyes swam in the gunk slowly dripping onto the carpet you caught them inside the painting i finally asked he released a shaky breath in those woods there was something like a weird giant skeleton i tripped and went down under the ribs into a patch of thistles had looked like poked a few holes in my gloves it punctured your gloves and you came back through? What? Was I fucking supposed to stay in there? I heard another low, wet pop. Kurt hissed as a tiny volcano of pale gel oozed over his left wrist,

obscuring several holes. They made me sick and panicky, but I could barely look away. Well, there are plants in one of the bedrooms now. I explained everything as quickly as I could, from the flower vines and soft eyeless skull to the ominous rearrangement of the taxidermy animals. He tried to interrupt, but I kept going. What do you know about the lady who lived there?

Nervin, he answered calmly, but for just an instant his face flickered. Really? Because a lady from across the street came over and told me her neighbour is very much alive. I stood up. He followed suit, grimacing only slightly. Where are you going? To the office. My throat was painfully dry.

I'm going to find her brother's information. Without thinking, I bolted for the door. He caught me easily. Hand tight as a vice around my elbow. Jelly and glittering eyes smeared my suit. You're not going to tell anyone anything. Then tell me what's going on. Okay.

He dragged me back to the living room and threw me on the sofa. That house is mine. A thousand horrifying conclusions ran through my head. But the lady who lived there was my wife. So, this is more or less what he said. Kurt's wife, Evie, has been missing a lot longer than four weeks. Their relationship was fraught, and they'd separated, though not divorced, six years ago. He checked in periodically, always hoping for the possibility of reconciliation, but that never happened.

The last time he spoke to her was over a year ago, and she'd sounded terrified. Kurt didn't think much of it, as Evie was prone to hysteria, and not mentally or emotionally well. After that, she'd stopped taking it. his calls. About four months ago, she knocked on his front door, but it couldn't have been her. Evie was 56 years old. The girl on the porch would have been a dead ringer, except she was 30 years too young. She was giggling and excited, and uttered endless strings of gibberish. When he freaked out, she shoved him into a wall with enough force to knock him out. When he came to, she was was gone. And, as he shortly found out, so was Evie's house. Now, a house was always on the

property, but it was never the right house. Every day Kurt saw a different structure and different occupants. He saw everything from tacky Tudor-style condos to low-slung sprawlers, to wood cottages, and, once, a turreted blue monstrosity. But finally, to see a tacky tudor. To see a tall, a couple of weeks ago, the house reverted to the neat little two-story he'd bought for her after their separation. He broke in and immediately reared back, gagging from the overpowering stench. He found her sprawl on the living room, liquefying corpse slowly bonding into the carpet. When he checked the house afterward, even going so far as to use a ladder to peer into the upstairs windows, he found nothing strange.

certainly known taxidermy monstrosities or transdimensional portals. The house hasn't changed since, but the weird specimens and awful painting appeared recently. He's afraid this means the house is about to disappear again. Oh, fine. Just fucking dandy. Why the goddamn hell did you involve me? I snarled. I couldn't go in there after seeing her like that. He answered.

quietly. I sensed deception here. Maybe an omission, maybe an outright lie. I couldn't tell. I didn't have the presence of mine to pin him down on it. Instead, I angrily blurted, Why did you tell me she worked for the circus? She did. The house is the circus. So, I don't know if you know this, but circus has a definition other than the clowns and elephants variety. A circus is a sort of open, public space where several avenues converge. Circuses have been the crux of his last phone conversation with Evie. She sobbed that she was tired of the circus, that the circus wanted too much, that she no longer knew what to do with the circus. So, what's the goal here? I made my voice deliberately callous. You own the house. Why don't

you just burn it all down? Because, he cut off, hissing. A series of unwholesome pops filled the room, fluid erupted from a dozen holes in his arms. He grimaced, because that girl, whenever she was, wasn't my wife. She was too young. I think Eve he might be alive. In the painting, through the portal, he corrected. He spread his own. He spread his own. He was. He was too young. He was alive. He was arms, a rain of jelly pattered to the floor. I didn't want to involve you, but I can't do this alone. Sure you can, I thought, bitterly, but I didn't say it, because, well, you know what? I can't get the idea of the circus out of my head. An untold number of avenues from different dimensions and realities, converging on a single, unremarkable spot in the West Coast Grossest mid-sized city?

Well, and that bitterly cold, beautiful world of luminousant moonflowers and trees draped in braced, takingly intricate nets of moss, and the labyrinth, of course, that dark labyrinth with a black pyramid at its centre. I'll never have a chance like this again. Never in my life. Okay, I said. What do you want me to do? lay in the yard for a while in the sun just in case these things are on your suit then go home i'll call you when the infestation's dead i did as he said lingering in his yard till sunset i checked on him one more time still stretched out on his living room carpet squeezing fluid from those sickening holes, and then went home. I've been waiting for him to call ever since. I hope his infestation's done. I know I have a lot of other things to worry about,

but I can't stop thinking about those holes in curt skin. It's great that sunlight kills them, but I'm scared of what will happen in the dark. By midnight, I see. still hadn't heard from Kurt, which was surprising. He'd been doing extremely well for a man whose arms looked like fleshy honeycobs, and I expected him to check in periodically, if only to let me know he was still alive. It occurred to me that I was expecting too much. Under the circumstances, it's easy to forget that I'm his employee, not his friend or anything else. My impatience probably seems ridiculous.

But the drive to learn, no, understand and seek is all-consuming. The prospect of exploring a new world is overwhelming. I want an adventure so much, is what I've wanted my entire life. And then, well, there's Kurt. He's a good guy, and I care about him probably more than I should. I want to help him, and feelings aside.

I have no way to explore this new world if Kurt dies. So, around 11.30 on Tuesday night, I decided to go check on him. I opened my door, only to find myself face to face with a stranger. It was a woman, copper-eyed and terribly pale, with a choppy, tangled mess of black hair. Chris, she whispered. Yes, I said automatically. Kurtz at the circus, she said. He needs your help.

I trusted her for a second before every alarm in my body went off. I tried to slam the door, but she struck forward and wrapped cold fingers around my wrist. The second she touched me, her pallor warmed into a heart-breaking peaches and cream complexion. Dull eyes brightened, and dirty hair turned smooth and thick. My own fear and panic evaporated, replaced with a single-minded objective. Help curbed. I drove to the house with the stranger. The car didn't agree with her.

Within moments she was whimpering and vomiting, but I was so focused on my goal that she barely even registered. When we got there, she grabbed my hand and walked me to the second floor. You're the only one allowed inside. Strings of vomit glistened on her chin She pointed to the vine-choked bedroom In there She retreated as I threw open the door Even in my mesmerized state

The room shocked me It was nothing but a lush grove of vines Straited leaves and soft luminescent flowers I entered Cut Vines crunched under my feet. I winced only slightly as a thorn tore through the sole of my shoe and punched a hole in my heel.

Blood gushed, soaking the sock and dripping through the hole. I shook it irritably, vaguely satisfied as drops pattered against leaves and petals. Flowers flare brightly where the blood hit. The light swiftly spread from flower to flower, a multicolored chain reaction of bright blossoms. A shadow shifted in the corner. Relief flooded me and I ran over.

Kurt, are you okay? The figure reared up. Glowing flowers illuminated an eyeless head that might have been bovine were it not for the teeth. I thought of the coat. That strange fur coat full of dirt and sprouts. Oh, not a coat, a skin. But it had been dead. I'd seen and touched its skull.

I'd pulled its hide to pieces. How was it still alive? The creature lurched forward. Woody vine snapped under massive paws. Long, lupine teeth reflected the eerie light of the flowers. I turned and ran, slamming the door just as a creature pounced. It hit the door with a bar. bone-shaking crack. I darted towards the stairs, stopping when I saw the go. No longer whole

and healthy, not even human. Leathery skin cascaded from her limbs, lumping and folding over itself. Her head was wide and flat, with three enormous eyes of a superrating snub nose. I spanned around and rant the other bedroom. It was locked. To my shock, voices and music issued from behind it. I pounded on the door, screaming, but no one responded. If anything, the music, soft, playful piping, actually got louder. The eyeless monster tore a hole in the other door and started to squeeze through.

Once again, I lunge for the stairway. but the girl warped, growing into a multi-limbed monstrosity. I screamed and dashed to the taxidermy room, blocking the door behind me. The muffled sounds of music and laughter permeated the room, punctuated by the frantic snarling of the eyeless monster. The taxidermy animals had changed position yet again, flanking the painting like an honor guard. somehow the painting's perspective had changed instead of that stunning silvan landscape of trees and flower growing vines

it displayed a breathtaking vista of the labyrinth-vary the pyramid loomed to the left cubed steps flashing silver in the moonlight a warm breeze drifted from the painting carrying strains of that alien song and the wet green scent peculiar to lush summers. Summertime. But yesterday, that land had been in the throes of winter.

What was going on? The monster crashed into the door, breaking my reverie while sending an explosion of splinters across the room. Without thinking, I ran into the portal. Humid, sweet-smelling air enveloped me. soft tangles of grass and wildflowers carpeted the ground finally I noticed the pain radiating from my punctured foot my entire shoe squelched with every step

making my stomach chirr the pyramid towered nearby ringed on all sides by a maze of massive walls awestruck I started to slow down just as I heard a heavy thuddy gallop. I looked over my shoulder and saw the eyeless creature tearing through the grass. It ran low to the ground, long snout stretched outward. I sprinted toward the labyrinth and veered wildly to the right. An unbroken expanse of wall curved as far as I could see. Even through

my fear, I marveled at it. The walls were smooth and richly dark. Carvings covered every surface, a mixture of unrecognizable characters and hieroglyphs. Finally, I saw a light ahead, soft and soothing green. It reflected off the walls like a beacon. Grimly ignoring the galloping monstrosity behind me, I put on a final burst of speed and ran to the entrance. The eyeless thing caught me just as I crossed the threshold, batting me down. I squirmed away. heedless of the sharp undergrowth prickling my skin. It caught me easily and swiped. Burning pain subsumed my wrist,

followed by a cascade of slick, wet heat. Light erupted all around me. The flowers again, blazing to life. Cradled my injured wrist, shivering as blood streamed over my fingers. The monster thrust its snout against my throat. For a terrible instant, its teeth pressed into the soft skin. Then it pulled back, leaving a cluster of fur and sprouts in the hollow of my throat.

