Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Found A Man In My BASEMENT. I Locked Him Inside | Halloween Special

Episode Date: November 1, 2023

He's still down there.       Story from Polterkites   Make sure to check out more of their work at r/Polterkites                           Original YouTube link: I Found A Man In My BASEMENT. I Locked Him Inside        For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Merch: lighthousehorror.com  Sound Effects: Freesound Zapsplat  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this Halloween creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

1. He will begin in the furthest corner of your basement. If you see him, do not overreact. He may decide to move on. 2. If the intruder decides to stay, he will take one step closer each week. 3. Do not attempt to speak with him, hurt him, or get third parties involved. 4. Any violation of Rule 3 generally results in several quick steps forward, depending on severity of transgression. Barricading the doors is acceptable. This will slow him down, but the process will be very loud and difficult to sleep. 6. To others, the intruder will appear as a mannequin or a rubber dummy or a coat hanger, etc. Do not let guests near him. 7. The intruder will not move so long as you have guests in the house, guests you actually want to be there. Once I had

an old friend sleep on the couch for three months and the intruder didn't move. a step. 8. You can leave the house, but never sleep anywhere else. Never make plans to move, even browsing for houses online. The importance of this rule cannot be overstated. General notes, none of these rules are set in stone. The intruder seems to evolve and react depending on your actions.

Personally, I recommend measuring the distance from him to the farthest corner of your house. how long it will take him to reach you, set up your bedroom as far away as possible. Once established, do not move your bed. You must sleep there from now on. Please note that sometimes he will leave his station and wander up into the house. Do your best to ignore him. He will always return to the last place he left off. I had to laugh as I read the typo-ridden list of absurd rules left on my doorstep, conjured

up by some neighborhood kid with too much free time. Props for the creativity, though. Stepping back inside, I folded up the note and tucked it away. Guess it was preferable to getting toilet papered. I crossed the room, slumped onto the couch, and resumed watching the game. I just moved into the neighborhood. Owning a house of my own had been a life's goal since 18. Now, after 15 years of working, saving, and taking on crippling debt, I finally had a place of my own. A killer deal on a modest 1982-2-story with a basement and a backyard swimming pool. The main floor was an open design, kitchen, living room, and an entrance hallway that led to the upstairs. Upstairs was a short

alcove with three doors, master bedroom, guest room, and washroom. The house was the only thing in my lonely life. I felt proud. Something caught the corner of my eye. Across the living room, in the front entrance hallway. The basement door was cracked open. A slit of pitch dark. Okay. I turned back to the TV. Probably forgot to close it earlier. Shaking it off, I focused on the game as much as I could. But the cracked open door lurked in my peripheral all the while. It felt like someone was watching me. Shit. I got up from the couch, marched across the room, pulled the door shut and marched back. Embarrassed, I plopped into the couch and swung my feet up on the coffee table. Maybe that note was getting to me after all. Maybe whoever wrote it

wasn't done messing with me yet. I almost jumped at the pounding on my front door. Muting the TV, I burgudgingly got up and hauled over and yanked open the door. A smiling man greeted me, barely five-foot-tall, round, and and wearing a bright green Hawaiian t-shirt with matching cargo shorts, vaguely reminded me of the Batman's penguin. Sir, he said, a forced smile plastered to his face. Hello, I replied. I'm so sorry to bother you, he looked down at my shoes, studying.

Someone's been leaving notes on the doorsteps out here and since you're new. He looked up, glanced back over his shoulder. than back to me. I just wanted to warn you. This guy had more nervous energy than a cold turkey drug addict. Warn me about what? I asked. The smile on his face turned grim.

The notes, he said, pausing for effect. There's a... He searched for words. There's a mentally unstable young man in the neighborhood. Okay. He, his father, he glanced back over his shoulder again, his father lived in the house across the street from you. An overgrown one-story box of a house.

It almost looked abandoned. When his father passed, the son, he looked back to me, started writing notes, leaving them on doorsteps around the neighborhood. I set my hand on the pocket where I tucked away the note. The sun, if you see him, he's harmless, and the notes, well, of course they're nonsense. He chuckled. I pulled the note out from my pocket. Yeah, I was wondering, I said, carefully unfolding the paper.

The man's eyes filled with concern. Rule one, I read aloud. He will. Please. He stammered. I raised an eyebrow. I've read enough of those for a while," he said, rubbing his forehead with the back of his thumb.

They're harmless, but also kind of. He looked around, again searching for words. Creepy? I said. His eyes lit up. Yeah. Creepy. What a great word.

Creepy. He marveled. Weirdly impressed. I almost laughed. Anyways, he continued. I just wanted to let you know. Don't worry about the notes. They're ridiculous, of course.

Of course, I said. Well, I best be a... For the third time, he searched for words. Leaving? I said. Yeah. He laughed and wagged a finger at me. I must say you're really good with words.

could with words. He shook his head like I just pulled off a magic trick. I try. I said skeptically, though he seemed sincere. Howie, by the way. He shot his hand out for a handshake. I recoiled. The pandemic was still in full swing. Oh, of course, he said, reading the room. He shook his head again. Still not used to it. It's all good. I'm Brandon, by the way. Brandon. He smiled again and turned away. I stood there in the doorway, watching him leave,

dumbfounded by the strange, almost funny conversation. As he stepped onto the road, I stepped back in in my house, went to pull the door shut, and stopped short. Something caught the corner of my eye, about seven houses down, a white hatchback car with tinted windows. I can't say why it grabbed my attention, but it did. For some reason, it felt out of place. Shrugging, I stepped back inside and pulled the door shut behind me.

I crossed the living room and collapsed onto the couch. Shit. My team was losing. When the game finished, it was dark out. Three won against me. Of course. I turned off the TV and stretched up my arms and pushed off the couch, and I froze.

The basement door was open again, wide open. A few long seconds crept up until I finally stepped forward. I know I shut that door. I stopped at the top of the stairs. Below me, everything faded into uninviting darkness. I flicked down the light and an orange glow stuttered to life. beige cream walls and a scratchy carpet. The stairs went down about 20 steps, then took a hard turn to the left.

I'd only been in the basement twice since moving, nothing but unopened cardboard boxes down there. I pulled the door shut and went up to my room. Crawling into bed, I flicked off the light and closed my eyes. Maybe the door was broken. A bump in the night startled me awake. I checked the time, 258 a.m. faint moonlight cast in through the bedroom window. Unopened moving boxes crowded my room like a cardboard metropolis. The night was silent. Still half asleep, I sat up onto the edge of my bed, staring at the closet door, a door that reminded

me of my childhood bedroom, a door that reminded me of my only childhood friend, Zach, a sliding door with fake cherry wood vinyl covering and something moved downstairs. Seven quick thumps creaked across hardwood floor, clicking, almost like dog feet, only heavier. I cursed under my breath, fully awake now. The reasonable part of my mind wondered if a raccoon snuck inside. The less reasonable part of my mind wondered if it was Satan himself. I stood up from the bed and marched over to a stack of boxes in the corner. No way I was going down there without a weapon.

Sliding a box off the top of a precarious tower, I turned back and placed it on the bed, rifling through it until my hand grasped a familiar cold metal object. I pulled out a chrome-plated switch blade. I flicked the knife in and out a couple times. This will do. in my back pocket, I stepped towards the doorway, wrapping my grip around the smooth brass door-knob and pushed it open. It was darker out here, no windows.

I flicked on the light. Cold waiting-room glow cast over everything. The basement door was still closed. Thank God. I crept silently down the stairs, one step at a time. A faint smell hung in the air. like burnt hair and gasoline. Almost. Moonlight cast in through the living room window. Everything down here was quiet and still, too still, like the world was on pause. I scanned the living

room. Empty. I stepped into the kitchen. Empty. Shaking my head, I pulled open the fridge. Old houses make strange sounds, I reminded myself, pouring a glass of milk. I took a swig. The taste of foul rot filled my mouth. I spewed and spat back into the cup. What the hell? Rinsing out my mouth with tap water, I gurgled and spat until the bitter taste was gone. There's no way that expired already.

I check the date. Six days till expiry. I set it down. and wandered over to the living room window. Across the street, the neighbor's house was dark. I should have asked Howie if the note-leaving son still live there. Based on what he said, it sounded like the kid needed professional help. Suddenly, a light snapped on. Exterior, left side of the house. Motion detector. It revealed a cluttered and neglected backyard, even more unkempt than the front. Moss flapped in desperate circles over the unnatural glow. The light went dark.

Huh? I turned back to head upstairs, but stopped. My eyes caught the basement door again, still closed, but something stirred within me this time, morbid curiosity, perhaps. I trudged over and pulled open the door. I flicked on the light and stepped forward. Scratchy carpet clawed at the soles of my socks. I reached the stairwell corner. More darkness. A 15 feet hallway with doors on either side led to an open rec room. I flicked the next light switch.

Nothing. Of course. I stood there for a good ten seconds, staring into the dark, the strange pull of curiosity, only getting stronger. Begrudgingly, I pulled out my phone. turned the light on, and moved forward, stepping over boxes and clutter as I went. The strange smell from upstairs was even more pungent down here. That same gasoline and burnt hair.

Maybe there was a leak. I'd get that checked out tomorrow. Regardless, I pushed forward and stepped into the garage-sized wreck room. Cold concrete against my feet, I scanned the phone light from left or right, and I'd get Left her right until… I froze. Stood in the back right corner was a coat rack post. For a second, it almost looked like a person.

I don't own any coat racks. Somebody put it there. I felt sick. Angry. Somebody broke into my house and put a coat rack in my basement corner. Indignant, I marched forward, yanked it off the ground, and stormed back up I knew exactly who did it too, the same person who left the note. Had to be.

That was disturbing enough in its own right, supernatural bullshit or not. Of course, back then, the possibility of the note being a sincere warning never crossed my mind. I didn't even consider the chance that something unknown and terrible was about to enter my life and never leave. At this point, I was convinced that a malicious trickster was trying to break my sanity. I'm not the most stable of individuals, but it'd take more than a coat rack and creepy note to do that.

A lot more. I snapped the coat rack in half, tossed it in the garbage, and sat up in the living room until morning. The next day, I installed new security in locks. If anything else happened, I'd get the police involved. way. I'd been through worse. In hindsight, dismissing the note might be the biggest regret of my entire life. I stood at the living room window, waiting. Finally, the garbage truck pulled up to the curb. A heavy-set man in a bright orange vis-vest stepped off the back, spat dryly onto the pavement,

and hoisted my garbage into the back compactor. Climbing onto the truck, he unceremoniously tossed the aluminum bucket back onto the road. My relief vanished. Inside the bucket was a left behind, foot-long splinter, a lingering remnant of the coat rack. Bursting through the front door, I yelled after the garbage truck, and it lurched to a grudging stop. I forced a smile, strode across the yard, bent over, reached into the can, grabbed the splinter of wood, and tossed it into the truck. The man in the vis vest blinked disinterest as they drove off towards the next house. The truck's compactor pressed down with a satisfying crunch.

Goodbye coat rack. There was a strange comfort in it as though the coat rack itself held some special power over me, a power which, upon its destruction, had lifted. Strolling back toward the house, I caught me. myself smiling, almost feeling happy. I wrapped my hand around the front door knob and a sharp pain shot up my wrist. My hand swung back like electric shock. Gritting my teeth, I turned my palm around. A splinter, about the size of a blood test needle, was lodged in between my thumb and pointer finger. I breathed then, pinched the splinter, yanked it out,

and tossed it back over my shoulder. I stepped inside. I pulled the door shut and red smeared across the brass knob. I turned my hand over, a thin line of blood trailed out from the puncture hole snaking down towards the tip of my thumb. I wrapped my other hand around the wound and marched back towards the kitchen. The bandages were in a tray on top of the fridge. I pulled them down and wrapped my hand up. Turning around, I leaned my back against the fridge, marveling at how quick my good mood had soured. All it took was a wooden splinter. But another thought crept into my head. Part of me, the paranoid, irrational part, wanted to go back and find the splinter, take it out past city limits, and burn it. I actually had to fight

the urge to go back and do this. It's a coat rack, I reminded myself. Either way, I took comfort in the new security setup, alarms on every door and window, big stickers advertising the system to any would-be intruders. I even checked every corner of the house just to be sure nobody was hiding inside. Despite everything, I still hadn't fully processed the fact that somebody took the time and effort to sneak into my house and set a coat rack in the basement corner, not steal anything, not even move anything, just set a coat rack in the basement corner. This simple fact stuck in the back of my head like a stubborn popcorn shell stuck between teeth. Hunched over my laptop at the kitchen table, I took a sip of bitter black coffee.

Thanks to the pandemic, all work was homework now. That was fine by me. I preferred staying at home to just about everything else anyways. Typing away, I was finally falling into that ever-elusive Zen state of work, coding line after line until my phone buzzed against the plastic vinyl tabletop, unknown caller. I reached over and froze. Something told me not to answer. answer it. Something told me to block the number, but I shook it off and answered regardless.

Brandon, said the voice on the other end. I couldn't tell if it was a question or a statement. Speaking. I'm calling about the note. He continued. The one on your doorstep. He sounded young, early 20s, maybe. Okay, I said. Yeah, I was the one who left it there. I didn't respond. I didn't know how to respond. Look, I know it's weird. Trust me, I know better than most.

The thing here is to make sure you understand what's going on, to make sure you take it seriously. Does that make sense? I didn't answer. He sighed. Anxious. I know you think I'm crazy. Shit, I might be. I just, I just need to talk with you in person.

I don't call this number again. I said plainly and ended the call. I set the phone down, leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. In hindsight, I regret my coldness here, but in my defense I'd seen enough real-life horror by then. I was pushing 40 and well acquainted to the crushing mundanity of real life suffering. I had no desire to indulge in made-up nonsense. There was another knock on my door. My heart skipped a beat as the pounding at the front door continued.

I slid back on my chair and stood up. Fists clenched, I marched across the room and yanked open the door. There stood a young man, tall and dressed. in a white shirt and black denim pants. Look, I'm really sorry to be this persistent, but... Immediately, I recognized his voice from the phone call, but I had to admit his appearance was surprising. Until now, I imagined a weasily-looking, basement-dwelling internet troll, but this guy almost

looked like a low-key movie star, young Marlon Brando vibes. Regardless, I didn't know what to say. He looked down, kicking his feet awkwardly at the ground. He looked up. I just need five minutes, he said. I can explain everything and never come back. His eyes were filled with sincerity, years of suffering hidden beneath a desperate smile. I looked around, other neighbors were milling about, a few glanced over.

concerned. I looked back to him. Fine, I said. My voice dripping with skepticism. He looked back over his shoulder, then back to me. We can't talk here. Let's go for a walk if that's all right. Okay. I consider myself a pretty good judge of character and he didn't seem dangerous. He seemed worried. If anything, my curiosity was drawn. driving now. Early evening overcast gray fell over the suburbs. We walked down the street, side by side, six feet apart, silent. Our shoes scraped against concrete, the smell of outdoor barbecue lingered in the air.

He looked back over his shoulder. We were about four houses down from mine. First off, he said, looking forward again, I want to apologize. He slid his hands into pockets as he walked. I don't really know the best way to approach something like this, and I'm sorry for being so cryptic. I grunted non-committally. Second, I really don't expect you to believe me.

He continued. Unless I saw something firsthand, I wouldn't believe me either. He looked up at the clouds and squinted as to defend. few sunlight cast against his face. The sky was spitting rain now, invisible drops you only felt, sporadic, icy pinpoints against the skin. Maybe I'm crazy. I don't know. He shrugged. My dad was. At least that's what we all thought when he finally. He trailed off into silence. Anyways, I'm getting off track. He ran a hand through his jet blood. black hair. Just take it seriously for the first couple weeks and see where it goes. If it's

bullshit, it's bullshit. I still wasn't quite sure what to say. At this point, I believed that he believed. But that wasn't enough to change my entire worldview. All you can do is search for ways to slow him down, invite people over as much as possible. Try to figure out if there's a way to stop him without breaking the established rules. He continued. I know there's the pandemic. But hell, invite a stranger over if you have to. Rent free.

Who's living in your father's house? I asked with directness that surprised even me. I don't know. You don't know. He shrugged again. I haven't been there since. Trailing off into silence, he grimaced, looking around as if the words might be somewhere close. I grew up here, he said, changing the topic again. My sister and I used to collect pine cones in the

park. He pointed across the street. Park was a generous word for an empty lot with a couple trees and a bench. We'd sell them to the neighbors, he said, almost small. smiling. Pine cones, five cents apiece. He shook his head like a chill went down his spine. Look, you've got to take the rule seriously, he said shifting back to the previous topic. I still wasn't convinced. You don't know who's living in your dad's house. I persisted. Did you sell it? He stopped walking and turned to face me. Don't try. to understand this, he said, rubbing his forehead with the back of his thumb. The more you try to make sense of it, the more you try to rationalize, it only gets worse.

It sounded like a death-cult mantra to me. Sure, I said. You have my number, right? I nodded. If anything happens, you have any more questions. Call me. Any time. Seriously, any time. 4 a.m. if you have to. I don't care. Okay. It's Mitchell, by the way. He gave a little wave, turned away, and strolled off down the street, leaving me even more confused than before. Worse than that, I was beginning to consider the possibility that this might actually be real. A possibility made all the more disturbing due to the fact I'd broken nearly every single rule. His sincerity was unsettling. By the time I got back home, it was dark out.

I stood at the front door, rifling for my keys when, Brandon, a familiar voice called out from behind. I turned back to see Howie, standing on the curb. I almost didn't recognize him at first. He wore a blue track suit with a blue pencil tucked behind his ear and blue headphones wrapped around his neck. This guy really likes blue. Howie?

