Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S6 Ep332: Episode 332: The True Face of Terror

Episode Date: April 16, 2026

Join me tonight as I guide you through a relaxing evening of stories told in the pouring rain...Today’s phenomenal opening story is ‘Bloody Church’, an original work by Thomas Miller, kindly shared with me via email for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all.Tonight’s next terrifying tale of Scottish forest insanity is ‘On a Hill’, by Michael Whitehouse, kindly shared with me via the Creepypasta Wiki and read here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license. https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/On_a_HillToday’s tale of the weird and macabre is ‘The Catholic Church knows the truth about Hell, but the documents are buried deep within the Vatican Secret Archive’, an original work by The Vatican Archivist, narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission: https://www.reddit.com/user/TheVaticanArchivist/Our final tale, ‘The Parish Depths’ is an original story by Cameron Campbell, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/Swelldritch

Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon. Now, terror isn't just fear at its loudest. No, it's feared at its quietest. It's the moment when certainty slips away and something unknowable takes its place when the world still looks the same but no longer feels safe. True terror lingers in the mind, stretching time turning ordinary things into sources of dread.

Doesn't rely on what's seen, but on what might be there, just out of sight just beyond understanding. Once it settles in, it doesn't need to chase you, because it knows you'll carry it with you. As ever, before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's tales may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. Then let's begin. Down the drain, by L.M. Shale.

Out of sprinkling parmesan over the mouth-watering chicken and spilish tortellini I just made. I scraped half the dish into the sink and turned on the garbage disposal with an irritated sign. I hated having to throw half of it away each time. The only reason I moved into this apartment was because rent was cheaper after I'd lost my job and nearly burned through my meager savings. It definitely wasn't the suffocating ambience and sketchy neighbourhood, and it most certainly wasn't the meal prep boxes left daily at my door. I only learned about those when the previous tenant visited me.

The leader dropped by the very same day I moved in. After pointing out the leaky corners I should avoid, suggesting affordable roach traps and teaching me how to lock the window with a broomstick, she mentioned the boxies. I thought she was kidding, but she was dead serious. I had to prepare dinner each day, dump half in the garbage disposal,

and eat the rest right away. She seemed so nonchalant about it, but I wasn't. Who was sending them? Why? What would happen if I refused? She had no solid answers, or she knew was what the previous tenant had told her, which is what they were told by the previous tenant and so what. Origins unknown. Even the landlord had no idea that this was going on, and lead a stress that I must never tell him. She also stressed that I must never refuse.

Why? She said protection. claiming that for as long as she'd lived there, the apartment was never robbed. Was she seriously insinuating that this stupid requirement protected her? Well, she shrugged and said anything was possible. She didn't question the absurdity of it all, but she did question my reluctance. She assured me that she'd eaten from the boxes every day for the year she'd lived here, and they were legit, no prank, no poison, no strings attached. Just dump half in the garbage disposal,

eat the rest right away. She began listing the various meals she'd prepared and my empty stomach growled. I hadn't had a decent meal in days and it didn't take me long before I caved. Now, after a month of delicious food, my unease had ebbed, but not my disdain. After I turned off the garbage disposal, I grabbed the remaining chicken and spinach tortellini and plop down on the floor, eating my only meal today. Despite licking the plate clean, my stomach still complained, and I glared at the sink. Half a portion wasn't enough, and I was sick of wasting part of a perfectly good meal, one that I'd worked hard on, no less. I was done following these ridiculous rules.

Tomorrow I was going to eat the entire thing. And I did. For the next week I'd prepared and ate the whole meal, and nothing happened. I'll admit I was nervous the first few days But when the world didn't collapse and the boxes kept coming I felt pretty clever for being the first to break this ridiculous and wasteful trend As long as the food kept getting delivered right to my door I was going to eat it all of it

Eight days later I realized my actions could have killed me My bladder woke me up that night and I shambled at the bathroom After washing my hands I made my way back to the sleeping bag and I frowned at an unusual draught. Before I could figure out where it was coming from, a startling force knocked me to the ground. My heart leapt to my throat, and it probably would have jumped out of my mouth

if there wasn't a hand smothering my scream. The stench of sweat filled my lungs as I struggled beneath a bony weight. My panic thoughts flashing, terrifying scenario through my mind. A sharp hiss for silence pierced my ear as the cold metal of a gun pressed against my temple, and I abided. Trembling face down on the floor, I held my breath, my eyes wide in fearful anticipation as I heard my attacker grunting and rummaging. I turned my gaze to the open window, and I cursed myself for not propping the broomstick properly as I saw it lying on the floor.

In no time the intruder had shoved a filthy rag in my mouth and yank my arms behind my back, binding them before he lashed my ankles together. Only then did he take his weight off me and flip me over, his sunken eyes wild under a mess of hair. He was definitely on something, and it was frightening. His actions had no hesitation. He came here for something, and he wasn't leaving without it. The question was, what?

That mystery didn't last long, as he demanded to know where I hid my valuables. I stared at him in disbelief, and did he not see the squalow where I was living in? I didn't even have furniture. Did he think I had cash stuffed in my frayed sleeping-back? Gold hidden in the rusty oven, diamond stashed behind the broken radiator. My baffled silence wasn't the answer he was looking for, and I cried out as he punched me in the face. He lifted his fist again, and I flinched, whimpering through my gag as I nodded towards my meaguer possessions.

my wallet and my phone he crawled over to them and I crawled away tears stinging my eyes as my cheek throbbed to the rhythm of my stuttering heart I was certain that eleven dollars twenty five cents and a phone with a crack screen wouldn't be enough to appease him he seemed desperate desperate enough to kill I had to save myself before it was too late as he tore through my wallet and frustration I made my way to the kitchen my eyes on the drawers. I just needed a knife to cut through these bonds, and I could make a run for it.

Balancing on my knees, I bent over and reached up with my hands, my trembling fingers searching for the handle. Gripping it, I pulled, but it didn't move. This was the worst time for it to stick. I wiggled it as I always do, but my position was less than optimal than the drawer refused to budge. after a particularly forceful yank

I lost my balance and fell with a grunt and my terrified eyes turned towards the door as the intruder stomped in gun aimed at me I screamed and cowered against the cupboards my heart slamming against my ribcage as the blood drained from my face and then the blood

drained from his face I followed his petrified gaze and I screamed even louder as an unholy creature it erupted from the sink. It towered over us like a giant fairy centipede, pointy legs bristling from its long, inky body and spikes jutting out of its mouth. With a lurching motion, looking almost as though it was falling, it descended upon the intruder, silencing his scream with a stab straight through his throat. It didn't silence my screams, though, and I continued to shriek through my gag as the monster

continued to stab the man, its sharp legs jabs, jamb. It's sharp legs jamb. jabbing at him like a macabre typewriter. It was facing away, but that didn't stop the spraying blood from dotting every surface of the kitchen, including me. After a final few jabs, the monster stopped puncturing the intruder, and I watched in horror as it began sliding the mutilated body into its mouth, its legs tapping against the cracked tiles with excitement, as though this was its first meal in agents.

It devoured its kill the way a snake would, completely whole, And vomit fought my screams as it burned my throat. Once the last of the man disappeared, the creature gulped a few times and began spasming. For a hopeful moment I thought it was choking and dying. But to my terrified dismay, I realized it was crushing the body within its own as I heard bones snap and grind.

Its convulsing stopped. A shock stole my screams as I watched its sharp legs retract into its blood-soaked fur. It now looked more like a giant fluffy caterpillar than a centipede, and my raspy breaths raced my pulse as I fearfully waited to see what it would do next. I stared in fraught disbelief as the monster began slithering across the floor, lapping up every drop of blood it came across before it stretched itself to reach the counters, walls and ceiling.

It was a lot more coordinated after eating, and that amplified my unease. soon only my corner was left and it turned to me giving me my first clear view of its face it wasn't what i expected i'd imagine pincers antennas and compound eyes but instead i saw a rounded snout floppy ears and deep scars where its eyes should be in any other scenario it might pass for cute but right now all it did was reboot my vocal cords as it slithered closer my muffled echoed as I pressed myself against the cupboards, petrified, but it didn't seem to care as it licked up the blood around me. When it began licking me, my heart almost stopped beating right then and there, as I was certain I was next on the menu. And then, it nuzzled me. I peaked

through my eyelids, gulping, and I frowned in uneasy confusion as it curled up beside me, laying its large head on my lap. Slowly I allowed my screams to stop, my tense body quivering with adrenaline. It had murdered my attacker, cleaned up the crime scene, and now was snuggling. A knock on the door stalted us, as my neighbours asked if I was all right, and I gasped, afraid the monster would go after them. To my surprise, it shrank away instead, slithering towards the sink and stretching itself thin before wiggling down the drain.

The door crashed open and my neighbours ran in. The look on their faces matching mine as they saw me bound in the corner quaking with shock. After they freed me and I found my voice, I mentioned the robber, but I gave him a happier ending as I claimed he'd run away. As much as the creature terrified me, it had saved my life, and I didn't want it to get in trouble. Besides, who'd believe me? Maybe leader would.

I decided to call her in the morning, but that left me up all night thinking. Was that creature the thing that we'd been feeding all this time? Was Lida Wright? Was it here to protect us? Was it too weak to scare off the robber before he attacked me because I'd unintentionally starved it for over a week? And despite all that, did it care for me that much that it didn't eat me, saved my life and snuggled?

I hope that was the case. The creature didn't seem malevolent towards me. There were still many unanswered questions and uncertainties, and I hoped Leda could answer them. But she couldn't. I didn't mention the monster right away, afraid she'd be clueless and think I was insane. Instead I asked if she knew what was protecting us,

and if anything unusual slivered out of the kitchen sink. She said how daily ritual protected us, a modern version of ancient sacrifices to the gods. and then she suggested I asked the landlord to fix my pest issues. I still had no answers. Too poor to leave the apartment and not willing to tempt fate. I decided to continue dumping half the meal in the garbage disposal. If that creature was going to protect me, I had to stay on its good side.

The next day I carried the box to the kitchen, pinned the recipe to my fridge and began preparing a spicy salmon pizza, keeping a wary eye on the sink. As I turned to the recipe, running my finger down the instructions, it slipped from beneath the magnet and fell to the floor. This happened every once in a while, but this time the glossy paper disappeared beneath the fridge. Not willing to stick my hand under there, I grabbed a wire coat hanger, stretch it out, and began fishing. I recovered a medley of cereal crumbs, a fossilized chicken wing, a pencap, a used carselman's business cards, two dead road. my recipe and a strange yellowed paper curious I dusted it off and read it my eyes expanding

with every word December 11th 2013 dear tenant I moved into this apartment to care for my saviour I was a hunter you see and I had terminal cancer I was reckless and I didn't care when death would choose to take me but a little Lester cared. She protected me when I challenged a bear, appearing out of the blue and nearly dying herself. No one had ever done for me what she did, and I was moved by her selflessness. Alester got injured and lost her eyesight. She was no longer able to hunt, and I felt responsible. I invited her to live with me. With the last of my savings, I signed up for ten years of a meal prep program. I know I won't live that long. She may not either, but I still ask you, dear tenant,

to continue honoring her. Every evening, prepare the meal and leave it in the cupboard under the sink. Then, go to sleep. The next morning, if the plate is still full, do with it as you wish. If the plate is empty, don't be alarmed. Just continue to honor my savior, and you'll be safe and secure as long as you live here. Dear tenant, this is all I ask of you, fulfilling a grateful man's dying wish. Please don't mention this to anyone, especially not the landlord,

but if you end up moving out, please hand this letter to the new tenant. And when the ten years are up on December 11, 2003, please, my friend, consider renewing, Alester deserves it. Thank you and be blessed. Callum. I put the letter down, stunned.

The creature truly was a protector, a Lester, brought here to be cared for by a man with a little time. Callum put a lot of faith in a bunch of strangers, but I guess he didn't have a choice. He could have at least told us what we were dealing with, but maybe he didn't trust we'd have Alester's best interests at heart. I was surprised we'd all followed the rule, despite how cryptic it was. was, well, at least until I came along. I looked at the letter again. Would I have been more inclined to abide if I'd receive this? I'll never know, because one of the previous tenants misplaced it and passed on the message

verbally, the request changing from person to person like a game of telephone, until we were feeding a Lester half her intended meal through the garbage disposal. Well, that wasn't going to happen anymore, and I didn't want Lester to hide. any more either. She'd save my life, and I wanted to improve hers. After preparing the spicy salmon pizza, I placed it on the kitchen floor and sat cross-legged in front of it. Working out the courage, I cleared my throat and called out her name. Alester? A soft gurgle sounded from the drain. Alester? Dinner. Oh, food. Yummy food. I'd never met a creature like a Lester before, and I had no idea how intelligence she was.

Come out, it's okay. You don't have to eat in the drain anymore. You can live out here with me. I held my breath as she poked her head out of the sink, her nose sniffing the air. Hey, the Lester. She gurgled again. She seemed to like hearing her name, the one her only friend, had given her. Well, now, she has another friend. I gestured to the pizza and smiled before I remembered she couldn't see. This pizza is all for you. I looked down with regret. I'm sorry I didn't feed you last week. I'll never do that again. I couldn't help but tense up as she slivered over, her long slender body compressing into a barber's form as she settled in front of me. This was going to take some getting used to. She smelled like rust and old lettuce, and I hoped she

wasn't averse to baths now that she didn't have to hide anymore. Two pointy legs protruded from her fur, and they poked around blindly until they found the plate. I watched in surprise as she split the pizza and slid half over to me, and I pushed it back. No, it's all for you, like Callum wanted. As I said that, my stomach growl. and Lester chirped in response and slid half towards me again. She picked up a slice and began nibbling, and I smiled, teary-eyed as I reached for my own slice. But the first time ever, I was glad I'd lost my job.

And once I get a new one, neither of us will ever go hungry again. In fugue state, by Blake Blizzard. I'm typing my experiences out right now, so future humans might understand what happened. maybe someone will share the same experience. Maybe it'll help them, and I hope it does. Nothing has been able to help me to this point.

In fact, when I'm done writing this, I'll be dead. My brain works differently than most. I know most people could say that, well, in the truest technical summarization of that statement, I suppose every single person's brain works in a different way. I'll explain more about me. specifically later. For now I want to paint a picture for you. That's one aspect of how I think. I feel better if the reader gets the most complete picture they can from the author. You can, of course, fill in the blanks and use your imagination to see what you want. But I'd rather

over-explain my setting to you. If you don't want to hear it, then that's your prerogative. So before I start waxing my disturbing tale, let me start by describing my writing area. I'm using a low to mid-level laptop to write this. It's an HP, not sure of the model or anything else about it. I use good old Microsoft Word, no fancy programs. The desk itself is an old hand-me-down for my grandpa. It's wood, maybe mahogany, and it has three drawers on either side. Currently all six drawers are unoccupied.

I have one of those older style lamps with the green half-glass shades on top, if that makes sense. the base is gold with a long chain to pull that turns it on and off. I probably don't need to explain how lamps work to you. The lamp is to my right. I have one of those cheap plastic office organisers with pens, paper clips, post-its and the like, right next to it. I'm not sure why, to be honest. I don't even need to clip or note anything.

To my left is a notepad. It's the one with the black and white cover that kind of resembles TV static. Next to that is a little. a grey stone coaster with a glass of Canadian whiskey sitting on it. I already feel better now that I've given you all that general description of where I am at this moment. Knowing that I won't be on this earth soon feels okay now. Someone will read this and it will help. The whiskey will help me at the end too.

It started 20 years ago. Until that moment I was a normal person. A little bit obsessive with a side of compulsion but still as normal as the next. and let me clarify I was normal until I met Kiljohn one moment I'm taking a quick nap in my university's library and the next moment I'm watching a violent stranger strangling a woman until her eyes almost popped out of her head

I'll never forget that face staring back at me and I'll definitely never forget what he says nice to meet you you finally unlocked the kill job and with that he was gone I stood there, stunned, staring at the lifeless body of this poor unknown woman. I don't even know how far from the library I'd travelled. I've been studying so hard I must have just lost it in sleepwalks, or I don't know.

Distant sounds of sirens snapped me out of my frozen stains. I didn't want to be here when the police showed up. Even though that wasn't that long ago, it was around the time when security cameras and surveillance was not as prevalent as it is. now. Well, good thing, because I didn't even consider that when I hightailed it away from that murder scene. I realized only later how that would look, caught on camera. I would of course be able to explain myself. It's every day you almost bump into someone choking another human to death. How would you react? I'm not the toughest guy in the jungle, and clearly I had all flights and no fight

when I saw what was happening. I never went to look for any online articles of about what happened or any local newspaper articles which was still a thing back 20 plus years ago I could only focus on what that psycho had said to me nice to meet you you finally unlocked the kill job what in the hell does that mean why would he say that to me like to me of all people why was he even there I still have to figure that part out too college is a stressful time especially the first couple of semesters. It's well known that mental illness can develop in a lot of younger people at this time. You're taken from your parents' home, or wherever you've been spending the last

zero to 18 years of your life, you're expected to pretty much immediately turn into an adult. Find friendships as soon as possible. Try new things. Drink and smoke, experiment. Start the dating process, or the hook-up process, whatever your preference. And on top of that, you're attempting to better your own future by obtaining a piece of paper that may give you a more comfortable life. But it might do nothing. It's stressful, as I said. After stewing on what happened for about two weeks, the memory started to very quietly fade away.

I forgot about the dead woman, and I forgot about Kilger. I went about my life as normal. I hung out with my roommate who turned out to be a pretty decent guy. I requested a two-person dorm for my freshen year, which is rare to get. I somehow got one. I'm not the most outgoing, dude. I assume anyone that applies for a two-person room is the same. What I could do with one roomy, four or more, though I didn't think that would be good for me.

We got along so well, in fact, that we decided to go in on a real apartment our sophomore year. It's only a few miles away from campus. I should mention that there were no major incidents related to my own mental health or kill Joe for my freshman year. I didn't know that was my last good year, probably of my life. As I was finishing my psych two hundred class, go figure, I was studying psychology for my chosen major. I was stopped dead in my tracks by the man I hadn't seen in roughly twelve months. This time I took the initiative, as I knew this day was probably going to come again. Hi, Joe, I said.

The man, demon, spirit I was looking at, actually cracked a smile. He didn't reveal any sharp snake teeth or a forked on, he had perfect white teeth, or 32 or however many a regular adult is supposed to have. I like your place, Joe said to me. It's just far enough away to get some work done, but close enough to the easy access of merchandise. I wasn't going to let this go much longer. Okay, Joe, I'm not going to have you break down exactly what's going on here, but why you're talking to me or whatever.

I'm fairly certain, you're an issue in my head, and I'll be taking full charge of you, so don't get comfortable. I studied him then for any kind of town. I'll give it to him. He was unmoving. He just stood there staring at me, a battle of minds. Finally, after not giving in, he smiled again. He then straightened out the pinstripe suit he was wearing, fixing the collar and shooting his cuffs. He did have impressive cufflinks with the money S symbol on them. I've always loved Pinstrikes, even though it's so outdated.

Okay, Joe said with a voice that seemed to drop 20 octaves. Well, I meant what I said about your apartment. Good call on that place. Looks like everything's coming together for you. Except you have to figure out what to do with that. Like the final word he spoke, his right arm had raised, extending his index finger and attempting to draw my attention to something behind me. I'll never forget that point.

It's that kind where you make your finger look like an inchworm, retracting it towards you and extending it away from you. Confused, I slowly look behind me. What I saw was the most brutal, inhuman sea. of destruction anyone could have ever witnessed it was another woman i think her abdomen was shredded no clothes no identifying features the long hair was the only thing that made me believe she was female otherwise it was like a pile of red goo no one should have to see anything like that when i look back to joe he was of course gone this time i caught the police myself and described

killed Joe to them through a tea very nice to me and didn't detain me or bring me downtown for further questions except I was completely lying and bolted from the scene just like the last time I saw Kiljo when I got back to my apartment I locked the door and ran to my room also locking that door after calming my breathing for 20 minutes my flip phone buzzed scaring the absolute shit out of me. When I flipped it open, I saw a miss call from my roommate. Texting wasn't a huge thing at that time. I called myself again and called him back. Hey, we're still good for movie night, right? Of course, it's Thursday. My roommate and I have been watching a new movie at home every night on Thursday for quite some time then. Neither have

always had classes on Friday, so I suppose that's how it started. Of course, I've tried. I've choked out. Can't wait. We decided on Spider-Man, which had just come out on DVD. I was pumped as it turned out to be a great movie and spawn a legitimate franchise. Funny how is I'm writing this that the newest Spider-Man No Way Hook movie just came out. The worst part of the original Sam Ramey Spider-Man movie was what happened to me at the very end. The last thing I remember is watching the credits. Immediately after I was standing outside the front of the front of the first. front door of my apartment, unlocking the door and walking in. My roommate was sitting at the dining table. He dropped his spoon into his cereal, which I think was cinnamon toast crunch.

