Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S6 Ep295: Episode 295: Spine Tingling Horror Stories

Episode Date: November 27, 2025

Tonight’s first nightmarish tale of terror is ‘Everyone Else Saw It’, a wonderful original story by Malcolm MacDonald, kindly shared directly with me via my subreddit and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission: https://www.reddit.com/user/snickeringhaystack/ Today’s second offering is ‘One Last Job’, an original story by Will Rayne, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/WillRayne/ Tonight’s penultimate classic story is ‘Psychosis’, an original work by Matt Dymerski, kindly shared with via NoSleep and read here with the author’s permission. This Creepypasta scary story is one of the best-known ones, but I’ve wanted to do for a long time! Check out more of Matt’s stories here:  https://mattdymerski.com/​ Tonight’s final nightmarish tale of terror is ‘Why I Quit the Gang’, a wonderful original story by Malcolm MacDonald, kindly shared directly with me via my subreddit and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission: https://www.reddit.com/user/snickeringhaystack/

Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon. Tent situation scare us because they trap us in the charged silence before something happens, the moment where every instinct screams that danger is close, but we don't yet know what shape it'll take. Our minds raise ahead, imagining worst-case scenarios while our bodies tighten preparing for impact. That uncertainty, that suspended breath, is its own kind of terror. It's not the threat itself that unravels us, but the waiting, the sense that the next heartbeat could change everything. We shall see in tonight's collection of stories. As ever before we begin a word of caution, Tonight's towers may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery.

That sounds like your kind of thing. Then let's begin. Everyone else saw it by Malcolm MacDonald. Jonathan Lynch's Skype session with his mother was in five minutes. Well, he had to admit, he'd missed her. He hadn't been able to visit his tiny hometown in years. In fact, he missed contact with anyone, seeing as his current city had been under lockdown for 14 consecutive months. Fortunately, and unlike many of his friends, Jonathan was still earning a salary.

I know he had to work remotely from home. It was far from ideal. But being able to work in his pajamas and a cold beer being only five paces away from his workstation, well, lockdown certainly wasn't without its perks. Three minutes until the Skype meeting. meeting. I just wished he hadn't broken up with his girlfriend about a week before the breakout, or rather that she hadn't broken up with him. He'd been on thin ice for a while, and the last straw fell on her birthday, the day he'd promised to take her to see Hamilton in the city,

but had been too hung over to go. After two days of silence, she phoned him and broke off their 11-month courtship. Before hanging up, she complained about his near-nightly big. She complained about his near-nightly binge drinking, and we'd come home late at night, waking her, scaring the cats, smelling like a brewery. After the initial heartache had faded, Jonathan managed to laugh it off. Same problem I had in my twenties, he thought. Can't blame a guy if I wanted to have a good time. Still, being all but confined to his apartment now, it would have been nice to have some company. The walls were so narrow, so confining, and the nights were so very, very long. A minute and a half before he had to Skype his mother.

Tonight, he was already half in the bag, having pounded a few and chased them with vodka. I'm sure it was only a Wednesday, but as long as his reports met their deadline, no one at the office would complain. He'd been warned once about his tiredness, his dishevelled dress, and occasional inebriated demeanour during work hours, but now he worked from home, so no one would notice or care. Thirty seconds left. His mother had already messaged him twice, asking if he was online. Remembering how even in a Zoom meeting for work, he could sneak a couple of brews,

he skipped over to the kitchenette, pulling a cold one from the fridge and pouring it into a ceramic mark. No reason to think it was anything other than a cup of coffee. It's not like he was hiding anything. He just knew how worried his mother would get, her being a health nut, a neat freak, and devoted follower of the latest health scare making the rounds across the cable news networks.

10.15 p.m. Jonathan? Are you ready? Jonathan planted himself at his desk, his cold mug of lager in his hand, and accepted her request for a Skype call. Within seconds his mother's pleasant yet weathered face manifested in the form of a few hundred grainy pixels on his monitor. Since turning 60, she'd stopped getting her hair dyed bronze amber and let it go grey,

which, in truth, looked much better. He smiled and took a swig of beer. The two of them spoke leisurely for about an hour. At 73, Jonathan's father, Melvin, had decided to retire from the bank. Jonathan was glad for that, knowing his father hated that job and never seemed to get the recognition or due compensation he deserved. A bank always making him work extra hours, take on duties above his pay grade,

and always making excuses for postponing vacation days or promotion as promised months before. Jonathan had polished off the contents of the mug within six minutes and had started pouring whiskey from a flask off camera to maintain his buzz. Well, his mother never seemed to notice. But then, she mentioned something. that startled him. Jonathan, I can't see too well.

Who sat in the room with you? Jonathan furrowed his brow, a cold feeling working its way up his spine. He was all alone. There wasn't anyone in the apartment with him. He hadn't had any visitors for weeks. Um, there's no one here except me, Ma. No, there's someone there,

there, standing at the corner to your right. His heart lurched. Jonathan spun around, looking to the edge of the hallway leading to his bedroom. There was no one there. Turning slowly, Jonathan forced to laugh. Mom, I think your eyes are playing tricks on you. It's probably the bad quality of the picture you've got. It happens all the time.

Computers often mistake certain patterns and objects for human faces. But his mother was adamant. there was someone standing not eight feet behind him, plain as the nose on her face. Just then Jonathan sensed something, like steam, grazed the back of his neck. He considered looking back again, but no, it was nothing, just the power of suggestion. Jonathan couldn't place exactly where this feeling had come from, but the chill up his spine had waxed into a small, glowing fever, and his mother's insistence was really starting to piss him off.

Okay, look, Ma, it's starting to get late, and I've got a lot of work to do tomorrow. I'm going to need to go to bed now, so let's just say good night. Visibly struck, his mother began to backpedal, asking where they could next Skype, telling her son that she loved him and she was proud of him. It was a conscious effort on Jonathan's part not to roll his eyes. When the session ended, he drained the flasks, and then drain the mug. His brain was swimming around inside his skull,

but his stomach was heavy and his neck was nettled. His mother had spoiled his good mood. He was now 11.15, and Jonathan decided he'd retire in another 45 minutes. Free now to move around unencumbered, he stumbled his way to the fridge and popped another tallboy, taking a deep drink from the can. On the back of the whiskey,

the imported lager from Prague tasted of bean juice. He killed it and then popped a second one. Nursing this beer, he walked over to his eastern exposed windows and peered down at the dark street below. He looked down at the local coffee chain, now shuttered,

where hours earlier a mob of anti-vaxes had congregated, protesting the store's policy on masks and their refusal to allow indoor dining. At the time, he'd shaken his head, mentally condemning them for their stupidity. Now, alone, staring at the empty sidewalk, he sympathised with them. Maybe illness, or even death, wouldn't be the worst thing to come from all of this.

He'd read somewhere online that suicide rates had dipped during the pandemic. Well, how could that be? After a year of staying at home, he was climbing up the walls. Forty minutes to midnight. Jonathan wasn't drunk. Definitely not. Yeah, he was tipsy for sure, but not drunk. He wasn't exactly sleepy either. Feeling restless, he picked up his phone and toyed with the thought of texting his ex. Then, knowing she'd accuse him of drunk texting, perhaps looking for a booty call or a quick blowy, he nicks the idea and slammed the phone down on his desk. He didn't need that shit right now. Instead, he remembered his buddy from college, Dorian Wentworth, and knew he was often up late, being on unemployment and collecting checks. The isolation of that night was nibbling at him,

and so he texted his friend, asking for a Zoom meet. Dorian replied immediately in the affirmative. He was already online, playing World of Warcraft, and could use a break. 30 minutes until bedtime. I met on Zoom. and shot the shit for a good 15 minutes, talking about everything from their exes to the latest online games

to the latest draft decisions of their favourite sports teams. Then, about 17 minutes in, Jonathan felt his phone vibrate in his lap. Figuring it was just some junk text, he kept chatting with Dorian. Then he felt another text come through. Not wanting to seem rude,

he excused himself and picked up his phone to check. All the texts, were from Dorian. He looked up at the screen, realizing that Dorian was still talking, talking about nothing. He was blathering on and on, as though just trying to force any semblance of a casual, natural conversation. Who was he doing that for?

When Jonathan checked the texts, they read as follows. 1147 p.m. Dude, who's that in the room with you? 11.48 p.m. I'm not fucking kidding. Who is that? There's someone right behind you. Feeling that same chill up his back,

though the fiery friction of annoyance wasn't far behind. Jonathan looked over his shoulder, then did a full sweep of the room. Nothing. There was no one there. Dorian, said Jonathan, then shook his head, hearing the drunken slur in his voice.

Dorian, you can stop pretending to talk about D&D. I saw your texts. There's no one in the apartment with me. Your computer must have some kind of filter on it. Those things always see faces where there is not. Oh, okay, said Dorian. Fear and trepitation audible in his voice. His bald, cherubic face looks stunned.

Okay, yeah, no problem. Listen, it's a bit late, so I should be shoving off now, and I'll see you later. Before Jonathan could say goodbye, Dorian had left the Zoom meeting. Hmm, strange, he thought. Almost instantaneously, Jonathan's phone slithered across the top of his desk, indicating another text. Jonathan picked up the phone.

This time Dorian had sent a screenshot of their Zoom meeting, the title of the file reading, Who is that? Jonathan saw his own face, His eyes heavy with fatigue and drink, and saw a red circle drawn around a wide space over his shoulder. Again, there was nothing there, nothing but empty space. The phone then vibrated a final time in his hand.

One last text from Dorian. 11.52 p.m. Don't you see him? That creepy-looking guy right over your shoulder. I'm telling you he's right on top of you. Get out of there. I'm going to call him. I'm going to call the Cups.

By now, Jonathan was near-lived. Even his boy, Dorian, was pestering him with this phantom. What would otherwise have just been an annoyance was now amplified into full-born rage from the booze sloshing around his bloodstream. He texted Dorian back. 11.54 p.m. There's no need to call the Cups.

There's nothing here. Just fuck off. He sent the message, and then turned his phone. phone on silence. Five minutes left before midnight. Having a hankering for a nightcap, Jonathan made the mistake of getting to his feet too fast. He regretted it instantly, finding his legs with sticks of butter beneath him,

and the room was spinning before his eyes. Took a good minute for him to find his equilibrium. Then, able to stand firmly on his two feet, Jonathan made the wise choice of staggering through the hallway to his bedroom and glapsing onto the mattress. He awoke three hours later

and he had to piss something fierce. But that wasn't what had woken him. He could feel his 40 ABV blood racing through his veins, his heart punching a hole through his chest. His stomach felt like it was filled with rocks

and in his temples he could feel the familiar heat of an onset headache. A hangover for sure nothing to get too worried about when he got out of bed the crapulent system seemed to recede and he felt somewhat better he then strode his way to the commode standing he let a long stream of urine into the bowl the dark piss making a small tearing sound against the porcelain oh the smell hit his nostrils causing his stomach to flip feeling the familiar rush from his guts to his throat his gullet filling with saliva, he could no longer kid himself. Kneeling onto the floor, he vomited into the bowl, his puke into mixing with the darkened water. The smell was maddening, so he flushed before letting out one more mouthful of regurgitated goo. Panting for a spell, he slowly got to his feet and felt the full force of his self-induced nausea. He thought about that study he read

a while back, about how the suicide rates had gone down this past year. He then wondered what the rate of liver failure would be. Before returning to bed to nurse's hangover, he splashed some water on his face and then looked into the mirror above the sink. And that's when he saw it. The other man. The thing that his mother and Dorian had seen hovering over him. He stood directly behind him.

him, as though it were a second head jutting out from his shoulder. He saw its waxy, sallow skin, his dying bloodshot eyes, the grotesquely bulbous forehead, a swollen scarlet scab of a nose, and a crooked set of yellow teeth forming a hideous Richter's grin. The face was not just malformed, but disgusting in its humanness. You can not only see it, but feel its hot breath bearing down his neck. It felt like his flesh were ablaze. Adrenaline surging inside him, Jonathan dashed out of his apartment, grabbing an overcoat and slippers on the way.

Not waiting for the elevator, he ran down the stairwell, three steps at a time. Outside the building, but still within the property line of the complex, He fished out a lighter and cigarette from his coat pocket and lit up. As he was panting, the tobacco hit his lungs hard, causing him to cough. He took a smaller drag which soothed the burn at the back of his cullet. He started to feel better. God, who was that in the mirror? It was still dark out, dark and empty.