I said. Carver's kid spoke with you, huh? He rested his hands on his hips. I nodded. What'd he say? I shrugged. Same stuff as the note. Howie shook his head as if to say.

say, I expected as much. Poor kid, he said. At least he'll stop bugging you now. Yeah. Just then, beside the house across the street, the outdoor motion light snapped on. Odd, how we looked back to see what I was seeing. Through the cracks in the fence, a lined silhouette stood up against the boards. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it almost It almost looked like somebody stood there, watching us, peering through the fence cracks. But the yard was filled with junk, so it could have been anything. Howie turned back to me. Anyways, he said, pulling up his headphones and turning away. Who's living there now? How he froze, lowered the headphones and turned back. Not sure, he said.

So they never sold it. Nope. Not to my knowledge. So it's empty. I've seen someone, maybe a few someone's milling about inside. Ever seen them outside? Howie tilted his head, thinking. He clearly never paid much attention to it.

I don't think so, he said. But I got a goldfish memory. He chuckled. Shrugged, reached to put his headphones back on, and— Oh! His face lit up. I've been stuck on this. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out from his jumpsuit pocket and read,

A thin piece of metal which glows brightly when a current passes through. He looked up at me, eyes filled with hope. Eight words across, first letter F, third letter L. The light across the street snapped off, and a light inside snapped on. Window-blind shadows cast from inside as someone moved across the living room. Brandon? Filament, I said. I still locked on the house across the street.

Howie scribbled away. That's it. My God, that's it! He sounded like he just won a thousand bucks. He looked up at me. You're brilliant. I looked back to Howie, glad to help. Anyways, said Howie, his enthusiasm suddenly gone.

See around? He pulled his headphones up and jogged away. I stood there watching the house across the street. The light inside was still on, but no more movement. I turned back to my door. and stepped inside. Pulling the door shut behind me, I strode into the living room and stood at the window. The house across the street was dark again.

I pulled the curtains shut and turned back for the kitchen. The strange smell of gasoline and burnt hair lingered in the air still, subtle, but unmistakable. I flicked down the kitchen light and sat down at the table and stared blankly at the wall. Harsh fluorescent glow vibrated against white stucco. I should get warmer light bulbs. Another thought crawled into my head, a thought that was slithering around in my subconscious for the past few minutes. Mitchell, the dead neighbor's son, did not put the coat rack in your basement.

Of course, it's possible he did. But after talking with him, it seemed highly unlike. This raised another even worse question. Who put the coat rack in the basement? Howie? Doubtful. Another neighbor? Possibly.

The person or persons living across the there was a click as the sound of a door popping open interrupted my thoughts. I looked back over my shoulder. Across the living room in the front entrance hallway. hallway. The basement door was open. Just a crack, a thin line of darkness. Screw it. I marched upstairs, grabbed my switchblade from the bedside table, and stormed back down, each footstep heavier than the last. Knife clenched in my left fist. I swung open the basement door and flicked on the light. I'm armed, I said, trying and failing.

to sound like a thread. If anyone's down there, make yourself known now. Silence. Nothing but the hum of a buzzing light bulb. I took a deep breath and exhaled. Okay, I whispered, taking a slow step forward. I used to mock people in horror movies for going down into the basement, but in the moment, It weirdly felt like my best option. It was that, or leave the house or try to sleep, knowing it's possible that someone's hiding in the basement. Call the cops? Tell them I found a coat rack.

Most cops don't even have the time to worry about stolen cars, let alone misplaced furniture. None of these choices were appealing. I reached the first stairwell and stopped at the first corner. Somehow, the hallway seemed darker than before. I flicked the light switch, warm glow cast overall. The light wasn't working last time. I stepped forward, the familiar smell of burnt hair and gasoline getting stronger. The short walk down the hallway, feeling like eternity.

Finally, I stepped into the wreck room. Both corners were empty. I breathed relief and felt blood rush into my face. Once again, embarrassed at my own paranoia. I pocketed the switchplate and turned back when something caught my eye. In the far right corner, behind a stack of cardboard boxes, water, a thin layer of surface tension slowly spreading across the shiny concrete. Shit.

They never said anything about leaks when I bought the place. I crossed the room and squat down. There were scattered clumps of wet dirt, too. No obvious source for the leak. Strange. The circle of water slowly expanded outward. I stared into it, and my crystal clear reflection stared back. I need a haircut.

My face rippled as a single drop fell from above. Of course. I looked up. Nothing but pink insulation and two by four beams up there. Could be a faulty pipe, I thought. Might explain the weird smells too. A door slammed shut. Upstairs around the corner, the basement door slammed shut.

I jumped to my feet and whipped out the switch blade. Before I could process what happened, everything went dark. Dark. The kind of dark that makes everything sound like it's right next to your ear. The kind of dark that makes your thoughts visible. I fumbled from my phone and it clattered onto the floor. Shit. I dropped to my knees flailing in the dark. Sliding my hands across the cold, smooth concrete, desperately searching for it. Searching for the light. The smell of burnt hair growing stronger all the while. No phone. Only concrete and cardboard boxes. Shit, shit, shit. Panic swelled inside my chest like a balloon, threatening to burst right through my rib cage.

I froze. I breathe in. I breathe out. I breathe in. I breathe out. The panic stopped growing. It didn't get worse and it didn't get better. It held in the state of pure survival mode, clenching my eyes shut. I rose to standing. I didn't even know which direction to go anymore. I followed my gut and took a step forward. Up ahead, seven quick thumps staggered down the staircase and slammed against the corner wall. Silence.

A sliding sound scraped against the drywall as if something rose to standing. A sickening chill went down my spine. My hand clenched tight around the switchblade. You have about three seconds, I said, once again failing to sound like a threat. Three seconds went by. Five seconds. Ten. Only silence.

The sound of my own panicked breath and silence. Screw it. Knife pointing forward, I rushed ahead, screaming my best attempt at a war cry as I flew through the dark. My ankles caught against the first step, and I sailed forward, slamming chin first into the corner stairwell, swiping and flailing the blade like a blind madman all the while. The light snapped on.

I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, flat on my ass, backed into the corner of the stairwell. There was nobody here. I looked up the stairs. Nothing. I looked down the hallway. I froze. Stood in the center of the wreck room, shattered splinters held together with nails and wire.

coat rack. Thus far, I'd broken nearly every single so-called rule. One, he will begin in the furthest corner of your basement. If you see him do not overreact, he may decide to move on. I'm guessing that snapping the intruder in half and throwing him into a trash compactor counts as an overreaction. Number two, if the intruder decides to stay, he will take one step closer each week. on my math, I had about 264 days to go until he reached my bedroom, probably sooner, since

he seemed to be moving faster now. 3. Do not attempt to speak with him, hurt him, or get third parties involved. I threw him in a trash compactor. 4. Any violation of Rule 3 generally results in several quick steps forward, depending on severity of transgression. That would explain why he's already in the center of the rec room. Five, barricading the doors is acceptable. This will slow him down, but the process will be very loud and difficult to sleep. I might do this when the time comes, earplugs and white noise to sleep over the

sound. Six. To others, the intruder will appear as a mannequin or a rubber dummy or a coat hanger, etc. let guests near him. I don't even want to think about this one right now. 7. The intruder will not move forward so long as you have guests in the house, guests who actually want to be there. Once, I had an old friend sleep on the couch for three months and the intruder didn't move a step. I have no friends. Not anymore. 8. You can leave the house, but never sleep anywhere else. Never make plans. to move, even browsing for houses online. The importance of this rule cannot be understated. Okay. From here on out, I'd follow the rules until I thought of something better.

Two sleepless nights crawled by until I finally built up the courage to go back downstairs. I needed my phone. Down the basement hallway, in the center of the wreck room, stood the coat rack. Behind it, my phone lay face down against the concrete floor. I crept forward, averting my eyes all the while. Sliding into the wreck room, I pushed my back up against the wall and glanced over at the coat rack. Immediate regret followed from the sight I saw. Nails and wire snaked around mangled shards of wood. If the coat rack was a substitute, then what did the actual intruder look like. An image flashed through my mind, a gaunt man with a carnival smile held together with nails and wire. I shook it off and leapt forward. Snatching my phone, I scrambled

away and hauled up the stairs. The hands of nothing chasing me from behind, reaching for my ankles, ever stretching arms desperate to pull me back into the dark. I slammed the door to shut and pressed my back against it, breathing heavy. I slid down to the floor. It's a coat rack, I told myself. But the words rang empty now, like parents telling frightened children that there's nothing to be afraid of. There's nothing hiding under the bed. When really, they both know there is. There's always something hiding under your bed. Maybe it's not the long-tooth monster you imagined as a child. Maybe it's a feeling. A hidden thing that you can't accept because you don't even know what it is. So instead, you pretend it doesn't

exist. A festering obligation you keep pushing back and back and back, always lurking just out of sight, hiding in your peripherals. Sometimes you even catch a glimpse. glimpse of it, only to look and find nothing. So you shrug it off, you turn back to your food, your booze, your... There was knocking at the front door. I got up, slinked over, and pulled it open. There, just as I expected, stood Howie. Brandon, he said, wearing an oversized smile and an oversized white tea with baggy sweatpants.

Howie, I said, fighting back the pole of sleep deprivation. Sorry to bother you so early, it's just... He paused, looking over his shoulder, then back to me. There's been a few break-ins around the neighborhood, last night, and were you hit? I shook my head. No. Fortunate, said Howie. Behind him.

In the driveway of the house across the street sat a red Kawasaki motorcycle, the first, and the only time I'd seen a vehicle over there. Anyways, said Howie. See you round. He turned to leave. Howie. He stopped and turned back. Did you know them? I said, still watching the house across the street.

Mr. Carver? A little, said Howie. He ran a restoration thing, fixed up our basement after a flood, a nice man, but quiet. I nodded. Howie smiled and turned back. Anyways, be safe out there, he said, humming to himself as he strolled off. I pulled the door shut and turned back inside. Reaching into my pocket, I took out my full. phone and dialed. The tone rang out a couple times until,

Hello? Mitchell Carver and I met in a diner on the edge of town. A 2010's diner designed to look like a 1950s diner. Every roadside greasy spoon cliche in the book. Movie posters plastered the walls, the front grill of a turquoise Cadillac hung up above the front door. Red leather booths lined up against the windows. I sat there, staring blankly outside. Across the highway sat abandoned middle-class suburbs, foreclosed 12 years back. Traffic droned like swarming flies.

Mitchell sat across from me. He wore a litter jacket and a ball cap, and his eyes were quiet and distant. So you don't count as a third party? I asked. Mitchell eyed me, confused. The rules. No third parties, I said. He shook his head.

No. Why? Already a believer. Studying him. I took a sip of bitter black coffee. He still seems sincere, but trustworthy. I wasn't sure. Why does belief matter?

I don't really know yet. said Mitchell, leaning back in his seat. He glanced around the diner, almost like he was expecting someone. He turned back to me, suddenly serious. You need to tell me what happened. Excuse me? You said on the phone, something changed your mind. I raised an eyebrow. I hadn't told Mitchell about the first coat rack incident for several reasons. Mainly, I didn't want to set him off. For all his sincerity, this guy did not seem like the most stable of individuals. Not that I blamed him, considering his life's circumstance. Why are you helping me?

I said, changing the topic. He looked out the window, his eyes flicking back and forth as traffic sped by. He turned back to me. I killed my dad, he said. I mean, not literally. But it's my fault he died. He weighed over his next words carefully. The traffic outside slowly droning ever louder, like a rising tide.

Mitchell continued. The last few years of his life, nobody believed him. We all thought he was crazy. But he never talked about it straight up. He just left notes. Sometimes you'd be home after a visit and find him. one tucked away in your shoe." Mitchell cleared his throat.

The notes were always about the person hiding in his house, how they were trying to literally terrify my dad to death. The front door chimed open. Mitchell tensed up and glanced back over his shoulder. A family of four shuffled inside, he relaxed and turned back to me. I just want to make sure what happened to him doesn't happen to anyone else." He leaned back in his seat again, hands wrapped tight around a cup of untouched coffee. Fair enough.

Look, said Mitchell. If you broke the rules once, even twice, that's fine. But you need to tell me what happened. I nodded slowly, took a deep breath and I snapped the coat. coat rack in half, threw it in a trash compactor. Mitch's eyes filled with shock, a shock he immediately repressed, like a doctor, trying to act cool in front of a patient with horrific test results. And it came back the next day.

Yeah, held together by nails and wire. Mitchell nodded. How much farther ahead was it? The front door chimed open again, but he didn't look back. About ten steps from the corner, I said. Mitchell nodded, again acting like it was all good when it clearly wasn't. Another question dawned on me. Why does it look like a coat rack?

Mitchell shrugged. None of the rules are set in stone. Did you buy the place with your own money? Yeah. Well, sort of. Mortgage. Yeah, that shouldn't... Mitch?

A voice from behind cut into the conversation, an older man, wearing a brown leather jacket and carrying a red bike helmet, tall, wiry, and in need of a shave. Clint Eastwood vibes. Mitch. Where have you been? He said. His voice strained with sadness. Mitch looked away, acting like he wasn't even there. Mitch, he said again, his voice shaking now. I turned back.

Mitch stared down at the coffee in his hands. His reflection rippled in waves of highway traffic rumble. His eyes were wet. Mitch, please, the man said, leaning forward slightly. I've been looking everywhere for I've... The stranger trailed off into silence and stepped back. He looked at me. His eyes were filled with years of suffering. He reached into his coat pocket, produced a card, and placed it face down on the table. He looked back at Mitch one last time.

I'm always here, kid. He smiled grimly, then turned away and wandered back towards the exit. Hands on the door, he stopped and looked towards us. He always. He looked. He always. He looked. He opened his mouth to say something, but he turned away, pushed outside and stepped down into the gravel parking lot. He crossed the lot and climbed onto a red Kawasaki motorcycle. He looked back at me through the window. His eyes different now. Apathetic. Suddenly, his eyes lit up, darted back and forth for a few seconds, then snapped back to vacant apathy. Almost like someone had crawled into his mind, taking a quick look around and jumped back out. He pulled on his helmet and revved up the engine and sped off.

Mitch? I said, still staring out the window. The realization of who that was finally dawning on me. It's not him, said Mitch. Not anymore. I turned back. Mitch, hands shaking, took a sip from his coffee and set it down. You wanted to know what happens when it reaches you.

He threw up his hand as if to say, wish granted. I didn't fully understand what he meant by that, but right now wasn't the time to push. Mitch looked, on the verge of tears. Reaching across the table, he grabbed the card and handed it to me. I already knew what it said, but I turned it over and read anyways. Carver Restoration and Renovation Owner P.T. Carver

Rule number six. To others, the intruder will appear as a mannequin or a rubber dummy or a coat hanger, etc. Do not let guests near him. What exactly does others mean? Mitchell left the diner shortly after his dad showed up, but before he left, I asked him about being the so-called other. He just shrugged and said again, Rules aren't set in stone. The meeting revealed almost nothing, save for more unsettling questions. Why was his dad still alive? Why was his dad's bike parked in the driveway across

the street? Was that even his dad? Was Mitchell messing with me? Was the entity messing with both of us. Questions over questions, over questions. Rising dread lurked beneath the surface of it all, like reality itself were a blanket draped over some unspeakable terror, a veil that might be torn away at any second. Highway 7 was emptier than usual. My blue 1993 Toyota hatchback reverberated with the drones of rubber against road. The red sun crept down behind the distant mountains.

Shadow stretched longer as the day crawled westward. Against pastel pink skies, starling flocks moved like a singular hive mind. Driving always calmed me down. Before I owned a car, I used to go for these long solitary hikes out in the tepurate mountain rainforest. There's something about constant motion, outside, alone and peaceful. I was still committed to following the rules, at least, until I thought of something better. My next priority would be to get somebody over, a guest who actually wanted to stay.

Maybe I'd rent out the spare bedroom, maybe I'd call up an old friend. Easier said than done, especially considering the pandemic. Either way, I needed to get a handle on this. Up ahead, parked at the side of the highway, the red Kawasaki, I sped past before the image fully registered. Letting off the gas, I checked the rear view mirror. There it was, the red bike about 200 feet back. I pulled over.

Only the bike was there. I shifted into reverse and froze. Breathe in and exhale. I shifted back into forward and stared at the empty highway ahead, pinned straight to the horizon. Just go home, I thought. But I didn't listen. I shifted back into reverse and headed towards the red Kawasaki, lurching to a stop, about ten feet away.

I stepped outside, squinting as rising plumes of dust stung into my eyes. There sat the bike. Kickstand out. Key still in the ignition. Helmet sat on the driver's seat. I'm no mechanic, but the air smelled like engine trouble. I glanced around. The highway shoulder went out for about 20 feet, then cut down into grassy fields. About 50 feet down, someone sat down on the edge of the shoulder.

Mitch's dad, P.T. Carver. At least that's what I assumed from this distance. He sat with elbows resting on knees, staring off into the field, smoking. I stood there, weighing my options, wanting to leave, but letting my curiosity win yet again. I walked over, the smell of gasoline getting stronger with every step. A red jerry can sat on the hard-packed dirt beside him. I stopped about ten feet away. He glanced over, made eye contact, nodded, and turned back to the view. Car troubles? I asked. Bike troubles. Anything I can help with?" Nope.