His face looked comically disbelieving. I said something like, what's up? He then broke down that I hadn't been around for a while, two months to be exact. Luckily, I'd left my portion of the rent for him, but besides that, I wasn't able to be contacted. He called the authority and my parents and put up posters around campus. I laughed, thinking this was just dumb joke. He was somewhat of a prankster, so I assumed he was just being funny, even though it was a pretty lame attempt. He then shocked me, saying that he thought I'd been kidnapped and maybe even killed.

There had been a rash of disappearances and deaths on the campus. We had a serial killer in the area. I knew what was happening. My head was spinning. I went to my room, he didn't say another word as I shut my door. At this moment, I knew what was going on. I dropped out that night, packed a few boxes of my personal belongings, and went back home. My parents didn't question me much, as they didn't understand fully what was happening.

I made something up like I just couldn't continue with my studies right now, but I couldn't tell them the truth. As you've all probably surmised by now, I was, I am Kiljo. The worst thing was I liked what was happening. I fully embraced my alter ego. Knowing some basic psychology,

I knew I'd developed a dissociative identity disorder. I knew I'd developed a dissociative identity disorder. I was in a fugue state. I blacked out for weeks, months at a time. During these episodes, I maimed, I murdered. and I destroyed. This has been happening for decades now. I said at the beginning of this tale that I'd be dead by the end of this.

I'll be dead soon because I'm going to kill myself. I can't let this destruction go on. I won't turn myself in either. I'm not ending my life inside a concrete cell. I'm ending it on my terms. I'm sorry to the families I've disrupted forever. I'm sorry that I love it. so much too.

Giljo, he's too strong. He craves blood and notoriety above life. I'm trying to explain everything to the best of my ability before the darkness sets in. I can feel it now. The corners of my mouth are starting to black and I can't fight it. I hope you understand. Coming home from my menial nine to five job, I tossed my keys in the bowl by my door. like I do every day.

I throw my jacket up on the back of my front door and start a little coffee pot to end my day. As the Seattle's best is brewing, I head to my office. The familiar solid wood desk is calling to me. The old-style lamp is on,

my laptop's open. Weird, as I usually close it when I'm done browsing the internet or writing. Hmm. A word document's up. I smirk. reading the first few paragraphs. Oh, another suicide note, eh?

Not today, my friend. Joe is very much still alive. Not going anywhere anytime soon. Dead skin masks. Like corpse child. So, uh, really don't know what to say here, other than I'm pretty sure I'm surrounded by dead people. No, I don't mean that I'm seeing ghosts or zombies or anything like that.

I meant that I see them, their faces, faces of people I know for a fact were dead, not walking around perfectly well and alive. Am I the only one that's noticed it? Or probably, considering I'm not seeing or hearing more people talking about this. Either that or I'm even deeper into some real shit than I realized. If that's the case, then I'll have to keep this relatively brief, and as soon as I finish writing this, I'll have to get gone quickly. I had to guess, this might have started with that commercial.

It was for this new beauty care product called New Face, claiming to be able to instantly transform you into a whole new you. You know, standard fare. We can do what doctors and dermatologists can't, pitch. Well, here's an excerpt from one of their earliest commercials. New Face, by putting on a whole new skin. In only seconds, that's right, seconds, you can accomplish what we're. would take plastic surgery hours, even days to accomplish at less than a fraction of the cost

and less than half the pain. You can call and book an appointment with your cosmetologist today to get your brand new face, but hurry, supplies won't last long. The commercial itself, at least back then, was nothing special. It's just some hyperactive Yahoo spouting the product's praises while the basic diagram of a person's face was on the screen, changing from before and after use. I personally thought nothing of it. I had no use for it and I honestly didn't figure many others would either. I figured most would have looked at this and said, interesting, next. Obviously though, since I'm here talking about this, that's not what happened. It was a slow rise, sure, but it made it and eventually I was seeing a bunch of

social media threads with the stuff. I remember not being able to open Facebook for a week and a half without seeing at least three or four of my friends posting about, it got my new face today, hashtag New Year New Me, along with 20-something-odd other random people's posts on it. Again, this was just back when it had come out, about nine or ten months ago now. She also mentioned that it only seemed to be available in my city, Pinebrook, North Carolina.

I tried at one point, had a sheer curiosity, to look to see just how widespread it was. was. Nor else seemed to offer the product, though. Not sure how much longer that's going to stay the case, which, if what I've seen is true, could be a real nightmare for us all. So yeah, it was quite a fat. The way they did it was remarkable. I will say, you know, before I found out how they were pulling it off. I remember seeing a lot of speculation on Facebook and such, either asking if anyone knew what the secret was, or just straight up coming up with blown out of the ass, theories, spouting a bunch of scientific jargon nobody, including themselves more than likely, understood.

Anyway, you sliced it, the results were bare. People posting before and afterpicks were showing how when they went in for the treatment or operation, they looked vastly different. Some were gaunt and had wrinkles, liver spots, and just generally looked exhausted or sickly. After they got it, though, they come out looking unrecognizable. They look younger and healthier, as a little bit of a little bit of opposed to the aforementioned elderly, homeless or drug addict type of look that I'd described before. Soon, of course, I began seeing some of these people out and about on the streets. Some of them were people I kind of knew, people I used to remember seeing frequently out and about, either out shopping, grabbing chips and smokes from the 7-Eleven or lounging around the bus stop

just up the street from the publics. All of them now had a new face. They looked completely different, like they weren't even the same people. anymore. A few of them, a few of the ones I'd occasionally taught to. I'm not a very outgoing person, by the way. Well, I had to ask who the hell they were. One time I asked a lady if she'd just blown into town here in the sticks from New York or something, being that hers made her look like a magazine model. She laughed and said, no, you goof, it's me, Christina, from the bar. I look confused at her. You know, why don't you keep getting your Jaeger bombs from every Friday

night, which you still have quite the tab racked up for, by the way. Sure enough, she was telling the truth. It was her voice, which I recognised from her sort of country girl accent, but it wasn't her face. Her face used to be kind of rounded with a dimple showing every time she'd smile. Now her face was a bit more pointed at the chin, longer too. The skin around her face was a bit darker now as well, where it was a very light white colour before. What it was different from all of it not necessarily bad but definitely different it was oh uh sorry i said chuckling nervously i did have a bit of a thing for her hence the friday night bar trips i didn't recognize you you look different she chuckled again and told me she'd gotten a new face procedure done

I was painless and didn't need to use no funny gas or nothing. It's over before I knew it, and the best part, I only had to pay $150 for it. She winked and said, So, why do you think? Well, it looks... I stumbled, I wasn't really sure what to say. Sure, she looked hot with the new look. Though again, I thought she looked cute enough the way she was before.

but something about it how, I don't know, I guess just how different, how new I guess you could say it looked on her, caused me to hesitate, freezing my tongue. Her face began to sink a little, noticing my hesitation. I had to think of something to say quickly to keep from hurting her feelings. Finally I worked out the gumption to say, well, it looks different, looks new. Does that mean you like it? She are, Shirely.

Yeah, I mean, it's just so weird seeing you look so different, not even recognising you, you know. Her face fell again. Oh, she said, disappointed. Well, okay, see you Friday? I chuckled just at awkwardly and answered that I wouldn't make it. I happened to work late that night. It was an obvious lie, but I guess she picked up on the point. She just said she'd see me around before walking away.

This wasn't exactly the only occasion like this, where friends and other people I knew weren't recognisable to me anymore. Oh, it was the only time shit got embarrassing like that. Pretty soon it got to the point where I was basically the only one in town who I knew of that didn't get a new face. I couldn't have cared less for it, don't get me wrong, but I can't lie and say it didn't feel weird being the only one that wasn't walking around with a different-looking face.

By that point, maybe a month later, commercial. were more frequent for it. Now some were even featuring celebrity sponsorships, including famous actors. All of them claimed to have undergone the procedure. In other words, it is very much possible that the way you see some of these people look on TV isn't how they actually looked when they were born, if you get what I mean. And the worst part, I don't think they even know what it actually is they're wearing. I don't think any of them know, only of course the people performing the surgery and well now me i know this is a lot and i know they're after me now because of what i know and what i've seen but others need to know others need to know because like i said the popularity of this

thing is growing more and more it scares the hell out of me what i believe will happen soon if no one shares this it was last friday when it started to take a downward dive for me by then new face had been on the scene for almost seven months, with it seeming to only get more and more popular. I've gotten used to, well, mostly gotten used to, seeing everyone looking completely different from what they had before. Again, I personally felt fine just the way I was, so why change it, even if it was only $150. But at the same time, who was I to judge? Other people want to dump their money into that shit, more power to them. Others, though, I noticed starting looking at me, weirdly. Some would ask me if I'd gotten one or when I was going to get one. When I told them

my feelings about it, they'd look at me like I was telling them I'd turn down an offer to live in a mansion or something. It didn't bother me too much, but it was annoying. Because of this, I took to going out less and less during the day, besides work, instead deciding I'd just go out at night time. Given how small pine brook is, things were usually quiet come nightfall, and I had the fact that it got nice and cool when the sun went down. you had a nice place for a night-time stroll. That is, until that Friday night went, during my weekly little bar hop I mentioned earlier,

my buddy, Nestor, showed me a thing on his newsfeed about areas of local cemeteries being found exhumed. The body's missing. No names have been listed as to exactly who the missing disease were, as it was sort of this just-in type deal. No time for any real investigation to have been launched yet. "'Ah, why do they do it, Don?' Nestor asked me, knocking back his fifth shot of Jack that night. "'Well, if I'd know,' replied, chuckling dryly.

"'Where'd that happen, anyway?' He looked at the article on his phone for a moment. "'Hey, hold on. Man, look here.' He held the phone up to me and pointed out a paragraph he'd highlighted. Ain't that just ways up the road, midway out of Pinebrook? I read the passage, and sure enough he was right. The article read that, at around 9.45 the night before, the groundskeeper for Morning Gate Cemetery, which, like Nestor said, was just outside of town,

reported to police that at least seven plots had been dug up and the bodies were gone. My eyes went wide at this. How the hell? I exclaimed. I know, right, Nestor added. Admittedly, while I was kind of spooked, that was curious more than anything else. Who and just how the hell did somebody dig up and make off with seven bodies without anyone knowing? Of course, the bigger and more frightening question pushed this one to the back of my mind.

Why? What was worse, though, was how this happened not too far from the bar, maybe ten or fifteen minutes walking distance. Thought of some creep out there, so close to home, snatching bodies for God only knew what, sent me into goosebumps. It was enough to make me risk my life that night, having Nestor drive me home despite being pretty buzzed, rather than walk home like he usually did. At least I won't run into some creep, I thought. Once I got home, ironically enough, and all but forgotten about the article. Everything was just fine. That was until noon the next day when Nestor sent me another link to a news article.

It was a follow-up about another three bodies going missing from Morning Gate. including the groundskeeper himself. What the hell? I know, right? That was last night. While we were at the bar? Jesus Christ. Yeah, just before we left.

You see what happened to the old buzzard running the place, right? Old man Granger? Yeah, he says he's missing too. Missing. More like on the run, I'm almost willing to bet. What do you mean? Come on, think about it. You all as well as I do.

do that that place gets locked tighter than a damn high school locker come nightfall right yeah so so that plus that sure freaking spider-man good luck scaling the fence around the place means that granger was the only person who'd have access to the grounds at night time well i was stumped there he had a point the old man was the only one that could have accessed the grounds and the bodies no one else or at least it was highly unlikely at the time, could have gotten in. Okay, but why? Like you said, hell if I'd know. Well, it's not like old Grange was entirely your average Joe, you know.

Once again, he had a point. I'd only interacted with the guy a handful of times before. While he wasn't mean or unfriendly, he was a little odd. Of course, he was pushing 68, even if he only looked like he was about 45 or 50. and he spends every night in a freaking graveyard watching over dead people. So can really be surprised there? Well, that being said, I didn't figure him for the type to actually want to dig them up and steal them.

But then, who else? If it was him, though, why did he reported the other night to the authorities? He mean besides the fact he was cracking? Probably for the attention. Either that or to try and shift the blame, like he is now with his disappearance. Anyhow, it's karaoke night at the Bard night. You in? I didn't reply.

I was barely comfortable leaving my house during daylight, and now this. No, needless to say, that was it for my late-night excursions for a while. Especially if Nestor's theory about the old man was true, and again I couldn't exactly prove him wrong. And he really was out there, hiding somewhere. Then it was a good bet that that somewhere wasn't far from the cemetery. Well, that above everything else kept me tossing and turning that night, and the night after. I stayed hold up in my house both days straight, only opening the door for the pizza guy.

I'd have stayed in Tuesday, too. Hell, I'd have likely never come out from my house again if I could. But unfortunately, body snatching maniac on the loose, wasn't quite a good enough excuse for me to miss shifts at work. Oh yes, in that vein, I luckily only worked the morning shifts, meaning I'd be off, by no later than four. Despite this, I was still skiddish, constantly darting my eyes around everywhere, thinking I'd find him staring back at me.

Well, this turned out to be a real pain, as it meant that I couldn't really focus. There were multiple instances where I'd fuck up and forget to give a customer the correct change. Finally, my lunch break rolled around, and I was able to at least get away from the register for a while. Once I'd punched the clock for lunch, I decided to grab a bag of Cheetos,

a frosted honey bun and a Dr. Pepper to munch on. Nothing like a little junk fruit to calm your nerves were on your lookout for a maniac, cry. That was when I looked up and saw him. Right there, right in front of my freaking face on the other side of the shelf, where the chips were, was old man Granger himself. My eyes went wide, color draining from my face.

Oh God, he's here. He's right here. What do I do? Every instinct told me to bolt for the phone and dial the police. But I just stood there, frozen. Hey there, Donnie, he exclaimed excitedly in a voice that I was pretty sure wasn't Granger's. We missed you last night at the bar. Yeah, you should have seen me up on the stage singing sweet child of mine.

He chuckled before asking how I'd been. Well, I still stood frozen. Now I was more confused than frightened. Keith? Is that you? He just barked an obnoxious laugh. "'Hell, yeah, last I checked. "'At least I hope I didn't drink so much,

"'than I forgot who the hell I was.' "'I continued staring stupidly at him. "'That's Keith all right. "'What does he look like, old man, Granger? "'How? "'What's wrong? "'See a ghost or something?' "'He asked.

"'Oh, no, I just... "'I didn't know what I was supposed to say. "'I didn't know it was you there. "'I thought it was, well, someone else. else. He cocked his eyebrow out. Well, I don't know how. Last I checked, there's only one me. Yeah, but you, you look different. Didn't recognize you. You get a new face? He balked out another laugh and said, oh, yeah, that. Yeah, I got this done last Wednesday. Connie was getting one, which, by the way, made her look better than she did back when she was 18. She told me I should

get one, too. She had, couldn't beat the results, saw the price. even with a lifetime supply of Botox. I see, I replied, anxiety flooding through my body. He told me that the one he got was a fresh sample. For some reason, this alarmed me. What? What does that mean? Well, from what the docks say,

it was a fresh new one they sent in just the night before. My leg started shaking. Brand new. Just sent in, but then... Oh, and um, exactly when did you say you got this done? I asked. The horrifying feeling was quickly worming its way up from my stomach, causing me to feel nauseous. A couple of days ago, Saturday, I believe. He stroked his chin, the chin of old man Granger, and added,

I remember because I was excited to show up sporting the new look to the mic that night. Well, I did it. I quickly booked it to the bathroom where I promptly emptied my stomach. For the time I was done, I was left feeling dizzy. Not only that, but now I was more scared than ever. Now I knew it wasn't Granger who was snatching the bodies from the cemetery. And that instilled an all-new fear into me. Now I didn't know who or what to expect. Another thought occurred to me.

Keith didn't even know that was old man Granger's face he was now wearing. That got me thinking about everyone else in town I saw, walking around with a new. face. Was it the same for them? After just barely managing to finish my shift that day, I bolted home quicker than I ever had before, looking over my shoulder the entire time, and locked myself in the house. Once I was at least relatively certain no one was following me or able to break in if they were. I started looking again at the news linked Nestor had sent me. As far as the case of the missing bodies from Morninggate Cemetery went, the police were still investigating. and still at a loss. I then decided, against all better judgment, to look into my haunting

little hunch a little further. I started looking to see if any of the cemeteries close by had any sort of incidents. After about five minutes of searching, I found nothing for any graveyards closer to town than morning gate. I should have stopped there, I know, and God knows I wish I had. hell, I'd have been perfectly fine never-being the wiser about any of this but as it happened I did dig further

I started looking for incidents in Cemetery's farther than morning games took a bit of time where I eventually found it it's a small string of headlines from another town's news site that was listed as a series of posts on a tabloid website who was titled

Terror of the Dallas NC body snatches and it detailed a string of incidents where bodies in the cemeteries were found missing. Photos were posted of graves either left uncovered or sloppily recovered. The post stated that police investigated the cases for almost a year, even apprehending a few suspects. But each of them had airtight alibis that cleared them, and with no other leads, as well as little to basically no kind of concrete evidence to anyone else,

they eventually had to pack it up and declare the case is cold. man, as you can imagine, no trace or leads were ever seen or heard about the missing bodies since. I fell sick to my stomach. Looking at the date of the last article, I realised that it was only about a year and a half before the ads for a new face started cropping up here in town. I couldn't believe it. But there it was, clear as goddamn crystal. This product is made out of dead bodies.

That was when an all-new wave of terror shook through me. Thinking again of what Keith said in the convenience store, I realised that whoever these sick, twisted fuckheads were, they weren't picky about how long the specimen had actually been dead before using it. Granger wasn't dead until they got to him. In other words, these people weren't limited to grave robbing for this. They were apparently killers as well. And that's why I have to leave.

I spent past few nights packing what I can and finding somewhere I can. stay in the next town over. I put in my two weeks notice at the convenience store as well, even though, once I'm done with this, I'm going to be well on my way out of Pinebrook and not looking back. I'll just leave you with this. I don't know how much longer it'll be before a new face or possibly some other fucked-up by-product made by whoever these psychos are

ends up expanding their market outside of Pinebrook. But it will. I just hope that when it does, I'll be far away and people will not. also i hope that no one sees my face again i'm afraid there be a chance that when they find me it might not actually be me wearing it great auntie madsen by t j lee as long as i'd known had always been a great auntie madsen she's always someone you needed to fear and my family's always been good at keeping secrets some of them were small and mundane the kind that any family does to spare their loved ones' feelings when it comes to a completed art project, a kind gesture or a false

compliment. Some families have those bigger secrets, the taboo ones that nobody talks about. A family member who committed a horrible crime, a tragedy or something horrible that binds the family together in a way outsiders can never understand. For us, that was great Auntie Madsen. Supposedly my great uncle Zephaniah had been in love with a local girl. So, his family forbade it unto the guise that her family was of suspicion unstooped in heinous activity. But Zephaniah would not be deterred. Well, their love grew and she eventually fell pregnant.