I crawled to my knees, sobbing and scuttled away. The pale light illuminated it fully. A broad, bony crest lay atop its long snout, creating a sharp angle that somehow looked inorganic. Thin brittle skin stretched painfully over its skull, splitting apart in several places to reveal the bone beneath. It didn't have enough flesh to cover its teeth or gums, resulting in a perpetual snarl. Its head was enormous, far too large for its low, muscular body.

Tried to raise its head, but couldn't. The snout lifted several inches before plummeting back into the earth. The monstrosity retreated suddenly, disappearing into the tall grass as a shadow swept across me. I turned around, already knowing what I would see. Sleak, long hair shone like glass. Inhumanly sharp planes created an angular, hypnotic face that was equal parts breathtaking and horrifying. He knelt in front of me. I kicked away, feet tangling in the long grass, but grabbed my hands and pulled me close.

His skin glimmered strangely, moonwhite and iridescent, comprised of a delicate overlapping pattern that reminded me of scales. He inspected my wound, iron grip pressing down to the bow. Then he passed my wrist to his forehead, smearing my blood all over his face. Somewhere in the labyrinth, a throaty, atonal song began to echo. Finally, he brought the gash to his mouth and sucked. Agony immediately exploded. I thought of poison, of venom, acid eating me down to the bone. This was it.

This was fucking it. I was dying outside an alien pyramid in a shitty painting. while a half-starved reptilian dissolved me with his tongue. I whited out. Sometime later I woke, propped against the labyrinth. I shot up and scanned my surroundings. Nothing. No lights.

No monsters. Just brambly flower fields and the endless curve of the wall. I retraced my path and soon found the portal to the taxidermy room. I entered anxiously. Everything was still and silent, with no music or laughter to be heard. I hurried into the hallway. No eyeless monsters or warped multi-limbed girls waiting on the stairs. I sobbed with relief and ran downstairs, but stopped when I saw the front door.

The five-eyed taxidermy monstrosity sat just to the side. Glass irises glittered over its unwinded. unsettling wraparound smile. It looked for all the world like I caught it in the act of blocking the door. Those relieved sobs morphed into frighten crying. But what was I supposed to do? Go to the backyard, taking my eyes off this thing in the process. No. Fighting a surge of panic, I tiptoed to the door, staying as far or away from the creature as I could. It towered over me. The top of its head grazed the doorframe.

Had it been that big before? I couldn't remember. With a choke grasp, I opened the door and ran out into the night. I expected it to follow. But I reached my car safely. I thought immediately of Kurt. The warp girl had used him to lure me away. Maybe this meant he was dead.

Maybe it meant something even worse. I had to know either way. So I drove to his house, struggling to suppress visions of limbs so full of holes that they split apart. When I pulled up, I saw all his lights were on. I got out of the car, almost laughing with relief. This relief soured when I was a bit of. Kurt opened the door. I stopped in my tracks. He looked unwell. His hair lay slicked against his

scalp, and his skin glistened under the porch light. My stomach clenched, but I approach anyway. Kurt, sorry for stopping by this late. I just... He shushed me and beckoned. His movements were slow, almost clumsy. "'Where have you been?' he whispered. I've been trying to call you all fucking day. My skin prickled. Why? Are you okay? I'll just come inside, he hissed.

Now. An imaginary itch, dirty and pervasive, dreamed its way across my skin, but it wasn't enough to stop me. None of it was. Not the portal or the pyramid. Not the eyeless monster or the long-haired man. Certainly not Kurt or the deep.

burrowing holes in his arms. So, I went to him. Up close, Kurt's skin looked painfully weird, far too smooth and almost slimy, like he'd coated himself in a thin layer of vaseline, and his arms, well, the holes were gone. Whole, unblemished flesh, not only healed, but completely regenerated. They slowed to a halt, unwilling to march up those steps. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Instead of the usual brown, his eyes look coppery and somehow multifaceted. They weren't Kurt's eyes. With horror, I realized they weren't even human eyes. A hundred tiny, shimmering discs composed each iris, the eyes of the parasites that had burrowed into his skin. Parasite Kurt smiled.

You're scared. My knees felt watery and terribly weak. My car was close, but would I be able to outrun him? Would I be able to run at all? Kurt's shoulders heaved, and he started to chuckle. Then a voice, his voice, came both from inside the house and from the body in front of me. I'm scared too, but holy shit. Come, have a look.

Kurt, pale, sick, exhausted Kurt, appeared behind his shiny doppelganger. They laughed in tandem and then waved me inside. Shiny Kurt's movements were clumsier and lags slightly, but there was no doubt about it. They were moving together. I tried to run, but my knees gave out and I fell instead. Shiny Kurt helped me up, in the process leaving a glistening, handprint of film on my arm. Come inside, he repeated.

One curdie's scary enough. With two, I had no chance of getting away. So, I followed his parasite doubleganger into the house. What is this? I asked. Kirk grinned. With a surge of nausea, I noticed that his arms remained pocked with dark, inflamed holes. The sunlighted. didn't kill them. It made them grow. An unsettling mixture of fear, disbelief and irritation rattled my already

shot nerves. Your parasites grew you and you're happy? I can control him. Kurt threw his arms into the air. A fraction of a second later, shiny Kurt followed suit. I can speak through him and I can see through his eyes. He ran his hands through his hair, laughing triumphantly as his doppelganger did the same. He's me. Well, another part of me. Okay, Kurt, this isn't... Oh, what if there are more inside you? There aren't any more. His certainty gave me a chill. For the first time since this started, I wanted no part of it. They're all him now. Somehow I taught both Kurtz into sleeping.

It's been several hours now. I'm worried about Kurt. The holes in his arms look infected. Even worse, I lost a lot of time. I last spoke to Kurt on Tuesday afternoon. It's now Thursday evening. An entire day passed while I was in that portal. And that doesn't make sense at all.

according to the way the seasons change in the painting time passes more quickly there than it does here as for the injury inflicted by the eyeless thing it looks all right the edges are too pale with an iridescent sheen i can't think about for too long i can't think about kurt either really i've tried to sleep a few times but whenever i drift off i hear the faint sound of that piping combined with the a-tort of the eight-time singing I heard in the labyrinth. Every time I wake up, I have to fight the urge to return to the house, to that portal. I'm finally afraid, finally seeing this entire situation for the horror show it is, rather than the adventure I wanted it to be. I don't know what I'm going to do, though. They know my name and they have my blood. I don't think I have a way out anymore. Kurt has a closet full of sprouts and human bones. I found it by accident the other night, after he and his parasite doppelganger fell asleep. It looked like a shrine. Tangles and vines coated the walls, competing for space with glossy, strayated leaves

and those luminousant night blossoms. The bones were suspended from the ceiling. Vine snaked through sockets and ribs, hoisting them up as effectively as a harness. Sprouts cover everything like confetti. Unlike the flowers, they're dead. Whole but dry, fragile and crumbling from root to crown. I reached out to touch them.

I don't know why. I didn't want to. It was a numb, thoughtless compulsion, almost like a spell. The greenery enveloped my arm, gentle and cool like mist. my fingertips quivered a fraction of an inch from the sprouts and one of them twitch dry matter plumped and darkened growing into a rich green chute with lush leaves the roots snaked upward at the bottom i saw an eye small round and metallic like that of a goldfish i reared back and slammed the door then obsessively scanned my skin for sprouts and eyes I heard footsteps from the living room. What are you doing? Kurt's shadow preceded him, stretching over the wall.

What's in there? I screamed. Evie. He halted in the mouth of the hall. Bruzy shadows and painful hollows marred his face, making him look horrifically sick. The real one. What do you mean, the real one? The body I found in the house wasn't her. It was the younger copy than what I told you about.

He motioned vaguely to the living room, to his parasite twin. More like him than anything, but not quite. He rubbed his neck fretfully. I'll tell you what I know. Come into the kitchen. I did as he said and sat at the table while he clattered around. trembling. He threw on a pair of yellow dishwashing gloves, then brewed tea and put together a plate of cold leftovers. He set both in front of me and took a seat at the opposite end of the table.

Only when I started to eat and drink did he speak. Evie had a lot of problems. He began. Actually, from what Kurt had described, Evie was insane. She claimed to be the victim of an adoption gone wrong, a kid who'd slipped through the cracks and been sold to a new parent. That parent was a rich woman who supposedly ran a network of private schools for disadvantaged youth. Evie told Kurt the schools were just a front for a breeding program and a training regiment to create what she called obedient sociopaths. According to Evie, the babies were invariably used in rituals. Rituals for what? I asked.

To create circuses, he answered, among other things. Evie told Kurt all about circuses basically from day one. The circuses are locust, a place where several planes of reality converge. Circuses do not occur naturally. They have to be built, and building a circus is a horrifically violent process. Even worse, the builders have no safe. over which planes converge. More often than not, you end up with a circus that you can't control,

filled with beings and artifacts that actually use you. Entities that possess the ability to manipulate or rewrite reality on a whim. We can't comprehend these beings, because we exist on the most mundane of planes. Not due to chance, but because we, as a species, expect and require the mundane. We influence and shape a thing. our own reality to suit our comfort zone.