He couldn't go far, not without risking infection that was. despite understanding the motives and zest for life demonstrated by the anti-maskers he wasn't about to attempt catching COVID not over some spook in the mirror well he probably wouldn't catch anything what were the streets as empty as they were but why take a risk

Jonathan always was a bit of a hypochondria it couldn't have been real he then thought that's just stupid there's no such thing Jonathan then began to chuckle a little, laughing at himself of being so childish. There was nothing in the mirror. Assured that he'd just been dreaming, imagining things from the power suggestion, he crushed his sick and made his way back inside.

By the time he'd slunk back into his room, his temples were in full throb of an agonizing migraine. But at least now his stomach was empty, and his blood pressure had gone down to normal. it'll be a rough day but nothing he hadn't faced before he could all his working on time and would he even be able to hack it in the staff Zoom meeting without raising any eyebrows before he retired to try and salvage what was left of a good night's rest he crept back into the bathroom he couldn't say why other than there was some invisible force

pulling him back in front of that mirror perhaps he just needed to assure himself one last time that it was all in his head. But when he stood there, facing his reflection, it only took a minute before the spectre appeared. There was no surprise or shock this time, not like a jump scare in the movies. Instead, the apparition just materialized into view

as they re-emerging from beneath a black pool of liquid. Its crooked, hideous grin seemed to taunt him from the other side of the glass. Jonathan had a good look at it, and realised that he'd seen it before. He'd seen the same face in his dreams, in his nightmares, and the reflections and shadows that always seemed to follow him ever since he was six years old. The spectre had always been there, always following him,

who was now far more palpable, far more powerful. Jonathan knew the spectre would always be with him, always shadowing him but in all his terror-filled childhood memories he'd never seen the spectre hovering this close behind had he never seen its face look so near to his own reflection

in the mirror what happened next the accumulation of events defied reason and sanity it took a moment but Jonathan soon realized he couldn't breathe or at least it seemed like he couldn't breathe

The air was so dense, so thick, humid and hot like, well, like jungle mist. It smelled of acetone and stale yeast and reeked of bile. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and burned, like candles at a midnight vigil. That was where it was the hottest, at the back of his neck, where the enormous mouth of the spectre in the mirror was closest. His chest heaving, his own breathing now audible. Jonathan tried to tear himself from the mirror to even turn around to face his tormentor.

But he was stuck there, stuck there by the same force that had drawn him in to take a second glance. He might have extricated himself earlier before the face had reappeared, but now, it was too late. The heat, cindering his flesh, grew brighter, taking on a wet, moist quality somehow.

And the sound of the heavy breathing, his or the spectres he couldn't be sure, was bludgeoning his ears, vexing in its monotony and incessance. The room was a furnace. And still, that face, that horrible, yellow face was staring, glaring at him from the mirror. He turned the taps, then promptly twisted them back, finding only white fog billowing from the pipes. he was so hot so hot and so thirsty what the hell was happening why was it happening he wasn't sure how he knew but that face that face in the mirror was the cause of it all acting on inertia jonathan slapped at the glass aiming for the spectre's reflection the mirror's surface was chilled almost cold it might have only been that he was slick but to jonathan and as touch it felt like ice inside of that boiling room, like cool, refreshing water. It then came to him. Of course. It made perfect sense.

It was the only thing left to do. He struck at the mirror again, this time with a closed fist. The glass wobbled on its hooks, his and the spectre's image disappearing for a fleeting second in shimmering waves. Just a little more. It's almost over. He threw a right hook into the glass, putting his hip into the throw, and the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces. The silvery shards lay inside the basin before him, glinting in the moonlight like a billion

lost stars. Feeling something wet on his knuckles, he brought his hand to his nose and smelled blood. The wheezing cacophony had ceased, but the room was still unbearable, growing hotter by the second, and his feet was still glued to the floor. Well, at least he didn't see that face. Then, looking down at the

shards of glass, winking at him from the sink, he got a second idea. Another brilliant plan by anyone's standard of drunken dream logic, but then anybody sober and rational hearing it might well say it was the only cause of action he had left to free himself

from the looming figure. The best thing for Jonathan at this point, He reached down, picked up a shard of the former mirror, a particularly long blade-shaped piece. It felt so cool, so soothing in his hand. It's just like shaving, he thought, speaking to himself. It's just like a shave after a long hot shower. Maroon oozing from his knuckles, the sweat on his back evaporating instantly in the boiling hellroom. He stretched his neck.

pointing his chin upward, and drew the makeshift razor close. I feel so smooth, he thought, feeling a jagged edge grays his three-day stubble. It feels so cool. The warbling birds outside roused him. In the weak daylight he found himself face down on the floor, blood everywhere. Oh, my dad, he thought. No, but close to it. He looked around him, discovering the scarlet splatter he was laying on.

That and the shards of the broken mirror. His head felt like an expanding water balloon, about to burst. But that wasn't what concerned him. He felt a sting, most prominent in the side of his neck. He then remembered what he'd done, or what he'd almost done, before blacking out, and felt a thrill of panic rise in his chest. Did I... fearing the worst he grabbed for a large piece of mirror

while not too obscured by venetious smudges and looked at himself past the blood cake to his skin he could make out a long fleshy scar carving its way from his sternumostoid up over his jaw and ending in a hook along his cheek just shy of meeting the corner of his mouth a scratch a bad one

but nothing fatal that being said he had lost a lot of blood he'd have to call a doctor probably go to the hospital easing himself vertical almost falling over from blood loss he grabbed a towel and pressed it hard to his lacerated face and neck he then stumbled walked his way to the kitchen pouring herself a glass of orange juice and then dialed nine one one he was discharged from the hospital hours later the facility was hopelessly over burned with patients, but they managed to stitch him up and then send him on his way, telling him to pick up a roll of gauze and some antibiotic ointment from the pharmacy before he left. As much as Jonathan was worried about catching COVID, he was kind of relieved that the hospital had so much else on their plate to deal with. Yeah, no nagging questions about whether this was a suicide attempt,

or how much alcohol or drugs he'd consumed. He didn't need that shit right now. though one of the nurses did find time to comment that the scar looked kind of like an upside-down question mark, with the hook end and all. Jonathan didn't know what to make of that. For the time he arrived home, it was past noon. He'd missed his Zoom meeting for work. He texted his supervisor with a half-baked excuse, lying about what had happened, but keeping in the part about going to the hospital. Well, hopefully it would fly.

He hadn't taken any days off work for months. but still they probably knew beside the wound and the shattered mirror there was no evidence of that incident last night there was no boiling heat and no bodiless face hovering over him even his clothes weren't sweat through like they ought to have been it was nothing nothing but an idiotic nightmare fueled by too much beer and too much spirit sitting at his desk feeling faint but mostly present he thought about whiling away some hours online playing Minecraft or scrolling through facebook but before any of that he thought first things first he scoured the fridge and his desk and all the covers for liquor finding beer wine and spirits then without hesitation poured the

contents of each can bottle and mickey down the kitchenette sink it was somehow satisfying watching the the brownish yellow liquid disappear into the drain. He found further satisfaction crushing each aluminum can before stuffing them with the glass into a black trash bag. He lugged the bag down the steps, not bothering with the elevator, and deposited the heavy load on the street. Back in his apartment, he felt contented,

and for the first time in months, years perhaps, felt clean, pure. He decided, despite his misadventure, to attempt some of his reports. Maybe if he sent them in before midnight, he would make up for missing the Zoom call with his co-workers. Maybe they'd noticed with time how he'd turned a new leaf, how he'd become a new man.

Yeah, this felt good, this felt right. But it only took a few hours until Jonathan realized the farce he was playing, until he felt that feeling, how pull the same gravitational force that had drawn him to the mirror a second time the night before. Getting up from his chair,

he inched his way into his bedroom where a full-length mirror was waiting for him. He began to feel thirsty. Who was he kidding? Standing in front of the mirror, staring at it, he waited,

seeing nothing but his own reflection. The gauze on his bandage starting to look soiled. And then, as though on cue, it appeared. the grinning yellow face. This time it didn't look like it was right behind him,

but instead beside him, as though the floating, bodiless head was resting its chin on his shoulder, the two of them standing cheek to cheek like lovers. There was no heavy breathing this time, no suffocating heat in the room, but something about the spectre's appearance had changed. Wanting a better look, Jonathan turned his head to the side, and the spectre mimmit him in sync,

exposing that side of its face as it almost eclipsed Jonathan's. There, marking the spectre's waxy flesh was a deep black gash, the wound starting up from the side of its neck and ending in a hook along its bloated yellow cheek. One last job.

By will reign. Okay, let me pull myself together. Recording this message to be my last will and testament. Perhaps my final confession. I hope I still have enough blood in me to get through it all. The irony is that this was going to be my last job. The end of my illustrious career as an assassin. As it turns out, it seems it'll be the end after all.

don't get me wrong i'm no saint i'm not that movie hero killer fire that only takes the assignments that was thin the world's population of awful people if the money was good i'd take the job no questions asked the only exception was my refusal to take the life of a child though had to put down an expecting mother or two corrupt wealthy men do enjoy their mistresses if only they would learn to pull out once in a while. Well, of course, those jobs were easy, and it's amazing how much these pricks would pay to hide their sins from the world.

I was never religious. I didn't believe there was a higher power waiting to hear my account of the terrible things I'd done. I'd love to say my conscience was never burdened, but that would be a lie. I'm not inhuman, well, not entirely. This was going to be the big one. Ten million to take this guy out,

and he definitely is a terrible human being. Eldridge Thorn is a very wealthy man. The major problem is that he was also severely agoraphobic. He'd handle all of his business from his veritable fortress, a multi-level mansion that stood alone on a few hundred acres of land. Nothing, nobody around, aside from his ample security and servants. He kept himself protected, that's for sure.

He's not well known to the public, but he is a monster, though nothing could ever be proved. Over the cause of his 65 years in this world, he'd been linked with everything from drug cartels and arms trading to human trafficking and child pornography. These were almost facts to those who knew his name, though there had never been enough to convict or even arrest him. Some suspected he'd made some sort of deal with the devil in his youth

to maintain his privacy, wealth, and his ability to remain untouchable. Oh, yes, he was a vile, despicable man, but nobody could get close enough to end him. Many had tried, and they'd all failed. Some would never be heard from again, according to rumour. When I was contacted about the assignment, I can't say I wasn't a little apprehensive. I'm not sure I didn't believe many of the rumours, especially those claiming crossroads deals under the moonlight. I wouldn't deny that he'd not be an easy mark. I'd build up quite the little nesting over the years, and didn't need one last job, but

when they offered me five million before any negotiation, I couldn't resist seeing how high I could get them to go. I asked for twenty, just to test the waters. Big negative on that one, but I hadn't lost interest yet. We went back and forth for some time until we settled on ten. That's not the kind of money you turned down, but it's not the kind of money that comes without results. The highest price I'd ever won from a job was two million. It took a lot of work and a lot of years to earn the reputation that would afford such interest from clients, mind you. I think my first job paid about 500 bucks. That wasn't a kill job, but roughing people up would be a lot more labour intensive in the long run. Something I'd grow to appreciate so much more as my career

progressed. I think it was about 19 or so at the time. I was fresh out of boot camp and all was ready for a fight. That's when some guy offered me 500 to beat the shit out of his ex-girlfriend's current boyfriend. I wasn't about to turn that down. Well, a short story long. Having graduated to qualify for a 10-mill job, it seemed a good one to retire on.

One last assignment, once more into the breach, as it were. That's a big lesson to be learned here, boys and girls. If something sounds too good to be true, It very fucking much is Well, I need to pick up the pace The tourniquet is not stopping the flow of blood As much as I'd like

Sure, I'd like not to be bleeding at all But that's not happening I don't know how strong this door is But it seems to be holding up for now But truthfully I don't know why I'm bothering at this point I'm a goner, I know it I need to get this out though

All of it surprisingly I still have internet service and maybe I can get this scent out before I bleed dry or before they get to me God I hope I bleed out I can't face them again I've only seen a fraction of what they're capable of it's not like I can run from them now

I'm down to just two options fade away in this room or face them the door feels pretty solid hopefully they won't get in if they do i'll cut the belt off the stump that used to be my leg yeah that's what i'll do i know all too well how quickly an artery bleats i've never been on this side of the equation before but it's fast i was told myself it was painless too but that turns out to be another one of those lies i convince myself to be true christ i'm scared focus jim focus this place really is a fortress but not in the way i'd assumed reaching the electric fence wasn't a problem neither was sneaking around the security guards they appeared well-trained enough but they weren't as well versed in stealth as i am the knowledge acquired from my predecessor's attempts told me that it would

not be as simple as a long-distance kill-shot bulletproof windows were quite commonplace with these wealthy targets I'd scoped out the place for a good two months before putting a plan together so the exterior wouldn't be an issue. I mapped out the surveillance system and would be easily able to avoid them. Standard staff, really. It surprised me.