She became very cautious, knowing how the family would react, and stipulated he must only see her in a certain location at certain times, a place in the woods, nearby Zephanites, a spot where they could build a life together, perhaps. But someone in the family deceased. discovered the secret and forced Zephaniah after duress to lead them to where the lovers met. When he only led them partway in, revealing he had a baby with the woman, he was shot by his father, my great-great-grandfather, Obadiah, in a fit of rage. Upon hearing the gunshot, the woman let out a blood-curdling scream through the woods,

declaring a curse on the whole Monroe family. Then, in front of Obadiah and his cohorts, she set herself on fire, baby in her arm. From that day forward, upon the encroaching end of every Monroe family man, a woman hidden behind a black veil would appear and a weep around the home. If they didn't resist, they would die of natural causes regardless of their age. Naturally, there have been many members of the family who dissipated that and tried to look at her, some even succeeded, I'm told. But all met a terrible end. Great Uncle Ford called her the veiled skag. who cost his brother his life,

and spat on her when she first came to the property and began weeping by his bedside. He was found several days later morned by a bear. His genitals torn to shreds and his face practically peeled off from the top down, as if he'd been scowled. After Ford's funeral, great-grandma Agnes tried dousing her

with a bucket of holy water, calling her Satan's little bitch and telling her that Jesus ruled her home. Evidently he didn't. She later took herself to the top of the property, stood out on the roof, and hurled herself from it, and onto the roof of the well below, her spine snapping into and folding her inwards as her body plummeted into the well below. Obadiah said he could hear the weeping from the well constantly taunting him, but he learned

from his errors and never sought to disrupt Madsen when she came to visit. He abided by her, gave her a room, and told the rest of the Monroe family to never bother her. When she came to his home in his advanced age, weeping and pointing a finger at him, he didn't resist. He just asked for forgiveness. So it went. Some people resisted, others accepted. Our family grew and the secret was kept until it reached my generation. It was a summer of 1997 when I first met great Auntie Madsen.

Travis, sometimes she'll come to visit us. It's important you know. that she is a little different. My father would try to explain to her rambunctious six-year-old me who was still not great at understanding the whole different thing. But there was a palpable fear in his eyes, that kind of instinctive terror that made you pay attention. The unmistakable sense that if your parents,

the strongest people you knew, were scared, maybe you should be too. She'll never speak to you and never bother you, but, and this is important, son, you must never try to look at her or talk to her, understand. He had his hands on my shoulders, looking directly at me and making me nervous as I hastily nodded. I don't ever look at her face and don't make any contact with her. Just be polite and don't bother her, and it'll all be over quickly.

She didn't turn up with a ton of luggage and a merry song in her heart, a scowl on her face with thunder clapping behind her or any kind of grandiose introductions that TV and film. which had taught me to believe happened when a weird family member came to stay. No. Instead, she turned up at half two in the morning when I'd gotten up to pee. I remember on the long walk back hearing the soft, unmistakable sound of a person sobbing. It was something you're hardwired to detect and immediately run towards. So naturally, even in my half-a-sleep state, I did just that.

I picked up my pace from the bathroom and headed down the hallway to inspect the sound. It seemed to be echoing from our study. But are I ready to turn the corner for our stairs? I thought a strong grip on my forehand pull me back. I was about to scream when I saw it as my dad. Wide-eyed and filled with fear as he put a finger to his lips, shaking his head firmly. Took me a few moments to catch my breath, but I nodded.

He pointed sharply to my bedroom when I walked back, the weeping growing louder as I shut the door and pulled the covers over my head. Maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off, or that kind of level of fear where your body wears out quickly, but I passed out not too long after. It was the next morning where my parents sat me down

and told me my cousin Grant, who lived a few blocks down the road, had been killed. They said it was a failed home invasion, but such is the way later in life I'd come to find out the truth was far more gruesome. That night a friend of Grant's had found his way into the property armed with a bunch of tools and evil intentions. He'd stopped taking

his medication and believed he was possessed by the spirit of a Wendigo destined to eat human flesh. He drugged, subdued and tortured the entire family, but only Grant would be subjected to his cravings for flesh. When the police found the man hunched over my cousin's body, a piece of Grant's muscle was still dangling from his teeth as he screamed at them, lunging forward and into the path of a spray bullets. His funeral, great Auntie Madsen stood in the back of the procession, weeping as his coffin was lowered into the ground. We don't know what he did to upset her,

but we can assume he interfered somehow. But being a child, I just thought she was a weird relative, and did as I was told when it came to keeping the secret, knowing full well that I get punished if I revealed the strange occasional visitor to my home. And so it went on. for over a decade she would visit one of our homes we would accommodate and when we knew who was due to go we paid our respects most of the time it went without major

incident our family had grown in common sense as the years passed and nobody wanted to die a horrific death I will change when I was 19 and she came for my mother it was a Saturday night and we've been watching B-movie sci-fi films laughing at the bad CGI and the low-quality acting. Mom's laughter was infectious, filling the room way more than she'd be possible for such a small woman. She'd always kept herself in great shape, focused on her health,

and raised me even while holding down a full-time job as a psychologist. Dad worked long hours, and she never missed a beat. She was a role model of mine. Seeing a pillar of strength crumble when great-a-maston walked into the living room, six foot tall, face hidden behind a thick black veil, and her frame hunched over as she wept, pointing at my mum, it hurt more than words could justify. Her laughter faded, her already small body looked smaller, her eyes sank and she nodded,

never-breaking eye-contents. I remember those next few moments, as if they'd happened in slow motion. My father screaming to stop, my mother's look of pure terror as I flung myself forward and stood between her and this spectre trying to take her away from her. me. You cannot have her or my dad. You need to find another family member. I don't care who. I stood defiantly staring up at this towering figure,

the black veil hiding an expression that I was sure was curled into malice. The smell of rot hit my nostrils, but I refused to back down. Mom turned me around and pulled me in for a hug so tight, I thought she'd break my back, her weeping into my shoulder matching that of greater. Auntie Madsen.

Oh, my sweet boy, I love you so much. But that's a choice I cannot let you make, she said between sobs, her hands digging into my back, desperate not to let go. We all have our time. You know what happens if we interfere with it? With her. Let this happen. I was about to protest when she pulled away,

tears streaming down her face and stared beyond me, towards something I was never meant to see. see. For some reason, maybe in response to my defiance or to send a message, great Auntie Madsen had lifted her veil. Mom's face twisted and I saw something in her I'm unable to take from my mind even now, a decade later. Mind destroying fear. Her eyes widened, pupils dilated, veins grew large on her temples and her jaws slacked open to let out a scream that threatened to burst my eardrums as she was. pushed me out of harm's way. Dad shielded my eyes and we looked away as the screaming

continues. Great Auntie Madsen's sobbing turned into full-blown whales as it accompanied my mum's suffering. It was a chorus of pain that I don't ever want to hear again as long as I live. After a few minutes I could smell burning in the air and despite my dad's insistence I pulled away to look at where it was coming from. Standing there, hand in hand, with Madsen, Lale now in its rightful place, was my mother's steadily burning body. The flesh melting from her face and chunks of it were falling to the ground in a slop, her screaming still continuing as she reached out a charred hand. Don't ever resist, she screeched before the smoke filled the room,

forcing us to leave the house in a stupor and call the fire department. A neighbor had to hold me back as I thought to get back into our home, screaming, that's my mom, she's in there, until my legs gave out and I sobbed. I remember looking over at Dad, his stoic stare never once breaking with the living room window. He knew she was in there, and he knew she would come back again one day for him, for us all. Years would pass, and eventually I would see more cousins taking him by great Auntie Madsen's deft hand and guttural sobs. I moved out, keeping myself near my father. married, and had children of my own, desperate to start a life separately from the Monroe

Curts. I told my wife of it when we got engaged, warning her of what awaited her, but I don't think she ever took me seriously. I don't blame her. Nobody would if it wasn't in front of them. But that brings us to the present day, to why I'm sad in my study and shaking in my mind on the brink of sanity. A few weeks ago I heard the familiar wailing outside of my home, At first I chalked it up to that of some drunk, homeless or mentally ill person. But when it persisted and woke up my children on more than one occasion, I began to worry it was her. I hadn't moved that far from my dad's place,

so my instinct was that she'd come for him. A video called him and asked if he'd seen her, but he seemed detached when I tried to press him for a reply. Travis, you need to give a close eye on your family. Not worrying about me, he said bluntly, emotionally detached from the conversation. I was confused and, to be truthful, a little upset. Why do you know that I don't, Dad? If they're at risk, I need you to tell me, I pressed.

Everyone in our family is at risk, he snapped, startlingly. That's what being a Monroe means. We're all at risk and we always will be. He sighed, calming himself down. Oh, look. I'm sorry. I've just been worried about this happening. Your grandfather always told me we were fine if she came into the home and we accommodated. Oh, honey, I'm just stepping outside for a sec, okay?

My wife called me from the hallway. I shouted back to let her know I'd heard before turning back to the call. Well, she's been wandering the roads outside my home for the past few days, so that's why I was worried. It was only the third time in my life I'd see my father look so pale. Why are you mean she's roaming outside? She doesn't do that, she just invites herself in. He said, stumbling over his words.

You sure it's her? Could just be a stranger, someone who's not well. I know it's her, Dad. We spend enough time around her to know the difference. She just turns up and wails for a bit before going off. I thought she was after you. I paused, realizing how nonchalantly I was discussing what is in actuality, a horrifying familial tradition.

Why would she do this? Both of us stared for a moment before a horrifying realization hit us both at the same time. I sprung from the desk as Dad ran outside and raced to our streets. There was no time. I got to my front door

just in time to see my wife who'd never fully absorb the stories and believe them, walking determinedly towards great Aunt Madsen and defiantly telling her to leave the property. You're scaring our kids and I can't get a wink of sleep, she shouted authoritatively. My wife always had a temper.

She was a former Marine and was fiercely protective of me and the kids. You need to leave, or I'll call the police. You got that? Madison stretched out an arm, and I watched in horror as my wife pulled her over her shoulder, and Judo slammed her to the ground, the veil slipping as I screamed. My dad did the same as he turned the corner.

my wife my poor wonderful clueless wife just stared as this creature snapped its body straight rose up to its feet and lifted the veil fully as i turned and shielded my eyes grateful the kids were asleep and too young to get out of their rooms what happened next is not something i'm mentally equipped to put down here or anywhere but she's gone now my amazing wife of three years a mother to my two children is gone Police just put homicide on the report and said they'd be in touch, but I know they never will be. Boys keep asking where mommy is, and I croakily answer, gone to stay with great Andy Mattson. Every time I do, I feel my soul die a little bit more inside. I sent the boys to stay with their grandpa this morning, giving them a manila envelope for them to open when they're both much older.

in it are photos of us as a family an apology letter to each of them and their inheritance both monetary and familiar great auntie madison had stood at the front of my bed last night her shoulders hunched up and her body as tall as ever leaning over me weeping just a few feet from my own face and knew what it meant and I was in no position to argue this time well I've come to a realization that

whatever great Auntie Madsen is, whatever my family's past, present or future may define her to be. She is clever. She does not take disrespect lightly, and she knows how to hit you where it hurts. As I finish this up, I can hear her sobbing, increasing in its pain, nails gently scratching the door of my study. But I won't open them just yet. I need time to process. I don't even know how long I have once I greet her again,

but I can guess. You see, she lifted her veil once I woke up, and I truly understood the depths of her cruelty, the need for her to send a message to the rest of my family and why you must never disappear when she enters our home. Because the face looking back was my wife's, eyeless and muscles protruding beneath cracked skin, the mouth stuck in a perpetual, dislocated scream,

lies from below the shadow, I A.K. Colored them. The pit. The Abyss. It was always there, at least as far as I can remember. The first time I heard its call, it was subtle, almost unnoticeable. My mother was reading her pick-and-chews verses from the book, looking back up at me after each reading with an expectant look in her eyes. Tried so hard to belittle me, scolding me on how wrong it was to like men, but I was never swayed. Still, the call grew stronger every time she sat me down for her dogmatic ramblings, but it would only show itself to me later on in life. Not once did I believe she became a Christian in good faith.

The way I see it, she only did so as a way to excuse her more toxic behaviours. No wonder I got into my first real relationship during college, since it was the first time I was really free from her endless remarks on my so-called dirty way. I don't know exactly what went down when I was away, but after dropping out of engineering and coming back home, my parents were already living apart with the divorce papers in order. And, like a pattern propagating in time, Eric told me that this us wouldn't work out. My attachment blinded me to how shallow Eric was. He never said anything outright, but it was obvious how he saw Mears lesser than himself.

Mom said that if, after finishing my engineering course, I still wanted to pursue carpentry, then I'd have the skills required. I guess she hoped I'd set my focus on greater horizons, but it didn't help me achieve anything. It was better living with just my dad. He helped me through it all, but it's always such a slippery rut I'd found myself in. I still dreamed of being a carpenter, but even he could see that I wasn't in the right state of mind to start. a whole business. We ended up deciding that I'd apply for some bog standard transient jobs

with the aim of saving up money for a carpentry corps. Well, that never really happened. At 19, I started working at an office, spreadsheets, emails, that kind of stuff. Four years later, Dad first started showing signs of early onset dementia. It was 54 then. It's such a hopeless feeling to watch your father degenerate into a confused mess. Looking back, I think it would have been better if he was just struck by a heart of time. After two more years, I was up, one raise and down everything else.

It was January when the pit first revealed itself to me. A late weekend night of a remote overtime. The only way I could afford the ever-rocketing living costs. Ah, the work was harsh, mind-numbing. I kept having to go back to fix mistakes over and over. I tired mind fucking it up, as it always did. My feet were cold to the point where I could barely feel them, even when I tried moving and wiggling my toes around.

I knew I was moving my feet, but there was no feeling. I looked down to see a circular hole in the floor sat where the navy carpet had been, almost perfect, but not. A gaping pit, walls of masterfully carved black stone that descended into thick blankets of darken, forcefully pushed myself away from the desk, tumbling off my chair, and then crawled over to the edge of the hole. As I peered over the crevice, the only sound was a low breeze. A cold earth and breath I imagined blowing throughout the tunnels of a cave. You know that feeling the call of the void, the subtle tug toward one step into nothing. I felt it, only the rejection

of the idea that usually followed just wasn't there. It didn't scare me. It only continued to pull me in. Gazing down into it, and not seeing my stomach pulled tight by the the years came loose. Unrestrained warmth took over my body as the pit seemed to strip away the weight on my heart, accepting the burden for itself. For the thought of toppling into the abyss took over entirely. My phone buzzed on my desk, breaking my trance. It was Eric. Eric, what's up, man? Why are you calling so... Stop with the message, Porter. Get you sad and all, but can you like ticket somewhere else? I'm with someone else now. I don't want you stirring up any shit.

I looked up to the shelves above my desk for a moment. The picture I had of Eric and myself at college. It was pathetic. Years had passed, but I still couldn't let go. Hello? Tell me you understand. I brought myself back and replied, Yeah, I'm sorry, Eric. Just hope we might be able to stay friends at least. Not if you go on like this.

thanks I guess he hung up leaving me standing there like an idiot well that I was the silence that replaced his voice rang in my ears mocking when I looked back down to the floor the hole was gone

left an emptiness in my chest that could only be made whole again by looking down into that dark abyss a gentle breeze from that pit followed me heard it inside outside day or night sometimes loud and present other times so distant other times

I was so distant, I thought it was just the wind. Not really an earworm, though. Felt more like a reminder, making sure I didn't forget about the tunnel. Later that week, I was in for work. Only half an hour after getting in, Dennis, my manager, caught me into his office. Some bullshit about underperforming.

I wasn't really listening, to be honest. I rightfully disagreed, though not out loud. I've been giving as much effort to the work as I could at the time. He won't be reading this, so screw you, Dennis. Your job is to manage, not calling anyone you can get and sneer down your nose at them. I nodded to whatever he said and left his office. My stomach churned. What is I meant to do? Work harder than I already was?

I excuse myself to the toilet, needing to steady myself. A spiral was already corkscrewing its way down my spine. I locked myself in one of the stores and let my forehead rest against the door. Trying to calm your nerves can make things worse when you're on a tight schedule. How long could I stay here while, so I'm making sure my papers for the day would be done by five. I turned around to see that, in lieu of a toilet, was the pit. But how long had it been there waiting for me? There was no spike of adrenaline, no, dopamine, if anything.

It had come back to see me like it said it would. And the fluorescent buzz began to fade away as I fell to the floor. So did the smell of floor-clean and poorly masked piss. My hands pressed into the cheap, sticky, laminate floor as I lowered my face down into the abyss. The cold whispering of air had changed. It sounded faintly like a whistle, distant but growing clearer. It was so, well, alluring. A lullaby crafted for me and no one else.

My arms reached down into the hole, pulling me further and further in. The darkness extended deep, deep down. I was on the fifth floor, and I could see no end to its depth. That thick, heavy shadow, something moved upwards. Pale angular limbs too numerous and erratic to count. This would be my guide to wherever the pit led to somewhere better. Peace and tranquility. Sharon is a misunderstood fellow.

He only wishes to lead the dead to where they belong. The melody was clear now. It was bittersweet, quite reminiscing on bad choices but accepting that the past is the past. The words to the tune came from my own mind. I found myself whispering. Unstep into the dark.

Light hides just beyond. No one will know, even dear old par. Here is the peace for which you are long. It was right. Who would know? Who would care? My mom, wherever she is, would likely be indifferent, and my dad would soon forget all about them. That clearly wasn't a valuable asset to the company either.

Derek would be happy to never hear from me again. As the blurry thing in the pit grew closer, the song grew louder, all else falling away. The gentle breeze whipped up into a gale-force tempest of cold air that seemed to wrap around me like tendrils and pull me in front. further. I reached out my hand to meet my guard halfway, and the ear-splitting bang of the bathroom door jolted me back to reality. Did I really want this? Was it really better on the other side? Whatever that thing approaching rapidly was, I didn't want to know. Didn't want to meet it.

Porter, you in here? Boss says the papers need to be done and signed by four, so hurry up, yeah. I arched my head back to the stall door and replied. Yeah, Jim. Just a minute. Indigestion. The door slammed again, leaving me alone. When I look back down, I flinched as my head bumped into the toilet bowl, coming off slightly wet from the residue. No pit.

Nothing. I returned to my desk and saw upon checking my email a message without any name sender. Come back. That's all it said. The song played over and over in my head while I stared at those two words. Out of my lips tumbled, I will.

And I clicked off the email. Try blocking the sender, more out of curiosity than anything, but there was no sender to block. I managed to finish my workload for the rest of the day and handed it in on time. There's no particular gratitude from Dennis or anyone else. No surprise there.

I paid doubt of it. visit at the weekend at the hospice. When I entered his room, he was staring listlessly out of the window while some old songs fit for a gramophone played from the old radio beside him. Hey, Dad. His head roared around to look at me side on. Oh, hello there. What time is it?

I could tell he was only trying to be polite that he didn't really know who was talking to him and changing the subject for that reason. Squadroner to three. How are you feeling today? I bought you some custard creams. He turned around some more to look at me, down at my hands and then back up with a smile. Those are my favorites.

How'd you know? The corners of my brow fell and I brought a hand up to block a potential tear. I... It's me, Porter. I'm your son. I don't... The look of confusion on his face told me all I needed to know. I'd been able to remind him who I was before, but now it was no use.

I was all but lost to him. Was he even aware he had a son? I don't know. There was desperation in his eyes, but the dementia won over. I didn't say anything more. I poured up a chair next to him and sat, following his gaze out of the window to nothing in particular. At least I could give him some company, even if he had no idea who I was. Looking through the smudge-covered glass, I could hear that melody whistling in my ears, and I knew it caught me again.

Yeah, what do you do when it seems the only direction you can go is off the edge of a cliff, I asked. Oh, wait, look around, far and wide. See if there's a bridge across. If there's no bridge, then you better set about building one. It doesn't have to be rigid, either. It's strong enough for one crossing. The lucidity in his answer shocked me for a moment. I understood what he meant, but he also couldn't grasp why he'd still think that when he was so lost and hollow like this.

What if the bridge collapses halfway across? Huh? Bridge? I sighed. Never mind. I stood, pulled the chair back to the corner, and left Dad with his biscuits. Was that it? had he forgotten all about me the questions weren't answered as i walked out of the room they say you die a second time when your name is spoken for the last time if i died that night i'd have already died twice people at work wouldn't have figured it out because screw them dad wouldn't be any of the wiser and mum wouldn't care and more eric my sleeve was damp by the time i got home wiping away tear so i can actually see the road I don't know why I cared anymore. Perhaps I didn't want anyone else to get hurt.

I unlocked my front door and went into the house, a cold and empty place that I called home. My whole body ate with anguish as I climbed my way up the dark staircase. Well, I couldn't sleep, of course. Why would I be able to? A good night's rest wouldn't make Dad better. It wouldn't make Eric come back, and it wouldn't help me become a carpenter.

I couldn't even cobble the pieces of my life back together, let alone wooden joists or ply sheets. Slumped in the chair at my desk, I looked up at the shelves above. There was a framed picture of an eight-year-old me with my dad doing some DIY carpentry on a doorframe, and on the shelf above was a picture of me and Eric at a college party. I loathed the sight of them. They were nothing but painful reminders of what I'd already lost. It was all gone. I pulled out my phone and went to notes, writing a message to send to Eric.