Our collective will functions as a creator force, but that collective will isn't enough to control these entities. Circuses help with that. A proper circus acts as a cage, but, like all cages, the bars rust and the logs break if you are uncareful. And that was why Evie left him. Her guardian, old now, on her deathbed,

ordered her to take care of the circus. Kurt was flabbergasted. What kind of horror story, fairy tale M.K. Ultra shit was this? Evie claimed they'd kill him if she didn't do it, that his life was in danger as well as the world itself. When he tried to stop her, she assaulted him. He got her temporarily committed on a 72-hour psychiatric hold. But when he went to see her the next day,

stay. She wasn't there. No one even confirmed that she'd been there at all. She disappeared. Two years later, he found her by accident. She looked awful and was desperately lonely. A bad guardian, she kept saying, I'm a bad guardian. And she asked him to stay with her. He was happy to do it. He worried about her. He missed her. He loved her. The next day he zipped back to his place to gather some belongings. When he returned to Evie's house, it was gone. In place of her charming little two-story, set a sprawling ranch house occupied by a couple

with a kindergarten-aged daughter and a newborn son. Kurt came back every day, and each time he saw a different house occupied by different people. one noticed but him. After a couple more years of this, the young version of Evie came to his house, just like he'd said before. He followed her back to the circus house and made it inside, where he found the real Evie. The wrong one got violent and knocked him out. When he came to, both were gone. The wrong version returned to him several times after that. Even though he was afraid, always followed every time because that was the only way to reliably find Evie's house. Evie herself was never there.

He saw her in the painting once, at the side of the pale, long-haired entity. He couldn't get inside it, though. It was like staring through an unbreakable window. He saw them and they saw him, but they were trapped on opposite sides of the portal. Sometimes, though, there would be dry bundles of sprouts and vegetation on his side. Over time, the taxidermy animals and specimen cases appeared too. He assumed this meant he wasn't the only thing using the circus, but as of now, he's never seen the other user.

At some point, he claims he doesn't remember, but I call bullshit. He found out the sprouts are regenerative. All the plants from the painting are, his own. some form or another. They bring dead things back to life. Sometimes they create life from nothing. Sometimes they transfer life between creatures. On his very last visit with Wrong Evie, he once again saw the real Evie in the painting, dismembered and flayed to death just beyond the threshold. The barrier was gone. He ran in and cradled her. She was still warm. Evie followed him in and laughed. In a rage he killed her and left her in the house.

Then he packed up the remains of real Evie and took her home. He coated her with sprouts and vines. And he's been waiting ever since. Then why do the hell do you think she's still in that painting? I demanded. Because she is. When he went into the painting with me, he followed the song. that wordless, eerie, open-throated song all the way into the woods. Even though her bones were in his closet, Evie was there, under a giant ribcage in a grove of thistles. He couldn't touch her, though she could touch him. In fact, she gave him the parasites.

To show him what must be done, she said. She told him the secret of the god in the pyramid that no dead thing ready. resurrected unless it willed resurrection. It didn't want to resurrect her. It wanted to keep her. The only way to trick it is with the help of his guard, the pale, long-haired man with scales. He alone can override the will of the God,

but he needs a worthy bribe. That bribe is freedom. Why didn't you ever bring the painting here? because if it isn't at the circus, the thing in the pyramid escapes. I stared down into my cup, trying to hide my anger from him. Tendrils of steam curled upward, warm and strangely soothing. I stirred the tea, taking savage pleasure in the obnoxious clink of silverware against ceramic. Crumbled leaves surfaced and spun in a vortex.

Why me? Why am I involved at all? The bribe is an escape. The guard can only leave if someone else takes his place. I need a body. Within the whirlpool of Teagrit came a flash of gold. It spun around and floated to the surface, resolving into a small metallic eye. I couldn't inhale or exhale.

The guard needs a replacement and the guard needs an offering. Then I'll get Evie back. I don't want to kill you. That's why Evie did this to show me it's safe. You have to let them grow for a little bit. Then you pop them in the sun. When it's grown, we give one to the jailer. One to the guard.

You don't even have to go through the portal. We can control them. We can make them do what we want. It's completely safe. "'Yours were only in your skin,' I said. "'You made me drink them.' He stared at me with a pain, guilty shock. The room was silent and deafening all at once,

and the air felt heavy, terribly, terribly heavy. I bulted. He caught me before I reached the living room and lifted me off the ground. I flailed and kicked, driving him into the wall. His grip loosened and I squirmed away, only to slam into his parasite double. Together, they dragged me to the hall. Up close, Kurt's arms were a horror show.

The inflamed flesh inside the hole was bubbled up and spilled over his skin like burn scars. Parasite Kurt looked almost translucent, like a thin scrim of water was trapped between layers of flesh. In a panic, I bit down on Parasite. like Kurt's hands. A gush of thin, sweet liquid erupted from the puncture. I accidentally aspirated it, and my entire mouth and throat went numb. While I struggled to breathe, they forced me into the closet and locked the door. I fell onto the pile of bones, tangling in the vines and tearing blossoms apart. When I finally straightened up, the skull dangled inches from my face. Bright flowers glowed from each socket, equal parts horrifying and dreamily lovely. All around me, the dead sprouts

came to life, golden eyes opening along the roots one by one. I tried to move, but couldn't. The numbness had spread, overtaking my shoulders and chest. Sleepiness came with it. The thing I saw were the eyes, a hundred, then a thousand, sparkling like miniature, searchlights in the dim glow of the flowers. As I drifted off, I became dimly aware of a maddening itch in my heel. I woke to a sensation of uncomfortable pressure and painful tugging, like something was pulling muscle out through my skin, slowly turning inside out. My throat hurt, my arms hurt and my foot radiating a deep maddening itch everything flooded back and i opened my eyes long glistening larvae towered from dozens of holes in my right arm thick as tentacles covered in round glittering eyes they stretch painfully straining toward the wall little pockets of my swollen tissues stretch with them, tenting along the base of each larva.

I threw up. Brackish fluid choked with plant matter and a metallic ice flooded my lap. I kicked away, then shrieked as something shifted inside my heel. It felt like a snake, coiling and sliding across itself. My shoe shifted as something pushed it off, tickling my arch as it fell away. The parasite snaked out of my foot, rough edges scraping the skin of my heel. A sparkling serpent reared up like a cobra. Rippling fins propelled its narrow body upward.

Bright blue eyes glittered from its sides, glinting like crystal in the dimness. After regarding me, curiously, it darted upward and wove itself into the ribcage. All of its eyes were fixed on my left. arm. Quivering, I looked down at my arm, expecting the worst. Roots and sprouts dusted my skin, but the flesh was whole and unblemished. Even the injury inflicted by the sprout beast, the wound, the guard had sucked clean, was gone. All that remained was a patch of strange, white flesh that glimmered with an iridescent sheen. I looked up at the larvae. They too were focused on that patch of skin. That was why they were straining. They were trying to get away from it.

On impulse, I threw my arm toward them. With a volley of pain unlike anything I've ever experienced, they plunged down into my arm. They were big, much bigger than Kurtz, and my skin bulged with the strain. Electric bursts of pain shot through my body, subsuming all my senses in a white nover of agony. I screamed helplessly, which quickly devolved into a wet, painful coughing. Another torrent of fluid came up. To my horror, tiny larvae wriggled weakly in the puddle. I sobbed and reached for the doorknob. To my shock, it turned, spilling me out into Kurt's hallway. Soft midday shadows cloak the hall, but I saw clear, clean sunlight. streaming into the living room straight ahead. I tried to stand, but my legs weren't strong enough.

Sopping weakly, I crawled to the living room and collapsed in the light. Both Kurt and his double were gone. The house was quiet, enveloped in that soft, stuffy stillness peculiar to hot days. I writhed miserably, weeping and screaming as my larvae erupted. They were easily five-time the size of curts, thick and rope-like and several inches tall. Even worse, they made noises, keening, high-pitched creaks that seemed to slice through my head. I coughed helplessly the entire time, stomach and lungs expelling incredible amounts of dark fluid. Roots, sprouts, and weak parasites came with every expulsion. It smells sweet, almost tropical. It smells sweet, almost with hints of citrus and flowers and warm rain.

The larvae were too large to simply explode. Instead, they ruptured, swelling and splitting like overcooked sausage and spattering everything with thick, translucent ickle. Had I had been physically capable, I'd have crawled out of the light just to escape the pain. But between the endless coughing and weakness, I was as good as paralyzed. Eventually, I faded out. A sensation of warm, heat and softness woke me up after sunset. I turned over.

Something squelched under me, thick and damp like jelly. I sat up and found myself wallowing in a pool of exploded larvae. Strings of their tattered skin trowed from inflamed holes in my arm, reminding me, absurdly, of seaweed. Their eyes lay everywhere, glinting dully in the dying light. My foot twitched, whimpering, I looked up as the serpentine thing snaked out of my heel. The skin around it was baggy and pale like a blister. The serpent darted over the mass of jelly, picking out of the eyes and eating them eagerly.

Stomaching, I glanced at the holes in my arms. Puss rimmed the edges. paleness contrasting with the furious, swollen red. Each pit bore downward like a honeycomb cell. At the bottom of one, I saw a quivering mass of tissue studded with small eyes. Altogether, I counted ten. Ten ruined pits in my skin, glittering with fresh larvae. They're growing back.