He took a drag off his brown cigarillo, vanilla flavored, judging by the smell. All my questions backed away. Sympathy, replaced curiosity. Apparition or not, this man looked broken down, as though his life had been nothing but let down after let down after let down. He studied something out in the distant fields. I turned to see, what he was seeing. Nothing. Shimmering wind rippling through the floodgrass. The last trips of daylight soaking back into the ground. He pointed, off past the boardwalk, he said, about 200 feet. My eyes followed his directions, still nothing. Beside the water, he said. Then I saw it. Three bears, Brown bears, a mother and two cubs, drinking from the water. I'd never seen a bear outside

of zoos. I didn't even know they lived around here. Probably came down from the ballry, he said. Clear-cut suburbs up there now. He spat dryly and pressed his heel against the spit and turned his ankle like putting out a cigarette. Just then, the mother bear looked up and glanced around, as if she'd heard something. She held there for a couple moments, then went back to drinking. So you're friends with my son, he said, watching the bears all the while. No, not really. Boyfriend. No. Nothing wrong with that. Didn't say there was. He smiled grimly, clenched his eyes shut and took a long slow drag off the cigarillo. Acquaintances, I said.

What's that? Acquaintances. You know, people who know each other tangentially. He nodded. You moved in across the street, right? Yeah. Ignore the crazies. Crais.

Neighborhood's full of them, he said. Crazy's Kitchen. Yeah, I meant to ask about. He raised a hand. Not right now. He said, you come by tomorrow. I'll answer any questions you want about any of that. Just not right now. He motioned toward the horizon as if it were the only moment of peace he'd seen in years. I nodded. He smiled warmly, took one last drag and pressed the cigarillo down against the hard-packed dirt beside him, twisting it there until it went cold. Wiping ash-stained fingers onto his brown leather jacket, he took a deep breath, exhaled, and pushed up to standing.

He produced another cigarillo and offered it to me. I shook my head. I just quit. He shrugged, lit up, took a drag and exhaled more. vanilla-flavored smoke. You know what to do when you run into Baloo, he said. Baloo? Again, he blinked, disappointed surprise.

Grizzly. Up close. I shrugged. Throw your hands up, make a lot of noise, yell, I said, half remembering something from grade school. He scoffed. That's a good way to end up with your head viced between Air jaws. Pulling another drag, he exhaled the smoke out through his nostrils.

You run into one up close. He paused for effect. Just talk to her. Like you're doing here. Pretend. She's an old friend. Long time. Been a while. Tell her about your day. Ask her how she's been been. His cold blue eyes filled with memories, drifting back and forth across the the distant horizon as he spoke. All the while, you keep backing up. Slow like, slow as you can manage. Not slow like you're trying to leave. Slow like, huh? We both happen to be going in the same direction. He looked directly at me. Know the difference? I nodded. He turned back. Nine times out of ten. She'll follow.

Curious. You just keep backing up. Keep talking. His jaw tensed up and then relaxed. When you got about 15, 20 feet between you, take off your backpack or your hand, whatever. He looked down at the dirt. Place that on the ground. She'll stop to see what that's all about.

Sniffin, prodding. You back up faster now. now, but not by much. Again, he looked directly at me. The trick is to accept the fate that you're scared, shitless, accept that your heads lying to you, begging you, to run, whisper in every song in the Bible, you can do this, you can fight, you can run. He waved his hand as if to say, and so on.

You let that fear take control. He snapped his fingers with surprising loudness. That's it. He looked away, flicked his cigarillo straight down, stomped it out, and spat. Instead, you tell yourself, Damn, I am really scared right now. You take that and whatever else, and you set it aside. Don't push it away.

Don't forget it. Just set it aside and focus on breathing instead. Focus on backing up, one foot after another. No shortcuts. He trailed off into silence. Soon enough. She'll lose interest and wander off. He met my eyes again.

Usually. He continued, If Bala wants a fight, you go for the eyes. He shrugged. At least you go down fighting. A few long seconds passed until I realized he was finished. Thank you, I said. Not really sure what else to say. I turned back to the field.

The family of bears was gone now. He chuckled softly and said, stepped back. Look, you have any questions about any of this haunting bullshit. He met my eyes. You know where I live. Just come over. I nodded.

Still not sure if he was a puppet, apparition, real, or some combination of the three. I'll just tell you straight up. Don't take anything the neighbors say seriously. especially in that damn howie. Sure, I said, turning back from my car. One more thing. He squat down, picked up the red jerry can, and shook it. Empty.

The nearest gas pump was about three miles out. I brought the jerry can back full and we drove home the same direction. Despite my reservations, I liked P.T. He reminded me of my old man, rest in peace. Still, I didn't know who to believe, and I couldn't shake the way his eyes moved outside the diner. Maybe I was paranoid, maybe I was seeing things, but no amount of paranoia explained the coat rack in the basement, which, first thing tomorrow morning, is what I meant to ask

him about. I pulled up into my driveway and sat there a good moment before stepping out. Orange street lights bounced over wet asphalt. Frantic moss swarmed the unnatural glow like flies to a corpse. A small gray dot of a cat or raccoon shimmied down a neighbor's fence and slinked across the fresh-cut lawn. The house across the street was dark and the driveway was empty. Maybe he took a different route back. I stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind me. When I saw the basement door, the weight of everything suddenly came crashing back. The door was shut, yet almost pleaded with me to open it.

Silently begging me to check and see if the coat rack was still there, see how much farther along it was. Turning away, I went for the kitchen, but I stopped in the living room and looked back over my shoulder. Screw it. May as well get this over with. I spun around, marched over, yank the door open, and flicked on the light. Taking a deep, slow breath. I stepped forward, one step at a time, and my foot slipped. I tripped forward seven quick steps and tumbled over head first into the corner. Throbbing pain shot up my left leg. My shin was snapped, turned left at a 90-degree

angle. The bone inside pushed up against my skin like a swollen cyst, and I almost puked at the sight. Thankfully, I was in too much shock to fully appreciate the rising pain. Shit! I hissed, gritting my teeth and pushing back into the corner as the long dark hallway stretched out before me. I couldn't stand. I couldn't even reach the second light. I could barely think. I gritted my teeth and clenched my eyes shut. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. The adrenaline pushed me into a strange state of calm. I opened my eyes. Everything was slightly brighter now as my vision adjusted. Nothing but shadow. I pulled out my phone, turned up the screen to maximum brightness, and shone it down in the light.

of the hallway. The coat rack was still there, but closer now, stood in the entrance of the wreck room. Now a heavy wool coat hung from its top. About five feet closer, I guessed. So much for one step a week. I tucked my phone away and turned back towards the exit, carefully shifting my body weight to avoid more pain, a tedious process. I couldn't afford paramedics or an ambulance, so I'd have to crawl up the stairs. Of course. A solitary drop of water fell somewhere in the darkness. The coat rack's dim silhouette stood motionless.

I'm not sticking around for this, I thought. I was about to turn away, but something moved. Behind the coat rack, something rose to standing. I only saw the shadowed outline of a person and the faintest hint of pinkish-red skin. Like the skin of a dying pig. I froze, paralyzed. My eyes adjusted bit by bit. The wool coat shook as two gaunt, yet unnaturally large hands emerged from the dark and

wrapped around the coat rack. Tripping tight, the hands lifted the coat rack noiselessly off the ground. Silence. A quick step forward. A shuddering exhale, as though it took great effort. Then it set back down. More silence. Then the coat rack hoisted upwards again and another quick step forward.

The shlick sound of wet bare feet pressed on and off the concrete floor. Another strained exhale, and they set it down. There was an almost hypnotizing, percussum rhythm to it all. Again the coat rack hoisted up, and I'd seen more than enough. Twisting to my side, I clawed my hands onto the banister and hoisted myself upward, wincing in pain as my snapped leg drug uselessly behind me. Four footsteps, more stuttering breaths. It was moving faster now.

Getting closer. I pulled myself forward, one tedious thrust at a time, gritting my teeth through the rising pain. Shit! Whoever was holding the coat rack was on the stairs now. I didn't look back. I couldn't look back. I kept pulling forward, inching close.

and closer to escape. All the while, a terrible image projecting in my head, the image of long, ever-stretching arms with pig-colored skin, sliding up the stairs, reaching from my shins, inching closer and closer, until I gripped the doorframe with both hands and launched myself forward. Lurching into the upstairs, I spun around and kick the door with my good leg. It slammed shut with satisfying finality. Catching my breath. I listened. Listened for the slightest movement below.

Seconds went by. Minutes. Nothing. My racing thoughts finally steadied. Time to barricade the door. Leg in a blue cast, I hobbled across the street on crutches. 49 hours had passed since I fell down the stairs and saw the intruder in the basement. Or at least, I saw its hands. Regardless, enough was enough. I needed concrete answers and a concrete

plan. At this rate, the intruder would reach my room in weeks, maybe days. I pounded on the neighbor's door and stopped. Something inside moved. Through frost. windows down the hallway, the blurry shadow of a door creaked open. Someone peeked out. I waved politely, but they stepped back into the room and pulled the door shut. I raised my hand again to knock when the front door swung open. There stood PT Carver, dressed in blue jeans and a brown shirt, looking even more Clintise wood-like than before. Brandon, he said, smiling warmly. I opened my mouth to respond, but realized I didn't even know his name, just the initials.

Paul's fine, he said, stepping back from the door and motioning me inside. I propped forward onto my crutches and, wait. He reached behind the door and produced a box of disposable light blue masks. You don't mind, he said. putting a mask on himself and handing another to me. Of course not, I said, and put the mask on. Getting too old to risk it, you know, said Paul, stepping back from the door and once again motioning me inside.

As I stepped inside, his eyes dropped to the blue cast around my leg. He raised an eyebrow. Fell down the stairs, I said. Ouch. He shut the door and I glanced around the house. The interior contradicted my expectations. Varnished oak walls with a smooth shine. His house felt like an old Wall Street corner office, like in those movies where men in suits

pull whiskey out from beneath their desks. There was no upstairs, only the first floor, a couple bedrooms, and a door that led to, I assumed was a basement. A long hallway led to the back of the house and I noticed the room which someone had peered out from. The door was still shut. The air smelled like tobacco and vanilla. Not a bad smell, at least not to me. Tobacco scent always reminded me of my dad's house back in Georgia, back when I was a kid and still somewhat happy. I kicked off my shoes and press my sock-covered feet against the floor. In this oddly fancy house, the carpet was out of place, green, scratchy, worn down to the plywood in some areas.

Please, said Paul, motioning towards the living room. I shuffled deeper into the house. Despite the sunny day outside, it was dark in here. All the blinds pulled shut, Everything cast in shadow save for a couple of desk lights and beams of intruding sunlight. Feel free to take a seat, said Paul, nodding towards a long, green velvet couch. I slumped down, an immediate relief came over. Hobbling around on crutches was more tiring than it looked. Can I get you anything? Water, coffee, said Paul.

I'm good. Thanks. Paul winced, as though I offended him. Are you sure? Water? No, no, thank you. Paul sat down on a wooden stool across from me, a stool that creaked with antique strain. Crossing his legs, he leaned sideways against the wall, studying me like a therapist studies a client.

So? I took a deep breath and exhaled. Last night, I saw him. Paul's face remained neutral. He shifted his weight slightly. Saw who? The intruder. I leaned forward in my seat.

What I saw has no reasonable hands, barely human. I trailed off into silence. Did you take a photo? No. No. Good. Keep it that way. Why?

He studied me carefully before continuing. You seen a doctor? No. He glanced down at the cast on my leg, then back up at me. I rolled my eyes. Well, yes. You tell him about. No.

His face filled with strange relief on crossing his legs. legs. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. Do not tell anyone else about this. Not even Mitch. You understand? Yeah. Paul leaned back, reached into the chest pocket of his shirt, and pulled out a cigarette. He pulled off his mask and tossed it back over his shoulder. He brought the cigarette up to his mouth, pinched it between his thin lips, and took out a pack of matches. A thump reverberated from somewhere deep inside the house. He froze, raised an eyebrow. Silence. He shrugged, struck the match, and another thump. Paul shook out the match and tossed it into a tin can sat upon a yellow plastic crate to his left. Excuse me, he said,

stepping up, turning around, and marching deeper into the house. I watched as he rounded the corner and disappeared into the foyer hallway. Now I was starting to wonder if coming over here was such a good idea to begin with. My initial meeting with Paul was surprising to say the least. His long, drawn-out, bare safety monologue was odd, but endearing, in a weird story. of way. But when Paul showed up at the diner, Mitch seemed truly disturbed, like he'd seen a ghost. Either way, I just wanted answers. Hopefully Paul would give me that. Right then, there was the sound of the door clicking open in the foyer hallway and then clicking shut. The faintest hint of a smell entered my nostrils, the recurring smell of gasoline and burnt hair, so subtle it might

have been imagined. Down the hallways, muffled voices, arguing? I tilted my head in strained to listen, but sorry about that, said Paul, suddenly stepping into the room. No worries. With oddly pinned straight posture, Paul sat down on the couch across from me. A brown velvet couch, with old-time drawings of farms and ducks that reminded me of a sofa at my grandma's house. The same one I slept on, after Grandpa's funeral. You want answers, huh? said Paul, striking a match, lighting up the cigarette, and finally taking a slow, satisfied drag. The smoke lingered around him for a moment, then slowly drifted back towards the dining room.

Why does Mitch think you're dead? Paul nodded, as though expecting the question. Reaching over the side of the couch, he tapped the cigarette with his pointer finger. Small bits of glowing ash broke off and tumbled down into the tin can. Back when Mitch and Rachel, his sister were kids, said Paul, I had some serious health issues. Still do, full disclosure, but I'm medicated now and that helps. He lifted the cigarette to take another drag, but stopped short, remembering something,

he lowered it and continued. After my father passed away, I started to believe something was stalking me, toying with me. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, started with small things at first. Just bumps in the night, food gone bad before the expiry date. Things too small to talk about, but too big to just, you know, brush off. He met my eyes, then looked away and took another short drag off the cigarette. I thought back to the expired milk in my fridge, one of many unanswered questions still

festering in the back of my mind. Paul sighed. I'm a rationalist at heart, so the possibility of something unnatural. He waved his fingers like a magician. That never crossed my thoughts. He paused again, glancing over at me, judging my reactions as he spoke. Now, bear with me, because all this leads to a point. He continued. One night, back in 94, maybe 93, the kids and their mom were fast asleep. It was Thursday, so I went down to the basement for canned peaches and a late night beer. He pointed down at the floor.

The light wasn't working, so I came back with a flashlight and he trailed off into silence. His cold blue eyes still locked on the floor. This time. Someone was down there. Just standing there. Stood down the basement hallway with their back turned to me. I wanted to call out. Scream.

Run upstairs get my nine mill, but instead I just froze, like roadkill in headlights. Paul looked directly at me. That's when it hit me. I realized that this intruder, over seven foot tall, by the way, he was halfway stuck into the concrete wall, like the mold set around him and dried there. Paul shook his head, like a chill went down his spine. I couldn't even think straight. He leaned forward and rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb, a weird tip.

that suddenly stuck out to me. Mitch did the same thing, and so did Howie. Things got really bad after that. The more I tried to fight it, the worse it got, the more I tried to make sense of things. He trailed off into a moment of silence. Of course, nobody else saw him. They just saw a stack of cardboard boxes. He paused. He paused. again, looking around the room. One night, cold, autumn night. I down two bottles of cognac and brought my nine mill downstairs, marched straight up to him. He made a gun with his fingers and pointed at me.

Press the barrel between his dead eyes and pulled the trigger. He mimed the motion of gun kickback and limply dropped his hand back onto his his thigh. But he didn't even flinch. Bullet went straight through him, ricocheted off the back wall, and got me in the hand. He held up his left hand. The pinky finger was cut off short at the first knuckle. I hadn't even noticed until now. He shook his hand like it went numb and leaned back into his seat again. After that, Holly threatened to leave. Take the kids with him. He rubbed the side of his palm against his left forearm, ruminating. Then his eyes suddenly lit up, as if remembering something.

Let me show you something, he said, pushing up from the couch. He strolled towards the door I assumed led to the basement. I remained seated. After my last encounter with the intruder, I wasn't a big fan of stairs or basements. coming? Paul, noticing my hesitation, looked back at me the same way my dad used to, struggling to hide disappointment. I cleared my throat, grabbed my crutches, and pushed a standing.

Paul smiled, the half-smile, pulled another disposable mask out from his back pocket, and put it on. Standing in front of the basement door, he pulled a ring of keys out from his front pocket, to himself, he rifled through until finding the key he wanted. He unlatched the chosen key and turned the lock. No dice. He relatched the key and went back to rifling, still humming all the while. Meanwhile, I stood back about ten feet, eyes locked on the mysterious room at the end of the hallway. The door was shut. You live alone? Yes. said Paul. Well, yes. And no. He unlatched another key and gave that one a try. No dice.

An old friend lives in the room down the hall. I'm the caretaker, sort of. He said nonchalantly. That's good of you. Yeah, well, I owe them one, said Paul. I considered asking more, asking if they were a guest keeping the intruder at bay, but something told me to keep it to myself. Paul huffed, unlatching a third key from the ring, holding it up to his face. He studied it like a jeweler studies a suspect diamond. He brought it down to the lock, pushed it in, and turned. Finally, the door clicked open. Third times that. Paul looked around searching for words, the same way Howie did. Shaking his head, Paul tucked away the key and stepped down into the dark.

He flicked the light on and cold fluorescent glow stammered to life. Concrete walls and wooden steps smothered in layers of dust. Paul looked back over his shoulder. You good with stairs? He said, looking down at my cast-covered leg. I'll try. He nodded. Use the railing.

He turned back and stepped deeper into the basement. I hobbled across the hallway and stood at the top of the stairs. Peering down, the flight of steps seemed longer than expected. Like it went down one and a half stories, instead of just one. Paul stood at the bottom, another door in front of him. Though maybe door wasn't quite the right word, more like a bunker hatch, metallic and held shut with an arm-sized lever instead of a door-knob. I didn't want to go into the basement, but the weight of morbid curiosity compelled me yet again.