I hoped he was happy with the way things had turned out. How he let me go over the pettiest of reason. Life must be so easy for him, huh? Still, I couldn't break my attachment. I needed someone to guide me. I gave up a few sentences in, placing my phone back down on the desk. Hope was evacuated. my body rapidly. But in truth, it wasn't a bad feeling. After all, why should I feel anxious or scared

if there was nothing left to worry about? No, it was acceptance. The world was never meant for me. But I recognized the feeling. I knew instinctively what it meant. I looked down underneath the desk, but only saw the frayed blue carpeting. I started cackling hysterically. It was funny. Now I'd even been abandoned by the pit that had called for me. This was it. My emotions, my dreams, leaving me one last time. A blast of freezing air poured over my head from above with a loud whoosh, and something wrapped around my throat.

It was cold, clammy and powerful. The thing grasping my neck began to pour me up off the chair. My legs thrashed wildly, trying to find a foothold. and as I looked up I saw it, the pit. It hadn't abandoned me, but in that moment I didn't want it anymore. Gaunt pallid arm was reaching out of the darkness, clamping tighter and tighter around my neck, and it was attached to a mass of writhing limbs that wanted nothing but me.

I scraped animalistically at the arm that I hung from, but it was no use. It was a grip of cold steel. I managed to kick a foot up onto the desk enough to give my body some slack, but it would be of no use when I was dragged up further. I looked around frantically for something that could help, but the only thing in reach was the picture frame with me and Eric.

Holding on to the bony wrist above me, I reached out with my free hand and grabbed the picture. Brought it up to my face and slammed it into my forehead. Blood erupted and poured down my face, but the glass was shattered. I felt light-headed, my feet totally lost footing on the desk, dangling uselessly. Using my teeth, I picked out the largest glass shard still left on the picture, then dropped the broken item to the ground.

I grasped the shard, and I attacked, slicing, stabbing the horrid limb that wanted my end. But the world was fading and fast. The howls and screeches of the creature above me sounded like they were underwater. So the rim of the black stone tunnel passed in front of me, falling away to reveal only cold and dark. I can't go. Not yet. There's things I need to do. God, give me another chance. I don't know how far I was dragged into the abyss, but the hands grip weakened, and it let go with a rage-filled whale. I didn't fall back into my room, though. I just kept falling. The darkness twisted and swirled, shaping into visions of those taken victim by the pit. Those found dead with no clear motives,

at least none that could be understood by the living. I saw my father lying on his bed, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth, unaware of the gaping hole waiting for him just beneath the bed frame. I screamed, and then passed out. I woke up gasping on the floorboards of my bedroom, lying on top of broken glass and dried blood. He shut up to a sitting position and looked above me.

The ceiling was unbroken in its off-white mundanity. The pit was gone, and so was its call. My body fell back to the floor, sobbing and heaving in exasperation. I was alive, somehow. Face all cut up, neck roar and bruising, arm lacerated messily, but alive. My flame had almost been snuffed out. There was so much wax left in my candle. It couldn't go out yet, not until I saw what was there after it all melted away.

I looked down at the broken picture. free. Eric's face stared back in a sneer. I stood up and stomped on it until it was nothing more than split wood and torn paper. I needed him as much as he needed me. Dad needed me, though. Even if you forgot who I was and who he was, I had to stick with him until the end. I couldn't just leave without him. I'm looking out of the window, the first rays are bursting from the horizon. Their warmth spills across my face, with the warmth is calm. Different from the calm brought on by total loss of hope, because there is hope.

I know what for, but the fact that it's there is all I need. If the pit calls to you, please think about what you're doing. It lies, and there's no light past the shadows. It stays dark and cold, and there is no salvation. I don't claim to know what the thing down there truly wants. It doesn't care about you. Sitting here now.

How, the sunrise looks just a little bit prettier than before. I had to kill my adoptive mother on Mother's Day by weird rice guy. I, spawn of the matriac, give this account freely under no duress or suggestion and having neither threat nor ill will levied against me at this time. My mother gave birth to me when I was 28 years old. My mother, known to some as the matriarch, and to others as Sarahoul, and still to others as the prime wound, found me broken-bodied and destitute, a debilitated wretch living on the street, and subsumed me. She took me into her black, amorphous body, ate away the soul-corrupting filth and the mentally corrosive bile that had plagued me for years,

and birthed me anew, clean-born and strong. In time my nascent body hardened itself. I was toughened, not weakened, by the compounding stresses of the human world. I grew rapidly and stoutly, until I became like that which she'd left behind in her home world, that far-flung sphere beyond human reach from which she'd embarked in search of new children so many years ago. I became a human reflection of my extraterrestrial siblings. She'd changed me, and broken down my... weak, biologically obsolete human body and rebuilt it into a form beyond terrestrial comparison.

An alien Adonis, an ultra-mundane ubermensch. I still appeared human, yet genetically. I was something else entirely. My new form could endure the scathing blasts of unchecked sunlight with no ill effect on my skin. My bones and joints were not stiffened or degraded by ultra-frigid cold. Neither were my organs susceptible to the various failures or my bones. malfunctions brought on by such extreme temperatures. She'd done it for countless others already.

This I came to know as I aimlessly wandered in my new form and found men and women who'd undergone the same providential metamorphosis within her massive, pulsing, black-liquiescent body. She'd drawn them to her, eaten them up, and spat them out, and they became stronger for it, too. Together my newfound brothers and I journeyed throughout the globe, recruiting, planning and observing, all the while worshipping our mother, who only asked through telepathic communion that we pay spiritual obeisance by certain incantatory utterances, the nature

of which I cannot transpose now, best you, reader, lose your pitiably insufficient mind. It was a simple, fulfilling life, roaming the world while soul-bound to Sarak-hoo. We'd all forsaken our original mothers with varying levels of rigourine. I myself missed mine greatly and thought of her often, that Saraghu had given me not only a second chance at life, but an immeasurably better one, and for that I owed her whatever she'd think to us. She could not travel with us, of course. Her physical nature prevented her from appearing among the public, and the tenets of her benevolent faith forbade her from absorbing those who were not yet ready. She accepted only the vagrant invalids of the world. it would have been needless for her to accompany us anyway. Her telepathic linkage was limitless and could stretch even beyond the spherical bounds of the planet. So we sojourned in town after town,

finding those we felt would benefit from her blessing and bringing them to her, with their consent, of course. Despite what may seem obvious to you now, because I have subtly framed it as such, we could have never known that we'd be feeding her, building her up into something openly monstrous and eventually diabolical. After the 40th or 50th person, her demeanor changed in her telepathic impressions darkened. She grew cold, distant, and sent us no longer the motherly affirmations we'd grown accustomed to.

Several of my brothers then ventured back to the deep cave-in, redacted, where we'd left her, the only place suitable for a mutic state, in Anato. attempt to ascertain the reason behind the change. They were never heard from again. Eventually, myself and another were left alone among her itinerant children. The others in their haste had exhausted the travel funds which we'd all shared. The two of us were stranded in some dingy South American town without money and with the link to our mother grown dim and infrequent. Through less than savory means, we chanced to get ourselves on a cargo ship, joining the small compliment under the guise of morally malleable business people,

needing desperately to return to familiar shores. We paid them what little we had, but of course and also promised to pay them more upon our arrival at our destination. And this, as you may have guessed, did not happen. Using our superior physiologies, we abandoned ship a few miles, out from our desired port and swam with far faster expediency the rest of the way. We were never seen again by the crew, who I'm sure were much displeased at our deception. Back home, my sister and I, whom from hereon I'll refer to as Lexala, endeavoured to find out what we could about our inexplicably unresponsive mother without actually paying her a visit in person.

But we were strangely certain that we'd find only our doom in the cavernous gulf, wherein she waited. We had yet to hear back from any of our siblings, and rightly assumed the worst. So we bent our ears towards the whispers of this seedy, humanly unseen world, where in societies and cabals of entities not quite human held dealings. Being ourselves members of a species yet classified, we were not overly noticed in our human forms as we sifted through rumour and gossip, where our true nature was easily discerned by those in possession of higher or more refined senses, or having knowledge of our mother and her adoptive business. We soon learned that our dear and newly disturbed mother had been causing trouble unprovoked

among certain occult circles, allegedly with the intent of acquiring a means for the transference of her body into a more stable vessel. According to those with whom we spoke, Saraghu had grown tired of her shifting, ungainly, and virtually defenseless body, desiring instead an ambulatory form with which to walk the earth. She'd slowly gone mad in her irredeemable restlessness, was now wreaking telepathic havoc on psychologically impressionable occultists, spiritualists, and allegedly necromances. This lasting collusion troubled my sister and me deeply, but we'd never known our mother to dabble in such grave, undivine sciences. She'd always been nurturing, conscientious, and respectful of the

death. A particularly locacious, pervary. of time-related archana, trinklets, and well-preserved incanabular also warned us to steer clear of anyone claiming to have been blessed by her. They've instead been cursed or soul-stripped, in his words. We were then advised to relinquish and renounce our ties to, and our faith in, our faithfully adoptive mother, neither rejoin humanity to the best of our clandestine ability, or slink away to the shadowy recesses of the underworld society. We thanked him and the others for their time and paid them in the weird manners exclusive to their ilk.

Having gathered all the information we reasonably could, we held a short conference in a hotel room we'd rented and came to an agreement on what to do with our deranged matriarch after much deliberation. After obtaining a few odds and ends for the journey, we set out to that age-old cave, hidden away from man's reach and sight, to euthanise the unearthly woman who given us.

our lives are new. Indeed, we'd have to carry out on Mother's Day of all day. The cave had always been left unchanged, but to adjust the exterior would be to risk drawing unnecessary attention from the semi-local communities, inconspicuousness through openness, so to speak. But upon arriving, after having climbed the mountain within whose face the cave rests, we came to find the mouth considerably altered, having been adorned with strange arrangements of flora we've never seen before. Additionally, there were red sigils belonging to no human script painted on the ground and walls immediately before the cave,

like a wizard's wards against evil magic and devilry. Having little experience with such sorceress elements, and fearing what we'd find inside, we at once unpacked our weapons and skulked ahead. Clicking our headlamps on, we entered the cave with weapons upraised, Lexala, being more experienced with not only Spelunking but all manner of outdoor sporting, took the lead, but ward-law's kukri held steadily below the conical beam of her headlamp.

I followed a few paces behind with my custom-made Odachi, already unsheaved, my light bobbing alternately between the stalactite riddle ceiling and the ever-slanting walls, the latter bearing more of the unfamiliar sigil script. As we pushed through the almost intolerably humid air, which we'd never before encountered in the usually chilly cave, our hearts quickened at the ominous sounds heard above our footfalls. Strange, unmistakably organic noises echoed intermittently, seeming to reach us from the unplumbed bowels of the earth. It sounded like the howls of primordial beasts or Hedian demons, reverberating through the subterranean corridors of some newly formed. earth. Lexhalla remained silent, focused wholly on the mechanical process of putting one foot in front of the next. I, however, muttered and rambled to myself every few moments to keep my doom-laced

thoughts from undoing my psyche. The last thing Lexala needed was for me to be driven back outside by my unmanaged terror. Fortunately, she seemed not to mind and allowed me to make obvious and, in some cases, absurd comments about whatever object or sound caught my attention. We must have followed the winding caverns for nearly an hour before coming to the almost illimitably vast and darkness-steeped chasm, at the bottom of which rested our mother. Along the rim of the immense abyss stood a half-circle of people, many of whom I recognize as our missing brothers and sisters. Others, however, were unfamiliar, and we assumed they were the acolytes and dark philosophers who'd gone missing.

Our beams played across each of their faces. We saw with horror that none of them had eyes. It all had them plucked or snatched out. And regardless of how long the light lingered in their faces, all their expressions remained fixed, frozen in states of dim awe, of slightly restrained stupefaction. Their clothes were in varying states of ruin,

as if they'd been dragged into the cave and survived. subjected to unguessable violent. Jirts, pants, robes and strange garments hung in tatters, and many bore stains of a grisly suggestion. Neither of us wanted to engage them, fearing that we provoke some kind of hostile response. Exile a gesture towards the downwardly winding shelf, along which we'd used to personally visit our mother in safer times, and with one final glance of the eerily passive group headed that way.

I gripped my sword with even stricter tightness, as we began our descent of that immemorially hewn staircase. I noticed Lexala had assumed a more direct brandishing of her own blade. Beer had gripped us bodily and guided or tensed our every movement. After a few minutes of carefully winding down that far-spanning chasm, we finally reached its Nadir, wherein our mother sat atop her matriarchal dais, only now much change. from how she'd been during our last meeting. While before her colossal body had been almost molten in its ever-undulent nature,

she was now solid, albeit still incomparably amorphous and lacking anything resembling sensory organs and orifices. And, oddly, her body had been painted with the same sigils we'd seen throughout the upper areas of the cave. There seemed to be no order or reason to their arrangement. It was as if she'd been frozen mid-Madisholed.

of morphosis and besieged by arcanic graffiti artists. Despite our proximity to her, neither of us felt any psychic suggestions or unspoken impressions. It was as if our telepathic linkage had been severed. She appeared more like some great obsidian statue than the super-animate life form that had absorbed and reformed us years before. Lexala approached the frozen bog and gave its dimly luminous surface a tentative tap. Sarag-Hul did not react, and the sound, a soft clink, truly as of metal on glass, rang dolly in the cavernous space.

I then remembered the odd howling sounds we'd heard earlier and wondered from where they'd come, since our mother was plainly in some kind of uninterruptible dormancy or a willfully unresponsive state. Her legion of followers were likewise silent above us. Luxala and I exchanged solemn glances, and it was thus decided that we should seize the opportunity while we could. Stepping forward, I raised my Odachi, brought its long, cumbersome blade down onto a niled tendril of sorts, meaning to lob it off. Instead, the projection shattered on impact, sending shards of what appeared to be black-tinged glass every which way. The rest of the body did not so much as tremble. We waited a few quiet, tension-choked moments, but Sarakou did not stir.

A little emboldened by her stagnant inactivity, both readied ourselves for further action. Our weapons fell time and time again, shattering and carving into that glacial bolt, eliciting neither sound nor movement from Saraghu. Her body before had been some kind of massive abstract art piece. It was now a twisted, unsavageable mess. destroyed beyond recognition and value. At the end of the marmorial butchery, the ground was littered with glimmering shards

and dark crystalline fragments that gave the cave floor an almost mesmerizing quality. There was, I realized, a twisted beauty in what we'd done, in what we'd reduced it to. The light of our headlamps brought out a soul-firing luster in the broken relics, and I felt as if within those bits and pieces there lurks some smouldering anima of ultra-terine life.

It was elucidating, breathtaking, perhaps a bit morbid, sure, but breathtaking nonetheless. I, of course, felt the slow blossoming of sorrow in my heart, and I'm sure Lexala did as well. But the damage we'd wrought was necessary. Sarakul had been poisoned by desire, walked by her implacable restlessness.

She'd gone too far and had, through her dark actions and even darker aspirations justified our matricidal action. Together Lexala and I set a small prayer for her, something we'd learn during our travels in eastern lands, then began our ascent back to the surface. We'd all but forgotten about the immobile congregation at the mouth of the chasm. As my headlamp swept across them, I expected to see their expressionless faces betokening, unthinking or reverie-addled minds again. But, it's my horror.

I saw that they were instead all smiling, grinning hideously, ghoulishly, like sadists admiring their murderous handiwork. An exhaler gasped behind me, noticing the change a few moments later. The sound must have been louder than I'd thought because the whole assembly, down to each end of the half-circle,

turned their heads to face them. I never felt such stifling, heart-seasing terror, and in that moment. Blindly, like an animal that knows it's been scented by an incontestable predator, I grabbed Lexala's hand and started us on a panicked flight towards the exit. Our headlamps bobbed haphazardly, throwing twin rays of light seemingly everywhere, but where we were going. Initially, there were no sounds of pursuit, but after a few moments I heard the unmistakable tumult with dozens of feet marching in unison towards us.

Laxala and I quickened our pace, and in my frantic hurry I dropped my Odachi. The sword cluttered behind me, but I didn't dare stop for it, hoping instead that I'd serve to trip up at least one of our pursuers. Falsome shadows begrudgingly peeled away before us, and the path inclined upward so steeply at one point

that we had to almost scramble on our hands and knees. Behind us, the storm of full. footfalls came on unimpeded. Maxala breathed noisely but was otherwise speechless, and I was stricken half dumb with a primal fear. Using my enhanced strength and vitality, I fought men in underground tournaments who'd been the strongest in their lands,

and yet, in that in darkened flight toward the surface, I felt as weak and helpless as an infant. Our nigh lightless journey seemed interminable, Napa sewers sounded tireless, neither faltering nor slowing in their hounding of us. There were no cause for us to stop or face them, no shouts of anger or mockery, only the communal clatter of their footsteps and the low rhythmic hum of many breathing bodies, the unbroken simultaneity of which troubled me deeply. There was something not right about it, something I felt was plainly obvious,

and yet, for the moment, unguessable. Their blindness also unsettled me For the path we'd taken Had many twists and turns And they'd not once lost our trail Finally, just when I thought we'd be overwhelmed By the unspeaking procession And brought back to the chasm to be hurled abyssward

The light of our headlamps Was overmastered by a greater natural light And the darkness before us shrank away To the pockets and recesses of the cave's walls and ceiling Once the light touched my body full on, a great fatigue seized me, as if I'd been blasted to stone by Medusian eyes. I stumbled forward, managing to only save myself from face-planting by throwing my hands forward at the last second. But I had still been carrying my sword, I probably would have accidentally eviscerated or decapitated myself. Lexa came to a stop beside me, and after sheathing her weapon, she helped me to my feet.

Despite how long our occupancy of the cave had seemed, little had changed of the outside one. The sun had moved little from its zenith. The sky was still a soft blue, through which streaked thin clouds and flocks of squawking birds. I would have liked to admire the view had there not been a parade of silent maniacs behind us. Sprang into action, Lexala and I each took the side of the cave's mouth, and using our enhanced strength and resilience to damage, we began pummeling the rock. Our pursuers were still submerged in darkness, but not yet come into the scope of sunlight. Knowing we wouldn't be able to contest them all in open combat, especially since I'd lost my weapon,

we instead worked to seal the cave altogether. Whether or not they were humans deserving some judicially decreed mercy was irrelevant. We'd seen nothing of humanity in their vacant sockets, and their ominous, dubiously defined thraldom to our late mother was reason enough for us to summarily determine their fate. Just when the vanguard of that terrible group appeared before the tongue of sunlight, my fist struck a structural weak point, and the whole threshold collapsed. The implosion sent great plumes of dust right into our faces, and yet we hammered on, determined to further cement the followers' entombment.

When the cave's mouth was nought but a wall of impassable rubble, we ceased our assault and stepped away. We listened for sounds of debris being stripped away or pulverized. If our pursuers were attempting to make an aperture in the wall, we'd hear them, and Lexala would hack away at any limbs or heads that pushed or peeked through with her cookery. But after several moments, we'd heard nothing and hoped the parade had simply given up and turned around to rejoin their mother's shattered corpse. But as we were about to depart,

We heard from behind the ruffle wall a concert of voices, speaking in the same droning manner. My children, do not blame you for this act of betrayal, no matter how insolent. I love you, I've always loved you, and will suffer to let you live a little longer in your juvenile truancy. You will return to me one day when you're ready, and as both many and one, we will adopt the rest of this planet. I will again assume the role of the prime wound. For this world and many more to come. The reality of what we'd escaped from then dawned on Lexailer and me,

darkly and profoundly as a tempestuous storm coming over a placid land. We'd merely desecrated a corpse, had shattered a hollow shell. Our mother had not died, but transferred herself into the swarm of physically conscripted children, assuming control of their bodies and minds.