It didn't have more outdoor precautions in place that some have a tendency to put too much faith in their security crew. People are easy to avoid and even easier to put down should any prove more difficult to get around. I took out a few of them on the way in. Quick and painless, I'd tell myself.

The next don't break as easily in reality as they do in the movies. My well-trained knife can carve itself into just the right spot to silence someone before they even feel the first drop of blood. I prefer a simple OTF pocket knife. Mine is quiet enough to eject the blade before meeting my prey, and they can be neatly clipped back onto my belt after the work is done. Go straight for the throat or the back of the head. just below the skull where it meets the spine out like a light and none the wiser slide them out of view before the camera works its way around and you're golden cover the mouth and leave the blade in until you get the body stashed you don't want a blood trail connecting the dots for anyone else who happens by

it takes some practice to really get it down but i don't even hesitate anymore it's all muscle memory like playing the guitar easy pearsie Easy, lemon squeezy. I made my way to one of the windows on the far end of the house, and Jimmy did open. Another thing that turned out to be surprisingly easy. Too good to be true, right. I rolled in and closed the window behind me, while keeping an eye to my rear to make sure I was clear of prying eyes. The room I was in looked to be some sort of guest bedroom. I'd verified over my weeks of scoping the place out that no guests were staying there.

Thorne appeared to be a very private person rarely had his company other than his security or serving staff he'd be puzzling why he even has a fully furnished guest room were it not for the fact that rich people are often more concerned with appearances than actualities maybe he used to have a budding social life before the folks grew wise to his nefarious activities

it could be that he was an eccentric with more money to burn than to put to good use perhaps none of that mattered since this was to be his last night on earth. Well, that was the plan anyway. I'd found it difficult to pinpoint exactly where Thorn would be in the house. Judging by what I'd been able to make out through my binoculars, no light stayed on after ten p.m.

The house was so large I couldn't narrow down where his bedroom was either, so it was going to be a bit touch and go from here on. He had a healthy amount of security, but most of them would stay outdoors, and his indoor staff would leave for around nine. They have their own living quarters on the property, but it's a guest house to the rear of the building. I was left to assume that by this time of night,

only my mark and maybe two or three bodyguards were left inside the house. Shouldn't be too hard to narrow down his location, right? Oh, Christ, it hurts. I don't understand why I still feel pain in my foot. I didn't waste time trying to retrieve it after it came, came off. Just drag myself away from them as fast as I could. They were fighting over my leg when I look back before sliding into this damn room. Maybe they settled on dividing it into bite-sized snacks for each of them. Oh, geez, I need to stay on track. My mind is slipping away.

I can feel it, swimming. Oh, my head is swimming. Perhaps some sort of infection is coursing its way through my system. I'm sure they don't exactly practice. Just oral hygiene. Rats and bats carry rabies. I knows what these things have crusted to their teeth. God damn it, I'm loose in track again. Keep it together just a little while longer. Before I go any further,

I want it all to go to Nicola. Remember her right? I want her to have the house, the money and everything. The account in Switzerland. Bill, that's all yours. You're my only friend, man. Just make sure everything else goes to her. She still works at the same ballet academy in Belfast.

We haven't taught in years, but I always keep track of her. I even entertain the idea of approaching her after I was done with it all. After this, one last job. So, just do that for me, would you, Bill? Okay, okay, back on track. Shake it off, you're not done yet, Marine. I slipped my backpack off and retrieved a small camera on a bed, extendable stem. I've sure you've seen them in spy movies and the like. I slid it neatly under

the door and was able to take in the surroundings through my cell phone. Everything was in darkness, but the infrared feature made easy work of that. I called it back up and slipped it in one of my vest pockets. I grabbed my night vision goggles from my pack, along with my pistol and suppressor, two magazines and my shoulder holster. Sure I could have equipped them before making my way into the building, but should any of the security have inadvertently spotted me, I'd be far less likely to shoot on sight a guy with a backpack than a guy with a silenced gun strapped to his chest. I keep plenty of goodies in my trusty pack. Everything from a grappling hook to a pound of C-4. Everything a growing boy needs. I tuck the bag under the bed against the back wall for now

and plan to retrieve it on my way out. Shouldn't need anything other than my gun and ammunition for the work ahead. Keep it light. We move quickly in and out. Simple as that. I considered ruling out the ground floor first. Given the fact there was an elevator, I was sure my target would not be located on the first level. All the security and cameras and such, well, he wasn't going to be on the first. No way. I knew how these rich, paranoid marks thought. I'd make my way to the stairs silently and stealthily. It's like me live in the dark. We feel at home in it.

I traced many targets through the dark and gritty places of the world. Some wealthy Pricks mansion shouldn't prove to be a problem. I opened the door slowly and looked to the left and right to ensure all was calm. I left the room and closed the door,

holding the knob to release silently after it was shut. I made my way through the hallway, adding no pressure to my foot. steps until I was sure the floor would not creak. Rarely did these mansions have squeaky floors, always best to take precautions. Rooms run either side of me, but those would not be my destination. This was a top-floor guy. To my reckoning, judging by the view from outside, this was a four-floor building. I planned to check out the elevator to make sure before attempting the stairs, though.

I located the elevator gate just across from the first flight of stairs. The ironwork fence was shut, but not locked. I stood it softly to the side and took a glance inside. As expected, floors one through four were listed on the inside, along with three more buttons that appeared to require a key. The fact that it was a regular old-fashioned keyhole was strange enough for such a high-glass individual, but no stranger than the text beside each button.

Axis one, axis two, and axis three. Perhaps this salivator was of the Willy Wonka variety, and can go horizontally as well as vertically. That wouldn't explain the third, though. I had no time to theorise about the nature of the eccentrics of the world, so I closed the gate once more and headed for the stairs. I crept up the steps and stopped a couple from the top to take a look and make sure all was clear. I saw nothing to either side, and I decided to make the next flight before anyone could be the wiser.

As I crossed the top step to the landing on the second floor, something felt strange. It almost felt as if it took some effort to breach, like the air became thicker for a moment. I set foot on the second floor and felt a head rush that almost took me to the floor. I steady myself for a moment until I heard footsteps to my right. Not human footfalls, but closer to a dog. And if that was a dog coming my way, it was one hell of a big one. I rushed the steps to my left and headed for the third floor. I hate dogs.

Dogs are unpredictable and a lot harder to put down quietly. Wasting no time, I hit the third floor landing and made for the next stairway. It occurred to me that I'd not come across any of the security I was sure these walls contained. Maybe I'd just seen the dog's silhouettes through my binoculars while caxing this place. Shadows in the dark, perhaps. It made no difference, though. Dogs or guards were not my target. I reached the stairs that led to the fourth floor,

and had that similar head rush feeling as I hit the first death. It was like there was some sort of invisible wall, I had to push through. One more slight oddity about this was that the footsteps of the pursuing animal fell silent as soon as I crossed onto the stairway. I would not let any of these things distract me, though. All that remained was taking out the mark

and getting the hell out of here. Lemon squeasy, right? God, they're scraping at the door now. I fear that they'll make it in before I get through this. I'm feeling my second wind now, at least. I've lost a lot of blood, and it still hurts so damn much, but maybe adrenaline has kicked in and recharge my battery some. Perhaps it's calm before the storm,

but I'm prepared to fight if they get in. I don't know if I can kill them. I don't even know what they are, for that matter. Bullets didn't make a difference, didn't even phase them. My knife, though, I think I've always been more skilled with a blade than a firearm. It's more convenient to put my assignments down from a distance, but some required a little more up close and personal, as it were. God, just keep breathing, Jimbo.

I think he may be the only person who knows my real name anymore, Bill. Oh, Nicola, too. She was before this became a full-time gig, though, before Richard Nightingale was my moniker. James Barclay never sounded like an intimidating enough title for a contract killer. nobody would assign a hit to a guy who sounded more like an accountant than a reaper of sorts maybe it just sounded better in my head maybe i just wanted to keep a single part of me that wasn't stained in blood oh it's all hitting me now bill i never took the time to let it all

really sink in all that i've done all those families that were left in ruin all of the innocent people led to an early grave to make a point oh christ i Really, hammer, wretched piece of shit. It's only fitting I meet my end this way. Oh, no time for this shit. No time left. Running out now. The hour groweth late.

It hurts to laugh. I need to stop saying stupid shit that makes me laugh. Just sound is so dramatic, you know. Or maybe delirium who's kicking in. Oh, focus. Keep focus now. right the fourth floor

that's when things went sideways there wasn't much to this floor just a short hallway with the elevator door to my left and another about 15 feet in front of me no other rooms on either side of me here this rich asshole made himself a penthouse

in his own house in figures I quietly walked the hall to the door assuming I'd find it locked but no one turn the knob and the door was ajar. Poof, I turned a door into a jar.

I'm a magician now. I bet I'd kill in Vegas. Stop it, Jim. God damn it, focus. The room was huge. Expensive art on the walls, statues, all sorts of exquisite furniture. Everything an agoraphobic recluse could need.

It even had a full kitchen, and I highly doubted he ever cooked his own meal. He had a well-stop bar, too. I can't say he didn't tempt me, but eyes on the prize. I crept through the labyrinth of fine art and elegant furnishings until I reached one last wall and one last door. Again the door opened with little effort, and on a creek or squeaky hinge inside.

It was a large and cosy bedroom with Thorne himself, sitting upright in his larger than king-sized bed, reading a book. He didn't even acknowledge me when I walked into the room. He had a thin face, with short jet black hair, perfectly parted on the left and a neatly trimmed pencil-thin mustache. He almost looked harmless in his blue and white striped pajamas. He had appeared far more pompous and intimidating in the images I was provided with. I walked to the foot of the bed with my suppressed pistol in hand and raised it towards his head.

Nothing to say. asked, honestly quite puzzled, why he wasn't making the remotest attempt to flee or otherwise halt my attack. Nothing. Not a word. I aimed for the centre of his forehead and poured the trigger twice.

Two bullets made impact. Not in his head, but in the wall behind him. They seemed to pass right through him. I squeezed two more shots, followed by a third. Nothing. He didn't even tweed.

I stood for a moment and glanced around the room for any evidence of a holographic projector or something of the like. Sure, it sounded like a Scooby-Doo sort of rationalisation, but nothing else was adding up. Thorne pulled a bookmark from the nightstand beside his bed, tucked it in his book, and turned to investigate the fresh holes in his wall. Oh, I'm going to have to get that perched, he said, while turning his gaze towards me. The thing is, he didn't actually make eye contact. He didn't appear to even see me there at the foot of his bed.

It felt like a blind man looking in the direction of someone making conversation. A look of acknowledgement, but not perception. Oh, you will find, whoever you are, that you'll be unable to touch me while my security precautions are active. He said to the unseen ghost of me. What the hell is this thorn? i demanded my words didn't distract his blank stare or cause any other type of reaction anyone who crosses my second floor landing will be immediately transferred to the second axis whilst i remain in the third you see he continued this is the only floor that can access the third once placed in the second you may perceive the third but no more than that

Well, I was dumbfounded to say the least. There are many planes of existence. I have unlocked the secrets of manipulating some of them. He said, a small smile forming on his face. It was no small task, mind you. I only tell you this to ease your curious mind before you die. A tuppence of respect for making it this far, at least. What the fuck are you talking about?

I shouted, becoming frustrated and a little intimidated, truth be told. He glanced around the room for a moment before he said, "'I really is no sense in trying to communicate with me, if that's what you're doing. I cannot witness events from other planes, though I believe you should be hearing my voice.' I started backing away from the bed, darting my eyes across the room. This did not make any sense to me, but if it were true, perhaps I could access whatever side of the equation he was in through the elevator. I just needed the key.

Well, it may take some searching, but if all that stands in my way of finishing this job was a few dogs and some magic tricks, there's nothing I couldn't handle. You're not the first to attempt this. I assume you know that, he half asked, half stated. There are ways for an intruder to find their way to where I am, but what stands in your way is,

unstoppable, I'm afraid. He then laughed, condescendingly. I have trapped some of those who dwell between the plains. Rarely do they feast, and never shall they stop. Release them from their cages at night, to hunt those who may trespass. Oh, they enjoy the game. They like to toy with their prey, which is the only reason you've made it this far. He continued, as his eyes finally connected with my own.

you will not escape alive he finished picked up his book again nobody back up laying his bookmark back on the table beside his bed he looked down and his eyes appeared to be tracing the text on the pages before he said goodbye now without so much as glancing back up I'm no longer worried about watching my step or remaining silent. I turned to leave the room in a hurry. I wasn't sure I bought what the old man was selling, but I still didn't have a way to fulfil my obligation. As I made for the door, I saw a set of keys laying on a table beside the exit. I went to grab them, and my hand passed right through them, along with the table they were sitting upon.