Paul gripped his hands around the lever, braced himself against the wall, and pulled. His wiry arms flexed and strained as the lever slowly lurched towards him. Ridding his teeth, Paul yanked harder and harder until finally, the lever gave way, swung backward suddenly. The metallic door itself shifted downward with an echoing clang, and clouds of dust particles burst out from the edges. Paul wiped his forehead, with the back of his arm, squatted down, and grabbed the bottom of the door with both hands, hoisting upward.

He pushed the door into a vertical swing. It pressed flat up against the ceiling. There was nothing but darkness ahead. Paul crept forward and silence followed. Five long seconds tick by until a light flicked on. More cold, stuttering glow. You good? Paul's voice echoed up the staircase.

Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. I said. and stepped forward, once again being dragged by the magnetic pull of morbid curiosity. Going downstairs on crutches was even more tedious than expected. The whole precarious journey took about three minutes until, finally, I stepped into the basement. A long narrow hallway led to a two-way fork in the path, dirt floors, plywood walls. I've got an engineering slash construction background," said Paul, strolling forward.

Built this place from the ground up. He stopped at the fork in the hallway and looked both ways, thinking. He looked left. He looked right. He looked left again. He shrugged. Gotta be this way. He pushed forward and I followed.

bigger than you'd think." He said, as we rounded the corner. Another narrow hallway led about twenty feet ahead until it reached another two-way fork. Paul kept walking, and I kept following. I put up these walls, tried to build a maze around him. To slow him down, he chuckled, rounding another corner. Then I put up the bunker hatch and... He trailed on off into silence, rounding yet another corner. We entered a ten foot by ten foot room. He stepped into the middle and turned back to face me. This, my friend, is the construction of a former madman. He said playfully, looking around. Holly left me halfway into me building it. He shook his head and spat at the ground.

I don't blame her. He looked directly at me. Look, Ken. He paused. You want all this to go away. You want to stop having these encounters. Work on yourself. I blinked. Are you kidding me?

Half shrugging. He continued. Look, I know how it sounds. But after Holly took the kids and laughed, it really kicked me into gear. kicked me into gear. I stopped drinking. Got help. Professional help. Started taking meds. You know, the right meds. And sure enough, all this went away. No more man in the basement. No more altered reality. Bullshit. I know it's the last thing you want to hear, but this, this thing, it's all in your mind. You don't think it's a little odd?

that my hallucinations match yours?" Paul nodded understandingly. What do you think, said all this off? I shook my head. The note, said Paul. The note, my son, well-meaning though he was, left on your doorstep. I just wanted to leave now. I was tired.

You ever heard of Tulpa? Paul, reaching forward and placing his hand onto my shoulder. I didn't respond. I just stood there, staring at him blankly, leaning forward on my crutches. Talpas. Paul continued. Are these things that don't exist until you believe they exist? The more you believe they exist, the more they do. And the more they exist, the more they screw with you. If I wasn't so tired, I would have laughed. Okay. Look, I'm not saying that's what this is, but it might be what this is. Sure. Mitch, bless him, he still thinks it's all real. Thinks it got to me years back, thinks it's controlling me now, using me to trick others.

into worshipping it or something. He smiled grimly. It's a different story every time. Paul shook his head. All I can say is, it's not real, but the only way to stop it is to figure out what's wrong with your life and fix that. Something moved upstairs, three quick, staggering footsteps. Paul glanced up at the ceiling, then back down to me. Ignore the intruder and follow the rules until you fixed your life or until you stop believing it. Then you take that coat rack out past city limits and you douse it in gasoline and you burn it. Okay? Okay. I said noncommittally. Finally, he pulled his hand off my shoulder. You need help. With anything. I'm always here. You got booze problems, life problems,

anything. He said, his eyes filled with sincerity. This thing, it really messes with your head, makes it hard to know who you can trust, you know. Sometimes it's feels like it's almost jumping, in and out of people around you, controlling them. But it's all in your head. His tone was shifting now, almost sounding excited. Part of me wondered if the intruder was controlling him right now, deriving twisted pleasure out of messing with me. I shook off the thought and another thump upstairs. Paul acted like he didn't hear it. I should go, I said, stepping backward.

Sure, kid, said Paul, again talking to me like I was his son. I turned around and as fast as I could without tripping, I crutched my way out of the basement maze, up the stairs, and out of the front door. I stepped out of Paul's house and took a deep breath of fresh air. It felt like getting rescued from a little. drowning river. I exhaled relief. At this point, I didn't trust Paul or Mitch or even Howie, for that matter. Nothing was stable and everything was getting worse. I hobbled back across the street and my phone buzzed to life in front of my pocket. I stopped in the middle of

the road, pulled out the phone and flicked on the screen. Squinning, I held it. up to my face. Twenty-seven missed calls from Mitch Carver. Of course. Rule 7. The intruder will not move so long as you have guests in the house, guests who actually want to be there. Coat rack. Where are you? said Mitch, sounding like he hadn't slept in days. Home, I said, rifling through a box of tools. My phone. Set to speaker, sat on the garage floor. You didn't see my calls. Yeah, my bad.

Service out here. Look, Brandon. He cleared his throat. I need you to be 100% honest. Did you speak with the neighbor? Yes. A long draining silence followed and then click. Mitch ended the call.

Shaking my head, I went back to searching for tools. Right now, I didn't have the time to worry about Mitch. First, I needed to barricade the basement door. Second, I needed to call every single person in my contact list and offer them the spare bedroom rent free. Digging through the tangled mess of tools, my hand finally gripped around, a familiar, smooth, wooden handle. Out from the box, I pulled a hammer. Bingo. Resting on a single crutch, I stood at the basement door, pounding nail after nail into scraps of two-by-fours and whatever else I could

find. Unlike Paul, I didn't have the resources or the knowledge to build an apocalyptic bunker door. This makeshift zombie defense would have to do for now. Hammering away, faster and faster, I once again fell into a strange calm, a meditative piece that filled every breath with purpose and my hand slipped. The hammer slammed into my pointer finger, and throbbing pain shot up my arm, cursing through my teeth. I clenched my hand tight. The hammer fell to the floor and dented head first into the hardwood. Idiot, idiot, stupid idiot! My thoughts exploded into a tirade of self-abusive screaming. A few seconds went by, and the pain numbed.

My thoughts cleared. I took in three slow breaths and squatted down to pick up the hammer. I froze. Through the bottom crack of the door, the basement light was on. I honestly couldn't remember if I turned it off or not, but the light being on didn't bother me. Not anymore, not after everything I'd seen. What bothered me was the dark shadow standing on the other side of the door, flanked by orange glow. That and the sound of breathing. Barely audible, but unmistakable, labored, strained, and rattling like an empty bottle of spray paint.

Suddenly, the door pushed forward slightly, as if hands pressed against the other side. Breathing deep, I gripped my hand around the hammer and rose to standing. Leaning forward, I turned my head and pressed my ear flat against the door, listening. The intruder was whispering, Stupid idiot. He gasped, quick and stuttering. Stoom. Labored breathing continued all the while, almost as if it were two separate voices.

He was repeating my earlier thoughts aloud, right down to every random intrusion. Dent and the floor lights on, turn them off. The whispering continued. That breathing, house. Dent in the floor, dent. I'd heard enough. I stepped back, shook my hand out, lined up another nail, and hammered away. It's not real, I told myself.

It's all inside of your head. Finally, I slammed the last nail into the last board. I took four steps back and marveled at the ramshackle creation. It wasn't pretty, but it got the job done. My eyes flicked involuntarily to the bottom of the door. The light was off now, and the whispering it stopped. Wiping my forehead, I turned back towards the living room and slumped down onto the couch. I took out my phone and pulled open my contact list.

Time to find a willing guest. Two hours later, dialing number after number, straight to voicemail. after straight to voicemail and not a single bite. Coat rack. Only one person actually answered, a roommate from college. I'd be more than down, he said. But I'm up in Canada now. Of course. Maybe I'd have to put up with an ad on Craigslist. I tucked my phone away, just about ready to give up when I heard three small knocks at the front door. I had a pretty good idea of of who it was. Pushing up from the couch, I grabbed my crutches, marched across the room, and pulled open

the door. Hey, Brandon. There stood Howie, dressed in a red sweater, red jeans, in a green backpack, looking a little less chipper than usual. Hey, Howie, I said, trying my best to act normal, despite the fact a living nightmare stood mere feet away. Howie, despite all his quirks, was a sight for sore eyes. Sure, I didn't trust him, but at least he wasn't Mitch or Paul.

Yeah, so this is kind of awkward, but I'm wondering if I could crash here for a couple of days, he said. I can sleep on the couch, pay rent, whatever. No worries, if not. He shrugged. I looked back over my shoulder. Then back to Howie. Uh, sure.

Immediately, he pushed past me, strolled across the room, threw his backpack on the floor, plopped down onto the living room couch, and kicked up his feet. What's with the door? He said, pointing at the barricaded basement door. Pulling the front door shut, I stepped forward. It's, uh, it's an art project. I lied, replacing the doorframe anyways. Huh? said Howie, clearly not buying it. A carver kid been bothering you still.

No, I lied again. No man in the basement corner yet, said Howie, chuckling. I forced a half-hearted laugh. Ha ha ha ha, nope. That's good, said Howie, turning. back to the TV. Where's the remote? Howie's sudden arrival was suspiciously convenient at best and outright malicious at worst. But right now, I didn't have time to think about that. If the rules held his being here would at least buy me some time to figure out how to stop all this. Maybe I'd sell the house. Maybe I'd defer ownership back to the bank, but judging by the no-thead third party's rule, I doubted either of those would actually work.

So far, the only people who knew about the intruder were Mitch and his father. And according to Mitch, he didn't count his third party because he already believed. But Paul, his father, that part was getting to me. Something was missing. Paul's whole fix your life, fix your problems spiel bothered me. But something else else bothered me more, and I didn't know what it was. Like that feeling you get, when you're about to leave home and you know you've left something important behind, like a nagging itch in the back of your head. I offered Howie the spare room, but he preferred the couch. I didn't fight him on it. I wanted to keep him here as long as possible. I didn't even ask

why he needed to stay. It was kind of nice to not be alone in the house for once. At half-past nine, how we fell asleep watching Jeopardy reruns. I muted the television and what upstairs? Tomorrow I'd plan my next steps, but right now I needed to sleep. I climbed into bed and flicked the lights off. A bump in the night snapped me awake, a heavy thud like somebody hit their fist against a wall.

I climbed out of bed and hopping on one. One leg pulled on a dirty t-shirt and a pair of jeans. I tucked my chrome switchblade into my back pocket. Another thud from downstairs, heavier than the first. What was Howie going to say about this? I grabbed my crutches, carefully moved down the stairs and peered into the living room. The blue glow of muted television cast over the room. Howie was still fast asleep on the couch.

Thump. The basement door shook this time, like somebody slammed their forehead against it. I back stepped away, deeper into the living room. Howie was out like a rock. Heavy sleeper. Thump. Okay. I told myself to breathe.

Remember the rules. Barricading the door will slow him down, but it'll be loud. That's all this was. I'll put in some earplugs and blast white noise and fall asleep. Turning back towards the kitchen, I stepped across the room as quiet as possible. Last thing I wanted was for Howie to wake up and start asking more questions. Thump! This time the hardwood floor shook beneath my feet. I froze. My eyes drifted back to Howie, still asleep. His face motionless, almost serene. I turned back for the kitchen. Either Howie was the world's

heavy as sleeper, or he couldn't hear the sounds at all. Stepping into the kitchen, I... Brandon. A small muffled voice called out from behind the door. I looked back over my shoulder, towards the basement door. Brandon. The voice repeated, slightly deeper now. I turned around and faced it head on.

Brandon. From behind the basement door, the voice strained, sympathetic, and familiar. You okay? The voice repeated my name again and again, each time sounding completely different, like a slot machine shuffling through different tones until it hit the right one. You in there? It was getting familiar now.

You okay? Suddenly, the voice shifted into a perfect mimic of my late father. Gently knocking, the same way father did to my bedroom door after Zach, my best and only childhood friend died. A memory I did my best to ignore. Until now. After Zach died, I biked home, sat on my bed and stared blankly at the vinyl closet doors for six hours straight, eyes tracing every path of the wood grain pattern again and again.

The entire world outside, dissolving into nothing. The starscape painted wall somehow pushing closer and closer. I'm here if you need to talk, kid. My father called out one last time. For a second, I thought that it was the intruder speaking. For a second, I actually believed it was my dad down there, gently knocking. on the basement door. Silence.

Lingering silence stretched on for minutes while I just stood there. Paralyzed, not breathing, eyes locked on the basement door. Finally, my lungs forced me to gasp in air. Oxygen flooded into my brain and awareness came rushing back. On the TV played a silent infomercial about. some vegetable blender thing, and Howie was still fast asleep. I shook out my hands, went back into the kitchen, opened the drawer beside the fridge, and pulled out a pair of orange earplugs. It's not real, I told myself again, trying to take Paul's advice. I slid the drawer shut. It's all inside of your head. But again, the words fell flat, like empty platitudes after

a funeral. I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry for your loss. I turned back across the living room and crutched my way onto the stairs. Time to sleep. Brandon? I was halfway up the stairs when a different voice called out from behind the basement door. A teenager's voice, strange, yet familiar. I looked back over my shirt. shoulder. Brandon, the voice repeated, this time tinged with fear, this time completely familiar. Long forgotten memories came rushing back, memories of Zach. Memories I ignored and shoved away because it was easier to pretend they never happened.

It was easier to do everything in my power to ignore the dread than to face it head on. It was easier to pretend Zach never even existed. Brandon. Help. Zach's voice quivered. Terrified. Something's down here. He whispered.

Brandon. He pulled at the door handle and the door shook. Brandon. He whimpered, the fear in his voice growing each time he spoke. Brandon, open the door, please. door, please. He pulled at the handle again, harder this time. Brandon, please, open the door.

He banged a fist against it. Brandon. I'm sorry. Brandon. His voice trailed off into sobbing whimpers, and he slid down the door. Muffled weeping. An image crawled into my head. The image of Zach.

Gray hoodie pulled over his door. head, curled up into a ball, weeping at the top of the basement stairs. Silence. A shrill scream of terror, primal, almost inhuman, followed by the quick thumping sound of a body dragged over stairs, screaming and pleading all the while. Drug down stairs, down the hallway, into the rec room, kicking and screaming, and begging. Up from the basement, echoing through a vent in the wall next to my ear. I'm sorry. Another voice. Not Zach's voice. Not my father's voice. A voice I didn't recognize.

Panicked. And remorseful. I'm sorry, Zach. Zach, I'm so sorry. I can't. I don't. The sickening sound of bone cracked against concrete, like a tree. branch snapping in the wind. The percussive beat of skull against stone again and again and again. Wimpering shrieks for help, turning more unintelligible with every impact. Even worse, the person killing him was profusely and sincerely apologizing all the while. I'm sorry. Oh God, I'm so sorry, Zach. Sudden silence. Five seconds. Or five minutes. I didn't know.

Only silence. Silence and then sniffling whimpers. Not Zach's voice. Not my father's voice. The voice of who I assumed was the intruder, crying, almost sobbing. Oh, no! It moaned, filled with unimaginable guilt. Oh God.

I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Sorry. It wailed. Then I heard it dropped to its knees and fall to its side and maybe curl up into a ball and trail off into pitiful whimpering sorrow. This went on for several minutes until finally. More silence.

Sniffling. The sound of somebody standing up. The sound of somebody dragging a body against concrete. Deeper and deeper into the basement. Quieter and quieter, as if the wreck room stretched on further than it should, further and farther away until nothing. Dazed in a trance, I wandered up the stairs and into my bedroom. I pulled the door shut, stuck my earplugs in, and crawled into bed.

I shut my eyes, and a realization flooded over me. Coat rack. Finally, I understood the nagging itch in the back of my head, a realization so obvious, I hated myself for not getting it sooner. I burst into laughter, not happy laughter, not funny laughter, insane compulsive laughter. Curling into a ball on my bed, I turned onto my side and stared at the fake cherry wood vinyl closet doors, the doors that reminded me of my childhood bedroom. My eyes traced along the paths of the wood grain patterns and the words of Paul played through my head all the while.

Take that coat rack out past city limits, douse it in gasoline, and burn it. I told Paul a lot of things, but I never told him about the coat rack. Rule 1. He will begin in the farthest corner of your basement. If you see him, do not overreact. He may decide to move on. I woke to the sound of rain, rain tapping against the bedroom window and snaking downward, a pointless race to the bottom, large drops consuming the smaller. I sat up and stared at the shut closet doors. The horrific sounds of last night still echoed in my head. Reaching for my crutches, I stopped short. Water. A puddle on the window cell.

I grabbed a single crutch, pushed up to standing, and hopped over. Water dripped off the window sill and onto the floor. I wiped my hand against it. Cloudy white droplets clung to my fingertips. I ran another hand along the edges of the window seam until I was. it caught a snag. More water. The seal was broken. Yet another expense I didn't have the money for. Wiping my hand off on my shirt, I turned back around when another memory entered my head. The dripping sound in the basement. The puddle of water and clumps of wet dirt in the basement

corner. What exactly was that about? I grabbed my other crutch and went downstairs. Howie's green backpack sat in the middle of the living room floor. Howie? I said. No response. Shrugging, I moved into the kitchen. Maybe he went out for the day. Either way, my curiosity was getting the better of me once again.