And this for her had only been the beginning. She wanted not just us, but the whole planet. We gave her no response, the magnitude of our horror preventing speech. Instead, Lexal has smudged a few of the sedges on the ground with her feet, and I did the same for those that remained undisturbed along the face of the cave. We hoped that, in smearing them, we'd lessened somewhat the infernal power, that Sarahoul had acquired for herself. Not waiting to hear any further forewarnings or chastisement from Sarahoul,

we mustered our strength again and set off, leaving that ultra-human horror sealed within the cave. For now, my best friend and I took a night walk. Now I'll never look at my town in the same way again. By J. Beardify. No list of rules, evil A.I.'s or cursed objects appear in this storm. It doesn't take place in a haunted apartment, a supernatural forest or secret laboratory. There aren't any ghosts or demons either. Although I suppose you could say there are

monsters. The year was 2007. After midnight and a Thursday night, my best friend Sean and I had nowhere to go. I was a wannabe writer. He was a wannabe artist. We had $29 between us that Somehow had to buy all our food and gas until the end of the month. That night we discovered a half-empty bottle of ever-clear vodka behind a fake panel in the wall of our apartment. It was like finding buried treasure. We poured it into two bottles along with some expired orange juice, trusting the alcohol to kill off any bacteria,

and set out for a wall. Walking at least was free, and in those days it was our main recreational activity. Instead of going through the historic district, or out by the meat-packing plant, we headed along one of the many railroad tracks that criss-crossed our town. We'd had some close calls before,

but we'd always managed to scurry into the bushes when a train came roaring through. So far, anyway. Now maybe it was the booze, and I felt bored with the railroad tracks that night. I wanted to explore one of the gravel roads that led away from the tracks. There were dozens of them,

strange little paths that led up into the tree-lined hills, or down into the dark gullies behind the track. I picked one at random, and Sean sighed when he saw how steep it was. Fueled by curiosity and vodka screwdrivers, he trudged up into the woods. We hadn't gone far when I began to suspect that maybe, just maybe, we'd made an awful mistake.

I felt watched, although I couldn't see anyone among the dark trees. The hair on the back of my neck was standing up. Goose bumps covered Sean's arms, and one look in his eyes told me that he was feeling it too. We didn't dare to speak. A single word might break the smell, causing God knows what to come charging at us from the depths of the woods. How far were we from town by now? Forty minutes an hour?

Help would never get to us in time if we called for it. There was no one around to hear a scream. There was a heavy, silent, expected. feeling in the air, like someone or something was awaiting the arrival of our crunching footsteps. Welcome to what it was at first, that black shape looming beyond the horizon of the hill. To our overactive imaginations, it looked almost like a ruined castle. As it turned out, it was an abandoned rock quarry. A feeling of being observed only intensified as we entered the ring of crumbled, graffiti-covered walls

and huge machines we couldn't identify. I felt drawn to the building to the right, but maybe I just wanted to get out of the line of sight of the concrete tower at the far end of the quarry, the one with narrow windows that stared down at us like empty eye socket. Approaching the building, Sean and I were hit by a foul smell, a weird mix of diesel fuel, sweat, this, and something else I couldn't identify. We turned on the flashlights on our phones and stepped through the doorless entry.

The moment I saw the filthy, torn-up clothes and mattresses inside, I wanted to get out of there. I'm sure that Sean did too. But running meant facing whatever might be waiting for us back on the road. Neither of us was ready for that, not yet. Jakey phone flashlights in our hands, he kept going, stepping over junk half-glimped in the dark. Decapitated teddy bear.

A pink plastic bowl full of maggots. A long hallway of metal doors. one of them screeched as it swung on rusted hinges. Was someone else here? We kept going until we reached the end of the hallway, where a concrete staircase led upward. Sean opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when he heard footsteps behind us.

Whoever they were, they could walk just fine in the dark, and they had no trouble staying out of the reach of our dim phone lights. Hello? I whispered. There was no response. Sean and I headed up the staircase, afraid to go forward, but even more afraid to go back. Upstairs were more rusty metal doors. Some of them were padlocked.

From behind one we heard weeping. In other rooms, multiple voices held hushed conversations in languages we couldn't understand. Beneath the door beside us, an orange glow flickered. Like firelight. footsteps behind us grew closer, ratcheting up my nerves until I didn't dare to turn around. The door beside us swung open. Now I saw the source of the orange glow. Some burning rags on a broken plate. Or glimpses, shadows of figures moving inside. But most of my attention was fixed on the large, bearded man who burst out of the room, jabbing his finger into my chest and shoving me. Spits flew out between the gaps created by his missing teeth.

His breath reeked of vomit and sickness. Red, worm-like vein stood out on his face as he screamed at me. I had no idea what he was saying, but the meaning was clear. I watched in slow motion as he picked up a chunk of rubble and reared back with it. The footsteps that had been following us came running out of the dark. A dirty snort-nosed kid tugged on the man's sleeve. He hesitated for a second, and that was all Sean and I needed. He sprinted down the hallway, pursued by eerie echoing shouts and hurled hunks of rock.

It was a rickety fire escape at the end of the hall. We barely started to climb down when headlights appeared on the gravel track below. Something about their brightness made me feel like a haunted animal. I gestured to Sean that we should hide. Dicks and briars jabbed through our jeans as we could. climbed up the wooded hillside and squatted down behind a half-rotted log. Three black vans were parked in front of the abandoned quarry. There was something ominous about the way they'd left their engines running.

Five men got out of the vans and rushed inside the building where we'd found the man and child. Their shadows were long and freakish in the headlights. While I couldn't make out their faces, I did catch the glint of a nickel-bladed pistol. More shouts echoed from inside. we could see flashlight beams dancing in the hollow windows. Five men marched about 30 people out of the ruined building and loaded them into the rumbling vans. The whole thing couldn't have taken more than five minutes,

but I swear I saw the kid who'd been following us look up into the hills and give a little nod before disappearing into the darkness of the rumbling unmarked van. I finally understood. The man and boy hadn't been threatening us. They'd been warning us. trying to get us out of there before it was too late. With the vans locked up and ready to go, I got a better look at the five-armed men.

What I saw gave me chill. They looked completely normal. A short chubby guy with a goatee, a blonde kid not much older than me who kept checking his phone. An older man with a leathery face and boar cap who I'd seen a few times in the bars around town. Two others were their backstone. All of them were calmly smoking cigarettes and telling jokes like they hadn't just kidnapped dozens of people at gunpoint.

One of the men opened a canvas bag he was holding. It looked like it was full of passports and documents. He set fire to them one by one with the tip of his cigarette. When they'd finished their smoke break, they left the smouldering sack on the ground and drove off with their human cargo. And it was like they were never here. Almost half an hour passed before Sean and I dared to move from our hiding spot. The same question was on both our minds as we tread carefully down the anonymous gravel road. What had we just seen?

I wanted to go to the police with our story, but without any evidence, who would believe us? Besides, as Sean pointed out, we'd have to explain what we were doing on the quarry's property in the middle of the night, a reeking of alcohol. A few days later, a black and white poster in a roadside rest area caught my arm. Saw two faces I recognised. A pudgy guy with a goatee and an older man with a leathery face, wearing a ball can. Both were wanted in connection with a human trafficking ring. They had brought hundreds of people into the country on false pretenses,

destroyed their documents and shipped them off to work, or worse. Sean and I had unwittingly stumbled onto one of the transport hubs of their operation, I always thought that human trafficking was something that happened to people far away at shipping ports, border crossings or international airports. I never would have imagined it in the sleepy college town where I lived. Maybe that was the genius of it. There are a lot of abandoned buildings in Midwestern America. There are a lot of gravel roads with no clear end in sight.

In the quietest of towns, maybe even your town. there are a lot of places where evil can hide. I exercised a demon, and it followed me home, by Estelle Pope. The thing I love the most about specialising in exorcism is not so much the excitement or thrill of the church, but the happy, smiling faces of my clients afterwards, especially children. Oh, he was the spitting image of my little nephew, right down to the brown hair as flat as a river through a valley. He was lying as still as a stone, his hands limped by his sides, his face like death itself. For a moment his heart stopped and minded too.

Each passing second was agony. When his eyes flew open and his breathing stabilized, the colour came slowly back to his cheeks. The boy sat up, coughing out blood. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. When he smiled that rainbow smile that made my heart flutter in the way. inside, the smile that always makes this job so worthwhile. Thank you, Father Peter. The mother started to sob, her emotions gushing out of her like water from a dam. I squeezed her hand tight and whispered that everything was going to be all right.

With a final smile, I grabbed my hat and started out of the door. Wait! I turned to see the mother's eye sparkling, relief, gratitude. She struggled to get the words out. Father Peter, thank you so much. I smiled at her and tipped my hat. Ah, there isn't a problem, ma'am. She burst into tears again, and I could still hear her as I made my way down to the bus.

I was still laughing, giddy with joy at another successful exorcism. But as the bus pulled away from the station and lumbered down the road, worry started to creep in and my heart sank with dread. for my own little boy was not well i had big dreams my nephew i was there when he was born and i was there for his christening and baptism i named him peter peter the tenth after me and my father and all the men that had come before me i was hoping that he would follow me into the priesthood i dreamed of the day i could teach him with my tips and tricks the day he could successfully exercise his first demon like a baby taking his first demon like a baby taking his first first X, and to the day I could finally tell him,

Oh, I'm so proud of you. But the house was too quiet as I slipped back home and hung up my hands. The sunlight slipped into the late afternoon, illuminating a long white arm that stretched across the hall. My sister, Maria, was frozen on the couch, staring listlessly at the television. The sound had dulled out to a babble that didn't matter anymore. I tiptoed up to my nephew's room where he lay.

He was barely moving, and his face was the colour of weak tea. Shadows fluttered beneath closed eyelids, sweat dribbled down his face and moistened his bedsheets. I lay a hand on his forehead, and it came away hot. "'You'll get better, Junior,' I whispered, lips trembling. I swear he'll do everything he can to help you. The empty promise hung in the air as I closed the door and went downstairs to sit with my sister. would never get better. That was the fact I had to deal with.

The fact my sister had to deal with and the reality that hit us day after day as junior got worse and worse. Money was running out. Time was running out. We simply didn't know what to do. My sister gripped my hand, her knuckles white. She leaned against me like a house of cards

and she closed her eyes and went to sleep. Poor Maria. Tomorrow she'd wake up to another night, it. I drifted off myself. My dreams plagued with worry. Good morning, mother. Good morning, Uncle. Maria screamed. I opened my eyes to a miracle. Juni was standing in front of us. He was wearing a freshly starched button-up shirt, black pants and a tie. He was standing straight like a soldier to attention, and he was smiling. It had been a long time since I'd seen him smile. How are you feeling, junior? I gasped.

Oh, perfectly fine. Thank you so much for asking, uncle. I clasped my nephew's hands into my arm. Oh, I felt like grasping a cold fish, but his eyes shone like fire. Oh, thank you, Lord, I whispered, tears in my eyes. For healing my nephew, I will forever repay you with your kindness. My nephew shivered at my touch and squirmed in my grip. A look of worry crossed his face. But then it relaxed into a smile.

I'm glad I can make you happy, Uncle, he said. He insisted on sitting at the breakfast table with us. Usually he'd be fidgety, restless, before inhaling his food and rushing out the front door. Today he sat up straight at the breakfast table like an iron rod was shoved down his back. Maria set down a plate of sausages in front of him. Junior picked up his cutlery, cut the sausage into pieces, then nibbled into each one daintily with the first.

fork. Well, my jaw dropped. For years we've been struggling to teach him how to eat, but he'd improved by leaps and bounds overnight. After breakfast, Junia cleared the table and insisted on helping his mum with the dishes, so I retreated to my study. But when I opened my door, my heart stopped short. My study was a mess. My bibles were ripped apart, shredded paper falling down to the ground like snow the shelves had crumbled into wooden planks and were piled up like firewood but what chilled me to the bone were the pentagrams thousands of them drawn painstakingly all over my study crawling up the walls and on the floor over and over a pattern almost like wallpaper each had a single five-pointed star in the center it was the color of blood as it began to tidy up i couldn't

stop staring at these pentagrams. The five-pointed crimson star seemed somehow familiar. I must have studied about it before, but it seemed to have slipped my memory. And to make it worse, all my notes on that star were gone, eaten by the looks of it. The cold breeze swept through the room, and I stared at the star again, and it clicked. And the house, yesterday, I saw the same star on the walls of his house. And as if to confirm it all, cold. laughter wafted through the room, making my hair stand on end. I clenched my fists until they turned white. I would not rest until that demon was gone. I swear on it. The laughter came again, this time from downstairs, and I burst into the kitchen to find. Nothing, nothing but the head

of a raccoon on the kitchen table. It was nearly severed, showing only the blood vessels jutting out. his eyes rolled backwards, showing only the whites. As I watched, its whiskers quivered with fear before it became still again. Shadows danced behind the curtain. It was my sister, laughing, drinking something out of a wine glass. More blood seeped underneath the curtain as she refilled the glass. My hand went to my mouth. Junior was nowhere to be found.

images flashed into my mind of my young nephew on a tree somewhere or on a wall nailed down with his head dangling like that of the raccoon i shivered my heart leapt in my throat my brain screamed at me to go find him but i couldn't i was stuck i ripped open the curtain cross at the ready to find no one there well she was gone as quickly as she'd appeared maria My thoughts were going out of control, tears whirled into my eyes. I struggled to find what to say next. I'll find, Junior. We'll do this together. The demon will not win. I fled.

Didn't know how long I was in that study, but the daylight seemed to have vanished into a deep shade of gold. Shadows emerged and formed intricate patterns that crawled against the walls like branches of a tree. Then the shadows fled to what looked like a huge spider, scuttling across the walls. I swung my light around, but it was gone. My wife was laughing. Whatever that was was hissing, my head was sparing.

Junior, I called out. I wanted to sound brave, but my voice was so small. I crept around the house. Junior, he wasn't in the study. Junior He wasn't in the bedrooms Junior He wasn't in the yard

It was still watching me A thing I could feel the way its gaze Bored down on my back I kept on hearing heavy breathing A heart quivering with excitement But when I turned around yelling

Bottle at the ready It was gone The tree house was the last place I checked Junior loved that place. Back before he was sick, he'd spent every waking moment there, rocking in his hammock, gazing at the blue sky and the clouds drifting lazily by, or spent his afternoon's drawing with his crayons. Now the hammock swung with the wind,

and the planks creaked under my footsteps like a haunted house. New drawings were on the walls, but it depicted the same symbol over and over, the five-pointed crimson star. I forced myself to ignore the star, grit my teeth, and began to search. Hammock, rug, dusty corners. Again, hammock, rug, dusty corners. It began to get increasingly harder as the sun went down, the light began to fade,

so I carefully placed one of my purifying candles on the wooden table and moved to light it. But then I felt a wash of air, and then something heavy clobbed me in the head. and the candor clattered onto the floor. I turned around, and my heart, which had been thrashing in my chest like a wild animal from worry and paranoia, now came to a complete halt. Oh, she towered over me, two or three times my height. Her belly was swollen, stretched beyond the normal limit, and I could see red veins bulging from her arms that were as thick as tree trunks.

She roared again, raised what I now recognized, as an axe from the garage and swung it down, only just missing my head. The table was cleanly split into half. And backed away as she advanced to the axe swinging madly in her hands. At that same time, the last of the sun slipped onto her face, and I nearly dropped everything I was so desperately holding. Maria! But it was not the Maria I knew. Her eyes were blood shot she moved with an awkward clumsiness that didn't seem like herself far below the treehouse i could see somebody waving their hands as if conducting a fancy orchestra somebody with a body shape and size of a huge spider somebody scuttling towards my direction i had 10 seconds

Maria i choked out please she was almost on me now she dropped the axe and her hands crawled up to my throat. Her breath was on my face. I squirmed, but I was trapped under her grip. Maria, I hissed. Fight it. She never well. The voice was too familiar, too small, too much like that same little boy who could brighten my day just by walking into the room. That same boy who was wolfing down sausages this very morning with a big grin on his face. Why uncle? Junior He drolled. His eyes gleamed red in the twilight. The crimson star was carved onto his chest now, gleaming with blood. He raised both his arms and Maria got off me and marched to his side. He advanced on me, his now forked tongue flicking from side to side. Get out of my nephew, I howled. My palms were sweating. I scrambled onto my feet and forced myself to move.

"'Get out of him,' Junior repeated mocking. He caught his head like he pretended not to understand, and then let out a large guffaw. "'Oh, on the contrary, uncle, I'll have the joy of finishing you off myself, for everything you've done to us.' I set the candle back on its stand and lit it. My hands were shaking so badly I was afraid I might accidentally burn the treehouse down. The flame went out feebly. I struck another man.

It's not working. Give up and come to me, uncle. He'll make things so much easier. Come on. The flame was too weak. It went down slower and slower, and I bit my nails and held my breath. And it finally exploded into lights,

and the treehouse was bathed in orange and yellow and gold. Junior hissed in pain, and his eyes went wide. He backed quickly into the corner. It was time. I lay my right hand onto him and placed my cross on his forehead. Oh, Junior screamed. Smoke was coming out from where the cross met his skin. Then, before I even started to pray, he dissolved into a mound of black ash.

More rained down from the roof, flooding the treehouse, spilling over onto the ground. I looked at my left, saw my sister was crumbling too, first her legs and her belly, and then her head. Blood gushed out and bait the ass. into something hard. I was left with the graves of the only family I'd ever known. I knelt in front of them and said a final goodbye.

My tears falling like the ashes scattered around me. Then I wordlessly blew out the candle, climbed down the rope ladder and looked at the shadow of the treehouse for the last time. Every step back to the main house was heavier than the last.

I stared at the flickering flames of the candle, as the night danced on around me. I scrawled through my phone, staring at pictures of my family, eating ice cream, playing at the beach, normal family stuff that made everything so worthy. Until my life was ruined by the same thing I swore to protect them from. My resolve hardened,

and I made a promise right then and there that I would fight the demons that haunted this world and send them back to where they came from, that no one else would get hurt. and as if God himself was listening, the phone rang. Hello, is this father Peter? It was a young woman, early 20s, and her voice sounded strange. My sister's here in my body, and I can't sleep anymore.

Get her out so we can both be a peace. Please. Shut up, Cam. He can't help you. Besides, you know you deserve it. Then the line went dead. The lady, Cam, had sent an address. I gathered up my things and packed them into my napset.

Yes, tonight will be a new night. A night of change. But as I strode down the road to take the first bus, I felt something wake up inside me. Hello, Father Peter. I nearly dropped my things, I scanned the surroundings, my heart thumping away in my chest. Nothing.

Yeah, maybe it was just the events of the night. Every little thing was making me jump. The sun began to rise, illuminating the silent forest around me. Yeah, yeah, it was nothing. Yet my heartbeat was quickening again. I couldn't help but look around as I climbed the steps of the bus. The voice gave out another hearty chuckle. once again a shiver ran up my spine my left hand was twitching involuntarily i loved your nephew and as for you right let's dance i search for things people are too scared to believe in my cold blouse it

to give you a quick summary of what it is that i do is kind of complicated well i'm the person that goes searching for things that most people are too scared to believe in, whether they're willing to admit it or not. I've searched for Wendigo's, Aswans, Kikimora, and other things that I'm not sure of. I keep a whole journal filled with everything I've encountered, but nothing compares to the being that I recently encountered, the thing that made me take a step away for a bit. It started with a rumor I heard in a bar in the middle of nowhere. I stopped in right after a case of mine that had just ended. one involving a supposed

Jersey devil sighting, but that's for another time. The reason why I stopped, he may ask, is because the sign for the bar a few miles back kept blinking repeatedly, as if something was telling me to stop. The inside was a quaint place, almost like your typical old-fashioned movie bar,

hustling and bustling, happening all around. One thing did stick out, though, a light dimming frequently around a couple of patrons. I made my way over and stopped nearby to hear what they were talking about. I only got a couple of words before I spoke to the man talking later that night. A shadowy figure. Once things had died down a bit, I decided to approach the man myself. Hey man, I couldn't help but hear you saying something about a shadowy figure.

The man looked at me for a long time without saying a thing. To cut the silence, I spoke up once again. Listen, you don't have a bit. to tell me if you don't want to, but this is the kind of stuff I look into. I'm an investigator of sorts. Here, take a look. I opened up my jacket and poured out a compendium I'd been working on. Gently setting it on the table, I slid it to the man, saying, you have a look for yourself. I then walked to the bartender, ordered two drinks and walked back to the man, handing him one. He took it, looked up and said, all right, I believe you. But I'm just going to

tell you a few things. Yeah, do you mind if I record? He looked sheepishly and finally spoke up. As long as you don't use my name or this place his name. Works for me, I said, pulling out my audio recorder,

loading in a new cassette. Audio transcript Case Log 26, name John Doe. Location, not on file. Okay, ready when you are. Well, this creature or whatever it is, it's not like anything here in this book. I know you got a few pages on Shadow Folk, but it's not like that.