It would seem that little was going my way. I swung the door open and sprinted out of the room. Oh, just for giggles and shits, I tried to knock over some of the statues during my exit, but predictably I was unable to make contact. To how, with a labyrinth of expensive shit, I might as well just run straight. I was surreal to pass through items which previously appeared to be obstacles, but it made the trip a lot swifter. I reached the final door before the hallway to the stairs and swung it open.

The hallway remained empty, and I still couldn't hear any footfalls on the floor beneath me. I started down the steps, slowly. I reached the bottom of the stairway, where it met the third floor and leaned forward to glance around the corner. My head felt detached from my body as it passed through the unseen gate before a burning pain tore its way across the side of the face. I tumbled back to the steps. Blood trickled from the right side of my face onto my shoulder. Something had split my flesh in two seamless strips

from right under my eye to the bottom of my jaw. Were it not for my goggles, I have lost an eye. My face was on fire from the burning, split tissue. I couldn't see what had assaulted me and I wasn't about to peer around the corner again. I pulled my small camera from the pouch on my vest and poted across the opening to the floor below. I couldn't believe what I saw on the screen of my phone. My attacker was there, and it was not a dog.

No, not at all. It stood around six feet tall on its four legs, each of which ended in a two-fingered hand with a jewel claws. They were long and thick and came to a fine point. the limbs were all the same length and heavily muscled. The musculature was similar to a human structure, but the skin was dark and glossy, as far as I could tell, through my night-vision camera setting anyway. It had no hair across its body,

and its spine had sharp points that had torn through its own skin. Its head had human features, though, it had an elongated snout and a mouthful of maybe hundreds of thin needle-like teeth. The almost human buttoned nose on the end of its now looked almost comical Wide and darkened Its eyes appeared as though they were staring at me While the beast paced back and forth It seemed unable to walk onto the steps

Which was my only saving grace right now I imagine that was to protect the owner of this house From its own horrors I coiled the camera around my wrist And pulled my gun from its holster once more I outstretched my arm with the extended camera breaching the exit. I fired two shots into the thing,

while holding my phone in the other hand to ensure I make contact. The bullets passed through the barrier and penetrated the creature's left shoulder, but it didn't even flinch. I stared on while the wounds sealed themselves shut before my eyes. I was looking to be little chance of me getting past this creature, so I made my way back up the stairway.

I got back to the fourth floor and opened the elevator gate, hoping I could use it to get back to the bottom floor. It didn't take long to discover that no power was running to it. I could only assume that it was shut down for the night as nobody should have reason to access it while the Lord of the Manor was sleeping. I was surprised, however, to see an access panel on the ceiling of the lift. I started to head to the labyrinth of furniture to grab a chair to be able to reach the hatch before I remembered I couldn't actually touch the damn thing.

The elevator wasn't wide, so I managed to place a leg on each side to hoist myself up. I threw the panel open and grabbed onto the roof to pour my body through. The shaft was not spacious at all, leaving barely any room around the lift itself. I saw no evidence of any sort of cable or pulley system, leaving me with no idea how this thing would even operate. It was clear that I had not be able to use this method to get out of here. Not only did I desperately hope to escape this maddening place, but I still had no idea how I was going to finish a job I was hired to do. The people who'd hired me were no friends to those who could not complete their assigned task,

and this was starting to appear a damned if I do and damned if I don't sort of scenario. As much as I didn't want to face whatever the hell that thing was at the foot of the stairs, I at least had somewhat of a fighting chance against it. A well-laying bullet from a far lesser paid assassin than myself was not an option I wanted to choose. If I could make it back down to the ground floor and out of this damn place, maybe I could scale the building and get my mark from the outside.

I was a loose plan, but it was a work in progress. I decided to just attempt to charge through. I know how fast dogs can be. I've had to put a bullet in more than one over the years, as I had no hope about outrunning them. I could only assume this four-legged monstrosity would be equally as swift, and my bullets obviously had had no effect on it.

I hope that it would have as much trouble accessing the stairs that led to the second floor as it seemed unable to pass to the fore. I took one of my magazines out and emptied the bullets to store in one of my pockets as I crept down the stairs. About halfway down the flight, I tossed the clip against one of the four of the four of the ones,

walls that surrounded the stairs would ricochet in the other direction and i sprinted forwards hearing the scampering footfalls chasing after my distraction as i ran as fast as i could to get to the next stairway i managed to make it close to the landing on the second floor when the creature came charging down behind me clearly this flight of stairs was no obstacle to it i get running and hoping i could outrun this freakish thing i reached the bottom of the stairs and another two of the abominations came speeding towards me on my flank. I jerked my knife from my pocket and ejected the blade, swinging it towards the one on my left that would block my way to the next stairway.

I slashed it across the face, and it squealed as I leapt over it. When I hit the ground behind it, I twisted my foot, causing me to tumble. As I rolled to get back on my feet, I felt indescribable pain as the creature that had chased me from the third floor pushed past the other one and latched its jaws around my shin. I kicked it over and over with my other leg until I heard a gruesome tearing sound

followed by a snap as the limb in the monster's mouth detached below my knee. I screamed more from the sound and shock than the pain. My heart was racing and my head was spinning so much as I seemed immune to any of the pain but the sound of my own appendage being ripped from my body infused me with a fear I had never before experienced.

While the other two beasts dove to fight over the prize my pursuer had just claimed, I slid myself back across the floor in a feeble attempt to get as far away from them as I could. They slashed and snapped their jaws at each other as they wrestled over my gushing leg. Dark blood sprayed the walls as I watched their flesh open to deep. deep and gaping gashes, which sealed themselves shut before another could shred through. I was shaking my head from side to side, muttering in disbelief while my mind fought to focus on a single thought. That notion was escape, but my brain refused to allow reason to get through and I just kept pushing myself backwards with my one remaining leg.

I finally gained enough clarity to reach for a latch protruding from a door beside me. I threw it open and slid inside, slamming it shut behind me. My fumbling fingers managed to turn the locking mechanism before dragging the heavy table that was closest to the doorway. After that meager accomplishment, I whipped my belt off to form a makeshift tourniquet on my stump. Once I was sure the blood flow had ceased as much as it could without proper medical care, I gave in to my spinning head and fell unconscious. I'm not sure how long I was out for, but I was awakened by those things scraping and pounding on the door. I had a substantial deep red puddle formed around me from my leaking stump,

but the bleeding from my face seemed to have stopped. I felt nauseous and weak. All my strength may as well have spewed out of my severed leg, and my head was still spinning with shock. And that's where I am now. Still lots in this room in this goddamn house. It's a good-sized room with furniture I can actually touch, so that's something. But I'm running low on options, and I know it's only a matter of time before they get in.

I'm not going to survive this. I have no illusions to the contrary anymore. I'm halfway tempted to just loosen the belt around my thigh and release my lifeblood before they can tear me to shreds. I just wish I could have taken Thorn with me. I am not a good person. nor have I ever even tried to convince myself otherwise but he he's a damn monster i kill for money but he seems to take pleasure in his wretched deeds i'm sure money is a factor for him too given his ridiculous wealth but you don't do the awful shit he does without enjoying it i've killed eighty-seven people in my lifetime i pretend it doesn't weigh on my conscience but as much as i try to look away from my victims before they hit the floor or I still see their faces when I close my eyes.

I deserve this end, I think. It's fitting that I die painfully and brutally. I know you knew that I did this for a living bill, but I don't think I ever told you how many. You're my only real friend, and I hope you can still look back on fond memories after all of this. Just please, Bell, please don't tell Nicola what I was. if she asked how I had such a nest egg to leave to her

just make something up just do that for me Bill I'd say I'll see you on the other side but if the stories are true I don't think we're going to the same place it's okay I think it's okay just take care of yourself brother

I couldn't do it couldn't just sit there and die knowing that smug bastard was still breathing. I was just about to slide my blade behind the belt and let the last moments of my life stream out of my thigh when I noticed the window at the back of the room. The door was already splitting in several places and I knew a heavy table wasn't going to be enough to stop those fuckers from getting to me. The window naturally had a goddamn lock on it, damn fingerprint lock of all things. That paranoid prick, when I fired a few rounds into the glass and even though it was

bulletproof, it still provided enough damage for me to smash it the rest of the way with a table leg. Well, I'm fading fast, but my adrenaline is pumping something serious. I pulled myself up through the window, cutting my hands up pretty good on the broken glass, but I managed to get through. I plan to lower myself down as much as I could before I let go, but the door finally split open and those things came hammering towards me. I dropped out of the window and hit the ground hard, knocked the wind out of me, but it didn't feel like it broke anything. I strangely felt like I could breathe easy in there, though. I hadn't realized how thick the air it felt inside. I was still a little dazed when a couple of the security guys came running

my way, but I still had enough awareness to plug them both before they got to me. I looked back up to the window I'd drop from. I couldn't see any sign of those four-legged fuckers. Maybe the window was similar to the fourth floor landing that they couldn't pass. I decided to make my way back to where I'd first entered. Hopefully my bag would still be there, as I had a little gift for my generous host. I took a good bit of work. I had to drop a few more guards and lost a bit more blood on the way. They were sneaky bastards. He even managed to pop me a couple of times before I even saw them. Luckily they weren't the best marksmen. I took one in my left shoulder and another one to my good leg.

It hurts like hell, but I still landed kill shots on them both before they could fire off another. Prior to that little surprise, I'd been hopping my way across the side of the building. They forced me to drag myself the rest of the way. There's still more of them out there. But if this works, the damage will be done before any response gets it. I pull myself back through the window, like I had before, and my bag was right where I left it. Let's see what a little C4 does To this little house of horrors

I set it up throughout the first floor I'll be damned if I'm going back up to the second But I wonder what happens to separated planes of reality When a big ass explosion goes off Either way, if it doesn't take the house down Maybe it'll clear a path for those masters to get to their master That's what I'm rooting for anyway Bill

Take good care of yourself I never told you this not out loud anyway. I love you, man. You are the best friend a piece of shit like me could ask for. See you around, brother.

This was the transcript of a recording I received via email two weeks ago. First, I thought my old friend was playing some sort of bizarre, practical joke, but I've been unable to reach him. Did as he requested and reached out to Nicola. She was heartbroken to hear about his passing, but grateful for what he left her, as am I.

I'm not sure if I believe everything he said in the messages he sent, but I hope he succeeded in that final act of self-sacrifice. Well, there was never any news coverage of his death, or anything about this thorn guy. Nothing involving a heavy-guarded mansion being blown to Smithereens or anything of the like either. Very few people knew, Jim, and aside from those who had requested services,

I was the only one who even knew what he did for a living. I won't say James Barclay was a good man, but he was a good friend. I'll definitely miss that crazy son of a bitch. Well, take all this with a grain of salt, I suppose. But if everything he said was for real, I do have one concern. If the explosion did indeed break down the walls between realities, could those things be freely wandering among us now? On top of that, what else could have been hidden behind those walls?

psychosis Sunday I'm not sure why I'm writing this down on paper and not on my computer I guess I've just noticed some old things it's not that I don't trust the computer I just need to organize my thoughts I need to get down all the details somewhere objectively somewhere I know that

What I write can't be deleted or changed. Not that's happened, it's just everything blurs together here, and the fog of memory lends a strange cast to things. I'm starting to feel cramped in this small apartment. Maybe that's the problem. I just had to go and choose the cheapest apartment, the only one in the basement. Lack of windows down here makes day and night seem to slip by seamlessly.

I haven't been out in a few days because I've been working on this programming project so intense. I suppose I just wanted to get it done. Hours of sitting and staring at a monitor can make anyone feel strange. I know, but I don't think that's it. I'm not even sure when I started to feel like something was odd. I can't even define what it is. Maybe I just haven't talked to anyone in a while.

That's the first thing that crept up on me. Everyone I normally talk to online while I program has been idle, or they've simply not logged on at all. My instant messages go unanswered. The last email I got from anybody who was a friend saying he'd talked to me when he got back from the store, and that was yesterday.