The barricaded basement door was inviting me down. One last time. I stood there, thinking about puddles and coat racks. Ruminating. I never specifically mentioned the coat rack to Paul. Sure, there's a chance he could have overheard me talking with Mitch, but that seemed unlikely. Maybe he really was possessed by the man in the basement. Maybe I really am completely insane.

Maybe I'm trapped in a magnus triggered by Mitch's note in a misplaced coat rack. But that seemed crazier than the actual situation. Regardless, I needed to investigate the basement. One last time. I couldn't go through the main door, but thankfully one of the spare rooms down there had a window, a small window stuck in a cramped window well, but a window nonetheless. Hopefully, the few extra quarantine pounds wouldn't prevent me from squeezing through. I brought my trusty switchblade and a pencil-sized high-powered flashlight.

I'd be going in dark because the light switch was on the stairs, and so was the intruder. I wasn't thrilled at the prospect of going back down, but according to the rules, the intruder wouldn't hurt me. At least that was implied. I crouched down into the gravel window well. Moving around with one leg was getting a little easier, but I still needed crutches. Through the window, I slid my crutches and first, and the window. Then my flashlight. Both fell to the carpeted floor inside, a little louder than I'd

have liked. Feet first, I pulled myself through and stepped down into the room. A room no bigger than a walk-in closet, crowded with unopened boxes. Squatting down, I picked up my crutches and flashlight. It's not real. I told myself once again, flicking the flashlights on switch. Nothing. Are you kidding me? I literally changed the batteries five minutes ago. I shook the light. I smacked it with a palm of my hand and it flickered to life.

Thank God. I was starting to feel like a silent hill character, clunky walking controls included. Flashlight between my teeth, I crutched across the room deeper into the basement. My hand gripped around the door knob and I froze. The insanity of me being down here again suddenly hit me. Was this really such a good idea? I glanced back at the open window, inviting sunlight cast into the room. The peaceful sound of rain, patting against gravel.

I turned back for the door. I still don't know why, but something told me the water in the basement corner would answer many questions. Filled with bitter resolve, I clenched to the door. my fist around the doorknob, turned it, and gently pushed open the door with my knee. Okay. It was quiet down here, like the entire world behind me suddenly vanished into non-existence. I stepped into the hallway, turned to the left. The light between my teeth cast into the distant stairwell corner. Empty. Thank God. I turned to my right. The cold

concrete rec room greeted me. Uninviting, as always. Even before all this, the wreck room creeped me out. There was something about hallways that led to rooms with blind alleys on either side. Anything could be hiding there, waiting to jump out at you as you stepped in. The random stacks of cardboard boxes didn't help either. I crutched forward. Shadows on the the wreck room's wall lurched up and down with each forward step. My eyes darted back and forth, searching for any possible movement. I stepped into the rec room and swivel-checked the corners. Nothing. Everything motionless. So still, it almost felt like the room was on pause. A thin layer of dust covered all. I crutched forward again, and my cast-covered leg bumped into a

stack of precarious boxes. A stack of boxes that collapsed into another stack of boxes and then another one. The tumbling crash of random objects slammed into the concrete floor. I tensed up, bracing for the noise to stop, feeling like a fool of a toque. Finally, the domino cacophony stopped. Silence returned. I looked back over my shoulder, casting light into the stairwell corner. Empty. Good. I half expected something terrible to be stood there.

I waited withheld breath, waited for the intruder to stagger down the steps, but nothing happened. Not even the sound of breathing. Not even the smell of burnt hair. Okay. I turned around and crept towards the back corner. I squatted down and studied the corner. the same corner where the water had dripped a few nights back.

I looked up. Pink insulation and pipes. Maybe it really was just a leak. Maybe I came all the way back down here for no good reason. I was about to stand back up when something caught my eye. Dust. Or rather, the lack of dust. A perfectly dustless square in the corner of the concrete wall about three feet by three feet.

I leaned in close and squinned. There was a hair-thin line in the concrete, a crack only visible from the perfect angle. A thin line forming the shape of a square, like someone had cut into the concrete with a laser. Reflexively, I placed my hand against the dustless square and pushed. The panel shifted backward with a satisfying click. Then shifted forward and slid to the side, revealing an entrance. An entrance barely big enough to crawl through. I looked back over my shoulder, shining the flashlight at the door to the wreck room.

Still nothing. I turned around and crouched down farther. The entrance led to a tunnel, a long straight tunnel with dirt walls, dirt floors, and strained beams holding it all together. It went for about twenty feet, then took a hard turn to the right, a hard turn directly towards Paul's house. I barely even registered what I saw when the basement light flicked on. My eyes flinched as they reacted to the sudden light, and I spun around. Eyes opened.

Still nothing. Time to leave. I pushed up to standing and crutched back towards the hallway. The basement light flicked off again. Screw this. I picked up speed, hauled down the hallway, shoulder pushed back into the spare room, slammed the door shut and locked it. Taking a deep breath, I stepped away from the door, spun around, and shoved my crutches

through the open window. I hoisted myself through and scrambled out of the window well. I crawled away from the window and lay with my back on the wet long. On, catching my breath, I stared up at gray skies. Suddenly, my phone buzzed to life in my pocket. I pulled it out. One missed call. Unknown number.

Voice mail. One message. I tapped into voicemail and held it up to my ear. Hey, Brandon. It's Paul. I've... I'd like to set things straight. Call me back when you get a chance.

I haven't been fully transparent with you. No shit. Throughout all this, I kept thinking about my childhood friend Zach. They never found his body. The only thing they found was a green bicycle mangled, twisted, and stained with blood and guts. Hit and run, according to police, likely a semi-truck that didn't even know at first. driver, driving for miles, oblivious to the mess of gore stuck to the front of his truck,

driving all the way to the next breakstop. It's more common than you'd think. The driver probably got spooked, cleaned the gore off his truck, lied to himself, and said it was just a deer or something. And that's that? I never bought it. Back when I still cared, I was convinced something else was at play. something incomprehensibly terrible.

It took me over ten years to finally accept the given explanation. That was the first step. To moving on, I finally stopped thinking about Zach every day. Sometimes I didn't think about him for weeks, even months. Up until the intruders mocking theatrics, I had barely thought about Zach for years, and that was fine by me. to get a good night's sleep. But now, memories of Zach played through my head like half-remembered dreams, like the time he jumped from a second-story bedroom window onto his trampoline,

and his mom screamed at us from the living room. The time we stayed up all night playing Super Mario Bros when my dog died, and Zach came over, didn't say anything, didn't try to make me feel better. He just sat with me. all I needed. I didn't have a real friend before Zach, and I haven't had one since. I agreed to meet with Paul in a public park. My plan was simple. Let him do the talking, hopefully learn something along the way. At this point, it didn't make much sense to confront Paul on anything. I'd only bring up the coat rack if needed. I still didn't even know if Paul was Paul, but that didn't matter right now. Gray skies above. Paul sat on a park bench overlooking

a duck-filled pond. Reddish-orange autumn leaves carpeted over muddy grass. I approached from behind. Paul? He looked back over his shoulder, breathing fog. Let's go for a walk. We trudged down the gravel path, boots crunching against the gravel. You know I struggled with booze, right? said Paul. I nodded. I told you the first time I saw the intruder was in the basement, yeah? Well, that wasn't entirely accurate. I did see him once before that. Way back in 81. Holly and I, not married yet, were camping out in Utah, LaSalle Mountains. He stopped talking and looked around.

as if to make sure nobody else was too close. Satisfied, he looked straight ahead as we moved down the path. So there was this area. He continued, not far from the main campsite. Bunch of caves, not caves like tunnels or whatever you think. More like a pile of giant boulders overgrown with trees and moss and tiny spaces between the boulders. crevices, some of them big enough to crawl through.

Yellow signs up. Don't enter the... Paul suddenly stopped talking. Up ahead on the gravel path, a tall man with a scarf wrapped around his lower face strode toward us. He was heading straight for Paul, his boots crunching against the gravel, faster and faster until he strode right past us,

as if we weren't even there. Paul looked back over his shoulder, waiting for a safe distance before continuing. So we're out by these caves, and I was drinking more than I should have been. And Holly, we're jumping from boulder to boulder, having fun, you know. But some of these rocks must have been over 40 feet tall. So we reached this one crevice, a bit wider than the rest, a sheer drop, about 30 feet down. getting thinner and thinner right up to a slit of darkness below. Holly jumps at first.

No problem? I jump it next and my foot slips. He stopped walking for a moment, thinking back, remembering. Part of me wanted to cut him off, burst into accusations, but another part just wanted to know what happened. He trudged onward. So I tumbled over backward. head first into this crevice. My skull slams against the wall, and I black out. Come to about 20,

maybe 30 seconds later, and I can barely breathe. My body's wedged between the boulders, my chest squeezed down on either side. My neck twisted and viced between the walls. I was stuck, upside down and looking straight into the darkness below. He stopped walking again, and his eyes drifted towards a nearby bench. You mind if I sit? I didn't respond. Paul strolled over and slubbed down onto the bench, staring out over the pond, his cold blue eyes snapping back and forth over the water.

I squatted down on the path in front of him, resting my elbows on my knees. A shimmering breeze crept over the pond and a wet leaf stuck to the back of my head. I pulled it out and tossed it back into the wind. So I'm stuck, said Paul, upside down, head first, wedged between these two giant boulders. Blood rushing, ears ringing out, gasping in little sips of air as my vision blurs in and out. Holly is above, screaming down, asking if I'm okay, but I can't answer. I try speaking, but only muffled whimper's escaped. You ever had a nightmare where you scream for help and your voice falls back down into

your throne. Again, I didn't respond. So Holly, Paul continued, she can see my feet twitching down there so she can see my feet twitching down there, so she knows I'm still alive. And she yells down. She's going to get help, tells me to try and stay awake. This was pre-cell phones, mind you. Though I doubt there been service out there anyway. He sniffed a little and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. So now, he said, I'm stuck out here, completely alone. Sun's still out, but it's getting dark. I'm in the shadows anyway.

I can't really describe the terror of it being stuck like that. Maybe you could imagine it's like being stuck between two giant boulders head first upside down. He looked at me, expecting a laugh. I breathed out my nose. He looked away. So I'm there, doing everything I can to stay calm, keep sane, you know? trying to focus on what little breath I had, making notes of my surroundings, green moss, gray rocks, shadowy crevice. He paused again, then looked directly at me.

And that's when I saw him, or at least the faintest outline of him. My eyes were still adjusting, but down below, about ten feet away, something was there. He went silent, his puberty, His pupils dilated, as if he were back in the dark. I thought it was a giant spider at first. He looked away embarrassed. Stupid, I know. He wiped his nose with the side of his hand. Then I thought it was like rocks, maybe optical illusion, you know?

All I could see was the faint shape of a body and the glint of what might be eyes. So maybe it was nothing. But as my vision adjusted, the whole picture came slowly into view, still dark, still covered in shadow, but unmistakable. A man was down there. His body contorted and twisted, wedged between the rock like a trapdoor spider. Motionless. So damn still. Almost stiller. Then the stone, like a circus contortionist, hid down there, waiting for me. Paul shook his head, like a chill went down his spine. His face filled with absolute nothing.

Cold eyes, dead eyes, like shark eyes. Again, Paul looked straight at me. Maybe it's a body, I thought, trying to make sense of it. Maybe somebody fell down here before me. But then, Paul cleared his throat. His phase was changing, changing so slow. It was almost invisible.

Like the sun moving. You can't see it actually move. But next thing you know, it's over there. His blank phase shifted. to a portrait of pure terror, like he was mirroring my inner emotion. My heart beat faster, thumping against the rock with every pump. My vision fading as all the blood in my body drained downward until I was about to pass out. I welcomed it. But then I heard him speak. Paul grimaced regretfully.

Well, maybe heard's not the right word. He didn't open his mouth. And I didn't really hear anything. But I felt it. Like something getting carved into my spine. This is all me being stuck between these two rocks, barely breathing. This is all everything ever was and ever would be. Everything else, my life with Holly, fishing on a summer weekend, biking down the number

seven. It's all nothing but a thin sheet that can and will be ripped away at any second. Paul shifted his weight. I can't explain why. But that unspoken message was so clear like my entire life had been a dream and I'd just woken up. There wasn't a shred of doubt in my mind, said Paul. Of course, that didn't make me feel any better. He chuckled bitterly. My panic shot into levels I didn't even think possible, the intruder's face changing to match. My vision getting dimmer and dimmer as more and more

blood pushed into my head until finally, I blacked out again. He paused, again looking around as if to make sure nobody else was within earshot. I woke up in an ambulance, hysterical, screaming and wailing about the man tucked between the rocks like a spider. Holly and the paramedics doing everything they could to calm me down, keep me from hurting myself. Finally, they ended up sedating me and I dozed off until the hospital. He wiped his mouth. Concussion, minor cuts and bruises. He chuckled, all that, for that. Doctor told me it's common for concussed people to hallucinate, especially considering the lack of oxygen and me being upside down. Doctor told me about a fellow who almost drowned once, thought he saw the Easter bunny in the water.

I've always been scientifically minded, and that made sense to me. me. Brains play weird tricks. Collucinations made more sense than some circus contortionists sneaking down there just to mess with me. Paul sighed, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. He looked at me, as if that was all he had left to say. I was about to speak when, I'm guessing you found the tunnel, huh?

said Paul, nonchalantly. I didn't respond. I didn't know how. Paul nodded, pushed up from the bench and walked down the path. I followed. Yeah, I meant to tell you about that, said Paul, smiling grimly. So, after I tried shooting the intruder, all those years back, he rubbed the knuckle where his pinky finger used to be. Things got bad. Really bad. The son of a bitch started

taking steps forward every other day, sometimes every single day. Tried a lot of things to slow him down, but the only things that worked, the maze and the bunker door, had some friends from the army helped me with that. He shook his head. I was a medic in the war. Did I ever tell you that? Again, I didn't respond. I was doing everything in my power to stay calm. Of course, Holly and I were already on thin eyes, and then I shot my own finger off. He smirked. Building an apocalypse maze bunker was the cherry on top.

She took the kids and left, which honestly was fine by me. I didn't want my family around the intruder anyways. or around me for that matter. I was still painfully aware of the fact that I might just be completely insane. He stopped walking for a moment, looking around again. He continued. But her leaving. That really kicked me into gear.

I forced myself to stop drinking. I started getting help. Professional help. Started taking meds, the right men's. And sure enough, things actually got better. The bunker door seemed to be keeping the intruder at bay. Sure, he was loud as hell banging on it every night, but I wore earplugs, blasted white noise, and that was good enough. In a weird way, I was almost at peace with his being there.

Paul sighed, breathing out fog as we walked along the path. So anyway, One night, maybe six, seven months after Holly left, I wake up and it's quiet, dead quiet. No banging on the door, no screaming and howling from the basement, just nothing. That silence filled me with a fear worse than anything I'd felt before, getting stuck between those boulders included. It terrified me for a few reasons. First, it's a few reasons. First, it It made me wonder what he was up to. Second, I'd gotten so used to the sound.

I couldn't even sleep without it. In a twisted way, the intruder had given me a purpose, something to reckon with. And now he was gone. Paul looked up at the gray autumn skies, squinting as diffused sunlight cast against his face. So a few weeks of nothing go by. And then, on a Sunday afternoon, Holly calls me up out of nowhere. I guess she heard through the grapevine that I was doing better, getting help, you know. She asked me how I was doing, asked me if I wanted to get coffee, maybe see a movie.

Can you believe that? Just like how we met. She asked me out back in those days. Smiling, Paul shook his head. I said, that'd be nice. Said next Tuesday be all right. Paul went silent as if considering his next words carefully. Then I set the phone down and turned around and there set in the middle of the living room floor, a bottle of cognac, he scoffed, unopened. Paul rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb.

I was sober for over half a year at this point, but I drank the whole thing. He glanced over at me, catching the judgment in my eyes. He looked back down the path. I drank it, because it was there, said Paul. And then I get the brilliant idea to go check on the intruder. You know, just see what he'd been up to. I'd only ever tried to kill him once, and that backfired. Paul chuckled.

But my shit-faced brain got some ideas in it, and I, drunk as hell, staggered downstairs, lurched open the bunker door, and tumbled inside. But there's nothing down there. No stack of boxes, no circus contortionist, nothing. So I stagger farther, down through the main. maze all the way to the back corner, and there it is. A tunnel dug into the basement floor, barely big enough to crawl through. Now, I assumed he was setting to wrap back up around into my house, so I lost my mind. I scrambled back upstairs, planning to come back down with

a nine mill again and try God knows what. Paul started walking faster now. And then I go upstairs. And there he is, standing in the dead center of the living room, right where the bottle of Cognac was, covering his face with his hands, like a kid trying to hide. And that's when I finally noticed it. On his left hand, the fifth finger was cut off short at the first knuckle. Paul held up his own hand. Everything suddenly clicked. He snapped his hand. He snapped his fingers with surprising loudness. I didn't know why, and I still don't know why, but he's connected to me. And in my head, the only way to stop it was to—he trailed off into somber silence. Still, drunk as hell, and not thinking straight. I get into my old pickup truck and

peel off down the hill, up the number seven, and I just drive. I drove. I drove past. past old houses, up through merchant, and I kept going. I knew exactly where I was headed, pedaled to the floor the whole way there, finally feeling like everything made sense, like every single little thing in my entire life was building towards this. You know? I didn't respond. So I keep driving, faster and faster up towards the ballry cliffs, whipping round every corner

like a high-speed chase until I screeched to a stop, nearly slammed my face against the steering wheel. High beams cast over a long stretch of empty road, everything pointing towards the ballry point, lookout. He stopped walking and stared straight ahead, as if he was back in the truck, looking down a long stretch of road. I shifted into gear, slammed my foot into the pedal, and the tires spun out against the pavement a few seconds before they caught, and the truck lurched forward, hauling faster now, straight towards the cliff's edge. City lights below cast and up into the night above. I shut my eyes. Any second now I'd be sailing through the air and again he snapped his fingers. Everything crumbled into a crashing stop. My head snapped forward,

and smothered into a latex airbag, the stench of plastic and booze and gasoline. He paused for a moment, eyes flicking back and forth across the path ahead. Turns out the city installed stopping posts on the cliff edge, said Paul. Front bumper fallen off. I drove all the way back home. It was bright out by the time I got there. The intruder was gone. Paul started walking again.