I mean, the thing was black, just pure black. Pure black. Not like a seethroish black, or almost all black man. No, not at all like that. It was just black. Like nothing was there. I looked like an all-black cut out of a man. No features, nothing, just darkness.

Nothing I've ever seen before. So you're saying that you came across something that was just pure black. Where did you find it, and what did it do? The man just sat there for a few minutes, looking down as if he was contemplating his next words. He looked terrified, and sweat started to appear on his brow. Listen, man, if it's too hard to remember, or think of, I get it. No, it's not that.

I remember everything. I wish I didn't. The things it did and the things it showed me were, I wouldn't wish it upon anyone. Not even a stranger like you. What do you mean? What did it do? Where can I find it?

You could tell the eagerness in my voice to learn more. I won't tell you where it is. but let's just say I haven't been to this bar every day for the last few months. It taught me things and showed me. God, the things it showed me. Everyone's dying. The world's on fire and... The man's head fell into his hands and he began weeping, almost uncontrollably.

Oh, God damn it. Not again. I think it's time for you to leave. The bartender yelled from across the counter. Audio transcript, case log 26. over. After consoling the man and bringing him outside to wait for a taxi, he finally told me where it had all happened. It didn't take a lot of convincing, though. Well, for the safety of others, I will not disclose the location. I wasn't even sure if I'd find it. A place was interesting, and the drive was as well. The man's instructions were pretty clear. Drive here,

turn at a tree. Turn, turn, and boom. It was a small, quaint town. Settlement? I don't know what to call it. It's kind of a small commune with three buildings, a post office, a bar and a run-down church. But none of those was what I was after. A mile past the ghost town was a farm, or what was left of one. Glabbs barn, broken fences, and my target.

The rundown house. The sun was setting as I finished my way down the long driveway. As I parked my truck, I got an unsettling feeling, and flashes of one of my cases came to mind. It concerned an old farmhouse like this. The family inside was all over the place, to say the least. Inside the living room was what seemed to be a man on his knees. But as I entered the room, it turned around, bearing its teeth. It wasn't a man, but a wet chug.

And it charged at me, throwing me to the side and running out the door. I didn't see it again. With that family, what happened to them has always stuck with me. Seeing that made me contemplate leaving and saying, fuck this, but I needed to know what would drive a man to break down to that point. Cautiously, I walked up the steps,

peering in the windows to make sure no one was inside. Thankfully, the place was empty. I turned on my flashlight and reached for the doorknob until I heard, toted, very quietly. I shot around to see nothing. Thinking it was all in my head, I turned the knob and went in. As soon as I entered the house, I fell. I fell for what seemed to be minutes,

sliding down this pitch black hole screaming. I've heard a hand grab and scratch at me. Their nails ripped and tore up my flesh, the warm blood running across my skin before final hitting the ground. I awoke, sitting on a chair, waiting for my vision to come into focus. I could see something standing across from me.

I was in what looked like a root cellar with a few lights barely on around the room. Trying to gain my composure, I finally heard something speak. You came seeking answers, and now you are here. Where are you? I am right in front of you.

I looked up to see it, but I wasn't sure what it was. It wasn't just black. It was as if there was nothing there, just a cutout of a man standing in front of me. It was like the absence of light. No features or anything could be seen. The light from my flashlight didn't even appear on him. The dread resonating off of him made me want to scratch my eyes out and not feel it anymore. I quickly pulled out my recorder and pressed record,

before the being finally spoke up once again. Audio transcript case log 26. Name, entity. Location. Seller? I am the absence of light. The absence of good. I am only darkness.

So you're the devil? No, you fucking idiot. I am the embodiment of evil. sounds like the devil to me the thing sighed your Christian beliefs are not real every religion is wrong when you die there is no light

there is no heaven and no hell only darkness you become a part of me before there was anything there was me and when everything ends I will be all that remains you are an insignificant and speck in the infinite, always dying universe. Let me show you. The being reached what

seemed to be a hand at me, and I quickly scooted back avoiding his grasp. What if I don't want to see? That's a first. Every being or thing or person I've met has never rejected me, never rejected the truth, or those that have searched have never turned away. How am I supposed to believe you? You could just be lying. I saw what you did to him. He was a mess after running into you. I mean, you did also say you're the embodiment of evil.

What's more evil? Lying to you about what's really out there or showing you the truth of everything. But what is this so-called truth of yours? What will I see? What you see depends on who you are. some see good things and some see bad depends on the person that doesn't really make sense do you want to see or not fine fuck it i'm in audio transcript case log 26 end with that the being placed his hand on my head and the most immeasurable things happened it was as though i was seeing the past present and future all at once

the creation of everything every universe person and plant then the destruction of it all i've had a thousand deaths and hurt thousands of pleas but i somehow focused on one thing one of my first encounters with something one of the dominoes that made the rest fall it was saturday june 22nd 1996 i was barely a boy only six years old My father just came home from work as my mum was finishing up supper. As we were eating, a loud screech came from outside, shattering the windows of our house. My father quickly got up and grabbed a knife before a beautiful woman with black hair stopped him. She wore a tattered dress, looked malnourished and was covered in cuts. My father stood still, almost in a trance, and was unable to move.

The woman inched closer, grabbing his head and turning it to the side. my mother was wailing and telling me to look away before the woman spoke i'm sorry you have to see this with that the woman got close to his ear screaming in it as blood came out of his eyes and ears not only were my mom's ears bleeding but so were my own i passed out soon after and woke up in the hospital only to be told i was an orphan more flashes came and went and i was soon in the deepest of what could only have been hell, feeling whips hit my back and creatures digging their nails

deep into my calves and pulling down. Only for it to reset and happen again and again. And then being nailed to a wall and all my nails pulled off. These were some sadistic fuckers, I thought, as the last nail got ripped up, only for them to all grow back again.

I woke in my bed, gasping for air as I shut up. Are you okay? What happened? I heard my wife say while hugging me. Just another nightmare. I think my medication's messing with me. I replied, getting up. I'm going to go make some coffee and get a little work done. Go back to bed. I said before kissing her head and heading to the kitchen. It was 7 in the morning and the sun who was just beginning to rise. I started with a pot of coffee and grabbed my laptop to do my annual reports that were due the following week.

I was finally happy living the life I wanted. It had taken years of therapy after my parents' death in that accident, but it was worth it. I finally had the woman of my dreams and two beautiful kids. Life was good. I awoke all of them to chocolate-chipped pancakes before going out and getting some groceries. While at the grocery store, I felt something watching me.

But any time I looked around, there was nothing there. until finally in the corner of my eye I saw the silhouette of a person almost like the cutout of a person my head started ringing and my vision was getting blurry and the next thing I knew I was waking up gasping for air again this time not waking my wife the worst thing was I felt my body take control and grab a pillow

I could do anything but scream in my mind as the pillow was placed over her head and I watched her fight until she became limp. It had happened over and over until I finally realized what was happening. I was punishing myself. I'd lost her long ago, but she's not dead. She just didn't want to be part of what I was doing. Something was pulling my strings.

I awake to flashes of lights and a hand gripping my head tighter in a forest. Slowly getting up, I noticed that I'm clad in armor. Hearing screams, I look up and watch as a vicious beast, tears apart people wearing both the same and different colors than me. A werewolf? That's not possible. They've been extinct since the dark ages. And then I remember where I'm at and what I'm wearing. Fuck, I say as I look up and meet a hand of bloody claws right in my face. Falling down, I feel my jaw slack and see my ear on the ground. I feel the beast slash my Achilles before feeling its mouth close on the back of my neck.

I wake up on the floor, panting for breath, not knowing what's happening or what reality I'm in. Audio transcript case log 26. Name, entity, location. Seller? Have you had enough? Are you now willing to accept that what you do is for nothing? Why is it for nothing, though? Because in all realities and timelines, you die a horrible death.

You'll never live a happy life, only a life covered in darkness. Meeting me solidifies that. Ah, caught you. What did you say? Well, if you were a being that was here at the beginning and the end, how do you know we'd meet? We will always meet. I have been guiding your hand this whole way.

I have put all the pieces in motion. I am the one you meet before or after death. What don't you understand? How you supposedly know everything when you don't. Well, then I'll have to show you everything once more. For the first time, I could see facial features in the entity. sunken in eyes and a mouth full of sharp white teeth as it bore its hand towards me. It seemed ecstatic at the thought of torturing me more.

But what it saw as torture, I saw as learning. Everything has a weakness. I just need to find it. Try your best. Audio transcript, Case Log 26, M. Aversham redacted. by E. B. Davis. There are seemingly countless sleepy little towns in rural America, practically invisible to all but the few hundred who call each of these towns home.

Only a hundred years ago or so, Americans used to live in these little villages, making a living as farmers. Society has changed so much and so fast that it seems to forget that these towns exist. Unless perhaps if you're in an airplane flying at night, looking down at the window at tiny little clusters of lights, or perhaps randomly trawling through Google Earth in the idle chance that you might find something interesting. Habersham is one of those towns that's practically invisible. I won't mention which state it's in.

Some of these towns should be forgotten, and Habersham is one of them. When it comes to the scenery, Havisham ranks among the best. It's nestled in a region of great natural beauty, though it's subtle instead of dramatic. It's ideal and idyllic farmland. It's a sort of region where photographers come to make postcards or maybe famous computer desktop backgrounds.

There are countless rolling gentle hills. None are too high, but most are high enough to make you want to hike to the top and see what's on the other side. They're high enough to present a face to the setting sun, not rising for that matter. During the golden hours of dusk and dawn, they're particularly beautiful. In the early days, this farming town grew mostly wheat, though that industry was largely declined, for a multitude of reasons. The land is now mostly owned and run by giant agricultural conglomerates, and they mostly grow grass for hay to feed beef cattle on ranches a few counties over.

Still, those rolling hills are a sea of green in the spring and turn a white gold in late summer before the harvest. The hills, when viewed somewhere high, are spotted here and there like an Appaloosa with little forests of trees, usually oak and maple. Little cool babbling brooks meander in. in and out around the bases of the hills. Scientifically, the region is known for a special species of endemic butterfly, small and blue.

And beneath this sod, one can still find earthworms of unusual size. This works out well because those babbling brooks are also beloved by the fly fishing community, many members of which will gladly swap out a whole box of handmade flies for a few of those whoppers. The most notable resident of Havisham is Trevor Milton. Trevor's high watermark of local fame came to him when he was a teenager Aversham High School class of 1999 Improbably Trevor didn't even play football Football is king they say in rural America

If a teenage boy is going to become a small town hero He's usually a football player Usually a running back But Haversham had never been big enough to need a large high school And its football team was lucky during a good year If he could feel both a varsity and a JV team so nobody got too excited for the local Harisham Hawks, which was a good way to manage expectations.

Trevor was one of those good kids, the overachieving kind, you just tell his destined to do great things someday. He'd feel a little privileged to have met him in his youth. He had big dreams of being a big city journalist. His English teachers had said that he had a great natural talent for writing, and his words would just flow out onto the page like water. Trevor also had an Eagle Scout-like drive for public service.

He was convinced that being a journalist would be a perfect way to use his natural writing talent to help people, to inform the public, the recording of unbiased facts, undying search for truth, and so on and so forth. There was never going to be an opportunity for Trevor in Havisham. It actually had a bi-weekly paper, but it was barely more than a newsletter. It had one full-time employee, the editor who probably should have retired years ago, go and a nice lady who came in part-time to put together the classifies. Still, when Trevor asked if they'd be interested in a voluntary unpaid intern, they didn't turn him down.

He told them it was something that he could put on a college application someday, and they thought that as well. He was a sort of boy that ought to go to college, so he learned to set the classifiers and advertisements. He helped the old man prove, though not write the obituaries. After a while, they let him even write articles on how. Havisham Hawke's latest loss. Trevor had another interest, the real key to his local fame.

In fact, Trevor didn't find it really all that interesting, just another useful tool that would help him be a good journalist someday. Everybody else's interest, though, was another story. Trevor was the first person in the whole town to hook his computer, not many had computers, up to the internet. Many people in town had hardly heard of the thing and had only vague understandings of what it was or what it could do someday. To be fair, a lot of people all over the country were like that back in the time.

As you were there, it's hard to imagine how the whole world changed over a few short years. What really cemented Trevor's place in local law is that he created the town's first official website. Really, it was just a project Trevor wanted to do because he was bored and didn't think of anything else. There was nobody else to do it. He mentioned it over dinner to his parents. who mentioned it to their co-workers. But the next Sunday, everyone in town had heard that the Milton boy had created not only his own website, but now Havisham had its own place on the World Wide Web.

What a marvel. The mayor invited him over to the city hall. That was a small, almost church-like building of historical provenance, built back when the town was still hopeful of growing into something bigger. Trevor helped the mayor and the city's secretary hook up their new computer to get internet access for themselves. and the first place they went was www.harisham.com After teaching the mayor how to use a mouse

and how to click the hyperlinks, Trevor was lauded for his forward thinking and great technical skills. He was going to put Harisham on the map someday. The next issue of the town's paper had a picture of him on the front page, smiling with the mayor next to a boxy

CRT computer monitor. Why the young mill and boy was so smart? the article explained he'd build his own computer at home just by ordering the parts down at the church at the post office the barbershop

the bar the older residents would chatter to each other about that Milton boy and a website well imagine they'd speak out all the WWWs the dots and the com they didn't know what it all meant

but the fact that it was a thing now amused them and they laughed about it later on Trevor would create websites for the three local schools, high and junior high, elementary and primary. We do the same thing for the parks department, covering the two parks they managed. The one in the city square and the one by the creek. Later on, he changed the URLs to the appropriate.govs and dot e-dus, but the pages themselves still reflect that unique mid-late 90s web aesthetic.

At fall, he'd ride into the town's tiny but appreciated apple pie array. He'd ride with the mare and his convertible behind the high school's little marching band and ahead of the horses. Trevor had his whole future ahead of him. He was looking for something to do. In his junior year, he found his next big project. It'd be a way to tell Havisham's history to the outside world. Trevor was going to create an online registry for the dead who were buried in Havisham's little nearby cemetery. The Havisham Cemetery was a little under a half-mile west of town, obscured by one of the dead.

the ubiquitous rolling hills. It was down what was now called Cemetery Drive, an unpaved road had originally been intended to lead to other places. But by circumstances, nobody had purchased more property down the road, nor built anything down that way, so it was renamed to fit its sole surviving purpose. Cemetery was built on the southern and eastern flank of the next hillover, with its eastern edge leading down almost to the bottom, for a large swift creek ran. covered on both banks by cottonwood trees. From the air it looked like a quarter circle, with the apex cut out all,

as Trevor would say, a big macaroni. The entrance by the road was on the south side. There was a big brick memorial arch, large enough to drive a car through. The arch had been built about a hundred years previously, as had the surprisingly expansive wrought iron fence that surrounded the roughly trapezoidal cemetery grounds. The graveyard had a fine view of the natural scenery.

The tombstones, gates and fencing had an additive effect on the picturesque quality of the place. Only by happenstance, no professional photographer had ever found this place. Habisham might be famous for it if they had. Isn't it every resident of Harisham had at least some family member buried here, even if it were decades ago. It was common for them to make a trip out to lay some flowers. They appreciated that their loved ones had such a pleasant spot as their final resting place. That said, burials themselves were becoming increasingly rare.

The cost of burials had become impractical, more and more people were choosing the more economical option of cremation. Who's thought that this was all just as well, there was only so much empty space in the Havishon Cemetery anyway. At some point it would be full. That was just as well too. Trevor Milton had planned to create a website for the cemetery. The site would include the names of those buried,

short biographical sketches. People themselves, of course, were what made Havisham. The cemetery had all gone the way back to the town's very founding. Trevor had the tiny newspaper archives to work with. There were the high school yearbooks, which went a long way back, though not all the way. And there were, of course, the elderly residents of Havisham who would be happy to sit with Trevor and talk about their memories. As Trevor felt he had plenty of sources for his research, he could provide their names,

the dates of birth, when or if they'd finished school, the jobs they'd taken, who they'd married, and who their children were. Then there was a decision that Trevor had to make concerning the cause of death. The old man at the paper had told him, secretly, that that was the reason most people read obituaries for. In most cases, Trevor decided to mention the cause of death if it was known and untimely. A fatal car accident might get mentioned,

but a death from old age would not. Besides, the readers could infer the latter based on the dates of birth and death. You ever learned a lot about the town from this project. There were common surnames here that he'd see over and over. There were the Browns, the Collins, the Hertzes, the Humphreys and the Van Dykes. It'd all been old families, with children and grandchildren. He learned all about the relationships of the current townsfolk that he'd never known existed. Like how the girl at school he had a crush on was a second cousin to his lab partner from

chemistry class or how the principal was the nephew of the part-time lady who did the classifies. There had once been prominent families who'd gone extinct or moved away, like the Wilson's and the Llewellins. Occasionally, even if rarely, new families would show up and become an integral part of the community, like the Gomez's back in the 1940s. He learned some things from the causes of death too. He'd expect to learn about men from the town who died in World War I or too, the ideas of which loomed large in his still developing knowledge of history. Instead, the town had only contributed a little over a dozen sons to the latter conflict. Only a fraction had seen combat and all survived. One had lost a leg, but he still made it home. What he did notice

were two trends that surprised him. The first was infant mortality, and how high it was, well into the 20th century. Before it had only been an abstract concept to him, but when he actually cataloged the children of the residents, how many children they'd had and how many they'd lost, it really did strike him. Infant also seemed to be a misnomer to him. Six, seven, and eight-year-olds had succumbed with terrible regularity, if not quite as often as the younger ones. He found numerous cases where a female member of a given family might be born, then grow up and give birth to eight, nine or ten children, only to have just three or four of them survived adulthood. cholera, typhoid, pneumonia, tuberculosis, nondescript fevers.

They'd all been a terrible scourge. We wondered about the psychology of those poor people. How they could just accept things and go on with their lives? Based on the stories in the paper's archives, they seemed as happy and content as any people today. Oh, they must have had so much baggage. This would fade with more modern medicine, only to be replaced by a new scourge in the 50s and 60s.

The number of traffic accidents shocked him. Well, there may have been laws against drinking and driving. It was still common and overlooked. The offenders weren't made public pariahs. Seat belts weren't standard. Airbags didn't exist yet. When he looked at some of the old photos, he noticed a lot of the roads didn't even have the white lines painted on the sides.

Traffic safety might as well not have existed. Trevor had never known anybody killed in a car accident. Yet for a stretch in the late 50s through the early 60s, it seemed like at least one accident a year claimed the life or lives of local high school students, not to mention other residents of Sweetly. Like the generations earlier, people seemed to just strangely accept the problem

as if they had no choice. This was simply the consequence of the times they lived in. Later the accidents would diminish, as had the diseases. As the cost of burials rose, so declined the number of burials. For the last 20 or so years, most of the buried had died of old age or the diseases that accompanied it. They'd be buried in family plots that had been purchased decades previously. It was like the graveyard itself was succumbing to its own old age.

Trevor eventually ran into a roadblock going in the other direction, cataloging the oldest of the burials. These people had died before there was any school yearbook, archive obituary or the living memory of the oldest residence. In some cases, they had surnames and could at least be associated with known families, but in other cases they didn't. Their gravestone had been so weathered and eroded that the names were invisible. Though with some parchment paper and charcoal, Trevor could sometimes rub their names back into record. By fall of his senior year, Trevor had become more socially accepted by his peers. He'd been a bit of a pariah earlier, partly because of his strange nerdy hobbies

and partly because of the way the grown-ups doted on him and not them. Yet by then, they'd all become internet-savvy themselves and understood its virtues, and they'd gotten to know Trevor better, too. They decided he was a pretty all-right guy, despite his over-achieving. One Friday night, a group of his friends showed up at the newspaper office, where Trevor had been given a desk where he did most of his work. Everybody else, both of them, had left hours earlier. Trevor's friends were asking him to relax and come out and hang out with them.