I'd call with my cell phone, but reception's terrible down here. Yeah, that's it. I just need to call someone. I'm going to go outside. Well, that didn't work so well. As the tingle of fear fades, I'm left feeling a little ridiculous

for being scared at all. I looked in the mirror before I went out, but didn't shave the two-day stubble I've grown. I figured I was just going out for a quick cell phone call. I did change my shirt, though, because it was lunchtime, and I guess that I'd run into at least one person I knew. Well, that didn't end up happening, and I wish it did. When I went out, I opened the door to my small apartment slowly.

A small feeling of apprehension had somehow already lodged itself in me, for some indefinable reason. I chalked it up to not having spoken to anyone but myself for a day or two. I peered down the dingy grey hallway, made dingier by the fact that it was a basement hallway. On one end a large metal door led to the building's furnace room. It was locked, of course. Two dreary soda machines stood by it. I bought a soda from one the first day I'd moved in, but it had had a two-year-old expiration days.

I'm fairly sure nobody knows these machines are even down here. or my cheap landlady doesn't care to get them restocked. I close my door softly and walked the other direction, taking care not to make a sound. I have no idea why I chose to do that, but it was fun giving in to the strange impulse not to break the droning hum of the solar machines, at least for the moment.

I got to the stairwell and took the stairs up to the building's front door. I looked through the heavy door's small square window and received quite the shock. It was definitely not lunchtime. City gloom hung over the dark street outside, and the traffic lights at the intercession in the distance blinked yellow. Dim clouds, purple and black from the glow of the city, hung overhead. Nothing moved, save for the few sidewalk trees that shifted in the wind. I remember shivering, though, I wasn't cold.

Maybe it was the wind outside. I could vaguely hear it through the heavy metal door, and I knew it was that unique kind of late-night wind, the kind that was constant, cold and quiet. save for the rhythmic music it made as it passed through countless unseen tree leaves. I decided not to go outside. Instead, I lifted my cell phone to the door's little window and checked the signal meter. The bars filled up the meter, and I smiled. Time to hear someone else's voice, I remember thinking, relieved.

What's such a strange thing, to be afraid of nothing. I shook my head, laughing at myself silently. I hit speed dial for my best friend Amy's night. number and held the phone up to my ear. It rang once, but then it stopped. Nothing happened. I listened to silence for a good twenty seconds, then hung up. I frowned and looked at the signal meter again, still full. I went to dial a number again, but then my phone rang in my hand, startling me. I put it up to my ear. Hello? I asked, immediately fighting down a small shock at hearing the first spoken voice in days, even if it was my own.

I got news to the drowning hum of the building's inner workings, my computer and the soda machines in the hallway. There was no response to my greeting at first, but then, finally, a voice came. Hey, said a clear male voice, obviously of college age like me. Who's this? John, I replied, confused. Oh, sorry, wrong number, he replied, and then hung up. I lowered the phone slowly and leaned against a thick brick wall of the stairwell.

That was strange. I looked at my received calls list, but the number was unfamiliar. Before I could think on it any further, the phone rang loudly, shocking me yet again. This time I looked at the caller before I answered. It was another unfamiliar number. This time I held the phone up to my ear but said nothing. I heard nothing but the general background noise of a phone. and then a familiar voice brought my attention.

John was a single word, in Amy's voice. I breathed a sigh of relief. Hey, it's you, I replied. Who else would it be? she responded. Oh, the number. Yeah, I'm at a party on 7th Street, and my phone died just as you called me. This is someone else's phone, obviously. Oh, okay, I said.

Where are you? she asked. My eyes glanced over the drab, whitewashed cylinder-block walls and the heavy metal door with its small window. Oh, I'm at my building, I sighed, just feeling cooped up. I didn't realize it was so late. You should come here, she said, laughing. Nah, don't feel like looking for some strange place by myself in the middle of the night, I said, looking out of the window at the silent, windy street

that secretly scared me just a tiny bit. I think I'm just going to keep working or go to bed Nonsense she replied I can come get you your building's close to 7th Street right How drunk are you I asked lightheartedly You know where I live

Oh yeah of course She said abruptly I guess I can't get there by walking her Well you could if you want it to waste half an hour I told her Right She said Oh okay

I have to go, good luck with your work. I lowered the phone once more, looking at the numbers flash as the call ended. Then the droning silence suddenly reasserted itself in my ears. The two strange calls in the eerie street outside just drove home my aloneness in this empty stairwell. Perhaps from having seen too many scary movies, I had a sudden, inexplicable idea that something could look in the door's window

and see me, some sort of horrible entity that hovered at the edge of a loneliness, just waiting to creep up on unsuspecting people that strayed too far from other human beings. I knew this fear was irrational, but nobody else was around, so I jumped down the stairs, ran down the hallway into my room and closed the door as swiftly as I could while staying silent. Like I said, I feel a little ridiculous for being scared of nothing, and the fear is already faded. Writing this down helps a lot. It makes me realize that nothing is wrong. It filled as a out half-form thoughts and fears, leaves only cold, hard facts. Oh, it's late. I got a call from a wrong number, and Amy's phone died, so she called me back

from another number. Nothing strange is happening. Still, there was something a little off about that conversation. I know it could have just been the alcohol she'd had, or was it even her that seemed off to me? Or was it? Yeah, that was it. I didn't realize until this. I didn't realize until this moment writing these things down. I knew writing things down would help. She said she was at a party, but I only heard silence in the background. Of course that doesn't mean anything in particular. As she could have just gone outside to make the call. No, well, that couldn't be it either. I didn't hear the wind. I need to see if the wind is still blowing. I forgot to finish riding last night.

I'm not sure what I expected to see when I ran up the stairwell and looked out the heavy metal doors window. I'm feeling ridiculous. Last night's fear seems hazy and unreasonable to me now. I can't wait to go out in the sunlight. I'm going to check my email, shave, shower and finally get out of here. Oh, wait, I think I heard something. Oh, it was thunder. that whole sunlight and fresh air thing didn't happen

I went out into the stairwell and up the stairs only to find disappointment the heavy metal door's little window showed only flowing water as torrential rain slammed against it only a very dim gloomy light filtered in through the rain but at least I knew it was daytime even if it was a grey sickly wet day I tried looking out of the window and waiting for lightning

to illuminate the gloom but the rain was too heavy and I couldn't make out anything more than vague weird shapes moving at odd angles in the waves washing down the window. Disappointed, I turned around, but I didn't want to go back to my room. Instead, I wandered further up the stairs, past the first floor and the second. The stairs ended at the third floor, the highest floor in the building. I looked through the glass that ran up the outer wall of the stairwell, but it was that warped, thick kind that scatters the light, not that there was much to see through the rain to begin

with. I opened the stairwell door and wandered down the hallway. The ten or so thick wooden doors painted blue a long time ago were all closed. I listened as I walked, but it was the middle of the day, so I wasn't surprised that I heard nothing but with the rain outside. As I stood there in the dim hallway, listening to the rain, I had the strange fleeting impression that the doors were standing like silent granite monoliths erected by some ancient, forgotten civilization for some unfathomable guardian purpose. Lightning flashed, and I could have sworn that, just for a moment, the old grainy blue wood looked just like rough stone. I laughed at myself for letting my imagination get the best of me, but then it occurred to me that the dim gloom and the lightning must mean

that there was a window somewhere in the hallway. A vague memory surfaced, and I suddenly record that the third floor had an alcove and an inset window halfway down the floor's hallway. excited to look out into the rain and possibly see another human being I quickly walked over to the alcove finding the large thin glass window rain washed down it as with the front door's window but I could open this one

I reached a hand out to slide it open but hesitated I had the strangest feeling that if I opened that window I would see something absolutely horrifying on the other side everything's been so odd lately and so I came out with a plan and I came back here to get what I needed I don't seriously think anything will come of it

but I'm bored it's raining and I'm going stir crazy I came back to get my webcam well the cord isn't long enough to reach the third floor by any means so instead I'm going to hide it between the two soda machines in the dark end of my basement hallway run the wire along the wall and under my door and put black duct tape over the wire to blend it in with the plastic black strip that runs along the base of the hallway's walls.

I know, this is silly, but I don't have anything better to do. Well, nothing happened. I propped open the hallway to stairwell door, steeled myself, and flung the heavy front door wide open, ran like hell down the stairs to my room, and slammed the door. I watched the webcam on my computer intently, seeing the hallway outside my door and most of the stairs, farewell. I'm watching it right now and I don't see anything interesting. I just wish the camera's

position was different so I could see out the front door. Oh, hey, somebody's online. I got out an older, less functional webcam that I had in my closet to video chat with my friend online. I couldn't really explain to him why I wanted to video chat, but it felt good to see another person's face. We couldn't talk very long and we didn't talk about anything meaningful, but I feel much better. My strange fear has almost passed. I would feel completely better, but there was something odd about our conversation. I know that I've said that everything has seemed odd, but still, he was very vague in his responses. I can't recall one specific thing that he said, no particular name or place or event. But he did ask my email address to keep in touch. Oh, wait, I just got an

email. Well, I'm about to go out. I just got an email from Amy that asked me to meet her for dinner at the place we usually go to. I do love pizza, and I've just been eating random food from my poorly stocked fridge for days, so I can't wait. Again, I feel ridiculous about the odd couple of days I've been having. I should destroy this journal when I get it back. Oh, another email. Oh my God, I almost left the mail and opened the door. I almost opened the door. I almost opened the door, but I read the email first. It was from a friend I hadn't heard from in a long time,

and it was sent to a huge number of emails that must have been every person he'd saved in his address list. It had no subject, and it said simply, Seen with your own eyes, don't trust them they what the hell was that supposed to mean the words shock me and they keep going over and over them

is it just a desperate email sent just as something happened the words are obviously cut off without finishing on any other day I would have dismissed this as spam from a computer virus or something but the words seen with your own eyes I can't help but read over this journal and think back

on the last few days and realize I've not seen another person with my own eyes or talk to another person face to face. The webcam conversation with my friend was so strange, so vague, so eerie now that I think about it. Was it eerie? Or is the fear clouding my memory? On my mind toys with a progression of events I've written here, pointing out that I've not been presented with one single fact that I didn't specifically give out unsuspectingly. The random wrong number that got my name and the subsequent strange return call from Amy, a friend that asked for my email address. I messaged him first when I saw him online,

and then I got my first email a few minutes after that conversation. Oh my God, that phone call with Amy. I said over the phone, I said that I was within half an hour's walk of 7th Street. They know, I'm near here. What if they're trying to find me? Where is everyone else? why haven't I seen or heard anyone else in days? No, this is crazy, this is absolutely crazy.

I need to calm down. This madness needs to end. Well, I don't know what to think. I ran around my apartment furiously, holding my cell phone up to every corner to see if I got a signal through the heavy walls. Finally, in the tiny bathroom, near one ceiling corner, I got a single bar.

holding my phone there I sent a text message to every number on my list not wanting to betray anything about my unfounded fears I simply sent you seen anyone face to face lately well at that point I just wanted any reply back I didn't care what the reply was or if I embarrassed myself I tried to call someone a few times but I couldn't get my head up high enough and if I brought my cell phone down even an inch it lost the signal Then I remember the computer and rushed over to it, instant messaging everyone online.

Most were idle or away from their computer, nobody responded. Or my messages grew more frantic, and I started telling people where I was, and to stop by in person for a host of barely passable reasons. I didn't care about anything by that point. I just needed to see another person. I also tore apart my apartment and looking for something that I might have missed. Some way to contact another human being without opening the door. I know it's crazy.

I know it's unfounded, but what if? I mean, what if? I just need to be sure. I take the phone to the ceiling in case. Tuesday. The phone rang. Exhausted from last night's rampage, I must have fallen asleep.

I woke up to the phone ring and ran into the bathroom, stood on the toilet and flipped open the phone taped to the ceiling. It was Amy, and I feel so much better. She was really worried about me, and apparently she'd been trying to contact me since the last time I'd talked to her. She's coming over now, and yes, she knows where I am without me telling her. I feel so embarrassed. I'm definitely throwing this journal away before anyone sees it.

I don't even know why I'm writing it. in it now. Maybe it's just because it's the only communication I've had since, well, God knows when. I look like hell too. I looked in the mirror before I came back in here. My eyes are sunken, my stubble is thicker, and I just look generally unhealthy. My apartment is trashed, but I'm not going to clean it up. I think I need someone else to see what I've been through. These past few days have not been normal. I'm not one to imagine things. I'm not one to imagine I know I've been the victim of extreme probability. I probably missed seeing another person a dozen times.