I tried to pull the rippling snake from my foot. but before I could touch it, it burrowed in deep. Oh, I swear I can feel it curling around the bone. Maybe that's why I'm weak. It's damaged the tendons and muscles. Breathing isn't easy. Each inhale is ragged and thick. Soreness radiates from my ribs and down to my stomach.

It's more larvae. They're inside me. I know it. I have to go back to the house because my only hope is the guard Kurt said he needs a body as a bribe Well that's fine I've got my own slippery doppelganger growing

The lava jelly is bubbling up before my eyes Slowly resolving into a copy of me If it doesn't want a doppelganger Well I can always give it Kurt Even now, after all the lies, I feel for him. I really do. But if he wants his wife, match, he has to pay the price himself.

I've always preferred pain to itching. Not that I enjoy either, but pain is straightforward. Even at its worst, pain is somehow clean. Pain also has the decency to kill you once it reaches a certain threshold. Itching, on the other hand, is filthy and consumptive. Itching can't kill you. It'll just drive you insane. In fact, if you could transform the essence of madness into sensation, well, that sensation would be itching.

Itching was the only thing on my mind as the larvae infestation worsened. Every breath produced a deep, explosive itch. that wrapped over my ribs and organs. I saw vines in my mind's eye, thin and wet and tipped with golden eyes, winding they were through my body. By the time my parasitic double-ganger blinked awake, night had fallen and my larvae had re-grown.

The new batch was small and stringy, ill-looking. They peaked out anxiously from the holes in my skin, quivering. My doppelganger was easy to control. Actually, there's nothing to it. When I moved, it moved. I was glad for this, because I didn't have any energy left for conscious control. With a great deal of effort, I dressed it, and together we hobbled out to my car. There was a moment of confusion when it tried to climb into the driver's seat with me.

I repositioned it into the passenger seat, struggling as it mirrored my mum. movements. The larvae surfaced to watch, straining the tender flesh at the bottom of the holes. The drive to the suicide house, to the circus, was a hallucinatory nightmare. Things crept around inside me, prodding and squeezing tissues. The winged snake in my heel thrashed angrily, nipping my skin as it attempted to chew through my shoe. Worst of all, I am. couldn't stop coughing. Every fit inevitably ended a torrent of vomit choked with leaves and tiny golden eyes. My doppelganger gagged with me, identical except for his eyes, flat and golden, comprised of a hundred parasite irises. After what felt like an eternity, I reached the circus and led my

doppelganger inside. The living room had transformed into the living room. It was transformed into a grove, vines and glowing flowers covered every surface. In the corner, dimly illuminated by the blossoms sat the enormous anemone. Tentacles drifted dreamily, seemingly oblivious to the holes scoring its flesh. The five-eyed monstrosity lay before it, half buried in vines. I shuddered and hobbled upstairs. My doppelgang of my double-gang of the world. followed hesitantly. Through my haze I heard voices, men's laughter, and a woman's playfully sargastic bite, all underscored by atonal piping. One of the bedrooms was closed off, a bar of golden light flickered along the bottom of the door. The door to the other room was

torn to pieces, drooping on a single hinge. My larvae peaked out on pulled toward the open room. A mindless, blissfully calm compulsion overtook me. I followed their lead and ducked inside. A blanket of dead vines, curled leaves and dry blossoms covered everything except a twisted figure on the bed. The larvae strained forward,

eyes glittering in the moonlight. It was the warped girl, unnaturally stretched across a blood-soaked quilts, Strangely, slates lay atop each of her hands. They were piled with hairy spider legs and bloated tentacles, garnished with sprouts and dead flowers. Horrific details resolved as I came close. From throat to thigh, she was a bloody ruin. Glistening guts cascated from her butchered abdomen.

Buried in the morass was a multi-limbed fetus with several eyes. Translucent hands clutched the gory remnant of a twin. The spell suddenly broke. The larvae retracted, causing a nauseous explosion of itching that radiated to my shoulder. I turned, retching, and found myself face to face with the five-eyed taxidermy monster. It loped past me and lunged, plunging long, thick fingers into my parasite doppelganger's throat. thick ecore spurted like blood from an artery and it collapsed the serpent in my heel quivered my knees gave out and i slid helplessly to the floor the five-eyed monstrosity approached and knelt before me to my shock it spoke in all their forms parasites overtake and ruin your mind

His voice was low and liquid, almost childishly high. Lips rolled above its vast mouth, the way grass ripple in the wind. Ruined minds make our doors. It touched my intact arm, the one the long-haired guardian had sucked clean. The unusually pale skin glimmered faintly. But he closed the one in you. It wrapped its cold, puffy feet. fingers, circling my head. The touch was sharp and oddly refreshing. My mind suddenly felt clear.

The larvae in my arm shuddered, producing a thrumming tickle that made me moan. The caretaker will clean you again. Find him. You just want me to trade places with it. Painful hysteria built in my chest. Something like pity crossed its face. The caretaker captures and releases charges at will. You were released once. You will be released again, though the vines will otherwise. Its eyes skated over my honeycombed arm. Your friend, the madman, wants you to take the caretaker's place so that you will release his wife.

He will confront you. He surrendered to the vines, and you may not rest. recognize him. It looked meaningfully at the warped woman. Oh, she did not. Hysteria and horror continued to build, twining together like the vines. Go, it said, or I will make a door from you. I tore into the hall, past the room where the men laughed and pipes echoed,

into the taxidermy room. The specimen cases were broken and, and everything. empty. No taxidermy creatures remain, and the painting showed only empty backdrops, forests and beaches, rocky canyons and golden fields, luxurious bedchamers and blood-stained dungeons. In the centre hung the familiar moonlit landscape. I ran through, gasping as deep, cold settled over me like a blanket. Oh, that familiar wordless song. Beautiful, yet so very close to screaming, echoed over the plains. I veered towards the slope.

The pyramid came into view, a cubist masterpiece of blinding, silver and unfathomable darkness. Low veils of clouds clung to the top like a gathering storm. Itching rang along my bones as larvae shifted. I hurtled toward the labyrinth, dodging thorny vines and tithing thorny vines and treacherous burrows half hidden in the brittle glass. My intact arm glimmered strangely on my periphery, milky ant too smooth. It frightened me in a way even the larvae could not. I sped up, grimly ignoring the serpent writhing in my foot. Pale light guided me to the labyrinth's entrance. As I approached I heard a low, resounding throm. The ground vibrational,

and a chorus of horns echoed through the night. To my shock, glittering beetles erupted near my feet and flooded across the grass. Other creatures followed. Antlered hogs and primordial cats, giant toads, tiny foxes with billowing clusters of tails, and more, so much more, all running away from the pyramid.

I reached the entrance just as a pack of long, low wolves with tusks and bulbous eyes bolted past. Six winding paths flanked a marble promenade that led directly to the pyramid. Horns and wordless wailing echoed off the black walls. The larvae in my arm peaked out of their burrows. I fought the urge to rip them out. The pain I knew would make me black out. And I marched forward.

More paths spun off the promenade, narrow and impenetrably dark. I hurried past, refusing to look lest I find something staring back at me. A tall, perfectly rectangular opening loomed ahead. Glimbering steps led to the entrance. I slowed to a halt at the base of the stairs. The one, paralysing moment, I thought about turning back. This was, I thought, the very last thing I... wanted to do. At that moment, the serpent in my heel convulsed, sending bright, electric pain

coursing through my leg. It was an apt, perfectly timed reminder that, eventually, dying of an alien parasite infestation was the last thing I wanted to do. So, I went inside. Soft, smoky incense enveloped me, along with an almost debilitating heat. Vines and flowers crawled up the walls alongside veins of polished ore. Blossom and mineral glowed dimly, illuminating a septet of enormous images on the antechaber wall. Five, I recognized. A bull, a locust, a malformed wolf, a breathtakingly beautiful person that could have been a man or woman, and a golden dragon. Two I had trouble with. A hideously proportioned human with wings, no eyes and three mouths.

And a creature with a shape I couldn't quite comprehend, whose flesh glimmered with mad arrays of stars. A sharp chorus of laughter echoed through the chamber, indulgent and somehow cruel, followed by a bone rattling roar. I spun around anxiously, looking for a door, but only saw another set.

of seven images behind me. The laughter grew abruptly, both in volume and glee. My arm itched, my feet ached, and a terrible, pulsating pressure built in my chest. Breathing suddenly became impossible. A moment later, I felt it, long and wet, slithering up my throat. I gagged, tongue rolling back and touching the tip of a vine, though strained, towering images swam before my eyes. Dreamily, I realized it wasn't laughter I was hearing,

but screaming punctuated with a chilling inhuman bellow. I collapsed, painfully aware of the serpent shifting in my flesh. Everything blurred together, soft and almost beautiful, as vines and larvae erupted from my throat. Tiny eyes and wet leaves glittered on my periphery, It scared me, so I closed them just as halting footsteps echoed through the chamber. I felt hands on mine, strong and cold. I looked up and saw the caretaker strange, sharp face staring into mine.

One of its eyes had ruptured, red, swollen, and unwholesomely bloated. Horror and hope suffocated me, along with the vines, as the guardian lowered its mouth to mine. cold lips closed over my chin and cheeks. The itching abruptly disappeared, and I felt a bare, blissful instant of relief before an overwhelming nova of agony scorched me into unconsciousness. I surfaced to silence. Gasping, I shot up. I was naked, but could breathe just fine.

No plant matter or worms choked my throat. I immediately looked at my arm, pale, plump flesh, peppered with half-heeled holes. I touched one experimentally, no itching, no larvae, just a dull, unremarkable ache. My heel was strangely horrifying, deflated and colourless, like an enormous drained blister. The sunken hole reminded me of rotting pumpkins, but at least it was empty. no serpent, no larvae, no vines. I climbed my haunches. My hand fell into a soft pile of vegetation, and I almost screamed.