He agreed, but he wanted to run up to the graveyard first and make a couple of robings. The evening looked pleasant, but the forecast called for the beginning of autumn rained soon, and he'd rather do it dry. The friends were amiable to this idea. It wasn't like they had any particular place to go. Most more towns don't. The point was to get away from adult supervision. A few minutes later, the group of teens were,

strolling through the Havisham Cemetery, two hills over from the town. Normally it'd be closed by now, and it was, but Trevor had been given a key by Jim, the man who mowed the grass here in the graveyard. Also the two parks and the high school's playing fields. Trevor marched off straight away to the eastern uphill corner of the cemetery, and the earliest plots were, right up against the fence, to get his work over with.

The others milled about, a little awe-struck at how amazing the view was it does. and actually none of them had ever been to this place before, not this late anyway. It was while watching the ball travel through the air. They noticed the first bat. It had swooped up from the thick patch of trees at the base of the hill. Moments later, piercing white light shone from the hilly horizon to the east. It took two minutes for the full pale moon to finish rising into the diminishing gap of clear sky between the cloud bank and the hills. By then, the sky was filled with whirling and cut with.

Wheeling bats, out-feasting on moths and mosquitoes. Trevor's friends had stopped throwing the ball around, partly out of concern for accidentally hitting a bat, and partly because they weren't having fun anymore. Cold wind blew from the west. It felt damp, and the air was tangibly getting ready to rain. A chill ran up their spine. It wasn't just from the cold air,

and everything about their surroundings felt laden with ominous dread. None of them had ever felt anything quite like this before. They started slowly heading back out towards the entrance, where their pickup truck was parked. They looked to the north, hoping Trevor was done with his work so they could get out of this suddenly creepy cemetery. They noticed he was no longer making his rubbing,

and was rapidly descending the hill on the cemetery's northern border, looking like he was very busy. Trevor, for his part, had noticed the moonrise. He'd recognised, that it was past time to leave and had stowed away his work in his backpack. But when he looked up, that is to say, looked from his backpack down to the base of the hill. His heart skipped a beat. The chill ran through his blood and the cold wind hadn't touched him yet.

Brother saw something new that he hadn't seen before, something that probably shouldn't be. Concerned the fence. He was up the hill near the northern section, and his eyes followed the iron-wrought poles with a fence all the way down to the hill, just at the edge of the wooded creek bank, where it should have met the other section coming up from the south at a right angle. The fence almost reached the corner,

but there was a break. The northern fence turned a sharp left and ran parallel to the other, then disappeared behind tall grass in the curve of the hill. Trevor descended at a good clip, a little dangerous if he hadn't been so youthful and fit. Still, the spear-like points of the youthful,

decent fence loomed up at him as he approached, and he swung his arms about for balance as he slid to a halt at the base of the cemetery. Sure enough, to his surprise, the fence lines didn't meet, and instead formed a curved passage around the hill heading north. If there had been a gate here, that would have made more sense. But it wasn't. It was simply a long continuation of the cemetery that somehow he'd never noticed before. Admittedly, he hadn't spent a whole lot of time in this one corner of the cemetery, but he still should have seen this. He took a look at the gravestone in the corner. Timothy Collins, 1919 to 1993.

Sure enough, Trevor had been here before. He could remember writing up the man's description. Why hadn't he noticed the passage in the fence? The grass down the path had been mowed, presumably by Jim. Maybe he'd only mowed here recently. Maybe that path had been unmowed earlier, and the talls down. poor grass had partially obscured the gap in the fencing. Trevor wondered what could be down the passage,

maybe just some maintenance area, perhaps a tool shed where Jim had kept supplies. That almost made sense. The path was wide enough for a riding lawnmower, not a hearse, though. The grass of the path was a pale blue in the full moonlight. Perhaps that was the reason why Trevor noticed it now. The taller grass outside the fence was a darker grey. Maybe it stood out more in the moonlight.

Trevor's curiosity got the better of him. He'd come to know the cemetery better than Jim, the mayor, or any of the old time was in Harwichham. It felt like it belonged to him. He had to find out where this path led, despite him knowing that his friends wanted to leave. So Trevor walked the path. The trees to his right began to screen the moon,

and only its light reflecting off the bottom of the cloud bank lit his way. But that was enough. The cotton woods on the creek bank grew fairly straight, but they started to give way to oaks. A large bendy limbs, heavy with moss, crossed the path over his head, a bit like giant grasping arthritic hands. If Trevor hadn't been surprised by his discovery of the path, he'd likely have been too spooked to explore. The open thick pasture just past the fence to his left buzzed with crickets, still out late for the season. "'Biz right in the creek, frogs were calling. "' Couldn't identify their species by sound,

"'but there had to be at least three different kinds. "'They were as distinct as they were loud. "'Well above his head, a great horned owl hooted. "'It didn't startle him or make him jump. "'He was used to hearing the owls, and he even enjoyed them. "'It here in this situation, "'it only made the goosebumps on his arm raise a little higher. "'The path zigged,

a little to the right, then back to the left, around what must have been the cemetery's hill. Then the fence to his left turned sharp, and Trevor's heart leaped into his throat. The space opening up before him was more of the cemetery. But he couldn't wrap his mind around it. He were more gravestones, rising up a second hill. If anything, it seemed even larger than the one he'd known. The brass was even mowed, but Trevor was convinced that Jim never came here. He tried to make sense of it.

The cemetery only had one big section, yet here was a second. Trevor had known that cemeteries in the south used to be segregated, but that wasn't the case here. The town never had that sort of history or population. He was aware that many cemeteries had sections for Jewish burials, but again the town never had a large Jewish population, and he'd have expected stars of David on the stone. Trevor rushed up the hill to where the trees no longer cast their shadows,

and there was enough moonlight to read by. He didn't recognise the names here. There were the usual patterns of family plots and more distant relations, but none of the living townsfolk shared these surnames. There were the conures, the panes, the Chapmans, the Atkinsons, the Scurlocks, the beckers, and the Hesselings. The birth dates generally declined the further up the hill he rose, matching the pattern in other portions.

In the 1940s, the 20s, the 1890s, the 19th, the 1970s. Trevor paused here to catch his breath. These dates were becoming older than the stones in the previous section, and if this continued, it would soon be older than the founding of the town. Once he was ready, he resumed his ascent. It was already higher than the previous hill, and it only kept going far higher than he could have guessed at the base.

The dark patches he assumed to be shrubs turned out to be trees. The pale blue rectangles that he'd earlier thought to be tombstones turned out to be whole tombs. He stopped again in front of one of them. It was large enough to hold an entire family. There was a large iron door with heavy riveted bars, keeping the dead secure. On each side were two massive vases filled with the dried remains of flowers.

Both were made from what appeared to be fine marble, and so too was the tomb itself. This made no sense. This was the tomb of a wealthy family. Aversham never had any wealthy individuals, let alone wealthy families. But when Trevor looked at his surroundings, there were more tombs than tombstones. This looked like the sort of cemetery you'd find in a major East Coast metropolis. Oaks had been planted here, not naturally but as part of the landscaping.

They towered over the tombs, and each must have been several hundred years old, and well before the town's founding. Once more, the hill was so high this should have been viewable from the original portion of the cemetery. Well, it should be visible from the town. Trevor's compulsion drove him up the hill once more. He paused one more time before reaching the crest. Here, gasping, he looked at the nearest stone. The top was a crude, base relief of a skull.

On other side sprouted angels' wings. The epithet read, "'Ely's Prudence Goodwife, age 93. "'formally lively, now dead as can be. "'Trev was only a high school student, "'yet he knew enough about history "'to know this was impossible. "'The death's head, the rhyming couplets,

"'the early modern puritanical name. "'This was the 17th century. "'This cemetery should not exist.' Trevor moved on. "'When Trevor reached the top of the hill, the inescapable horror of his situation struck him like a brick. A part of the view he'd expected. Here was the usual rolling hill country,

still picturesque even in the dying light. However, what was impossible was that they were all covered in tombstones all the way off to the horizon. Tombstones and tombs, monuments and barrows, long barrows and round barons. Trevor recognized those out of history books. off in the distance were great mounts there were ziggurats almost as high as the hills

there were pyramids small steeply sloped ones at first and then giant squat ones off near the horizon then way off in the distance above the horizon literally reaching up into the sky there was Trevor's friends had gone back to their pickup truck there they'd waited impatiently when they got impatient

they got back out and re-entered the cemetery, ready to drag Trevor out, kicking and screaming if they had to. They all jumped when, that's only 50 yards past the entrance gate. They heard the sound of rapidly approaching feet, and then the scream, Run! They looked up to see the black silhouette of Trevor approaching at full sprint,

waving his arms wildly. And they all took off like a shot back to the truck. They all rushed into the cab, and started it up. The driver instinctively moved his foot from the brake to the pedal and floored it for a fraction of a second, sending up a great rooster tail of dust and gravel, before slamming on the break again to give Trevor enough time to make it. Trevor didn't bother with the cab and simply leaped into the bed, smacking the roof a couple

of times and yelling, go, go! The driver, with no idea of what might be chasing them, again floored it and took off down the dirt road at an inappropriate speed. The pothole rutted rogue caused such a vibration at this rate that it felt like the teeth would shake right out of their skulls. When the driver checked his rearview mirror, he saw Trevor bouncing around in the bed with a toolbox in the spare tire, so he slowed just a bit until they got to the pavement where he floored it again. They didn't stop the truck until they got back through town,

drove to the other side of town, into the parking lot of the gas station convenience store that served as the primary hangout spot for meeting up with other teens their age. When they poured out of the cab, they were all laughing and in good spirits. That had been a hell of a practical joke, Trevor had bought, they told him. He'd set them up good. When he'd come running out of the darkness, hollering like a banshee, they'd really become convinced that the devil was on his heels.

They all agreed it was the best practical joke pulled in some time in Harwicham. When other cars with other teens pulled up, they were all eager to tell the funny story. But first, they were a little annoyed at Trevor. He was trying to keep up the bit, long after they were onto him. His face was pale. He sounded distant, like he was trying to pretend he was still scared, and that it hadn't all been a joke.

Finally, he came around. He started to laugh and smile and eventually admitted that it had been a joke. He told them that they shouldn't go back there, but who would? The joke was over. Later that night, Trevor will be the first to go home, a little early. His friend's guest, he just wasn't feeling that well, which explained his odd behavior. Before actually going home, Trevor returned to the graveyard, put the lock back on the chain at the entrance. He returned the next morning after daylight.

It was cold and raining heavily, so nobody was likely to visit soon, not even Jim. The pathway was still here. He didn't explore it again. though, just wanted to confirm its nightmare existence. Trevor could never account for it. His personal theory, which he never told anybody, was that the path had opened because of his project. He'd recorded the dead here,

and the dead from someplace else, well, they wanted to be recorded too. Trevor felt from deep down in his soul that that would be a very bad idea. Trevor never ended up going to college. The mayor, despite asking, had never sent off the letters of recommendation he'd written. Whoever had never even applied. It would have been difficult anyway.

His grades fell off a cliff for the rest of his senior year. He was frequently truant. He even stopped hanging around with his friends. Never leave his parents' house. And as an adult, he would work remotely from his home, first as a web designer, then as a content creator, writing lists of inane things for, popular website. His classmates had all left town, going off to the big city, or at least bigger towns.

Most of them would return to Havisham to visit their folks on the holidays. They'd find out that Trevor was still here and had never left. Oh well, they would think. That happens a lot. The kid you think is going to be a big deal when he's a teen just blossoms too early. They end up being a nobody in a backward little town, forgotten by the world. Oh, if only they'd known what a hero he really was. Trevor had taken over the groundskeeping duties from Jim when he'd retired. Now he held the only key to the lot. When the mayor retired, Trevor ran for that position, unopposed. It was an unpaid position, mostly involving ceremonial things like riding in the parade and signing checks for the various city services. The residents of Harrison, well, it was

fitting for him. There was still a bit of civic pride left in the boy after all. His sole interest was that he would grant him the power that he needed to keep his secret hidden. He'd even hired a blacksmith a few towns over, built a few feet of wrought iron fencing, based on a series of photos that he stuck at the entrance to that path to keep it hidden. It's still there, of course. Trevor's the only one, though, as far as he knows, who knows of its existence. A little forgotten town just past the main strip and down the dirt road. There's a path to the land of the dead.

there are the sort of plane that wants to be a part of ours. Trevor has decided that must never happen. The dead need to stay out, that thing that reached it up tall behind the horizon. That means that nobody must ever discover that part. He liked to be able to just wipe Harish him off the map, but he hasn't got that kind of power. All he can do is hope that people forget.

He has to spend his whole life, sacrifice his whole life. Well, then Trevor has decided that that's a bit of that's, small price to pay. The midnight train stopped at an MRT station that does not exist. By Estelle Savage. For a reason I do not wish to disclose, I took the last train from Tampinis to Tjong Baru several months ago. It was a midnight train, so despite the fact that Timpainese is an interchange station, it was relatively empty. All I could see as I tapped my card and headed down to the green line were men around my age. Men with too much drink, muttering some something incomprehensible, leaning on walls or wandering around with no purpose. Some were even

passed out on the floor. Just like me, just like everyone else. I was once like them too, I suppose. The times were cruel, opening my fridge, my daily beers, pushing myself to my limits until I found myself on the floor every moment, buying the only thing that made my heart warm inside until I ran out and had to borrow again. I laughed at my crude realisation. I was once like them, pathetic. Thank goodness, no more. The train rattled into the station moments later

and screeched to a halt in front of me. I was the only one on the platform, and the only one on the train. Well, the silence was thick and heavy, and I heard only my own signs of life and the life of the machines around me, clinking and clanking and clanking and rattling, and the beating of her heart.

I wasn't used to being out this late. The city was half asleep. Black shapes were whisking outside, bent wildly out of proportion, barely lit up by dimming streetlights and what was left of the moon. A few of the lights in the resident flats were still turned on, dimmed shadows of its occupants winding down for the night. But for the most part the streets were empty. You'd think Singapore, a country known for its vibrancy and culture, was secretly dead inside. I yawned, and the train rushed on, humming a lullabiding. My eyes were closing, and it would be quite some time before we reached Chiang Baru, and by

my estimates it would take me at least half an hour. I let the train rock me into sleep, my favorite music thudding into my ears. I woke up when my music stopped. I wondered if we were there yet, but I couldn't tell by the screen. The display was a wild jumble of letters and numbers that were jumping everywhere. The train leaned slightly against a black wall oozing with mold. We had long since gone into some sort of tunnel. The windows and doors opened into a grainy darkness, like the static you'd see on an old television screen.

I scratched my head, and then I heard voices, footsteps, and my face paled. The footsteps stopped outside. The door to the final railcar creaked. My heart beat faster. I didn't want to know why they wanted. me or what plans they had for me. I bolted the only way out I saw, right into the murky depths of the station. I could hear them screeching behind me, their teeth grinding together in frustration like mechanical gears. My blood curdled at their house of promise to get their prize,

and then their footsteps were swallowed by the sinister shadows. I then made myself run faster. I slowed down, though, after a while. I was never much of an athlete. when my class ran the 2.4 back in secondary school, I was always last and always failed. Eventually I sat down, panting like never before, my heart jumping out of my chest in both exhaustion and fear. Once I'd gulped water from my bottle, and my head began to clear. I could think again. I was still in a station of some kind, I could tell by the dirty walls on the dusty floor. The sign of her head pulsed like a heart in the blood-tinged lights. And it read, Joachim Station.

There were no translations into any other languages, which was unusual for a Singapore train station. I'd also never heard of Joaquin M.R.T. station until that moment. So I got out my phone. This green and flashed green lingered on red for a long moment, then went dead. I couldn't turn it back on again. I didn't know what else to do, so I started walking back the way I came, or the way I hoped I came. but every hallway led to the same square every turn led back to the beginning i was hopelessly lost i can tell you how to get back well i was alone the moon was crimson the air took a deep breath and buzzed like static who are you i asked the moon

just someone who can help you get out of here safely i hesitated i have helped many before you, trust me. I relaxed, I couldn't help myself. Firstly, I didn't have a choice. I was trapped in a dark desert with nowhere else to run. And then there were the footsteps just now. The creak of the door and how I was nearly caught. Then this voice was sexy.

Best way to describe it. You know those ASMR videos that are said to help you relax? Or multiply that by a hundred and imagine yourself on a beach with waves curling around your feet. curling around your feet. That was how the voice was making me feel, like I was anywhere but here. Alone, lost. So I follow the voice as it led me through infinite hallways wrapped in darkness. Water dripped from abandoned pipes way overhead, and my footsteps echoed into the gloom. They were everywhere. I could hear their ragged breaths from the other side of the paper-thin wall and the screech of their fingernails against the mold and decay. Whispers floated into my head,

and I could hear machine-like shrieks that vaguely resembled my name and hours of determination and anger that chewed me to the bones. We were going deeper into the station, which made sense because I remembered we were deep underground when I got off. My stomach protested. I was hungry. I couldn't remember the last meal I'd have. My life outside this hell faded into memories beyond my mind's reach. It was getting colder too. I shivered in my bare bones, teeth. shirt and wished I brought a jacket. We descended another flight of stairs and came to a wider space. Five ornate pillars were standing silently in a circle, and a clock showing midnight hung down on a thin chain like a spider on a thread. Frost clung onto the pillars and walls like soft silk.

Hide! I obeyed instantly, ducking behind one of the pillars, just in time to hear footsteps rapidly approaching. They emerged from an invisible hallway. I saw for the first time the things are lurking in this cursed place, the creatures that desired me so badly. It took every effort not to scream out loud. They were tall, but as tall as you and I. No, they were stretched in a way that you could see their hips jelling out, their ribs tight against their clothing. They wore navy blue business suits like those in a bank and red tides. They strode past me into the staircase I'd just come down from. The moon sparkled on their pale, smooth skin.

I immediately thought of how those mannequins in the store freaked me out when I was younger. They did not comfort me in the slightest. Then one of them stopped and looked into my direction. I could see its face or what should be a face. He had no eyes, no nose. not even a mouth, just a blank canvas of skin. While I was paralysed as he stared quizzically at me and started towards the pillar I was hiding behind.

But his companion tugged on his sleeve and the two of them continued on their way and disappeared up the stairs. The moment they were gone, I breathed a sigh of relief and clasped against the pillar. Everything was spinning. My heart was still screaming and thrashing against my ribs. I was hungry, thirsty, tired and alone.

I didn't think I could stand any more of this. I want to go home, I sobbed to the heavens. And you will. A water cooler shimmered into view under the clock. The metal was rusty, but the machine hummed. This is for you. Drink. Liquid gold erupted from the tap in a rainbow and disappeared down the drain, and I got.

Well, I committed myself to a vow of sobriety ever since that day when everything crumbled into ashes, and I'd forced myself back into rehab. I ate the fountain. I shouldn't drink. I can't drink. I poured out my water bottle instead, but all the water had somehow vanished. What are you waiting for? Drink.

My throat was as dry as a desert screaming for water. I bent over and drank. It tasted like honey, food for the gods. I realized I shouldn't have hesitated. What for? Everything was provided for me here. Even then a part of me felt guilty for breaking my promise, when I quickly dismissed it. The next floor below looked very cozy.

It was full of makeshift beds and sleeping bags tossed everywhere, and there was a bowl of fruit in the middle. Staring at the fruit was a man in a suit. He wasn't moving. Rest up, we'll be there soon. He was still staring at the fruit when I sit next to him, watching the light dance off it like a flickering candle flame did you drink from the fountain just now something about his question made me freeze gold fingers tickled my spine yes i whispered hoarsely you shouldn't have look he held out his hand his bones creaked as they elongated to more than what was physically possible the skin was whitening like it was being soaked in bleach. My heart stopped when I looked down at my own hand and realized I was going through

the same thing. Now that I thought of it, the past few steps were really painful, but I just thought I was tired. Finally he turned to look at me. He started speaking rapidly as the ghastly skin swallowed what was left of his eyes, his nose and hair. I was like you once, cold, tired, had lost. I wandered around until this sexy voice offered me a way out, and I followed her every command, like a sheep. Oh, stupid, so stupid. And now? I didn't hear the last of it, for the latex closed around what was left of his mouth, and his hand shot around my throat. I struggled. I was seeing stars, and there was that mechanical grinding sound again, like gears against each other. For the last of my strength, I took an apple from the bowl and hurled it at him. It clunked against his forehead,

and he released me with a screech. Don't you want to be here forever? God, ignore it. Ignore it. I was running like a headless chicken now darting around hallways and going up and downstairs. This place was a maze. The suit was expanding over my shirt, the sleeves curling around my wrists. I was running out of time. I mean, you loved that beard, didn't you? I saw it in your face. The platform. A train was rushing into the station just on time, just my luck. It was getting harder to move, though, by trying to walk through something sticky. The voice was grunting. The station was shaking, the pipes were bursting in the leaks were getting worse. My bones were resisting as I struggled to the train. Half of my mind was screaming at me to

give up and give in. But I threw myself onto the train, and for the first time all night, I started to breathe. My head exploded into dying screams. No! The train sped away, leaving Jolkeem, M.R.T. station in the dust.