I latched up the bunker door and didn't go back down for years. The whole time expecting, any day now, he'd come pushing up through the floor, but it never happened. Paul shrugged. Look, I know it's a lot of talking. But all this to say, I can help you pass this off to some somebody else. I shook my head, tired of the games, tired of the workarounds, the same way you pass this

off to me. I mean, it wasn't intentional. But yes. More or less. Look, you don't need to decide right away. How far along is he? Top of the stairs. But still in the basement.

Yes. Do you have a guest? Yes. You barricaded the door. Yes. Good. Take some time to think about it. Even if he gets out of the basement, there are other ways to pass him off.

Also, don't be freaked out if you see him upstairs. Even with the door barricaded. He can do that. But he'll always set back to where he left off. All of this rambling still didn't explain his inexplicable knowledge of the coat rack. I almost brought it up, but stopped short. Maybe Mitch was right. Maybe the intruder really did get to Paul.

Part of me wanted to take up Paul's offer. Part of me wanted to bunker, barricade the basement door and pass off my problems to somebody else. Move away and pretend none of this ever happened. But I didn't. I wish I could say it was out of some bedrock moral principle, but mainly, I refused Paul because I didn't trust him. I doubt Paul even trusted Paul. So far, I was adding pieces to an ever-evolving jigsaw puzzle. The more I learned, the less sense everything made. Part of me wondered if that was the point. If the chaos and confusion were

part of the game. Maybe the intruder thought it was funny. Still, the main question remained. Is there a way to stop the intruder without passing it off to somebody else? My car rattled as it droned down the number seven highway. I was on my way back home from the meeting with Paul and it was already dark out. I needed to get home and sleep. Then a strange feeling came over me. A pressure in my forehead, not quite painful, but incredibly uncomfortable. Not a migraine either. It felt like a thin sheet of something suddenly appeared behind the skin of my forehead, pressing against my skull. I could almost feel my face pulling tighter. I rubbed my forehead with the back of my arm and something big darted out onto the road in front of me. My foot slammed

on the brakes, and my car swerved into a screeching drift. Everything outside blurred into a hazy streak and came to a crashing stop. My car slammed into a roadside barrier post, my head whiplash sideways, and cracked against the window. I blacked out and came back only seconds later. My headlights cast into an open field across the road. In the distance, a brown A long bear scrambled off into the dark. That's what I almost hit. I moved my arms to feel the side of my head. I moved my arm.

I couldn't move. I tried turning my head. Nothing. I tried breathing. Nothing. I tried moving my eyes. With great effort, I glanced to the left, then to the right. I know you're here.

A strange but familiar voice. echoed in the car, you son of a bitch. Concussion, I told myself, I hit my head, and these are just the symptoms. I couldn't smell anything either, or hear anything other than the voice. I forced my eyes down to the steering wheel. It wasn't my steering wheel, and those weren't my hands gripped around it. This wasn't my body. I was trapped behind somebody else's eyes. A silent passenger, like that Malkovich movie. It felt like I was flattened out and pressed between forehead and skull, my senses fading in all the while. Sound first, the sound of torrential rain beating down against the windshield, howling wind

as it gusted through the midnight fields. Then the sound of breathing. Not my own breathing. the breathing of whoever I was trapped inside. Smell faded in next. Whiskey and vanilla flavored smoke. One of the hands reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror. Cold blue eyes stared back at me. It was Paul. He looked younger, early 40s maybe. Welcome back, he said, slurring his words, staring at himself through. through dilated pupils. He was talking directly to me. Paul coughed and rubbed his forehead

with the back of his thumb. Pressure squeezed against me like a crushing vice. He smashed his forehead with the palm of his hand and a jolt of pain shot through me. He hit himself again and again and again. Each impact more painful than the last, until finally, he stopped. Paul readjusted the mirror, shifted back into drive and pulled onto the road. Frantic window wiper struggled to keep the rain at bay. I could feel everything now, the rumble of the highway, the taste of booze and tobacco, even blood. I was paralyzed.

With what little control I had, I forced Paul's vision downward. He tapped the brakes and swerved. into the opposite lane, then swerved back. Don't. Don't do that. He mumbled. And then another voice entered. Just keep driving.

You're almost done. It was Paul's voice again, but different, not slurred. Keep driving. You're almost there. I was hearing his thoughts. Maybe hearing wasn't the right word. I was feeling them, as if the thoughts were my own. But they stuttered in and out like a bad radio signal. Up ahead on the side of the road, something bright green.

I forced his eyes to look, and he swerved. The car slipped into a tailspin and side-swiped into something. Two sickening thumps, and the car slammed bumper first into a roadside barrier post. Paul's head snapped forward, into the steering wheel, and darkness. I was trapped behind somebody else's eyes now. I could feel their thoughts, but this was no ordinary thought stream. It was a dripping fractal of swarming thought streams all battling for control. Random memories jumped out from a subconscious mess like fish climbing a waterfall.

Coat rack. One step. Idiot. Stupid. Idiot. This was a soul forever damned to an eternity of paralyzed chaos and suffering. This was the intruder. I knew it. I could feel their feet now, pressed against scratchy carpet. They took one step forward, then another and another. Seven quick steps down. toward until they tumbled into the wall. Silence. Then as if puppeteered from above, they slid up the wall and rose to standing and I snapped into another person, walking down my neighborhood street. We'd sell them to the neighbors, said a familiar voice. Pine cones, five cents apiece. It was Mitch. He looked to his side and there, about six feet over. Away, I stood.

Mitch shook his head and a chill went down his spine. I suddenly stood in front of my own front door, looking up at myself. I've seen enough of those for a while. Howie's voice echoed as he rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb. Darkness. I couldn't even think straight. Paul's voice echoed. Leaving, coat rack, charm, coat rack, filament, the intruder's voice echoed.

Daylight. I stood outside the roadside diner, trapped behind Paul's eyes as he climbed onto a red Kawasaki motorcycle and looked back towards the diner. Through the window, I stared at me. Darkness. Now I shuffled through random memory. Upside down, barely breathing, stuck between two boulders. In the darkness below me, the faintest shape of a person, impossibly tucked between the rocks like a coiled-up viper, the glint of dead eyes. Darkness. A backyard shed cluttered with junk, hands frantically wrapped wire around the shattered remnants of a coat rack.

Darkness. Crawling through a tunnel, a dirt ceiling scraped against my back. Darkness. I'm sorry. Oh God. Paul's voice. I stepped out of a truck. Headlights cut through the night and freezing rain showered down.

Red and guts mixed with water on the pavement, and a bloody streak led up the road to a body. to a body, fifty feet away, crawling. Darkness. The rhythmic thud of a hammer clanging against nails. I stood at the bottom of the basement steps, staring at a closed door, paralyzed. Darkness. A hospital bed in a bedroom. Military medical equipment scattered everywhere. Darkness. A blaring truck horn. I finally snapped back to the present. Inches from the front of my car, a semi-truck sped by. I was parked on the highway shoulder at a 90-degree angle. The sun was rising. I was back

in the present, or at least that's what I assumed. I looked at my hands, my hands. I clenched them shut and opened them. I rubbed my forehead with the back of my thumb. pulled onto the highway and drove. I had no idea what the hell just happened. You can leave the house, but never sleep anywhere else. As I drove down the highway, theories buzzed through my head like a swarm of locust. Did Paul kill Zach in a drunk driving accident? Did Paul wire up the shattered coat rack crawl through the tunnel and set it back in my house? Was Paul a servant of the intruder? Was I becoming a servant of the intruder?

After my vision, at least a few things made more sense. Not only was the intruder connected to its victims, the intruder's victims were connected to each other. Maybe it was some kind of hive mind. Maybe it was turning people into intruders themselves. At this point, it seemed like anything was possible. And the way Paul's eyes moved outside the diner all those days ago, like somebody had jumped into his head, taking a quick look around, then jumped back out again. Now I knew that it was me.

I'm the one who jumped into Paul's head. The nightmare logic or everything made me nauseous like a carnival ride with no exits, a paradox web of chaos and madness, with answers always hiding one step out of reach. Above all was another question. Exactly who was the supposed old friend in Paul's house, the person he owed a favor, the person he was taking care of. Was it my childhood friend? Zach. During my sporadic visions, I saw a green bike through Paul's eyes. The exact same

bike my friend Zach was riding when he supposedly died. Did Paul hit him all those years ago? Did he find Zach barely alive on the side of the road and bring him back home? Was he keeping him alive to this day with his medical equipment and military training? Did the timelines even match up. It was possible, but crazy even to consider. What are the chances? Paul happening to live across the street for me all these years ago. Was the intruder orchestrating everything from the start? Perhaps this entity had been involved in my life far longer than the last few weeks. Now that I thought about it, there was a vague familiarity about everything, almost like deja vu, like that feeling one gets, around death. You'll know it if you've

ever survived a bad car accident or face something potentially terminal. You see part of the abyss. You finally realize, maybe for the first time, that at some point you won't exist anymore. You barely existed to begin with. In the words of the first time, that at some point you won't exist anymore, you barely existed to begin with. In the words of Max Schumacher from Network, death becomes a perceptible thing with definable features. Before all this, I never really feared death. There were times I welcomed it. That's easy to say when it's sitting off in the distance caged behind bars, but when the end of everything is standing just ten feet away, looking you in the eyes. My phone started buzzing in a cup holder, slowly spinning around as the screen lit up.

I pulled into the parking lot of a nearby gas station, Busters Better Gas. I parked the car, grabbed my phone, and called the miss number back. Bradley? said the voice on the other end. Brandon. Oh, Brandon. Do it was Howie, of course. What's up? I said. Not much. Just checking to see if you're okay. Haven't seen you in a while. Yeah, I'm fine.

Just been running some errands. Oh, you weren't here last night. No. Huh? What? Well, somebody tore down your art thing. Art thing? I'd already forgotten about my excuse for the barricaded door.

the basement door, he said. Whole thing's gone. Frame two. Oh, I said, trying to sound calm. Yeah, I, uh, paid some guys to take it out. I lied. In the middle of the night. Yeah, I guess so if that's when they showed up.

I went to bed and the door was there and I woke up and the door was gone. I guess they were quite. I guess they were quiet, I said, the lie growing more absurd by the second. Yeah, I'm a light sleeper, too. He chuckled. Anyways, Howie continued. I'm just calling to ask if it's cool I crash a few more weeks. I'll pay your rent once I get the money.

Yeah, Howie, don't worry about him, I said. That's it? Yeah, see you, Brandon. Thanks again. It really means a lot, man." I hung up. Fantastic. Now the basement door was gone.

In all the confusion, I still hadn't realized my violation over Rule 8. You can leave the house, but never sleep anywhere else. My thoughts drifted back to Mitch. He knew a lot more than he was letting on. I still didn't trust him, but I trusted him more than Paul. bar, I know. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. Five tones rang out, straight to voicemail. Mailbox full. I called again. Same thing. I called again. Three tones rang out, then silence. He cut the call short. Mitch was ignoring me. I tucked my phone away and stepped out into the

parking lot. Inside the gas station, I bought a cheap burner phone and a pack of smokes. Sure, I quit a few months back, but I needed something to calm my nerves. Besides, I'd quit again after this pack. Stop judging me. Back in my car, I lit up a dart and called Mitch on the burner phone. He wouldn't recognize the number this way. I hated being stalker-ish, but my life literally depended on it. Three tones rang out, and Mitch answered, Hello? Mitch, don't hang up. Silence.

And then, what do you want? I'm sorry, I spoke with you. I stopped myself from saying, Dad, with the neighbor. I just, what do you want? Said Mitch, losing patience. I just need to talk one more time. In person. I don't know.

He sighed. I've already said too much. Just keep following the rules. Ignore everything else. Mitch. Please. I'm literally losing my mind here. Just one more talk.

What do you tell the neighbor? Barely anything. I just said. Mitch interrupted. You know what? Never mind. Mitch gave me his address. on Baker Street and told me to ring when I get there. Then he ended the call.

Mitch lived about 40 minutes away in a small town off the interstate. One of those towns were main streets nothing but a graveyard of pre-Walmart family shops. Survival of the cheapest. I pulled up to an old and gray concrete apartment building that looked straight out of Soviet Russia. This was the place. Lugging my crutches out of the back seat, I climbed out of the car and shut the door. Thanks to crashing into the roadside barrier, a heavy indent was scraped into the side of my car. Great. I double-checked my pockets. Phone, check. Switchblade, check. I brought my chrome switchblade everywhere now, just in case. It was already dark out. The days were getting shorter. The air was cold, and my breath was foggy. I crutched up to the building and

rung in Mitch's room number, rubbing my freezing hands together. I waited. The door buzzed open. Mitch's place looked early 70s to me. Open design, cut down the middle, half kitchen, half living room. Between them, a bar with rickety stools. Mitch looked a little better than the last time I saw him. Still tired, though. Hey, Mitch, I said, forcing a smile. Silent, Mitch stood about six feet away. He half smiled, strode back into the kitchen and started scrubbing dishes in the sink. I took off my coat and pulled the door shut behind me. Mitch scraped Grime off a cast-iron frying pan, his back turned to me.

I walked up to the edge of the kitchen and looked around. His place was tidy, like a hotel room. What the neighbor tell you? said Mitch, referring to his father. A lot. You believe him? I don't know. Mitch sighed, tossed the dishes down and turned off the sink.

Shaking water off his hands, he turned around and leaned back against the countertop. So what do you want from me? He said, wiping his hands onto his shirt. I have some questions, I said. Some was an understatement. Okay. Shoot. Um, I didn't know where to start.

Last night, I almost ran into a bear, swerved, hit my head on the window, almost blacked out, and then you snapped into other people's minds, saw things from the past, maybe even the future, said Mitch, crossing his arms. I looked at him, surprised. Yeah, I mean more than that, but Mitch shook his head as if to say I expected as much. What does it mean? I said. Look, what you're doing right now, you being here. This whole rabbit hole of finding the truth, it's not healthy. The more obsessed you get, the more crazy you become, the crazier you.

are, the easier it is to control you. Control me." Mitch ignored the question. Stop expecting some priest or medium to come in and explain what's going on. Nobody's going to show up and tell you how this thing spawned from an ancient curse or some other bullshit, and the only way to kill it is to sacrifice a dog or pray to Jesus, he said mockingly. That's not what this is.

You can't reason with something that doesn't think. The only thing you can do is keep following the rules and put off more time between now and he trailed into morbid silence. If you think this is going to end, all tied up with a neat little bow, you're going to end up severely traumatized. As if I wasn't already. Mitch looked up at the ceiling, considering his next words carefully. There's a good reason I've been so vague about everything.

The more involved you are, the more you know, the more you share, the more you search for answers, the more it slithers into your life, into your thoughts, your dreams, everything. Mitch rubbed his jaw. I barely escaped it myself, he said, looking across the room, staring at the door behind me. I glanced back over my shoulder. There was a floor-length mirror on the door, partially obscured by my coat. After it took my dad, Mitch continued, I almost got pulled in. I started researching, investigating. That's when the vision started, like what happened with you in the car. The intruder feeds you these little snippets of random moments. All of them feel like they might be

connected like they should have a reason and maybe they do but just because something has a reason doesn't mean it's a good one what's gonna happen to me I said it's already happening said Mitch you're becoming a servant of the Tulpa or whatever it is the worst part is you'll still feel and control but you won't be soon enough You'll start breaking into people's houses at night, leaving coat racks in the basements. Just like my dad, maybe you've already done it and you forgot. Then you'll be telling people to not worry about it, telling them to work on themselves,

telling them there's no such thing as ghosts. How do you know all this? I don't. It's all theory. At the end of the day, who the hell knows anything of the same? about anything. Who knows what Tulpa wants? Maybe it feeds off the chaos. Maybe it's working towards something bigger. I don't know. I don't want to. How did Paul really die? Mitch grit his teeth. Then he just stared at me, shaking his head, eyes filled with

go to hell you really want to know. When I was a kid, he said. After my Mom took us and moved out. A few years went by, and Dad started getting his life together. Stop drinking, stopped leaving creepy notes in people's shoes, got on some good men's, etc. So Mom, after some gentle pushing from my sister, calls him up, asks him out for coffee. Mitch went silent, eyes flicking back and forth across the wall behind me. That same night. After the phone call, Dad gets shit-faced, drives up to the Bally Cliffs.

Same lookout he and Mom used to go stargazing at. Mitch grimaced. So he drives full speed towards the cliff's edge and slams bumper first into a barrier post. He shook his head. Believe it or not, he wasn't the first person to drive a car off the Baurie Cliffs. He put up the post a few months prior. Mitch pressed his tongue into the side of his cheek, thinking. So, anyways, Dad still drunk as hell, passed out face in the airbag.

Mitch pushed off from the counter, stepped over to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Gas leak catches fire. Dad burns alive. Mitch tapped his knuckles against the table a few times. Police said he was out cold, didn't feel a thing. But I knew enough to know that wasn't true. Saw a photo of the corpse on accident. Mouth wide open.