He was the caretaker, shrivelled and glimmering like moonlight, covered in tall, luminousent flowers that looked like lupines. Fighting back tears, I inspected my skin for any scratch or puncture. There were none. The flowers had been soft, after all, softer than anything I'd ever touched. But was that any guarantee? Just as I began to calm down, a low, wet rumble, rumbled through the antechamber. I jumped up and saw the door where there hadn't been one before,

under the feet of the bull, low and glowing with a rich golden light. A hideous, incomprehensible shadow filled that beautiful doorway, and lumbered into the antechamber. Seven enormous sinewy limbs exploded from a twisted torso. Four were vaguely human. Three were thick vines studded with glittering eyes. Sprouts and humming tangles of bright-eyed larvae laced every inch of its raw flesh. A human head crowned the monstrosity, warped and lumpy with clusters of subcutor.

tennious vines. A feathery anemone extended from its mouth, straining the skin to such a degree that the flesh had split up to the eyes and ears. Blood sheeted past its cheekbunds, choked with vines and squirming with small worms. Dangling from a broken jaw was half an eerie, translucent fetus, the twin, I realized, to the one at the suicide house. The anemone snaked forward and spun open bearing a tangled spiral of teeth that made me think of sharks

In the centre of that spiral Set into the throat like a gem Lay a massive cluster of golden eyes The anemone shifted sharply straining upward to offer full sight of the human head From which it sprouted Kurt

Kurt's head Kurt's body Kurt's mind, warped and erupted and overtaken by the vines. His right eye found the dead caretaker buried in his can of flowers, then spun toward me, radiating madness and triumph. And I knew, somehow, what he was thinking. He'd won. Yes, I was the new guardian, and I would now release his wife.

The sadness and profound rage swept through me just as the caretaker shifted under his glowing lupines. A deafening roar shook the pyramid. The anemone stood at attention, and Kurt looked back at the small door, panic flickering across his ruined face. And then he lunged at me. The caretaker exploded from his funeral grove in a tornado of stems and glittering petals, launching himself at Kurt. He reached into that nightmare gullet, ignoring the spiral teeth

and plucked out the golden cluster of eyes. That roar sounded again. Dust rained from the ceiling. Leaves and flower vines rattled as if in a wind. The guardian ignored it and continued his methodical dismemberment of Kurt. A chorus of shrill, screaming issued from Kurt

as larvae squirmed and shot out of his flesh, swaying several feet in the air before diving down at the Guardian. Glistening bodies swarmed over the Guardian's snowy arms. I turned and ran, hurtling down the promenade, oblivious to the numbing cold. I don't know how I made it back to the suicide house, but I did. I stumbled past empty paintings and taxidermy monsters who now breathed, past the warp woman's corpse and the laughing men. Salt crunched under my feet as I tore down the stairs and out into the yard. It was dark and I was panicked, so my nakedness didn't matter to me. I slid into the front seat of my car and sped home, where I inspected every inch of my flesh.

My hands are smooth and unmarked. My feet are not. Small scratches and punctures litter the skin. but I think I'm all right. They're already healing, and the skin is smooth and unusually pale. But just in case, I drenched my feet in hydrogen peroxide, washed them and sprayed them with a cheap herbicide. It hurt like hell.

I can barely stand and I'll have scars, but it's worth it. Then I showered in the hottest water I could stand. and stumbled to bed. I woke this afternoon to a very familiar painting propped against my bedroom wall. It's just a painting for now. Rich oils and silver tones depict the scene as I first saw it. A crisp spring night with a tall, inhuman figure

framed by luminescent flowers and strange trees. I left it there and went to the suicide house. Instead of Evie's two-story house, I saw a neat little bungalow with a breathtaking rose garden. I drove by three times before going back home. I haven't done anything with the painting, but I need to soon. I had a really good look at it just now, and there's a problem. In the distance behind the caretaker is another figure, malformed and multi-limbed, coated in vague suggestions of vines and works.

I don't know what happens to doorways when you burn them, but I'm about to find out. The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. Thus is the case in tonight's story. Time once again to sit back and relax with your favorite drink and listen. Detective Spencer shook his balding head in his balding head. quiet dismay and disgust. In his 15 years of foot patrol and another aide as a homicide detective, he was seldom incredulous, but this was a different case. This case disturbed him like no other.

He shook his head again and lit a cigarette. It was late and he was alone in the office. Tomorrow he would deny smoking in the workplace, should anyone smell the residual, rancid odor of his cheap cigarettes and accuse him of violating policy. He needed a cigarette and he needed it now. A cigarette would stop his hands from trembling. What the hell, he thought. What the hell? He'd been pretty certain he'd seen it all, that nothing could get to him.

His years in the New Orleans Police Department homicide unit had left him more than a little jaded. He'd seen dozens of senseless. drive by shootings that had killed innocent children. He'd worked a case where the suspected murderer had stashed his wife in a freezer in the garage before reporting her missing. He'd seen voodoo rituals that offered sacrifices of goats and humans. Just last year, the detective arrested a woman who had, allegedly, decided to devour the remains of her husband on sequential Sunday dinners. Each week, she kindly invited her in-laws to partake. When is Sammy coming from? When is Sammy coming? Coming home, the recently deceased sister and mother would invariably ask,

Oh, I suspect he'll be with us soon, the woman would answer and smile. This particular perp had come close to having committed the perfect crime and would have lightly spent her remaining years, sunning herself on her Bahamian beach, had her mother-in-law not shown up early one Sunday, and peaked in the slow cooker. Sammy's mother's screams were heard blocks away. the woman more than a little distraught arms flailing ran into the street where she was struck by a passing car the female perp had been convicted of murder one the last of sammy was found simmering on high in the crop-pot and was buried next to his mother in the st claude cemetery just after this collar detective spencer asked for a transfer to the special crimes unit

He knew instinctively he needed a break from the insanity of eight years in homicide. Yes, the detective was pretty sure nothing could affect him. That is, until now. Right, the New York detective responded. Touch base with me after you've seen her. And Detective Spencer? Yeah? Good luck.

The blonde-haired girl in the sterile ICU bed wasn't much older than his daughter, the season detective realized. when he finally got the okay to speak with her. She looked years younger than her chart indicated. She was twenty-two, but in her blue hospital gown, and with her tousled hair framing her pretty face, she looked no older than twelve or thirteen. She had the long, thin body of a model,

but had been relegated to working as a waitress in a tawdry French quarter club. Such was the fate of so many young girls who found their way to New Orleans, looking for excitement and perhaps fame and fortnight. They worked for the money until they either gave up the nightlife and married an oilfield worker. More often than not, they returned to their hometowns to live the lives they had so detested. This girl didn't have too many options left to her, the detective thought. What the fuck would she do now?

Tried not to look down at the hollow in the sheets where her feet should have been. Dark circles below her closed eyes encroached onto her cheeks. Her pretty face had morphed into a little. a grotesque mask. What should have been the whites of her eyes were now red hobbits, the vessels ruptured by incessant tears. She had cried until she could cry no longer. She'd become numb, with the help of another injection ordered by the compassionate doctor on duty that morning. Ms. Robbins, the detective whispered, Can you talk now? he asked, just above a whisper. I really need you to tell me anything you

Remember, the detective almost pleaded with the girl. The pretty girl opened her eyes to see a chubby, balding man standing at her side. The tears began to slide down her cheeks again. She said quietly, I don't think I can help you. I don't remember anything. You were working that night, right? The detective was encouraged just by hearing her voice.

Yes, I worked until closing time, about 2 a.m. It was Friday night, you know, Saturday morning, so I figured there'd be a lot of people still out, especially on Decker Street. So I went to get my car out of the parking lots. Had my keys in my hand, just like you always do when I go over there. And that's all I remember. I think someone hit me over their head. I don't know.

I don't know. The tears were flowing in rivers now. I just remember bits and pieces. Like a dream. The girl continued. I remember something like a nursery rhyme. She spoke haltingly. And then I died.

It was so horrible, but I guess I came back. She sobbed. When I woke up, I was like this. I just woke up like this. She almost screamed, like this. She convulsed into a, low whale. Like this.

You're sure that was Friday night, Miss Robbins? Yes. Last night, the girl replied. The detective didn't want to panic his witness, but today was Tuesday. She'd been somewhere for the last three days before being discovered in a heap behind a dumpster near the river. Determining where she'd spent those three days would be the key to this investigation. And you don't remember anything strange.

different when you went to your car Friday night. The detective asked. The girl could only shake her head. No. And sob. Please call me if you remember anything, Miss Robbins. The detective handed her his card with his private phone number. Don't you worry. We're going to get this son of a bitch. You have my word on it. He was such a good boy. He never asked for anything. He never expected anything. He was always smiling and ready to give hugs to everyone. Oh, he's such a good little boy. His mother would exclaim to anyone who would listen. He's a terribly good boy, she would add lovingly.

Alexander and his mother were close. They only had each other. Alexander's father wasn't around much, and when he was, a horrible tension filled the little house. Alexander and his mother tiptoed around so they would not disturb the sleeping giant. They never knew if the man would be happy, offering smiles and kisses, or if he might be surly and hateful, offering only slaps of open hands for Alexander and fists of anger toward his wife.

Alexander was only three and had no idea that this family dynamic was not the norm. He accepted his life as it was and loved his parents as only a three-year-old could. Alexander had watched his mother grow one. It seemed as though she was wasting away, slowly becoming invisible. He didn't know she was sick with cancer. He didn't know she'd been beaten almost to death by his father just the night before. She'd suffered the blows silently, not wanting to awaken her son. Several blows had landed on the side of her head, and her left cheek and eye were black and swollen.