I just happened to go out when it was late at night, or in the middle of the day when everyone was gone. Everything's perfectly fine. I know this now. Plus, I found something in the closet last night that's helped me tremendously. Television. I set it up just before I wrote this,

and it's on in the background. Television's always been an escape for me, and it reminds me that there's a world beyond these dingy brick ones. walls. I'm glad Amy's the only one that responded to me after last night's frantic pestering of everyone I could contact. She's been my best friend for years. Or she doesn't know it, but I count the day that I met her among one of the few moments of true happiness in my life. I remember that warm summer day fondly. It seems a different reality from this dark, rainy, lonely place. I feel like I spent days sitting in that playground, much too old to play, just talking with her

and hanging around, doing nothing at all. I still feel like I can go back to that moment sometimes, and it reminds me that this damn place is not all that there is. Finally, a knock on the door. I thought it was odd that I couldn't see her through the camera I hid between the two soda machines. I figured that was bad positioning, like, when I couldn't see out the front door. Well, I should have known. I should have known.

Well, after the knock, I yelled through the door jokingly that I had a camera between, between the soda machines, because I embarrassed myself that I'd taken this paranoia so far. After I did that, I saw her image walk over to the camera and looked down at it. She smiled and waved. Hey, she said to the camera brightly, giving it a right look. It's weird, I know. I said into the mic attached to my computer. I've had a weird few days.

You must have, she replied. Open the door, John. I hesitated. How could I be sure? Hey, humor me a second here, I told her through the mic. Tell me one thing about us. Just proved me that you're you. She gave the camera a weird look.

Um, all right, she said slowly, thinking. We met randomly at a playground where we were both way to all to be there. I sighed deeply as reality returned and fear faded. "'God, I'd been so ridiculous. "'Of course it was Amy. "'That day wasn't anywhere in the world "'except in my memory. "'I never even mentioned it to anyone,

"'not out of embarrassment, "'but out of a strange secret nostalgia "'and a longing for those days to return. "'If there was some unknown force at work "'trying to trick me, as I fear it, "'there's no way they could know about that day. "'All right. "'I'll explain everything,' I told her.

"'I'll be right there. I ran to my small bathroom and fixed my hair as best I could. I looked like hell, but she'd understand. Snickering at my own unbelievable behaviour and the mess I'd made at the place, I walked to the door. I put my hand on the doorknob and gave the mess one last look. So ridiculous, I thought. My eyes traced over the half-eaten food lying on the ground, the overflowing trash bin, and the bed I'd tip to the sight looking for.

Oh, God knows what. I almost turned to the door and opened it. But my eyes fell on one last thing. The old webcam, the one I'd used for that eerily vacant chat with my friend. Its silent black sphere lay haphazardly tossed to the sides. Its lens pointed at the table where this journal lay. An overwhelming terror took me as I realized that if something could see through that camera, it would have seen what I'd just written about that day.

I asked her for any one thing about us, and she chose the one thing in the world that I thought they or it didn't know. But it did. It did know. It could have been watching me the whole time. I didn't open the door. I screamed. I screamed in uncontrollable terror. A stonked on the old web came on the floor. The door shook, and the doorknop tried to turn. But I didn't hear Amy's voice through the door. Was the basement door made to keep out drafts too thick, or was Amy not outside? What could have been trying to get in, if not her? What the hell is out there?

I saw her on my computer through the camera outside. I heard her on the speakers through the camera outside, but was it real? How can I know? Well, she's gone now. I screamed and shouted for help. I piled up everything in my apartment against the front door. Friday. At least, I think that it's Friday. I broke everything electronic. Smash my computer to pieces. Every single thing on there could have been accessed by network

access or worse. Altered. I'm a programmer, I know. Every little piece of information I gave out since this started. My name, my email, my location. None of it came back from outside and until I gave it out. I've been going over and over what I wrote. I've been pacing back and forth, alternating between stark terror and overpowering disbelief. Sometimes I'm absolutely certain some phantom entity is dead set on that simple goal

of getting me to go outside. Back to the beginning, with a phone call from Amy, she was effectively asking me to open the door and go outside. I keep running through it in my head. one point of view says I've acted like a madman and all of this is extreme convergence of probability never going outside at the right times by pure luck never seeing another person by pure chance getting a random nonsense email from some computer virus at just the right time the other point of view says that extreme convergence of probability is the reason that

whatever's out there hasn't gotten me already i keep thinking i never opened the window on the third floor I never opened the front door until that incredibly stupid stunt with the hidden camera after which I ran straight to my room and slammed the door. I haven't opened my own solid door since I flung open the front door of the building. What else is out there?

If anything's out there. Never made an appearance in the building before I opened the front door. Maybe the reason it wasn't in the building already was that it was already elsewhere getting everyone else and then it waited. until I betrayed my existence by trying to call Amy, a call which didn't work,

until it called me and asked me my name. Terra literally overwhelms me every time I try to fit the pieces of this nightmare together. That email, short, cut off, was it from someone trying to get a word out? Some friendly voice desperately trying to warn me before it came. Seen with my own eyes, don't trust them, exactly what I've been so suspicious. itself. It could have masterful control of all things electronic, practicing its insidious deception to trick me into coming outside. Why can it get in? Not on the door. It must have some solid presence. The door. The image of those doors in the upper hall is guardian monoliths flashes back

in my mind every time I trace this path of thoughts. If there is some phantom entity trying to get me to go outside. Maybe it can't get through doors. He's thinking back over all the books I've read or movies I've seen, trying to generate some explanation for this. Doors have always been such intense foci of human imagination, always seen as wards or portals of special importance. Or perhaps the door is just too thick. I know that I couldn't bash through any of the doors in this building, let alone the heavy basement ones. Aside from that, the real question is why does it even want me if it just wanted to kill me

it could do it any number of ways including just waiting until I starve to death what if it doesn't want to kill me what if it has some far more horrific fate in store for me God what can I do to escape this nightmare a knock on the door I told the people on the other side of the door

I needed a minute to think and I'd come out. I'm really just writing this down so I can figure out what to do. At least this time I heard their voices. My paranoia, and yes, I recognize I'm being paranoid, has me thinking of all sorts of ways that their voices could be faked electronically. There could be nothing but speakers outside, simulating human voices. Did it really take them three days to come talk to me?

Amy's supposedly out there, along with two policemen and a psychiatrist. Maybe it took them three days to think of what to say to me. The psychiatrist's claim could be pretty convincing if I decided to think this has all been a crazy misunderstanding and not some entity trying to trick me into opening the door. The psychiatrist has an older voice, authoritarian but still caring. I liked it.

I'm desperate just to see someone with my own eyes. He said I have something called cyberpsychosis, and I'm just one of a nationwide epicenter. epidemic with thousands of people having breakdowns triggered by a suggestive email that got through somehow. I swear he said, got through somehow. I think he means spread throughout the country inexplicably, but I'm incredibly suspicious that the entity slipped up and revealed something. He said I'm part of a wave of emergent behaviour, but a lot of other people are having the same problem with the same fears, even though we've never communicated. Well, that

neatly explains the strange email about eyes that I got. I didn't get the original triggering email. I got a descendant of it. My friend could have broken down too and tried to warn everyone he knew against his paranoid fears. That's how the problem spreads, the psychiatrist claims. I could have spread it too, with my texts and instant messages online to everybody I know. One of those people might be melting down right now, after being triggered by something I sent. them. Something they might interpret any way they want. Something like a text saying, seen anyone

face to face lately. The psychiatrist told me that he didn't want to lose another one. But people like me are intelligent, and that's our downfall. We draw a connection so well that we draw them even when they shouldn't be there. He said it's easy to get caught up

in paranoia in our fast-paced world, a constantly changing place where more and more of our interaction is simulated. well i have to give him one thing it's a great explanation it neatly explains everything perfectly explains everything in fact i have every reason to shake off this nightmarish fear that something or consciousness or being out there wants me to open the door so it can capture me for some horrible fate worse than death it would be foolish after hearing that explanation to stay in here until i starve to death just despite the entity that might have gotten everything else It'd be foolish to think that, after hearing that explanation,

I might be one of the last people left alive on an empty world, hiding in my secure basement room, spiting some unthinkable deceptive entity just by refusing to be captured. It's a perfect explanation for every single strange thing I've seen or heard, and I have every reason in the world to let all my fears go and open the door. And that's exactly why I'm not going to. How can I be sure?

How can I know what's real and what's deception? All of these damn things with their wires and their signals that originate from some unseen origin. They're not real. I can't be sure. Signals through a camera, fake video, deceptive phone calls, emails. Even the television lying broken on the floor. How can I possibly know what's real? It's just signals, waves, light. "'The door. It's bashing on the door. It's trying to get in.

"'What insane mechanical contrivance could it be using to simulate the sound of men attacking the heavy wood so well? "'At least I'll finally see it with my own eyes. "'There's nothing left in here for it to deceive me with. "'I've ripped apart everything else. "'You can't deceive my eyes, can it?' "'Seen with your own eyes. Don't trust them they—' "'Wait. What's that desperate message? telling me to trust my eyes or warning me about my eyes too.

Oh my God, what's the difference between a camera and my eyes? They both turn light into electrical signals. They're the same. I can't be deceived. I have to be sure. I have to be sure. Date unknown. I calmly asked for a paper and pen day in and day out,

until it finally gave them to me. Not of that it matters. What am I going to do? Pote my eyes out. The bandages feel like a part of me now. And the pain's gone. I figure this will be one of my last chances to write legibly, as without my sight to create mistakes,

my hands will slowly forget the motions involved. This is a sort of self-indulgence, this writing. It's a relic of another time, because I'm certain everyone left in the world is dead or something far worse. I sit against the padded wall day in and day out. The entity brings me food and water. It marks itself as a kind nurse, as an unsympathetic doctor.

I think it knows that my hearing was sharpened considerably now that I live in darkness. It fakes conversations in the hallways, on the off-chance that I might overhear. One of the nurses talks about having a baby sin. One of the doctors lost his wife in a car accident. None of it matters. None of it's real. None of it gets to me. Not like she does. That's the worst part, the part I almost can't handle. The thing comes to me masquerading as Amy, and its recreation is perfect. It sounds exactly like Amy, feels exactly like her. It even produces a reasonable facsimile of tears that it makes me feel on its life-like cheese.

When it first dragged me here, it told me all the things I wanted to hear. It told me that she loved me, that she'd always loved me, that he didn't understand why I'd done this, that we could still have a life together, if only I would stop insisting that I was being deceived. It wanted me to believe, no, it needed me to believe that she was real. I almost fell for it. I really did. I doubted myself for the longest time. In the end, though, it was all too perfect, too flawless and too real.

The false Amy used to come every day, then every week, and finally stopped coming altogether. But I don't think the entity will give up. I think the waiting game is just another one of its gambits. I'll resist for the rest of my life. I have to. I don't know what happened to the rest of the world, but I do know that this thing needs me to fall for its deceptions. If it needs that, then maybe, just maybe, I'm a thorn in its agenda. Maybe Amy is still alive out there somewhere, kept alive only by my will to resist the deceiver.

I hold on to that hope, rocking back and forth in my cell to pass the time. I'll never give in. I'll never break. I am a hero. The doctor read the paper the patient did. scribbled on. It was barely readable, written in the shaky script of one who could not see. He wanted to smile at the man's steadfast resolve, a reminder of the human will to survive, but he knew that the patient was completely delusional. After all, a sane man would have fallen for the deception long ago. The doctor wanted to smile. He wanted to whisper words of encouragement to the delusional man.

He wanted to scream, but the nerve filaments wrapped around. his head and into his eyes made him do otherwise his body walked into the cell like a puppet and told the patient once more that he was wrong and that there was nobody trying to deceive him why i quit the gang by snickering hasteck when i was eight years old i saw someone in my bedroom closet or more like I saw something in my bedroom closet my mother knew about it she used to call it Corinthian Spectre

naming it after me and using the word Spector to teach me a new word on account of I didn't used to read much I told her about it but never called her in when it appeared I was glowing yellow eyes and that disapproving sneer just paralysed me in my place paid me flat to the bed

it's hard to explain It was like a person made of shadow and hate instead of flesh and bone. My mother, of course, just told me it was my overactive imagination. After a few years, I thought the same, or rather I'd convince myself of the same. It was easier to believe it wasn't real after we moved, as the thing didn't follow us to our new home, a tiny-ass high-rise apartment in a bad neighborhood. Well, I didn't mind, though, because I didn't see that heinous son of a bitch looking around anymore.