Mitch opened his own mouth to show. I'm no expert, but people don't generally scream when they're asleep. Mitch slapped the table and ran his hand back and forth a couple times. So we make arrangements to sell Dad's house. It's the weekend. We're moving stuff out and then he paused, looking directly at me. There comes Dad, riding a brand new motorcycle. He's all confused too, what we're doing with his stuff, you know?

Mitch breathed out his nose, said he was on a trip out of county. Course Mom loses her mind. Hell, we all lose our minds. Dad's back from the grave and all. Mitch looked away. His eyes watering slightly now. He stamped his foot against the laminate flooring. The coroner's report. The police. It's like none of it even happened. Mom was hysterical, screaming the police. police stations saying they were trying to gaslight us. They weren't. Documents never existed, at least not anymore. State almost took us away from her for insanity, so she stopped talking about it. We all did. Telling people you believe in ghosts lands you in an awkward conversation. Telling people your dad is back from the dead lands you in a psych ward. He scoffed.

The thing that really messed with me, aside from the obvious, was his hands. Mitch held up his hands and spread his fingers. Ten fingers, including the one he shot off in the basement. Mitch looked at me again. This thing bent reality over us, like a wire. Like it bumped us into a parallel world or something. Mitch looked away again, staring at the kitchen cupboard, as he spoke. Dad, or whatever replaced him, kept trying to reconnect with us, but we wouldn't

have it. Moved cross-country, cut off all ties. Mitch sighed. Things got a little better after that. Distance helped, especially back then. He trailed off into silence. What made you come back? I don't know. Guilt, maybe. Morbid curiosity. Why the notes? I started asking around his neighborhood, low profile, if people had seen anything, heard anything, you know, about my dad. Everyone there was so damn weird and similar.

Weird ticks like Mitch rubbed his forehead with the back of his thumb to show people unable to remember basic words. eyes lighting up randomly and looking around as if somebody else was in there. Same stuff I noticed with my dad, like the thing from his basement, was spreading, taking over the whole neighborhood like a virus, he said, shifting his weight slightly. How'd you figure out the rules? I didn't. I mean, not fully.

Those were just things that seemed to slow it down. least in my dad's case. Before we left him, I found it all scribbled up on a napkin. Dad, for all his flaws, he's really smart, logical. He would have tested things out, experimented, figured out exactly what that entity reacts to, doesn't react to, etc. So all of this, the more you know, the more he controls you, maybe. It's only a theory. And I'm basically screwed no matter what I do. Mitch stepped up from the table, strode over to the kitchen sink, and stared out at a brick wall view.

He sighed. Look, Brandon, I should have been more honest with you before, but you want to know the truth, right? Yes. This has been over and done with from the start. I didn't respond. Ever since you snapped the coat rack in half, he continued, it was game over. I blinked. He looked back at me over his shoulder.

I didn't tell you that because I didn't want you to panic. The more calm you are, the more sane you are, the longer it takes for this thing to get a hold of you. Get a hold of me. becoming part of it now, just like my dad, just like the neighbors. And there's nothing I can do to stop it." Mitch shook his head and looked back out the window. You should leave, he said.

Posture slumped as he set his hands onto the countertop. But I still don't leave. He snapped. His voice booming with surprising loudness. I shook my head, crutched back for the door, pulled on my coat, and wrapped my hand around the doorknob. Thanks for the help, I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I turned the knob.

It was locked. Weird. I unlocked it and tried again. Still locked. Uh, Mitch? I said, looking at him in the mirror on the door. Mitch, back turned, now stood in the center of the kitchen with pin straight posture, hands covering his face, like somebody playing peek-a-boo.

Mitch? I said, looking back over my shoulder. Suddenly, the room shifted darker, but the lights didn't go out. Like a camera-shifting aperture, everything dimmed into a slow-motion nightmare. Mitch's left hand shot straight up into the air as if being pulled from above. Then his right hand, both hands straight up in the air, standing on his tiptoes like a cursed dancer. I watched in wide-eyed horror, paralyzed.

Suddenly his arms dropped to his sides like an invisible straitjacket wrapped around him. He stood there. motionless. Then he burst into coughing, hunched over and staggered towards the sink, rubbing his forehead as he went. You okay? I said, taking a few careful steps forward. He threw a hand up, motioning me to stay back. I did. But his desperate wheezing and coughs only grew worse, like he was choking. He thumped his chest until finally something flew out of his mouth. mouth and plopped into the dirty sink water.

I'm okay, he gasped. I'm okay. I glanced back towards the door. Mitch, back still turned to me, plunged a hand into the soapy water, fishing around for whatever came out of his throat. He froze and his eyebrows raised. Slowly, he lifted something out of the water. It was an object about the size of his throat.

of a chapstick, but I couldn't tell what it was from this distance. What the hell? Mitch whispered. His hand suddenly swung to his sides again. The object flew to the floor, slid across the kitchen, and slowed to a stop in front of me. It was a dismembered finger. What the hell was right? Mitch staggered back from the sink, seven quick steps. He straightened up into pin-straight posture again, tried to speak, but only gargled whimpers escaped, like he was being suffocated. I stepped backwards to the door, eyes darting around the room for another escape. There was no balcony, but I was too many floors up for that anyways.

What the hell? Mitch screamed. What the? His voice cut off into a choking mess. Suddenly, his throat swelled up, like something was pushing on it from the inside out. His head snapped back, forcing him to look straight up at the ceiling, and then something pushed out from his mouth. Several somethings, long and wriggling, like worms. Fingers. Long fingers with extra joints slid out from his mouth and wrapped around his face. Gaunt hands, unnaturally large, squeezed together as they wriggled their way out of his mouth. Pig-colored skin, like a face hugger. The same hands I saw wrapped around the coat rack all those nights ago, pulling his mouth wider and wider, until it started ripping at the corners of the lips. Enough was enough. I spun around and

shouldered into the door, using all my weight to crash into it again and again, all the while witnessing the horrific sight behind me reflected on the door mirror. Hidden by shadows, something tall and fetus-like, was climbing out of Mitch's body, naked and dripping with guts, pushing what was left of Mitch's skin down like somebody climbing out of an undersized wetsuit. Finally, The door broke open. I stumbled into the hallway and slammed into the opposite wall. One of the crutches fell back into Mitch's apartment. Goodbye crutch.

I single crutch the hell out of there. But the hallway was different now, stretching on for eternity in both directions, growing darker and darker. I didn't have time to think about it. I just kept pushing forward, hobbling down the increasingly narrow passage. Behind me, the sound of staggering footsteps getting closer all the while. That's when I realized, the hallways increased length was partially an illusion, a forced perspective miniature gradually getting smaller and smaller as it went. I kept pushing forward.

The ever-lower ceiling scraped against my head, forcing me into crouching, forcing me onto my hands and knees, Crawling through this miniature apartment hallway as the walls and whatever was chasing me inched closer, the smell of burnt hair and gasoline, growing stronger all the while. Darkness. The air changed from dry air-conditioned cool to humid and dark. I didn't care. I just kept crawling, shuffling forward bit by bit.

back scraping against the dirt ceiling as I went. Light suddenly appeared, less than twenty feet away. A room. Exhausted. I crawled faster, the sound of my own breath bouncing off the walls around me. Finally, I broke into the room, spun around and looked back into the tunnel. Empty. As far as I could see, whatever had been chasing me, was gone.

For now. Crutchless, I pulled myself to a nearby wall, slumped against it, and caught my breath. Eyes locked on the dark tunnel all the while. Just in case. After a few minutes of catching my breath and calming myself down, I looked around. Dirt floors, plywood walls. This impossibly shifting tunnel had led me into the back corner of a basement. Not just any basement.

Paul's basement. None of these rules are set in stone. The intruder seems to involve and react, depending on your actions. How I ended up in Paul's basement. Didn't matter right now. All that mattered was how to get out. Easier said than done, especially considering I lost both crutches in the chaos. At least the light was on.

For now. Now, let's pray to God the bunker door wasn't locked. Leaning against the concrete wall for support, I shimmied up onto one foot. Hobbling forward, I maneuvered my way through the maze, one painful step at a time. Teadious didn't even begin to describe it. Nearly three hours went by until I finally found footprints, the same footprints from when Paul and I were down here a few days back. Something to follow. Thank God. Encouraged. I shuffled my way forward bit by bit when

a thumping sound. From deep within the maze. A fist thumping against plywood. My heart beat quickened. I picked up pace, rounded another corner. More thumping. Quicker now. Closer too. I hobbled faster. My limp-cast leg dragged. lagging uselessly behind me. More thumping. Two quick thumps each time now, like a heartbeat. The rhythm matched the pace of my own heart, getting quicker and quicker as the sound moved ever closer. I rounded another corner, and finally, the exit was in sight. Somehow, the bunker door was open, inexplicably open. Another suspiciously convenient blessing. With renewed vigor, I pushed forward.

The thumping echoed in the hallway just behind me now. The light snapped off, pitch dark, only the faint glow of moonlight cast against the basement steps up ahead. Pulling closer, one painful lurch at a time. Finally close enough, I pushed off the wall and staggered through the open door, falling chin first into the stairs. The thumping sound right on my heels now. I pushed up, slammed the bunker door shut, and latched the lever down.

Close call. I stood motionless at the door, listening for minutes. Nothing. Dead silence. I looked back over my shoulder. The door at the top of the basement steps was open too, wide open. Blue-ish moonlight revealed the foyer above. Why were all the doors left open?

I turned and used the railing to pull myself upward. Another painful and tedious slog, trying my best to be as quiet as possible. The last thing I wanted was for Paul to wake up and find me crawling out of his basement with no good excuse. After ten minutes of painstaking effort, I finally finally reached the main floor. The familiar smell of vanilla-flavored cigarillos hung in the air. On my hands and knees, I crawled toward the front door, going even slower than before, so as not to make a sound. When I finally reached the door, I grabbed a sturdy umbrella from

a bucket in the corner and used it to push up to standing, a makeshift cane, no match for a crutch, But it beat crawling. I reached for the door knob and froze. A pressure suddenly pushed into my forehead, like a migraine without the pain. I rubbed my brow with the back of my thumb, stopped, lowered my hand. That was the weird tick. The thing Howie did. The thing Paul did.

The thing Mitch did. When did I start doing it? Why did I start doing it? I shook it off and reached for the door, but again stopped short. Another recurring question bubbled up from my subconscious. Who is Paul's so-called old friend? The person in the room down the hallway he was supposedly taken care of. I peered back over my shoulder, trying to push the curiosity away, trying to just reach

for the door and leave. But I couldn't. That strange, familiar. almost magnetic pull of needing to know the answers grew stronger with each passing second. I glanced around the foyer. Where did Paul sleep? Save for the basement. It wasn't a big house. There were only three doors in that hallway and one of them was probably a bathroom. I turned fully around, stepped forward into the foyer and lurched to another stop. It's not safe here. My survival screaming so profoundly I could almost hear it.

Go home. Finally listening, to my smarter self, I turned back for the door. Go home and sleep. I turned the knob and another question jumped into my head. What if Zach's in the room? There's no possible way. Did the timelines even match up? How old would he be now?

How would the police not have known? But if it was Zach, maybe I could get a photo, take it to the law. My feet were bringing me back down the hallway before my head even made up its mind. Thank God the floors were carpeted or I'd have woken up the whole neighborhood. I reached the door to the mysterious room and froze. I took three deep intentional breaths in and out, then reached for the handle. I tried again, still locked. Not sure what I expected. I looked around. The house was quiet, motionless, almost like everything was on pause, frozen in time to an unnatural degree,

a stillness that reminded me of the first night I found the coat rack, the same unsettling quiet in the air. Another weird thing I didn't have time to think about right now. I pulled the switchblade out from my back pocket and shimmied it into the door frame. I've got a lot of experience with discreetly unlocking doors. Don't ask. I tilted the knife upwards, pushed forward over the latch, and the foyer light flicked on. My view snapped down the hallway, footsteps coming from the living room. I staggered backward out of the hallway into the kitchen.

Hello. Paul's voice echoed. How did he get out here? Was he asleep on the couch? I ducked down beneath a bar separating the kitchen from the living room. This was not a good situation no matter how you spun it. Part of me wanted to come out of hiding and explain myself, but at this point it was probable that Paul was being influenced by the intruder. Either way, I still needed to know who was in that room. Hello? Paul's voice echoed down the hallway this time. I huddled farther into the shadowy corner, listening, waiting.

Paul strode back into the living room, flicked another light on. A long moment of draining silence followed. He was listening to. He was waiting. A long in silence standoff crawled by, five minutes at least. Then Paul cleared his throat. and moved towards the kitchen. His footsteps getting closer and closer until the floor beneath me jostled slightly. Paul was standing on the opposite side of the bar now. If he leaned forward

and peeked down, that was it. I held my breath, knife still in hand. Shit, I should have tucked it away earlier. Now I really looked crazy. Too late now. Paul was close enough to hear even the slightest movement. Another impossibly long silence dragged by, seconds like minutes, minutes like hours, holding my breath all the while, growing tenser and tenser until the switch-blade flicked open. My tense grip must have bumped the switch. Idiot. The floor creaked as Paul stepped back from the counter. My head raced a thousand thoughts a second. Paul huffed and stepped forward again. Suddenly, the tips of his fingers slipped into view, gripping over the edge of the countertop above me. The bar top bent and strained as he leaned forward, pressing his way down

against it, inching closer and closer to peering underneath the counter and seeing me, crazy-eyed, sleep-deprived, armed with a switchblade, and there was a buzzing noise. Somewhere in the house, a phone, my savior, vibrated against a wooden surface. Paul huffed again, his hand slipped out of view, and he strode back into the living room, away from the kitchen. Finally, I inhaled a breath of overwhelming relief, a relief that quickly faded, when I realized my situation hadn't changed. He'd come back soon enough, and I needed to be somewhere else when he did."

"'Mitch?' said Paul. His voice filled with bewilderment. "'No, no, no, no. It's okay. It's okay,' he said, speaking softly. Comforting. Silence. Paul was listening to Mitch now, or whatever it was claiming to be Mitch on the other end. At this point, it seemed like anything was possible. You're sure it was him, said Paul. Listening. When? More listening. Hmm. A short pause. Did you call the please? Another pause. No, no. I understand. That makes sense. Yeah. Okay. Mitch, not right now. But at some point. point we should at least get some authorities involved, okay? He's clearly not well. Yeah.

Yeah, okay, I'll meet you there. He strode back into the living room and pulled the jacket on. What the hell was going on here? Were they talking about me? Why was Mitch suddenly talking to his supposedly estranged father? Was that even Mitch? There's no way it was. It had to be the intruder, messing with Paul, but was that even Paul? My head was exploding with an influx of questions. If the intruder's goal was to make me go insane with confusion and paranoia, then mission accomplished. Congratulations. Paul strode down the hallway again. He was coming back towards the kitchen. Shit, shit, shit. He stopped in front of the kitchen entrance, standing in the hallway, His back was mostly turned to me. All he needed to do was looked slightly to his right, and the jig

was up. Ten long seconds dragged by until finally. He turned towards the mysterious guest room, went for the handle, and it was locked. Shaking his head, he reached up on top of the doorframe, slid his hand across, pulled down a key, and unlocked the door. He cracked it open and peaked it open and He peered into the dark room. Mitch called, said Paul. Something happened at his place, going to see if he's all right. Back in a few hours, give or take. He pulled the door mostly closed and froze.

He pushed it open again. Open or closed. No audible response. Paul locked the door from the inside, pulled it shut and tuck the key back on the top of doorframe. He marched back towards the foyer, flicking off all the lights as he went. Suddenly, he froze. Another long silence drug by and then the foyer light flicked on again. What was he doing? The answer hit me like a bag of bricks to the face. The door. I forgot to close the door at the top of the basement stairs. In my defense, it was open when I got here, but I doubted it.

that was Paul's doing. I could hear him creep across the foyer and stop. Now I assumed he was at the top of the basement steps, standing in front of an open door he rarely, if ever, left open. He pulled the door shut, locked it, and wandered back into the foyer. Then he started pacing back and forth, pacing circles. Shit, shit, he muttered. Clearly in the middle of the of a panic attack or something even worse. This continued for three long minutes until finally he stormed out the front door and slammed it shut behind him. Outside, a bike engine turned on, peeled out of the driveway and sped away. Finally, my eyes drifted back towards the guest room door, curiosity burning stronger than ever. But I decided to wait three minutes longer,

Just in case Paul forgot something and came back. Three minutes went by. I crept out into the hallway. Using the umbrella as a cane, I hobbled to the door, reached on top of the frame, slid my hand across, and got the key. I unlocked the door and stopped, hand on the knob, breathing deep. What if it was Zach on the other side? What if it really was just an old friend of Paul's? What would I do with the knowledge?

Was my obsession for answers really pulling me deeper into the intruder's web? I turned my head sideways and placed my ear against the door. The slow and muffled of what sounded like a heart monitor. I leaned back, took a deep breath, turned the knob, and pushed open the door. Gut-wrenching stench hit me like a wall, like rotting food and burnt hair. A smell so strong I could taste it. Turning away, I clenched my eyes shut and buried my nose into my inner elbow. I held there until the stench subsided somewhat.

I turned back towards the room. Most of the room was hidden in shadows, cluttered with military grade, medical equipment, heart monitors, IV bags, even a table laden with surgical tools. Near the window was a slightly inclined hospital bed and on a bed lay a man, or at least that's what I assumed. He was wrapped in medical bandages, medical tube stuck out of his arms, his wrist, even his legs. Bandages covered most of his face, save for his lower jaw.

and a small slit for the eyes. I crept forward. The slow rhythmic beep of the heart monitor remained steady. Whoever it was, they weren't aware of my presence. Yet. But I didn't care either way. I just needed to know. I reached the side of the bed and stopped.