She cried silently most of the night, but this morning she smiled at Alexander. and could have won an Academy Award for her acting as though nothing was wrong. She prepared Alexander's favorite breakfast of pancakes with chocolate chips and syrup, and the little boy was happy. After breakfast, his mother took him into the bedroom, and they prop themselves up against the aging headboard with worn, flattened pillows. Alexander's mother began to read his favorite book of children's rhymes, and finally came to his favorite.

This little piggy went to market. She said in a high voice as she tugged at Alexander's slipper until it came off in her hand. This little piggy stayed home. She continued and tweaked his toe with her thumb and middle finger. Alexander squealed. This little piggy had roast beef. She pulled at his third toe and Alexander laughed and laughed. And this little piggy had none.

His mother elicited another delighted squeal from Alexander. And this little piggy? She spoke slowly, and Alexander almost screamed with anticipation. cried we, we, we, we all the way home. Alexander was ecstatic. He could picture each little piggy, and his favourite, of course, was the little one, when his mother kissed his little toe until he screamed with absolute delight. He was a happy child.

He was such a sweet little boy. Alexander was still grinning. as his mother raised herself from the heap of pillows and went to the dressing. She opened the top drawer, deliberately turning the little bronze key that kept the draw along. I love you, my sweet baby, she said, and raised a grey object to her head. Love you, Mommy, Alexander said,

but the loud crack from the gun erased his words. Blood and brains spattered onto his pyjamas, and his mother lay motions on the floor. Alexander knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. He saw the gun. He knew about guns from watching television. He knew guns could hurt people, and he knew his mother was hurt. She wouldn't wake up.

Half of her head had landed on the wall behind her. The huge smear of blood looked like a child's grotesque fingerpating. Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong. Mommy, please wake up. Alexander cried. Please, mum, wake up. He knelt at her lifeless body and then rested his head against her chest.

He lay with his mother, feeling her slowly becoming stiff and cold, until his father came home hours later. Alexander's happy life ended that day. His father claimed he couldn't take care of the boy and hold a job as well, so Alexander was turned over to the state and spent the next 14 years in a myriad of foster home. He was a troubled child, every foster parent claimed. He was a terribly unhappy and troubled child.

Alexander left his last foster home as soon as he came of age. He moved to New York City. Copies of the New York cases were forwarded to the NOPD and carer of Detective Spencer, all 1,738 pages of them. The files consisted of five unsolved homicide cases. The first victim was a dancer who lived in the village, not far from where her body was found, Sons' feet. There had been no effort to courtarize her wounds. The coroner's report stated cause of death as exanguination.

The second and third victims were found in Brooklyn within two weeks of each other, abducted from and later dumped in what was considered a relatively safe residential area, again seemingly unharmed other than the obvious detail of having had their feet removed. COD, undetermined. The final two victims in the New York area were found in Queens, near the Triberra Bridge. Their feet were missing, but these cases differed in that their wounds were clumsily quarterized,

probably with a blowtorch. This seemed to be the Perp's first attempt to stop his victims from bleeding out. The two victims' respective coroner's report stated it was impossible to determine the exact instrument used to remove the feet. The coroner had, however, determined the first five victims had suffered blunt dissection of the leg and foot by a relatively sharp weapon, probably an axe.

Sarah Robbins, the pretty girl in ICU, was apparently the sixth victim and the first one to survive. There was a final important piece of evidence in the hundreds of pages that the detective poured through. The toxicology reports. Four of the five New York victims had positive findings for ketamine, a new and poor and powerful anesthesia. The first victim had been found clean for the drug. She had definitely been a bleed out. The remaining four victims were determined to have been administered ketamine in a dosage four times stronger than would normally be delivered in an operating theatre. While it was likely that the four women had died from an overdose of the drug, due to the severe

exangination evident, it was impossible to ascertain the exact cause of death. It was most likely a combination of the two factors. Detective Spencer picked up the phone and called the Grace of Guard Hospital lab, identified himself with a special department pass number, and asked for Sarah's toxicology report. Positive for ketamine. The detective closed the folders on his desk. It looked as though his purport ascertained the correct dosage of the potent drug

and was now working on his surgical specialty of amputation and subsequent courtery. By the looks of the five bodies in New York and Sarah in New Orleans, his surgical prowess was obviously lacking, but he seemed to be trying. Ketamine had recently been approved by the FDA and was administered only in closely monitored cases, and in those instances where other anesthetics were contraindicated. It was known for its near-death or death-like experiences in many patients. It apparently mimicked the chemical release that occurred at the moment of death. None of the six victims had been sexually assaulted. There had been no overt signs of torture. It's so obvious, the detective realized.

The perp didn't want to kill his victims. He didn't want some kind of perverted sex. He only wanted to garner his victim's feet. He was simply a collector. Sarah was his only link to the foot collector, as the perp was quickly dubbed by the N-O-P-D. Detective Spencer's new partner was just off the beat, having passed his detective exam a few weeks ago. He was young, but he was sharp.

He jumped into the case with both feet and seemed as dedicated as his older protege in his desire to nab this bastard. Spencer was concerned with his young partner's blind determination to solve his first big case. The older detective had witnessed too many young cop's lives unceremoniously lost in their unmas. bridled enthusiasm. He'd seen one too many lay in the street dying from some stupid rookie mistake. So, you think this guy has some kind of foot fetish boss? The young detective asked.

He'd taken to calling his partner boss, and the older detective didn't correct his young psychic. Not in the sexual sense of the word detective. The older detective answered. He'd tacked his young partner kid, but realized using that term might be considered, at demeaning, and so he answered formally. I think this guy has some other reason for his particular affinity.

I'm not sure we'll ever figure it out. It's freaking sick, Detective Barnett lamented. I think we need an interview with the victim again. She's got to be more lucid now that the drugs have worn off. Let's go, then. Spencer agreed. When the two men arrived at the hospital, they found Sarah had been moved into a private room. Back to the door, she stared at the walls and didn't move as the two men clumsily made

their way to her bedside. Miss Robbins, can we talk to you for a minute? Detective Spencer asked and was surprised by the softness of his usually gruff voice. There was only silence from the girl in the hospital bed. Sarah, Detective Barnett tried. We really need to talk to you before this bastard hurt someone else. Please. Sarah turned to face the two detectives.

What do you want to know? She asked, dully. I've told you everything I know, everything I remember. You've been very helpful, the older detective said. It's just one thing I want to talk to you about. I know you said you felt as though you'd died. You were injected with ketamine, and that sometimes mimics the death experience. The girl did not react.

The older detective continued. The other thing is, you said you remembered a fairy tale or Charles Ryan. Do you remember anything else about that? The detective asked, not really expecting an answer. He said it over and over and over. Sarah whispered softly. This little piggy went to market. This little piggy stayed home.

This little piggy had roast beef. This little piggy had none. And this little piggyie had none. and this little piggy cried we are on the way home, she said, slowly and deliberately. This little, and the connection was made. The awful, horrible connection she would have to live with for the remainder of her life.

The light bulb had gone off for the detectives as soon as she began the rhyme. Everything was connecting. There was only one thing for the detective to do now. find the man, a monster who recited this children's poem before he chopped off yet another victim's feet. After his determination that he needed something to effectively quiet his victims to keep them from crying, he managed to procure a drug from the sometimes locked cabinet in the lab in the hospital where it worked. It hadn't been that difficult. After experimenting with the dosage, he realized

if he administered too much of the drug, his girls would likely die fairly quickly, and he was sorry for that. That certainly was not his intent. Practice makes perfect, he said to no one. He tried again, and again. He didn't want his girls to die. He only wanted a little souvenir, a perfect pair of ten pretty toes, something to extend his happiness just a little. He'd learned from his mistakes. His last girl had been a smashing success.

Everyone in New Orleans was talking about it, and he wanted everyone to be as happy as he was. The NOPD quickly put a lid on the story, and the two detectives knew that they had to act fast on their threat of a lead. This guy had access to ketamine. This guy either worked in a lab or in a hospital. From his M.O., Detective Spencer was pretty certain the bastard for whom they were searching did not hold a professional position, as evidenced by the

obvious lack of medical expertise. Tomorrow, they would begin checking every hospital in the city for drug reports that were off, especially for ketamine. They would find him. Their sense of urgency was intense. The adrenaline that pumped in a constant rhythm through the older detective system made him feel 20 years younger for a few days, and then served only to keep him awake late into the night. He had not shaved in days, and his suits were wrinkles.

Were it not for the Jack Daniels that finally stopped his brain from rummaging incessantly at night, he wouldn't have been able to function. Thank God for Jack, he muttered aloud as he passed out. The New Orleans press had discovered Sarah and two policemen were stationed outside her door 24-7, so not so much as a security precaution, but rather to keep the press at bay. The city paper ran the story. Serial foot-collector in nuance. Women take precautions.

At first glance, some readers thought the story was a spoof. Foot-collector. What on earth was that? But the line, women take precautions, belied the more serious content of the story, which was read by almost everyone in the city. The details were sparse, but they were enough to engage the public's imagination, and soon the story, as incomplete as it was,

became the number one news item on the local TV stations. Detective Spencer was furious. The publicity could easily serve to chase the perp out of the city, out of the media spotlight, and out of their grounds. Alexander didn't watch television, didn't own a set. Every evening when he returned home from his janitorial job at the hospital, he amused himself and passed the hours at home by carefully lifting one or more of the heavy gallon jars from a specially enclosed set of shelves he'd built in his closet.