I still felt it, though, its presence, but it was nowhere near as strong as before. Well, that was until 11 years later. That's when this story takes place. This all happened some years back, I mean, back in the day. I was a 19-year-old hustler trying to make it in the game. At the time, I was sojouring up for this big player, name of Sean Demetrius. Big Sean wasn't like most of the dope kingpins that came and went in that part of town. Well, he was a learned man, college-educated.

but learned or no, he had to make his throne the same as those before him on a foundation of bodies. He dropped maybe two dozen poor bastards on his way to the top, and he unified all the projects on the east side, unified meaning they were all under his thumb, under his thumb and under threat of the gun, particularly that of his lethal sociopathic enforcer, Chuck Norris Unique. Me, I didn't need to be part of that bloodbath, seeing as that was before I got started to sling him for the man. I had no choice but to work for him. He wanted to sell product in the city, and better be a big Sean's crack or crank you were slinging, especially seeing as he had no rivals to put him in check, none left anyhow. All that changed, though, after this

old player, low-key Lloyd Robinson came back uptown. Robinson had been the big shot in the Eastside projects, but got convicted on aggravated assault and did a ten-year bid in Millhaven. With him gone and his crew dispersed, some incarcerated, some dead, some just out of the game. It was easy for Demetrius to seize the reins of power. Well, you didn't say shit like that, though. Not his or Enoch's face, he didn't. And if he caught a whiff of someone spreading dissent, you knew there was hell to pay. Robinson hadn't even be released yet when Unik pulled my coat on the matter.

I'd been steady slinging on my corner that day. making good bread and his truck eased up against the curb i looked through the window and saw him as usual he was wearing a warm-up suit garmine polyester with a white trim he signalled with a tilt of his head for me to climb into the passenger side eh that's good chuck i said not too boisterously eunick didn't have a sense of humour grim faced he replied with a curt nods from his interior speakers i could here play-by-play of some kickboxing toilet, maybe in Europe or someplace. Unik didn't listen to music, didn't care for ball either. He was obsessed with that M.MA shit, love watching old kung fu movies too. He'd been taking karate and taekwondo classes ever since he'd had the money to take them. Before that he mostly just read instructional books from the library and watched Bruce Lee movies to learn all those ill maneuvers. Fucked a guy up pretty bad

with his one takedown, I recall. After the dude had made a crack about his last name, sounding like the word eunuch. Chuck was the onlyest nickname you could call him without losing teeth. You didn't risk making cracks behind his back, either. Unik was six foot two and two hundred pounds, all muscle and fist. We got a problem, money, he said presently. He always called me money, don't know why. You got a low-key Lord Robinson.

I nodded. Yeah, big. player from back in the day. He's getting out tomorrow. Were it? I thought he was dead. Booneck looked at me, flashing those light-blueish eyes of his,

which were more unsettling and intense than they were beautiful. Without saying anything, he turned one of the knobs on the dash, the volume of the commentator's voice now deafening. Knowing he had more to say, I leaned in closer. Big Sean says he's got to go.

he whispered in my ear. I almost didn't hear him with the volume so loud and adrenaline already singing in my veins, but I did hear and knew what he meant. This guy Robeson had to be gone permanently, and I had to host the going away party. For the first time ever, I heard Unik laugh, the sound all high and cracking like a kid.

Easy, fam, he said, having read the panic in my face, I'm going to be there with you Make sure it goes right He ain't got no muscle Seen as he's been in the giant all these years That's why we got to stomp on him now Make sure he don't build up

I knew my voice would betray me So I just nodded my head I felt the adrenaline subside If Eunich was there I knew he'd be the one taking Robinson out Unik told me to come back to my corner tomorrow night around 9 he'd pick me up and we'd do what needed to be done i should probably mention that around this time i wasn't living with my mother not any more she'd banished me from her house after finding out i was dealing well not her exactly but her new bow-tie wearing hala worshipping husband he'd never like me from the jump i swear to god i ain't never seen the man crack a smile not even once at this time i was mostly couch surfing with anyone who'd take me mostly the apart

apartments of my crew's grandmothers. The truth is I didn't mind. I was tired of hearing that poisoning your own people mess from a stepfather. I got to my corner at half past eight. I was already dark from being February, and colder than a witch's tit. I was dressed as nondescript as I could. Black hoodie, no logo, grey-tied kicks, and washed denim jeans. My outfit was complete with a pair of leather gloves and a ski mask half-waged inside my back pocket.

The other half hanging out like a band. It was cold, but I made sure not to wear anything too bulky. I didn't carry a piece. Unix said he'd provide the hardware, plus I didn't want to get myself violated. Didn't have a gun permit, but plenty of priors to land me in hot water if I got pot by the police. I did bring along a box of baby wipes, though, figuring we'd be rolling in a stolen car we would need to wipe down the seats and steering wheel before ditching it. When I saw the unfamiliar tan SUV crawling up,

I knew I was right. Unic had obviously boosted it. When I got in, he commented immediately on the box I was carrying. Damn boy, he said, his voice high with that juvenile giggle of his. I knew he was a simulac motherfucker, but God damn. It's for after, I said, when we got to wipe down the car, you know, for prints. My eyes adjusted to the dark. I saw that Unik was wearing a navy blue and grey track suit.

on top of his corn rows rolled up to resemble a skull cap was a wool mask man ain't nobody gonna investigate a stolen car fool the owner will just make off with the insurance money buy himself a new one ain't like the police in this town don't have

enough murders to keep them occupied I knew then like I knew now that what he'd said wasn't necessarily true about the insurance company plus if there was a stolen vehicle involved in a murder you better believe the police would track it down. A lot of my awe and illusions over Unique vanished that night.

I wondered how a guy who had gotten away with so much blood in his hands could afford to be so careless. "'Anyway,' he said more evenly, peeling out into the road. We're going to burn it before we jet. Was he being serious before or just playing with me? I'll never know. I don't know this, though. No matter how careful or fierce, every gunslinger has his day. We drove east into Marlowe village. Unick told me Robinson's grandmother had a townhouse in one of the neighbourhoods there. He was where he was most likely to rest his head that night. I might not get to drop him tonight, said Unik,

steering us left into an intersection and then on to Vine Street. Well, on the street is that there's a big coming home party. Probably go all night. Definitely, if you ask me. Lyd Robinson knew how to throw down. You know what I'm saying? So, we're just going to at case the place, see who comes and goes, so we know who we've got to lean on after the ship pops off. It's going to be all these people, but not all of them are places.

We're just going to watch and see. I felt both relief and tension hearing this, relief that I wouldn't have to be party to a man's death that night. Tension in that, as much as I hate to admit it, this caper had got me excited. thing is i'm one of those people who doesn't always think before they act now don't get me wrong i'm not a knucklehead i do come prepared when i can it's just that i don't hesitate in doing something that could be scary or dangerous especially if there's a high reward in it but especially if i know it's something i need to do thinking about it too much will make me lose my nerve always has just like when i got involved in drug dealing i knew what reward selling drugs for a bit of

Big King Ping mother like Sean Demetrius could bring me, status, money, cars, pretty women. I didn't think about all the despair and danger I'd face in the life till I was in it. Scabby tweakers, stick-up boys, pregnant mothers trying to get their heads up with rent money. Now that we were closing in on Mrs. Robinson's home, the reality of been an accessory to a murder, was hidden me hard in the stomach. We made a right onto Frederickson Lane, a narrow stretch of concrete with shabby rectangular homes cramped together on either side. Each house had an attached garage, but few had a car within, the odd abandoned vehicle being parked on the curb. A sorry yellow grass playground

with a vacant basketball courts had a few dozen yards down the block. Oh man, what the fuck, Unick exclaimed in a shrill whisper. I squinted into the windshield and my jaw must have hit the floor. We had stopped ten feet from Mrs. Robinson. domicile, and couldn't believe what we saw. It was dead. Nobody was in front of the house. There was no music blasting, no heads visible through the windows, not even wrappers or empty bottles littering the lawn. Just nothing. All we could see were a dozen welcome home blooms, still plump and inflated, scattered along the grass, and some pulpy pink streamers dangling from the front doorframe. There was an orangeish light, glowing faintly from one window.

Probably the grandmother reading a book before bed. Other than that, no signs of jubilation. No signs of life. Nothing. Yeah, maybe we got here too early, I said, looking to you, Nick. But, um, all his people were going to wait for him to come home. Surprise him like, what the fuck is everyone? Maybe you send him away.

This is Lloyd Robinson, we're talking about, dog. we called him low-key to be ironical on shit i shrugged maybe his time in the joint changed him set him straight eunuch flashed those piercing eyes my way the iris is almost luminous in the dark maybe he muttered we'll sit on the house for a while see what comes the adrenaline was pumping in me again clearly if the party had been a bust and no one showed that night we'd be making our move "'Shit, I thought, why can we just get it over with?' My right knee started pumping in place, a bit my bottom lip, hoping like hell that I'd never have to leave the car. The truth was, with all the time that had passed since Unique had told me we were going to do this, I'd lost my nerve. After an hour, the orange light flickered out.

All was quiet, and dark. Even the other townhouses surrounding us seemed vacant. if we were going to do the business now was the time without emotion eunick said reach under your seat i did so took some fumbling and stumbling but my fingers eventually found purchase something cold and metallic duct tape to the bottom i arranged it free making the tape squeal and held it up so i could see a nine millimeter hand pistol silver aluminum barrel with a black grit By now my knee was jackhammering, as was my heart. "'Ah, stop shaking your leg, fool,' Unick barked. "'I forced my leg still. "'Know how to use one of those.'

"'I shrugged, which meant, I know if I have to. "'Unnic could train me with paint guns in an abandoned warehouse on the south side, "'just like every other hustler under his wing a year prior. "'That thing packs thirteen with one in the chain. chamber. Safety's near your thumb. Where's yours, Chuck? I asked, hating the audible fear in my voice. Unic didn't reply. Instead, he tugged

on the hem of his glove, fitting his fingers more comfortably inside the leather. Big Sean wants you to do it. My breath caught in my throat. In that moment, I actually saw myself outside my body. The moment passed before I realized Unik was still talking. Demetrius likes you, money. See its potential in you. But if you're going to be more integral to our organization, you need to step up. Don't worry, I'll be right here if anything

happens. I stared down to the ugly chrome cradled in my hands. But shouldn't I have a silencer? His grandmother's in there, too. Unick shrunked. Couldn't get a silencer. His mother got a hearing aid or something, so you should be good if she's asleep. If you're worried, shoot him through a pillow. There should muffle the blasts on. There were a million other concerns and excuses I wanted to voice, but Unik had already peeled his mask down over his face and opened the driver-side door. Not seeing any way out, I put my own mask on and stepped into the street. It was not only cold when we breached, but eerily quiet. Unable to To stop myself, I looked up at all the surrounding windows, ten to twenty feet above us,

and saw they were all unlit and shuttered. And I got this feeling that something wasn't right. Not that feeling of being watched, people talk about, but, well, the opposite. I felt like we weren't being watched by anyone, like we were invisible even to God. Like something horrible had happened, and we were the only people left on the planet. We were now on the doorstep. Unik produced a monkey wrench from his right sleeve. Like a giant termite, its claws, chewed through the door handle and excavated the lock.

The door drifted open. No turning back now. Check all the rooms, hissed Unik into my ear. I'm itchy back at the car. He then turned and swooped to the SUV. inside the apartment smelled familiar smell like my mother's house same cleaning supplies used for the furniture same soaps and oils used by the grandmother same ingredients for cooking thyme fish plantines kate and peppers the scent of a home-cooked meal made me nostalgic rolling me into a false sense of security i forced myself to snap out of it and scoured the living room no light except for the black light over the the fish tank and the moon through the blinds, no noise except for the percolating tank filter. By now I was shaking like a leaf. I shouldered up to the closest shut door and inhaled deeply.