My pants were wet. I didn't know how much I'd been shaking until now. I collapsed onto the floor and rocked and shivered all the way until the train poured into the next station. I spent the night in a cheap hotel in Bouguiz, gazing vacantly at the moon and the city skyline that vanished behind shadowy trees. I couldn't sleep.

The events of the night kept on running through my mind. Whenever I closed my eyes, I was surrounded by those men in suits again, too close for comfort. I would look down to find my eyes rolling back upwards looking at me, my skin too white and too pale. I would wake up screaming and feeling my face just to make sure.

And that voice? I heard it every day on the train, silky smooth. But I flinched every time it came on the speakers, my palm sweating, my head recoiling, while the other passengers merely looked at the rapidly closing doors or the blips on the station map.

Because it always said the same thing to me and me alone. Come back. You belong to us. Station 9 by Blake Blizzard. Have you ever seen this shit before? David asks. David, who goes mainly by Dave or Davy, was staring at his laptop with a mixture of confusion sickness.

At any moment his agave Moore might expel the contents of his stomach. Thankfully, he kept his recent lunch and everything bagel with cream cheese and a handful of cheese-its in its rightful place. What shit? Arthur spat out from the side of his mouth. Arthur, who mainly went by Art or Arturo, well, he decided to treat himself to a mixture of fruity pebbles and trick cereal. Two great tastes, tastes great together.

Thank you, General Mills and Commander Kellogg. Taking a pause to when his mouth will be acceptably empty, he again asked what his friend was talking about. Dave was still transfixed by what he was seeing. The browser was similar to YouTube, but even a child could see that, at first glance, was something quite off. There was a video player in the upper left,

as with the Google-owned video-sharing service, and there were what appeared to be recommended videos on the right-hand side. But that's where this sidewalk ended, as Shell Silveston said. As Art wiped his mouth clean of milk and rogue fruity pebble, he moved forward to peer over his buddy's shoulder. In the upper left,

displayed in one bold letter, and one bold number, was S-9. "'What the shit does Es Nime me?' he asked Dave. Dave took a moment. He was seemingly frozen in the donkey show he was watching. Right before the poor ass was trotting toward the women lying down in the middle of the Sanfield Arena, Dave slammed the laptop shut. "'Sorry, oh sorry, man,' he said, rubbing his right temper with his right hand

and using his left to steady himself on the table while standing. Dave was so caught up in the sight he was watching, he couldn't consider how awful it would look to someone possibly seeing it for the first time. It's some. It's called Station 9. That's what the S-9 stands for. Have you really never heard of this channel? Something in the way he said that made Art push his chin back into his neck and furrow his brow

of it, like he was a square or something for not knowing about Station 9. I'm sorry man no I've never heard of this weird half-brand YouTube site where women probably sex traffic women get boinked by donkeys Art turned his attention back to his cereal which was dangerously close to hitting catastrophic sogglers Dave caught his eye before Art turned all the way around

he put his hands out toward him all ten fingers spread apart palms facing art the universal sign for Hold on a sec, let me explain. I could also be a little bit of... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you in there, too. I guess I should have attacked this a little bit differently. And this is the absolute weirdest thing I've ever seen on there,

so please forgive me. I've seen a lot of stuff on Station 9, but this was... Well, you can see, I turned it off. I wasn't ready for that. Art sat down. So, um, let's start from the beginning, man. First off, we've known each other since sophomore year in college.

We've been roommates for like two years now. How have you never mentioned this before? What even is this? Some dark web thing? Dave snorted, trying unsuccessfully to stifle that awful noise coming from his nose before he sat down at the cheap dining room table they'd both pitched in to buy a target. You seriously never heard of Station 9? Art looked at him with the blankest of expressions.

Arthur and David, or Art and Dave, were roommates in their sophomore year at Central Michigan University. Fire-up chips. Art had an awful experience with roommates in his freshman year. Four young men squashed into a dorm that was maybe 250 square feet, if you were lucky. He was in the towers, where most of the towers, where most of the same. freshmen were assigned at that particular college. The setup had a main room, a bathroom, and a bedroom that had two sets of bunks. His roommates were all loud, and they all clicked together. Three of them did. Art was the odd one out. It wasn't contentious, per se, but Art hated the late

night partying and loud music. Seems like Hugh was the only one. David was one of the lucky few that was assigned to the Walt Dorms on the opposite end of campus. For whatever reason, this was historically more chill than the towers. He had a great first year, and thrived while his future friend and Rumi was struggling to keep up with his studies. Art requested the Walt Norm for his second collegiate year, and thankfully was granted entrance. On move-in day, he met Art and two other guys that were of like mind. They gelled right away, bonding over their shared major of psychology. Well, the layout of Walt was much different than the towers.

This dorm had two bedrooms, two bunks in each, with a shared dayroom. A separate bathroom was joining that dayroom. He and Dave shared one room, with the other fellows taking the second bedroom. They went through college together, helping with their shared majors and graduating with respectable honours. They decided to get an apartment together after school, while working part-time jobs. Two years later, they were still grinding. Art was pursuing a career in probation while Dave was from. finishing up his master's degree.

No, I've never heard a station nine, Art said, and I'm not into the dark web stuff. Too risky. Dave chuckled. He's not really like that, man. You don't have to download the Tor browser or anything like that. It's a newer type of site that's rivaling YouTube. There's a ton of content on it. Just a bit stranger.

Every week there's a featured show that just gets weirder. It comes out every Thursday. Usually it's just a video with some shock value to it. Like a weird talking doll or a lost media cartoon. Some of it is eerie, but it's gained steam online and the weird part of the web. I've looked it up and people are trying to get on Station 9 like it's an accomplishment. I was processing this with one eyebrow raised. The People's Eyebrow.

So, um, you've been watching donkey shows since we've known each other. or um... Dave pinched his nose with his right thumb and index finger, smiling. No, man. No, this was a huge leaf of station line. Last week's video was from some unknown Latin American country. Dash cam footage that appears to show some woman in a white dress blocking a robe. When they get closer, she aggressively walks toward the car.

The guy's inside, well, speak in some language I can't understand. They panic and start reversing. The last frame shows her face, which is just horrifying. If you go to the link to the account that posted that video, you'll see how many subscribers they accumulated overnight. It's nuts, man. Hmm, strange, I've never heard of this. I'm online just as much as anyone.

You know that. Art said. Dave gave him a look that said, Yeah, this site's wild. It is weird you never saw it. Station 9 was steamrolling after the, last video. Weeks later, and the world kept moving. That was close to starting the Federal Academy for Entry Probation Officers. Dave was only one semester from nailing his master's in

psychology. A degree of this kind really only matters if you want to teach at a high school level, possibly community college. Anything above that, you'd need to go to full doctorate. Dave never wanted to get that far into it. He just loved the science of sight. Dude, did you see see what was on station nine this week again dave interrupted art's cereal routine as he was getting ready for a morning run i was getting ready to take the entrance physical exam for the academy he put his spoon down into the almost empty bowl of cocoa pebbles what are you talking about station nine man we talked about this weeks ago that donkey thing remember the space above art's eyes was spinning like it was browsing through their old conversations oh

Oh, yes, that weird cult site you're into. I already forgot about that. Too busy trying to, you know, be productive and make something of myself in my future. Art threw his plastic bowl into the sink. He'd make sure to do the dishes later, not like his roommate ever would. Dave huffed and raised one corner of his mouth. Okay, but, gosh, this one was wild. He restarted the video.

and you know I'm working too, man I just can't get enough of this sight they've shifted in his seat making eye contact with his buddy he didn't say anything just sat there looking for art for a long time too long

and finally art couldn't take it anymore okay you freaking weirdo what they both laughed somewhat nervously and genuinely it was an odd moment You gotta see this man I'm sorry but you just do

This last vid was the weirdest The guy that posted it got almost 50,000 subs in less than 24 hours That's unheard of Well art was annoyed but intrigued He shuffled over to the computer I'm in the sink that was slowly mounting A good size of dirty dishes

Arden Dave both stared at the blank video player For a few seconds before Dave clicked replay The scene was a white room, white walls, a white table in the middle of the room, and a door with a black door-knob. What the hell? Dave raised his left hand to stop art from speaking. After about fifteen seconds the door opens. A little person walks in wearing what can only be described as one of those outfits that

the goons wear in a clockwork orange. He even had that stupid top hat on. He also had on one of those super-cheap hat. Halloween masks over their eyes. It's not a mask, but more of a, well, it's hard to explain. Picture Robin from Batman and Robin, or Green Lantern, with the mask they wear just over their eyes. This person or thing comes sauntering in.

Once he shuts the door, a whimpering can be heard. Dave again starts to raise his hand, anticipating another confused comment from art. Art's silent. As little clockwork walks towards the camera, the seemingly captive person starts to become more frantic. Once the main character disappears behind the camera, the symphony of fwax, thumps and webplops can be heard. Sounds of struggling crescendo, and then abruptly stop.

The camera jostles slightly, as if someone behind is trying to turn it off. A bit of red starts to drip down the middle of the frame before the video cuts. Dave turns to look behind his shoulder at a moment. art. You see that shit? Holy moly, that's wild, isn't it? He sees that Art can't find the words to mark this occasion. What's the matter, future probation officer? Kat got your time? You're going to probably be dealing with this weird stuff in the real world. At least this is probably fake. Man, it's crazy, right? Art gives a half-hearted nod as Dave goes back to watch again. 50,000 subs in only a day. Art asks.

Dave nods his head, not taking his eyes off of the computer. Yeah, I told you, man, this channel's in a league of its own. Hmm. Art leaves for the intensive 16-week probation Parole Academy in a week's time. He just received the email detailing where and what he'd need. Georgia, here we come. He unlocks the phone and presses his cell. the message icon.

Hey man, what do you want for dinner? Um, Mexican? Sounds good. Plaza, Mexico. Yeah, that sounds cool. Can you order? I'll pick up. No prob. Three soft tacos, beef, extra cilantro. You got it. Thanks, man. Okay, just ordered. Ready for pick up in ten. Dave sends the thumbs up, emoji.

Dave enters their shared apartment. It's dark, not one light on. Strange. He flips the light on in the hallway. Hello, Art? You here? Got tacos? Silence.

Okay, Art, keep you cool. You can hear him fumbling through stupid keys right now outside the door. Let him get inside. Don't want the camera in the hallway catching anything unpleasant. Dave puts the tacos down on the table so he can take his coat off. Shitman, where the hell did he go? He knew it was taco time. These are the last words from David S. Smith.

Arthur looks down at his gloved hands. A beautiful shade of red drapes his vision as he charges. An undetermined amount of time later and his eyes clear. No more red, just clear. A clear picture of David. face down, not responsive. Art looks at the cutting tools he's laid out in his bedroom. Few hours later, and some heavy clean-up work done, Art sits in his recliner. On the table to his left is a nice bowl of buttered popcorn and a tall glass of chocolate milk.

He engages the footrest. Ah, yeah, so comfy. A faint ding signals that his video has been uploaded. quicker than expected nice he sits down at his computer hits a few buttons and returns to his seat another hour

is past and he turns the football game off switching to station nine a nice big bowl of fruity pebbles and tricks awaits milk so cold it's almost freezing okay let's see if I finally

get featured on station nine what a weird way to start pride month by weird bright scar when i saw her standing there on the sidewalk thought i was hallucinating or maybe having some kind of stroke i couldn't believe it my mind couldn't accept her bizarre appearance her otherworldly presence within the mundane space around her the surreal discontinuity between her and the environment the sheer difference between her fundamental nature and the collective nature of everything it was mentally irreconcilable For a moment I stood there, my mind unravelling at the very sight of her.

But when she turned to me, when her eyes glowing as if fired by starlight, gazed at me, peered into my own, well, I was filled with a sudden giddiness, an increasingly uncomfortable excitement. Some part of me some generationally buried and primal element, sensed the impending horror. I knew, positively, that within her fiery gaze was something more evil than anything conspired or orchestrated by man. It was as obvious as the afternoon sun above us. But another part of me, the more immediate and intellectual, failed to heed this primeval warning

and was conversely allured by the woman strange, sorcerous nature, like a driver diverting from their course to watch two bums grappling with one another. It wasn't necessarily a good sight, but intriguing nonetheless. There weren't any cars around. The woman appeared on the sidewalk in front of me near a vacant lot between residences, a space that had been some old, half-crumbled factory before a town-wide restoration project that never actually came to fruition. There were only the remnants of a building, skeletons and husks of concrete, plaster and metal.

Houses lay a block before and after, with a field opposite the lot, largely barren and savoring a fence separating the field from a farmer's property beyond it. I guess it was as good a place as any for someone or something from beyond the realm of men to make its appearance if discretion was the goal. It was a microcosm of rural lifelessness. She was naked, but I didn't notice that until she took a step toward me, and her movements freed me from the spell her eyes had held me in. She was live, her motion smooth, but not in an attractive way.

The movements of her hips, though slow, were unspearlable. speakably salacious like those of some Hadean pole dancer. Her skin was dark, not naturally black, but burnt. It's as if the flesh had been scorched in a bath of flames but spared the actual destruction of the tissue. Her skin shone in the unshaded sunlight and radiated an ebony aura that seemed to subtly emanate into the very atmosphere around us.

With each step she took her hair stirred a bit. Thick, curled locks hung over her shoulder. us, somehow blacker than the skin they rested on. There was a dusting of what looked like gold all throughout, though not a speck had fallen onto her skin all the time she'd been naked. Only her hair gave off a slight golden twinkling, as of an age-old brazen image uncovered amidst dust and ruin. I couldn't have told you what was going through my mind at the time,

only now, looking back hours later, can I say with any certainty that I was absolutely terrified. Beyond sense, beyond fight or flight, I was just stricken totally, insensibly numb by that inhuman woman. When she reached me, after a period of what felt like hours, she looked me up and down. It felt as if a ray, a lens-focused sunlight had passed from my forehead to my groin and back again. That scrutinizing gaze made my skin crawl and made me cringe inwardly, even as my body failed to perform any response whatsoever. You'll do nicely. Together we'll sire a new race, a better race.

The people of this world are fat, hideous, indignant and lazy. Our progeny will have standards, manners. I, of course, had no idea how to respond to that. I met some bold people in my life, but I hadn't ever met anyone that bold before. Her offer or demand to sire a race of what? And people? cross-breeds of humans and whatever race she belonged to.

It was ridiculous, and as the seconds ticked by, during which she continued to visually examine my body as if I were some kind of specimen on a slide, I found the situation increasingly absurd, ridiculous, to the point of hilarity. Abruptly, I laughed loudly and heartily, while her eyes snapped to mine, stifling my laughter as quickly as it had started.

You think you can resist? You dare to, seeing me as I am. She then spread her arms, displaying her full, shameless nudity to my eyes. She even went so far as to undulate her stomach and hips in a way that was, if I may be honest, just perverse. I recoiled a little, taken aback by her audacity. Still? Fine. No man of any species has been able to resist to the enrapture.

You'll submit to me. you all breed with me and together we will overthrow this stupid ugly race and build our own beautiful lineage her voice which i hadn't paid much attention to before then got lower bass heavy and she began ululating in a manner that i couldn't hope to reproduce vocally alone through text meanwhile her eyes became darker losing the celestial luster they had just moments ago a moment later they were pitch black, depthless, and stiguan. If only then, finally, that I felt my body take over and force itself into action. I turned to flee, but the same darkness I'd seen radiate from her quickly snared me, reaching out with teneborous tendrils to seize me around the waist. As if caught in some

kind of unearthly gravitational pore, I was drawn back toward her, screaming along the way. Meanwhile she continued to chant in that strange ineffable way, and her body wrapped in darkness, pulsed and vibrated. Strange scent arose, some are bearing both floral and sepulchral tones, as if we'd suddenly come to stand on a bed of freshly grown grave flowers. When I reached her and our bodies touched, I felt a sudden sensation of deep cold

as if I had instead come into contact with a slab of ice. The darkness around me pressed me, closer to her, and the chill pulsed itself into my body, man-spread throughout. The cosmic coldness pervaded my being. I felt a frigid nothing that sees me like an astronaut thrown into the vacuum, doomed to spend eternity hurtling through the dead abyss. I then lost all perception of my environment. I thought I had truly been plunged into that black, boreal gulf. Then, from amidst the lightless infinitude, came a flicker, a motor-for-one, a motor-womened. light, one that drew closer to me as I aimlessly floated. A warmth accompanied it, an ember that

promised salvation escaped from this all-consuming chill. Somehow I managed to steer myself toward it to hasten our contact. I swam through the murk, pushed through the darkness and frost, and miraculously I finally wrapped my arms around the source of this stellar salvation. I was so relieved that I didn't even look at the thing for the first few moments. But then, when I felt that I'd sufficiently warm myself on its energy, I pulled back a little and beheld it in its full splendor, and then screamed in horror. It was a false promise, a terror that had masqueraded as a friend. While its warmth and light had healed me and saved me from the dark-induced lunacy,

its appearance, the suggestions of its appearance, were too unwholesome and too terrible to accept. I pushed away from it and broke the spell that had fallen over me. The real world, the one of light and nature in existence rushed back in. Colours, forms, and stability were repopulating the space around me with a jarring suddenness. I fell back onto my butt and sat there, stunned and shaking. The woman, the dark draped demoness, had been similarly affected by the sudden severance of our contact. She stumbled backward, holding her eyes, which blared what I can only guess was liquid darkness.

She whimpered, her voice coming out in a weak, mulling manner. But how? How did you resist? None have denied my warmth. I am the ultimate form. The goddess of the Gulf. I am the siren in the night. Still seated on the sidewalk, my brain too sloshed to order my body to stand.

I looked at her and said, Lady, I'm gay. Now, I'm sure you're very attractive to heterosexuals and others, but you just really don't do it for me. Her response was like that of some pre-industrial commoner who had just been told about space travel and simply couldn't comprehend the idea. Her eyes, leaking in bloodshot,

gazed at me incredulously. Her mouth, plumply-lipped, fell agape. A cackle soon erupted from therein, but not one of malice or triumph, but of disbelief. If I understand you correctly, you're saying that you do not find me sexually attractive. I nodded, barely hiding my amusement at her confusion, the relatively simple idea, even though she still radiated a dark and monstrous power. She convulsed a little as if something deep within her had collapsed. Her eyes went to the sky.

toward the sun and its near blinding light more dark tears bled from her duts and she wrapped her arms around her body as if chilled without looking at me she then said almost in a whisper are there others like you yes quite a few still gazing sunward she responded and you are okay with this there is no shame No, there's no reason for there to be. She trembled again, this time quite violently, and rubbed her body as the aura of darkness around her slowly diminished. Soon she became somewhat normal in appearance,

albeit still bearing the obsidian-tinged skin. Her eyes now are simmering, pleasantly tinted orange, turned back to me and her mouth formed into a smile. That is quite interesting. I would never thought such a thing possible, given my nature the reason for which I was, originally created the thousands of years i've been a tool used to birth strains of my kind across the universe before now i had never encountered a species whose members were capable of what i suppose you'd

refer to as homosexuality same-sex attraction wouldn't have thought such a thing was even possible well it seems a rather intriguing prospect well i mean yeah i guess i mean it's just who i am I didn't mean to sound flippant or mocking, but given the circumstances and what she put me through, I couldn't help it. Yes, very intriguing, to gaze upon another woman and, yes, I think I'll take some time to think about this. And with that, she disintegrated into the ether, melted away in nebulous bursts of shadow and moats of gold, leaving me essentially unharmed. I waited for a moment just to see if she'd come back and then got up and dusted myself off.

After a final glance at the half-finished foundations of the nearby lot, I walked on, telling myself that I should probably start taking Uber home from work. And so once again, we reached the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen. Now, I'd ask one small favour of you. Wherever you get your podcast wrong,

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