Sometimes he took all 12 jars down and placed the correct pairs together in a neat row. Oh, he reveled in his work. When he was feeling a bit silly, he'd mix the feet up, six lefts and six rights. There were unlimited arrangements he'd discovered. He would smile as he remembered how much fun he had, wriggling his girls. That's what he liked to call the women he brought home, his girls. Riggling his girl's beautiful white toes, he lovelingly recited the little piggy's poem to them. He couldn't understand why the girls would cry.

It was a beautiful rhyme. He didn't want them to cry, so he began to give them something to help them keep quiet. Something to keep them from crying. A sedation, he called it. Some medicine he'd stolen from the hospital. He gave the girls a little if they cried too much, and he gave them more before he took the souvenirs. He kept them still.

His girls would lay silent on the little bed. They didn't cry. and then he could play little piggies on their pretty toes for hours and he was happy he was so happy he had made some serious mistakes with his first girl she just wouldn't stop crying

and he had no idea what to do he ended up taping her mouth closed with duct tape and taking her feet in a hurry he'd barely played his game with her at all after procuring his trophies he quickly disposed of the body in a dump not far from his own apartment building in Chelsea and realized later he'd been pretty stupid. He also realized he was lucky, but he could not contain his desires and he was on the prowl again within a few weeks,

this time in a neighborhood across the Brooklyn Bridge. It was so easy. He simply watched a girl he wanted and followed her for a week or so to figure out what hours she worked and how she got home. The girls who drove their own cars were the easiest. They thought they were so brave going to their cars alone at night. They were easy pickings. After a week or so, Alexander simply hid behind a nearby car, and when his girl was distracted, unlocking her car door,

he came up behind her and pressed the cloth to her nose. She struggled a bit, and this was by far the most dangerous 30 seconds of the abduction, or the catch is the catch. as Alexander Coy. When his girl went limp, he put his arm around her waist and pretended she'd had too much to drink,

steering her easily to his car which she had parked just a few spaces away. Once inside the back of his car, she was his. His apartment was little more than a shed behind a big house in a ritzie-up town neighbourhood and his driver went all the way to his door. No one ever saw him come or go.

his little dwelling consisted of a living room, kitchen and bedroom. In the bedroom was a large closet which held his most precious possessions, his collection. He'd thought to make a special place. Didn't like the term hide, no, special place to keep his collection. And should anyone enter his abode uninvited? And everyone, other than his girls, was uninvited. No one would ever find his cachet. His bedroom was large enough to hold both his full-size bed and another twin bed he converted

into a sofa when he wasn't using it for one of his girls. When he had company, he used a thick sheet of vinyl to cover the little bed. After he garnered his souvenirs, he simply folded the vinyl and threw it away in a big, brown garbage bag. He never kept his girls for more than a few days, and he had to work around his days off at the hospital. He was never concerned about one of his girls screaming to alert someone to her plight. He simply put a thick piece of duct tape over their mouths.

He removed it now and again to give them water. Should they eventually pee, the vinyl would catch it. Most of the time, they just lay it. And that was fine with him. True, he would have enjoyed it more if they'd been awake when he recited his poem and played with their little toes, but most of his girls had cried when he suggested they'd join him in his fun. He really didn't like to see girls cries

So he found that the sedation would keep them quiet And when they were quiet He could play with their toes at length Without any annoying distraction In a few hours He would catch another girl She would be lucky number seven He would have seven beautiful pairs of toes

We wish to play And that would make him very happy Alexander had watched this new girl for several weeks now. She worked in the same hospital as he did, and although he usually chose a prettier girl, and one with which he had no association whatsoever, he'd been immediately smitten with this one.

This one was special. She worked in the gift shop and had worn sandals one summer day, sandals without stockings. Her toenails were meticulously trimmed and painted with a deep burgundy polish. He'd never seen anything like it. toes peaked at him from beneath the leather strap of her shoes and he thought he would faint from sheer joy

he waited patiently for her and at eight o'clock she closed the gift shop and walked outside never once imagining that she might be in any danger Alexander followed his new girl halfway down the block into the parking garage just across the street he watched as the elevator light went to the third floor and stopped about a minute later

a blue Toyota Prius perred down the cement ramp to the exit booth there was no attendant on duty and the new girl swiped her ticket to urge the yellow bar to rise the Prius exited the garage the new girl safely inside and Alexander smiled this was too easy a week later Alexander could not wait a day longer he would catch her tonight

after he finished work and had something to eat. He would find her car in the garage, careful not to be noted by any cameras, and he would park his car in a space as near to her Prius as possible. The garage usually opened up at night, after most people left at five pia or so he should be able to attack her easily. She should be an easy catch. He could barely contain himself

and his anticipation ripple through his belly all that day. as he thought the lot had emptied and the motor of his big Chevy echoed against the concrete walls he smiled as he navigated his old Chevy next to the yellow Prius and then he waited about ten to eight he opened the driver's door and stood upright he was stiff from sitting in the front seat for two hours he crouched low the big Chevy providing a more than adequate hiding place his heart almost exploded when he saw her, car keys in her hands and sandals on her pretty feet. He almost laughed aloud in glee, but mustered a self-control he had not known he possessed. He successfully stifled his laughter and smiled as he deftly moved up behind his girl and pressed the dirty rag over her face. She was in his car in a matter of seconds. She was his. Maggie vaguely realized she'd been drugged.

She understood she'd been abducted. She was living her worst nightmare, and she swallowed bitter bile, hot on her tongue, as she realized her mouth was taped closed. She knew if she was to survive, she needed to calm down and keep her wits about her. She pushed the terror away,

to a place deep inside her where she would claim it later. Now, at this, moment, she needed to be practical, she needed to think, to figure out what exactly had happened and how she would deal with it. Maggie was well known among her friends and associates for her brain power and her pragmatism. These two attributes had served her well in the past. She could only hope and pray that they would serve her well now, now in this dark, stinking little room with a big man asleep on the bed. She mentally surveyed her body. She was a little dopey but otherwise intact.

There were restraints keeping her hands at her side. She soon realized they were leather straps, looped in one another, and secured to the iron frame upon which the mattress rested. They were buckles. Buckles could likely be manipulated, she thought. Her feet were free, but her heels rested upon a hard surface,

something like a wooden plank. Her pant legs had been rolled up to her knees, and for a moment she wondered if she'd been assaulted. She doubted if such a person would bother to redress her, and she felt no pain, so she dismissed that possibility. Perhaps he was waiting until she regained consciousness. Maggie could see her captor's large bulk on the bed a few feet away and hoped to heaven that he was sleeping.

She began to twist her hands in the leather straps. Escape might be more difficult than she'd first imagined, but she sure as hell was going to try. She didn't plan to lay there passively, awaiting an unknown and likely horrible fate. She was a fighter, and she wasn't going to play the easy victim for this asshole. One strap's buckle loosened, and her right hand freed itself. The bulk on the bed stirred. Holy fuck, she thought.

The adrenaline coursing through her body had replaced any semblance of drug-induced sedation. She frantically, but silent. began to urge the other hand free of its dog-collar restraint. Her thumb was free. The man turned over heavily on the sagging matrix. She knew he was awake now, and she grabbed the other leather strap and reinserted her bruised hand into its confines. Maggie forced herself to close our eyes,

but before she did, she caught the glint of an object in the corner. The axe was new and shiny, and propped against the wall just a few feet away. She saw a metal tray lined with syringes and several glass bottles. Her heart was beating against her chest, and she tried frantically to remain calm and think her way out of this nightmare. Breathe, she thought. Breathe!

Alexander rose from the bed, his six-foot-four frame hulking its way into the hallway. He had to pee something awful. How long had he been asleep anyway, he wondered. He couldn't believe he'd fallen asleep with his new girl so near him, so ripe, so ready. He remembered he'd rolled up the legs of her black pants with painstaking care, but had intentionally saved the best for later. Perhaps she would be different. Perhaps she would play the game with him.

He truly doubted it, but he took off his socks. He never knew. He just never knew. Alexander returned to the darkened room and removed the tape that covered his new girl's lips he poured a glass of water from the gallon jug in the kitchen holding the dirty glass to the girl's mouth he gently pressed until the water touched her lips

most of it spilled onto the sides of her mouth but to his surprise her lips opened a bit and she actually sipped some water from the glass Maggie slowly opened her eyes pretending to be coming up from a place of deep slumber. She was captive, arms at her sides. She would play as game if it meant getting out alive and intact. Maggie instinctively knew this huge, hooking man,

was the man the newspaper and television had featured for a week or so, and then probably forgot about. He was the guy for which the police had searched in vain for the last two weeks. He was the asshole who'd taken that girl's feet and left her behind the dumpster to die. He was the bastard who kidnapped her from the hospital garage. He was a stuff of nightmares. He was a sick son of a bitch who needed to be put down

like the perverted animal that he was. Aye! Maggie managed to mutter. Alexander almost dropped the syringe that he'd filled with ketamine. None of his girls had ever actually spoken to him. He had no idea what he was. should do? Would this one be different? Would this one actually play with him? His toes wiggled on the cheap, dirty carpet. The Jack had done its job and Detective Spencer had fallen into a heavy but restless slumber. On the queen-sized bed he'd shared with his wife before she left

him. Too many nights alone, she'd stated simply, and was gone. He slept fitfully, still in his boxer shorts and wife beat the undershirt. He heard the alarm through the fog of alcohol-induced sleep. It seemed as though he just drifted off, but he judifully sat up, dangling his legs off the side of the bed. He would stand in a cold shower for five minutes and revive himself. He had three more hospitals to visit today. One of them had to hold the key. He reached under the bed, groping through his slippers, and his fingers fell upon something nubby and warm. His fingers determined these warm little nubs to be toes, and they wiggled in his hands. The detective sat up in bed with a start.