Holding my breath, I ripped it open and pointed the pistol inside. Bathroom. My blood pressure through the roof, I ducked out and searched for the next closed room, worried that someone had hurt me. I thought that I might find the grandmother first and worse, waker, flashed through my panicked brain, but I shook it off. Too late for that, no turning back now. With what at the time I thought was luck, the next door I opened was a bedroom, and inside, sleeping soundly on the mattress was low-key Lloyd Robinson. I recognised him from a pick, Unick, could flash me on his phone. The relief I felt for it not being his Grammy was fleeting. I overshowered by the roar of adrenaline as I crept toward him with the

gun raised. He lay there, still as the bed linen, like some child stuffed animal. My eyes could just see him in the moonlight through the window. He looked small, aged and frail, weak. His face was sallow and puckered, his hair matted and grey. I checked that the safety was off, then pulled back the hammer and pointed the gun. I stood by the foot of his bed. I didn't want to use a pillow to muffle the blast. Didn't want to get that close. At that moment, all I wanted was to have it over with and get the hell out of there. Didn't care if the neighbours or his grandma heard the shot. Didn't even care if it got back to me later on. I just needed this to be done. That's when it happened. I flinched, my finger almost pulling the trigger when I heard a voice. I leaned closer and

realized he'd moaned in his sleep. His time wrapped. his face twisted with evident discomfort as he groaned and tossed a nightmare i guessed i looked up thinking i'd seen someone else in the room at first glance my mind registered a shadow but i did a double take that shadow had volume it was three-dimensional not flat to the wall and was looming over robinson's head the clearer the figure manifested before my eyes the more desperately robinson groaned and trashed. When I saw the frowning lips and the glowing yellow eyes, I knew what it was. The spectre, the thing that had haunted me when I was eight years old, the thing that had never truly let me be. It began floating away from Robinson and peering hard at me with that dark, brooding face,

that admonishing, judging look. Then it did something I didn't remember it ever doing before. The black pupils sunk and vanished into the yellow glow, the eyes now burning like flashlights. Those frowning lips evened, then curled upward and parted, revealing a wide, too-perfect set of pearly white tea. Grinning at me. The smile at first looked hungry, then, well, I don't know how, but I knew it was mocking me. I felt as if I were eight years old again, remembering that time I'd wet myself in gym class. and hearing the malicious, endless laughter of the other boys. I realized I wasn't imagining laughter.

I could actually hear it in the room. It began as the children's voices from my memory, then sped up into a shrill, hissing sound like a buzzsaw. It was malevolent and taunting, at my expense, and it seemed to be coming from the spectre. The smell of the apartment's kitchen, the ghosts of Hulk-cooked dishes grew more. pungent, nauseating.

My mask suddenly felt hot on my face, as though it were blistering my skin. I thought I was going to puke. The hideous, grinning thing crept closer, having seemingly grown legs. Skeletal arms hung at either side of its gaseous torso, the dark grey fingers claw-like, knuckles almost touching the floor. Its vaporous body solidified, its hide black and visibly slid. and then the skin grew scaly the dark scales were hexagonal and large as silver dollars within seconds the scales hardened and shrunk like armor made of clay they grew further apart revealing lines of fleshy space underneath no discernible source a red liquid dripped down the space between the shrunken plates like bloody raindrops down a window pane and still that grinding metallic large continued to pulsate in my head.

My pistol was now aiming at the floor, dangling from my quivering fingers. The taunting cacophony quieted, and then disappeared. Then, through a hoarse, hollow voice, I heard it speak. Corinthian Jones. That was it. Able to move again, I spun from the room and sprinted out the front door before realizing I dropped the pistol.

I dove into the SUV with Unik at the wheel, the engine humming. What happened? said Unic, gunning us out toward the main road. It saw me, I sputtered out. Stupidly, I'd torn off my mask and held it to the floor. What? Somebody saw you. It was in the room, beside the bed. What?

There was someone else in there. We were now making our way up Vine. Yeah, bodyguard, was he strapped? How many guys? I couldn't answer him. I was panting, hyperventilating, with hot tears streaming down my face. Money, what's good with you, bro? Just keep driving. But I sensed the car beginning to slow down. Unik eased right, then into a plaza of parking lot. He stopped in front of a swammer joint, closed at this, hour.

Corrithian, I heard him say, laying his hand on my shoulder. You need to tell me what happened in there. Groping hard, I forced myself to breathe evenly and compose my thoughts. Probably through a lot of panted breath and gibberish, I told you, Nick, what had happened. There no one I expected his reaction to be. Truth is, I should have lied. Before I was finished, he threw the SUV into reverse, screeched out into the road,

threw the gear into drive, and began hauling ass back to Frederickson Lane. Oh, what are you doing? I yelled, my heart punching through my chest. The car leapt as we plowed over the median. Man, you fucking lost your damn mind, he barked, his hands wringing the steering wheel like it was a chicken neck.

You pissed your pants and ran out of there because you thought you'd seen a ghost. man you's a simulac motherfucker damn man i'm telling you i saw it it's real only real thing about you is that lemonade sloshing around your drugs it was only then that i realized a sterile odor and felt the warm moisture against my thigh jesus lord i really had pissed myself we were then back on frederickson lane outside the robinson residence ever sent a boy to do a man That's work. Eunick said to himself, reaching beneath his seat and pulling free a glock. You fucking stay here and keep the engine running.

He opened the door. Desperate, maddened with fear, a lunge for him, grabbing at his shirt. Please, Unik, I begged. Please, don't! My words were cut off from catching a ferocious elbow to the bridge of the nose. Unik fired a second one. this one likewise hitting its mark stunned blinded with tears i went limp in my seat but i was still conscious enough to hear eunuch's warning listen to me your pee-smelling baby after tonight you'll be lucky if you end up

being a lookout on the corner but if i come out and you ain't hit with his car you're smoke i mean you're deader than bruce ambrad only feel me yeah i mumbled through splayed, bloody fingers. Satisfied, Unick stepped into the road. I watched him sneak into the house, gone in both hands like police on TV. I then looked around, observing the buildings. The windows were still dark, blinds drawn.

I knew that a car screeching out from the lock wouldn't be enough to wake people, not in this neighbourhood, but something felt very, very wrong. I then heard the scream. It was loud and piercing, but clearly from a man. I couldn't rightly tell, but somehow I knew it belonged to Unich. I then jumped in my seat, startled from the unmistakable sound of gunfight. Ducking low, I looked up at the townhouse,

seeing the flash of fourteen shots light up from the front windows. Acting on some supernatural urge, I swive of my head around to the neighbourhood windows. still no lights on no blinds pulled back not even dogs barking even after that scream with 15 loud-ass pops what the fuck was going on it was deathly quiet then i mean scarily quiet i wondered if i'd imagined all the commotion if this entire blessed night was some godforsaken dream that silence was then broken by the woody creek at mrs robinson's front door i stared wide up at the dark opening, waiting for Unik to come out. Instead, I was greeted by two glowing yellow orbs. That was it, not needing another reason I sped out of that lot like a bat out of hell. Fuck, Unic and Robinson, both.

Fug Demetrius, too. I drove that boosted SUV all the way to the south side and part beside an abandoned building. I still had the baby wipes, so I rub both seats clean. It took me down near an hour, trying to get all the blood and urine out. I then hoofed it to the nearest bus stop. Couldn't go back to my crewmates' grandma's house, where I'd slept the previous night. I couldn't seek out any of Demetrius' people. begrudgingly, I knew who I had to go see.

This was going to be hell. My mother opened her front door after the sixth knock. Corinthian Jones, said my mother, and she spoke in that tone of voice they all have to make their kids feel like a puppy that just shit on the rock. It's three o'clock in the morning! My mother and stepfather's home

was an amber-brick split house in Cedarwood, a neighbourhood that looked damn near suburban. Middle-class folks, white, black and brown, came to live here and raise their kids. My stepfather could afford the safe, cozy environment because he managed a warehouse for a trading company that wholesaleed flower arrangements and moonlighted as an essential.

assistant manager for a dairy queen on the weekend. Ma, I muttered, not meeting her eyes. Why? Why the hell are you out this late? Ma, I need your help. Son, she said directly, making me look her in the eye. You know your stepfather doesn't like you being here.

You're not welcome in this house. Ma! I pleaded. My voice was shaking, my eyes burning. I need your help. I looked back at her right in the eye, and she saw it, my fear. Her facial expression went from a admonishment to worry in a heartlead. Come inside, she muttered.

Go into the kitchen, I'll make some tea. Shifting aside, she made room for me to slip past her into the house. I didn't tell her about the specter, not at first. I just told her about Sean Demetrius and Norris Unich, how I'd fouled up and needed to lay low somewhere to avoid getting hunted down by their henchmen. They had to seek me out and would surely kill me for splitting on Unique like I did, for obvious reasons I omitted the part about almost murdering a man in his sleep. Okay, honey, she said, blowing on a hot mug of tea.

I'll call your Aunt Dana. She's got a place way up in the country where you can stay. I'll pack some clothes and we'll leave in the morning. Anxious, I scratched the back of my head vigorously. I need to go there now, Mar. They might already be looking for me. Well, my mother pursed her lips and nodded. She stood from the couch and went to the kitchen phone where she called my aunt,

apologising for the hour, explaining that we were on our way. I was still freaked out but felt much calm at knowing I was getting out of the city ASAP. Do you still have some of my clothes here? I asked. She nodded. We packed them away in the basement. I'll show you so we can get going I got up

letting her guide me to the basement but she stopped just before the steps turning around to face me you saw it again didn't you she muttered my flesh prickled knowing what she meant what I bolt

acting dumb when I first saw you on that porch just now I hadn't seen that expression on your face since we lived in that old house I averted my eyes, trying to brush it off but felt my hands begin to tremble. I used to see it too, she whispered. I did a double take, examining her face, not sure what I just heard. You... I began.

I used to hover over my bed late at night, she interrupted. Her eyes downcast her mouth drawn. It never did anything. Never came close or even moved. You just stared down at me, glad. With those goddamn eyes. I don't know why, but every time I looked at it, it made me feel guilty or ashamed,

like I was a bad mother or something. My throat constricted. I felt a damp lump forming but swallowed hard, too used to showing no heart all the time to let myself get caught slipping, even by my mother. Even after I stopped seeing it, I knew it was still there around me.

I had the feeling you get just before you come down with a bad cold. Like the smell of the air before it rains. Did you still see it, Mama? She shook her head. No, I haven't seen it for almost a year now. You mean, you saw it a year ago? Yeah, in this house.

Dang, but it's been gone. She nodded. My spirit's lifted. Really? When? What did you do to make it go away? Without answering, she bit her lip and tossed her braids over one shoulder.

I stopped seeing it after I married your stepfather. We drove a solid five hours out of town until we reached my aunties. Ma had me sit in the back with the luggage and told me to crouch down in case someone looking for me past the car and peaked inside. I stayed at my Aunt Dana's for six months before feeling it was safe to come back. Before I moved back to the city though, there was news from my hometown. while up in the countryside i kept checking google news and the papers at the local gas station looking for any mention of eunuch figuring he'd been killed that night i scanned the obituaries for his name

but came up with nothing instead about a week later i saw this headline city cops make huge drug bust east side kingpin in custody i tore through the pages and found the full report Sean Demetrius and his entire crew had been rounded up with the cops, dead to rights. The government had everything, the shipment of drugs, the guns, the ammo, even intimate details about his Demetrius had ordered. It was unreal. The guy had been so smart and careful. Everything had seemed fine when I was there. How the hell did the cops bust him so fast?

Well, I got my answer a few days later. Follow the case in the papers and on TV as much as possible. They ended up giving Demetrius' life without the possibility of payroll. The prosecutors had a star witness, Norris Unich. According to reports, Unic copped to everything, the drugs, the illegal firearms, even the murders, testified in open court. I found out a few years later, while reading studies about the case, that Unic had testified without even been offered a deal. he hadn't been arrested or coerced by the police he just went to the station on his own volition and rolled over on everything like he was going to mcdonald's to order a hamburger i found out he confessed to the cops the same night how i hit on robinson fell through he didn't even get much of a deal afterwards seeing as he'd been the one who'd actually carried out the murderers i had to spend time in the joint just like big short needless to say he was killed about a week after demetrius was sentenced

For years, this story plagued me. What could possibly have made a cold-blooded gangster like Chuck Norris Unik turned himself in like that? A week ago, while reading up on the case, I found a clue. In this true crime article on the rise and fall of Sean Demetrius, they had the last known photograph of Unich before he died. It was a picture of him sitting on a bench inside a courthouse, just outside the chambers where he'd testify against its own. former boss.

In his face, it looked like the whole world had ended. And the right corner of the frame, just above his shoulder, was what looked like a shadow. But it was too thick and prominent to be a shadow, obscuring that side of the frame

like a black cloud hovering over him. The photographer and reporter and reporter had probably figured it had been some kind of technical error, like a smudge. The tiny yellow pinpricks sitting parallel inside the black space told another story.

I knew better. It was the thing, my specter hovering over Unik, just before he took the stand to testify. Oh, by the way, Lloyd Robinson died a month after Demetrius' trial. Suicide. 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 favor of you. Wherever you get your podcast wrong, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again, same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.