The alarm was ringing its loud, obnoxious song. He didn't reach under the bed for his slippers, but headed straight to the shower. His bare feet numbed to the cold tile floor. He pushed the dream out of his head. Today is the day, he thought. He could feel it. Ian, Detective Bunnett, flashed their badges to the receptionist and human resources. The girl lost a shade or two of colour and informed them she would get her supervisor.

After a few rounds of higher-ups playing an odd game that reminded the older detective of musical chairs, the two detectives finally settled down in the office of the hospital administrator. The detectives were brusk and to the point, asking for information about any reports of missing drugs, particularly ketanil. So far, none of the hospitals had reported any shortages. The milk toast administrator hesitated with his answer, just a fraction of a second too long, and the detectives immediately knew their answer.

They quickly asked him for a list of employees who'd been hired within the last six months and who might have access to laboratories or other sensitive areas where controlled substances were stored. The administrator hesitated. again. He spoke of confidentiality in the hospital's reputation and regulations ad nauseum. Detective Spencer's patients was as thin as a razor blade. Look, sir, there's a damn maniac out there, and we have reason to believe that he will do

one of two things. Either leave town and never be caught, until, of course, he decides to strike again, or he is, at this very moment planning another kidnapping, or maybe already has her. get the damn files now the administrator fell silent and scurried into the adjacent room he returned with two files both containing the addresses in work history of newly hired maintenance workers each detective grabbed a file and detective Spencer read the work history of the employee in his cardboard folder

Alexander had been a maintenance worker with an impeccable record at New York General Hospital for the past 15 years having only recently moved to new orders. We need to speak to this man immediately, Detective Spencer said. Well, let me get his supervisor, the administrator squeaked and began to dial an internal hospital number. He asked to have the employees sent to his office

and waited silently for what seemed like an eternity to the detectives. Fine, the administrator said into the receiver and hung up the phone. He's off until Tuesday, the man told the two detectives. The typed address in the employee folder was an Audubon Street all the way up town. It was half an hour away. The two cops were in the car within minutes, and the blue light on the dash parted traffic as though it was the Red Sea. They could make it in ten minutes if they were lucky.

Alexander stood over his girl. Did you say something to me? he asked. Maggie tried to smile, but Alexander thought it was a grimace. Hi, she managed to repeat. She knew she had him off balance. She knew she had to keep him that way, but not uncomfortable enough that he would panic. She tried not to look toward the corner where the axe languished against the wall. She saw the syringe in his big hand.

It was loaded with an amber liquid. What's that for? she asked, innocently. That's to help you rest, Alexander answered politely. But I'm not tired, Maggie responded, trying to muster up an energy she'd not feel. It's talk for a while, Maggie said. I don't even know who you are or why I'm here. She tried to sound innocent and non-threatening, to sound sincere and interested in this big bulk of a man. Well, I guess we can't talk.

I don't get to talk to too many people, though What do you want to talk about? Oh, I don't know. Why don't you tell me who you are? Why did you bring me here? She tried again to sound bright and non-threatening. Do you live here? She thought this was less of an invasive question

and one he could easily answer. I live here, he said. I live here by myself. His answer was terse and Maggie could detect the distrust in his voice. Oh, can you undo my hands so I can go to the bathroom, please? She asked in a matter-of-fact, huh? Alexander had no idea what he should do. None of his girls had ever spoken to him before,

much less asked to go to the job. He didn't see what harm it would do and if he was nice to her and she liked him enough. Maybe she will play a little piggy's with him. his toes wiggled again Alexander didn't notice the leather restraint straps

were already somewhat loosened as he unbuckled them and his girl stood her hands out she sat up and after a few seconds rose unsteadily to her feet she asked him where she might find the bathroom

he pointed to the hallway and told her it was the door to the left Maggie stumbled her way across the room and opened the door to the dirty stinking room that housed a disgusting sink and an even more disgusting toilet. She squatted, peed and washed her hands. She splashed cold water onto her face and stared at her reflection in the grimy mirror.

She didn't know what day it was or how long she'd been out. She suspected it was Sunday as she'd closed the shop on Saturday night and her last memory had been walking to her car with her keys lodged firmly between her fingers. if it was Sunday she wouldn't be missed until Monday afternoon when she didn't show up for work in the two years Maggie had worked at the gift shop she'd never been late much less absent from work

she was known for being responsible and the fact she hadn't shown up and had not called in would surely set off alarms with her supervisor she just had to survive until then she just had to buy some time regardless of what it might cost her. Maggie returned to the darkened room.

She was too unsteady to try to figure out where the front door was and whether there was a back door to this dingy apartment. She would play this out. She would wait until she was sure she knew her legs would support her in a dash to freedom. Hey! she said as though she'd known her abductor for years. She sat upright on the bed and noticed for the first time that it was covered in vinyl. What's your name?

As soon as she asked, she realized she had made a mistake. The look on the man's face confirmed her fear. She'd gotten two-person. She had overstayed. She quickly added, I'm Maggie. She remembered an article she'd read years ago

about being kidnapped. Suggested to the reader that if you establish some type of relationship with your abductor, Made yourself human, you would stand a chance of survival. She continued with a quick, I work at the gift shop in the hospital, pretending not to know that he likely already knew that. She realized she was jabbering and became silent, waiting for a response.

You, um, want to play a gay? The big man asked suddenly. It seemed as though he expected a negative response. Sure. Maggie answered. What did you have in mind? I have the best game. Alexander said with an enthusiasm

he could not hide. My mama used to play it with me, he said, and then blushed a dark red, realizing that his girl might think he was just a big baby. Really? Maggie answered quickly. I love playing games with my mom. She quickly put him at an unexpected,

albeit relative ease. Did she play little piggies with you? Alexander asked incredulously. She did, Maggie answered. She did. I remember that game. Maggie was in uncharted waters and could only hope to wing her way through this bizarre reality. You want to play it with me?

Alexander asked the inevitable question. We can take turns. Alexander was almost beside himself with anticipation. participation. Sure, Maggie answered with false enthusiasm. She glanced down at the man's big feet. His toes were flexing in ecstasy. She noticed the black toe jam that shifted with each flex.

She fought a wave of nausea. Okay, I'll go first, the big man offered. Let me see your little piggy. Maggie sat back on the little bed and put her feet onto the vinyl cupboard. Alexander sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her feet into his massive lap. This little pea went to market. He gently tugged on her big top. This little piggy stayed at home. He tweaked her next to her. This little piggy had roast beef. He tugged her middle toe. And this little piggy had none. He all. He always. He always, he had roast beef. He tugged her middle toe.

And this little piggy had none. He almost squealed. And this little piggy cried, Wee, we all the way home. The big man began to cry, to sob. He was filled with joy and sorrow, with love found and love floss. Maggie's overt fear and disgust of the man began to drip away.

slowly vanishing to be replaced by a tremendous ache in her heart. She pretended not to notice his tears or see his shoulders heave with sobs. Come on then, she told him. Give me those piggies, put them in my lap. She instructed with a smile. Alexander turned to her, unable to believe her words. Surely he'd misunderstood. He wiped his nose and eyes with the smile.

sleeve of his shirts. Really? He asked. Really? And Alexander was three again and scooted onto the bed, heaving his huge feet onto the lap of his girl. You would remember

to ask her name, but now she so gently grasped his big toe between her thumb and index finger and began to shake it gently and recite his favorite rhyme. This little piggy went to market. She said softly, with a smile.

This little piggy stayed home. She continued. Alexander retreated into the past, into a time of unbridled happiness and absolute innocence. He was happy. He could hear his mother say what a good boy he was. What a terribly good boy. This little piggy had roast beef.

Maggie continued, and this little piggy had none. and this little piggy cried There was a series of loud knocks at what Maggie thought must be the front door and then a crash Alexander made a mad dash for the axe and ran into the front of the shed where he rushed at the two detectives the big blade swinging

Maggie was surprised at the grace with which Alexander deftly lodged the huge shiny weapon into the side of the young detective blood gushed. The blade sliced the detective's liver neatly in half. Detective Spencer fired his nine millimeter straight into the perp's chest. The big man didn't miss a step and lunged at the detective, the bloody axe still in his big hands. Maggie spotted the discarded syringe with the amber liquid and within a few seconds she jammed its long needle into the back of the madman's neck. She pushed the plunger in as far as it would go. Alexander brushed aside the syringe as though it was a pesky, stinging bug.

He started and looked at Maggie for a long second with her and disbelief. He had trusted her. How could she? The distraction had provided the few seconds needed by Detective Spencer to unload another round of bullets this time into Alexander's head. The big man's head exploded, much as his mother's had those many years ago. The wall catching the back of his skull and most of his brain. Maggie fell onto the cot and began to sob from relief for herself and for a deep sadness

for the big man. Detective Spencer went into cop mode and radioed for a bus, but the young detective had lost too much blood. He died in his partner's arms, having never been able to be. regain consciousness. The old detective wondered how it was that he'd been granted his 63 years of life. How it was he had seen all that he'd seen and wondered darkly if his longevity was a curse or a blessing.

Sometimes, most of the time, life made little or no sense, he thought. No sense at all. Alexander's massive bulk lay sprawled on the floor. His blood pooled. rolling around him, staining the dirty carpet at Burgundy rain. He was lifeless now, finally, at Pete. He wasn't really a bad man. He could hear his mother's voice now.

He's such a good boy. He's such a terribly good boy. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen. Now, I'd ask one small favour of you. Wherever you get your podcast wrong, please write a few nice words

and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again, same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.