His eyes were clenched shut as if pretending to sleep. His exposed jaw scar. and mangled. Parts of his lips were peeled back, exposing teeth below. Like a severe burn victim. If this was Zach, I couldn't tell. He would have been so much older now anyways. But whoever it was, they looked fit for an intensive care unit, not a guest bedroom. Was Paul keeping them here as a guest to ward off the intruder. I couldn't imagine anyone in their right mind agreeing to this willingly. I was about to turn back when my eyes caught something. His wrist was handcuffed to the bed and out the hallway. The front door clicked open and a light flicked on. Paul was back. I cast my

view around the room, desperately searching for a place to hide when the man on the bed was bed's eyes snapped open. Cold blue eyes, strikingly similar to Paul's. He was looking straight at me, wide and fearful. The thudding footsteps were getting closer. Without thinking, I clambered beneath the bed and pulled my cast leg in behind me, cramped between tangled wires and green metal crates. The footsteps stopped in the doorway. The bedroom light flicked up. on. How did you open this? Paul's voice reverberated into the room.

No response. What's wrong? Said Paul. Again, no audible response. Paul huffed, flick the light off, and pulled the door shut, leaving me alone with the burn victim. The burn victim, I'm pretty sure, was Paul, or at least some version of him. I recommend measuring the distance from him to the farthest corner of your home.

Calculate how long it will take for him to reach you, set up your bedroom as far away as possible. Once established, do not move your bed. You must sleep there from now on. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor kept me from falling asleep. All the while, I could hear Paul molling about, doing God knows what it for in the morning. This went on for about an hour until finally. Silence. Silence in early morning birds chirping awake outside. It was still dark out, but the sun was rising. Another ten minutes went by until I decided it was safe to leave. Climbing out from underneath the bed, I pushed up to

standing. Relief poured through my sore cramped body. I looked back. The man. The man A man on the bed was asleep. Eyes closed. Of course, it's possible it wasn't Paul, but the resemblance, even through the gruesome scars, was striking. That and the fact that one version of Paul supposedly burned to death. At this point, who else would it be? I needed a photo just in case. I pulled out my photo and the battery was dead. Of course.

Tucking my phone away, I turned back and staggered across the room, placing my ear against the door. I listened. The low hum of the fridge, the occasional drip of a leaky faucet. Okay. I pushed open the door and peered out. Somehow the hallway was darker than before. Empty.

As far as I could see. I crept out and pulled the door shut behind me. Shimmying against the wall, I made my way towards the entrance. Almost free. Almost home. Pushing off the wall, I stumbled into the foyer and thumped into the front door. A reverberating thud echoed through the house. Shit.

Dread hung in the air as I braced for a response. But nothing came. Only more silence. Relieved. I reached. turned the knob and locked from the outside. I pulled the switchblade out from my back pocket and stuck it into the frame. Sliding forward, I...

Behind me. Down the hallway, a door clicked open. I looked back over my shoulder. It was the door to the room of Paul's burnt victim doppelganger. Screw this. I turned back and... Brandon. A voice from the left.

I snapped to look, only the darkened living room. Struggling to pull the knife out from the door, I squinted into the shadows. In the far corner, by the draped shut window, a silhouette seated on a couch. Are you okay? The familiar voice from the darkness echoed. For a moment, it almost sounded like my father. rose to standing and stepped into a beam of pale moonlight. It was Paul, cold blue eyes filled with confused disappointment. His eyes glanced to the wedge knife gripped in my hand. Then

back to me. Mitch called, said Paul, trying to stay calm, acting like nothing bad was happening, even though it clearly was. He's worried about you, said Paul, or, whoever the hell it was. He took a careful step forward. I flinched, pulled and yank the knife out from the doorframe. Paul gently raised a hand. We're okay, he said stepping back. No need for that. He cleared his throat. Full disclosure, I've got a nine mill sitting on the table there. He glanced down to his left, a black finish handgun sat on top a stack of books. But there's no reason for any of that, right? He said, stepping back and nodding slightly, as if to answer his own question. I lowered the knife, but I didn't put it away. Maybe seeing a literal

fetus monster crawl out of Mitch's mouth gave me a few trust issues. Mitch said, you were really distressed last night, said you broke down his door, ran away in a panic. I shook my head, painfully aware of how crazy I must have looked. It's okay, Brandon. We're not pressing charges or anything like that. We're worried about you. Have you been sleeping? I chuckled bitterly, turning back towards the door and sticking the knife back into

the doorframe. I was done playing this stupid game. In my peripherals, Paul stepped over to the table, crouched down, picked up the gun and tucked it into the back of his waist loop. Brandon, said Paul, again sounding oddly similar to my father, the same way Dad sounded knocking on my bedroom door after Zach died. You're letting this get to you. I know what it's like.

Trust me. I know better than most. I turned to look at him again. Why is your door locked from the outside? Paul shook his head. It's not. I grabbed the handle and turned it to show. The door popped open and the wedge knife clattered to the floor.

I blinked confusion. Shrugged, grab the door frame and I'm not letting you go, said Paul. It sounded more like pleading than a threat. I stopped, looking back towards him. You going to shoot me? We're going to wait here till help comes. Help, is in cops? They're going to bring you to the hospital.

Get you some help. A psych ward. They're not like the movies. Trust me. I've been in more than a few. I scoffed, a growing sense of bitter spite swelling up in my throat. All the confusion, all the questions, all the vagueness boiling into a twisted mass. of rage. Who's in the rum? Paul glanced down the hallway. An old friend. I gritted my teeth. An old friend

burned to shit that just happens to look exactly like you. He was injured in the war. I'm his caretaker. I shook my head in disbelief. Paul had an answer for everything. You expect me to buy that. It's using you. I can see it in your eyes. Do you know it? Or do you think you're still you? Then why am I trying to help you? I opened to answer, but stopped short, as if the insanity of my own thoughts was too strange to even speak aloud. But I knew he was lying. I knew it. Somehow, the version of Paul who burnt alive in the car wreck was also the one in the room down my room.

the hallway. I didn't know how. I didn't know why, but I knew it was true. Look, Brandon, nothing I can say right now is going to convince you of anything, and that's okay. But I need you to understand. This thing is screwing with you right now. It's all in my head, right? No, some of it's real. It has to be. I know. No, there's things that happened with me that I can't explain, but that doesn't matter anymore. I put that aside and pretended it wasn't real. Good for you, I said, squatting down and picking the knife back up. I turned back for the door and Paul drew his gun.

He didn't aim at me, but he looked ready to fire. You're not going to shoot me. You're not going to get far with that leg." He had a point there. Brandon. Paul continued. You've broke and entered with a deadly weapon. But I'm on your side here.

Even Mitch is on your side. I huffed, stepped back from the door and pulled it shut. Paul relaxed and tucked away his pistol. A long stretch of silence. I sighed. Do you actually believe you're in control right now? What? It's using you.

I can see it in your eyes. Do you know it? Or do you think you're still you? Paul, at a loss for words, smiled sadly, turned around, stepped back for the couch, and I lurched forward, pushing open the front door in one smooth motion, scrambling under the front lawn. Red and blue lights swiped over the street ahead. I pushed up to my feet, staggering uselessly across the lawn. Brandon. Paul called out, his voice filled with protective concern. A cop cruiser skid to a stop on the street in front of me. Out from the passenger seat,

a young cop whipped out, took cover behind the door, and drew her weapon. Get on the ground! She'd She screamed, gun pointing directly at me. I just stood there, knife in hand, in shock, staring down the barrel of a handgun. Drop the weapon! I looked back over my shoulder at Paul. His face was filled with fear. Fear for my safety. I knew I could see it in his eyes.

Something slammed into me from the side, a burly cop tacked. tackled me into the dirt. The knife sailed from my hand and flew through the air. My head pushed into wet soil and grass. I was pinned down. Sudden realization flooded through me. This meant I would be dragged away to a psych ward, forced to do their test, forced to take medications, sleeping away from home, breaking the cardinal rule again and again. The intruder gaining more and more influence with every passing night. A sense of overwhelming dread swarmed through me. With a burst of surprising strength, I kicked and swiped and flailed, somehow shoving the

heavyset cop off me. I scrambled, half crawling, half running, a useless attempt. The second cop hauled off the street towards me and side-walled me back into the ground. Both of them pinning me down now. Dead grass and clumps of dirt filled my mouth, but I didn't give up. I kept fighting. This was life or death. I needed to escape.

I kept pushing, struggling. Be careful with him. Paul's muffled voice cried out. A heavy blow cracked against the back of my hand. Darkness. I woke in the head of something not human, but not the intruder I'm. An animal, a strange and bizarre sensory experience to say the least. Four legs, a perspective on the world nearly impossible to explain.

Was it a mountain lion? Was it a bear? I didn't know. But I was in a forest, staring down a straight winding hiking trail. Evening sunlight cut down through trees above, speckling the path with pockets of swaying light. Then I saw myself ahead on the path. I was dressed for hiking, looking slightly older now, leg fully healed, oblivious to the creature in front of me.

This version of me suddenly froze, staring directly towards me now. His eyes filled with terror. Darkness I woke in a room with greenish wall. walls, cold fluorescent light cast over me. My arm was handcuffed to a bed railing. I knew exactly where I was. Emergency room, psych ward. He will begin in the furthest corner of your basement. Paul was right about one thing. Psych wards aren't like the movies. At least this one wasn't. If anything, it felt more like a nursing home. Assisted living with camera.

cameras and security guards to boot. No electroshock therapy. No drawn-out talks with stoic shrinks. No evil head nurse ratchet. The movies got one thing right, though. The isolation, especially the first few days. I was in hysterics. Strapped to a bed, screaming about the man in the basement, screaming about how sleeping away from home would only make him stronger. Every night I spent away, seated more of my strength up to him. Of course, I knew this behavior didn't exactly help my case for appearing sane, but when you're staring down the barrel of a gun, none of that really matters. Regardless, I calmed myself down after a few days. A steady cocktail of Seraquil and Benzos might have helped too. Now, I had only one goal, appear sane enough

to be discharged, get back home, and hopefully salvage this disastrous transgression. Maybe the intruder would give me some leeway since me being here was involuntary. Wishful thinking. I guess there's one thing the movies get right. The more you try to appear sane, the more insane you appear. It's not easy to pretend things are normal when you believe an ever more powerful hive mind Tulpa, whatever the hell it is, is trying to absorb you into itself. But I put up a decent show. To be honest, getting stuck in a psych ward is the last place I expected to be. Before this, it seemed like everything was leading up to some huge and terrible revelation,

like I'd finally get the answers to all my questions. But now, I was stuck in a borderline nursing home, putting together cat puzzles and playing Uno. Not exactly the finale I had in mind. The anti-climax of it all was suspect, to say the least. Getting forced into a psych ward changed my view on a lot of things. There was one guy in there. He had OCD so bad he needed seven cups of water on his bedside table at all times. Each cup needed to be slightly fuller than the last, but he also needed to drink from the third, fourth, and seventh cups every fourteen minutes. If he broke the ritual, he was convinced a man made out of paper would climb in through the vents and cut him in half. Shit like that might have seemed funny to me before, in a morbid kind of way. But after seeing

it firsthand, after living through it myself, let's just say I don't look at homeless people rambling to themselves on the street the same way I did before. It's easy to make fun of things that make you uncomfortable. It's not so easy when you're the one going through hell. Paul came to visit me too, or at least he tried. I didn't sign off the first few times. As far as I was concerned, Paul wasn't Paul. The real Paul was trapped in his house, barely alive, strapped to a hospital bed and burnt up almost beyond recognition. Mitch even showed up once too, but I refused him as well. Mitch wasn't Mitch either.

Worst of all, I don't think either of them were even aware of it. I believed that they believed. They were actually themselves. But Paul kept trying, showing up every other day. He even covered all my hospital bills out of his own pocket, out of curiosity, more than anything else, I finally gave in. Paul and I sat down in the common area, felt like a low-income high school lunchroom, round tables covered in half-finished puzzles. An older woman stood by the window, Rosa was her name. Every ten minutes or so Rosa would call out for the nurse. When the nurse showed up, she'd ask them for the time. They'd tell her the time, and she'd thank them. Rinse and repeat

that for the last three hours straight. After a while, you even start to tune out stuff like that. Finally, the doors pushed open and in walked Paul. Our eyes met. He smiled, sadly, strode across the room, pulled out a rickety chair and sat down across from me. How you been? I shrugged. Better. He nodded and pulled a brown envelope out from his jacket. He placed it flat down on the table and slid it towards me.

That's not going to answer everything, but it might help some. Skeptical, I reached into the envelope and pulled out a stack of documents, papers, photos, ID cards. What's this? Everything I could find on my friend in the room. Full warning. Some of it's a little graphic. I scanned the first paper. Hospital records detailing a man named Lawrence Weiser, lying on a gurney in the Vietnam jungle with full body chemical burns. I flipped to the next page. Military legal papers, giving Paul the right to shelter and look after Lawrence Weiser, take care of complications sustained due to long-term effects of a wartime injury.

I flipped to the next page, a photo of Paul much younger, was paper-clipped to the cover. His arm wrapped over another man's shoulder about the same age. Both of them looked so much alike. They could have been brothers. I kept flipping. More documents, more photos, IDs, birth certificates. If they were fake, Paul would have spent a lot of time and money making them. I turned the page. More photos of Paul. He was setting up a hospital bed in his house's spare bedroom, military personnel helping out. I put the papers down and looked at him. And, I said, not buying it.

Paul scratched his neck. I know it barely answers anything, but at least it clears up one thing. I set the documents on top of the envelope and slid it back across to Paul. I drove to Mitch's apartment, 40 minutes out of town, saw a fetus monster climb out of his mouth, Then I ran down the hallway and ended up in your basement. I'm pretty sure my car still parked out at Mitch's and you're saying it's in my head. Paul nodded understandingly, looked back over his shoulder, making sure nobody was an earshot. It's not in your head, he said, turning back to face me.

It's only partially in your head. This thing's got a foot in the door between reality and nothing. And if you let it, it'll push that door all the way open and never go back. I scoffed. Why all the runarounds? Why the stupid rules? Paul leaned back into his chair. Mitch and I have very different ideas on how to fix it. I figured accepting it's there and living life regardless is the best round. Mitch thinks that's what it wants you to do. Why'd you say I could pass it off then? Paul looked at me, genuinely confused.

In the park, I continued. You said I could build a bunker door, pass it off to somebody else's place. In the park. I looked at him in disbelief. Did he forget? I honestly don't know what you're talking about, he said. He seemed sincere. But I'd been fooled more than enough by now.

In the park, you told me a long, drawn-out story about how you fell in between these boulders, saw a man down between the rocks, told me the intruder dug a tunnel between the houses. A tunnel? You're serious. Look, Brandon, I don't know who you talked to, but it wasn't me. But that doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is you focus on moving past all this. Focus on getting better. The stronger you are, the healthier your mind is, the less power this has over you. Like I said before, once I stopped drinking, started caring for people close to me. All the crazy shit started going away. Things still happen. Don't get me wrong. But I can deal with it now.

You learn to cope. How do I know you're even you? You don't? Shit. I don't. But that doesn't matter either. I'm here. I exist.

You exist. You work with what you know. How long have you been away from home now? Two, three weeks? Has anything happened? Has the intruder shown up here? Have you died? I didn't answer, but I caught the point.

This doesn't make any sense, I said, leaning forward, resting my arms on the table. That's the point. The thing preys off confusion, addiction, fear, repression, trauma. The more screwed up you are, the better a time it has. I thought about it. As the doctor helped, Paul continued, the meds. I gave a reluctant nod. As much as I hated to admit it, things didn't feel as crazy as they used to.

I felt calmer, more stable, but like I said before, this was all too easy, uncomfortably anticlimactic, but I wasn't giving it up that easily. The night before I went to your house, I swerved, almost hit a bear. I smashed into a roadside post and cracked my head on the driver's side window. I saw things, experienced things. I saw you, driving, looking out through your eyes. Paul nodded as if expecting the point to be raised. I'm not going to say it wasn't real.

back, I had a similar thing, flipping backwards and forwards through time, in and out of people's heads, even the intruder itself's head, little snippets of moments, crumbs of conspiracy, just enough to create a narrative in your head that may or may not be real, enough to keep obsessed, enough to, I saw you, driving shit-faced. You swerved into somebody on a green bike, hit and run. That never happened. Paul looked at me with deadly serious eyes. I'd kill myself before trying to cover up something like that, he said with brutal conviction.

I'm not saying it didn't happen, but it didn't happen in this world and it didn't happen to me. Whatever that's worth. I said, still not fully satisfied. Lingeringering silence hung in the air. Nurse? Rosa by the window called out again. The staff was ignoring her now.

Nurse. Paul looked around, expecting someone to help. She just keeps asking the time, I said. Paul pulled up his sleeve and checked the time on his watch. 5.58 in the afternoon, he said. smiling warmly towards her. Rosa looked at Paul like he was an angel sent from above. Thank you. Paul nodded and turned back to me. More silence. I cleared my throat. You and Mitch talking again, I asked, genuinely curious. Paul shook his head, no. He was just worried

about you is all, still thinks you're possessed. Something like that. Paul rubbed his jaw. I mean, it's not just that, though. I was a shitty father, too. That's why his sister doesn't talk to me. I nodded. You remind me of my old man sometimes.

Shit father too, huh? I almost laughed. Nah. He was all right. Where's he now? Dead. Ah, I'm sorry. It's okay.

What got him? Lung cancer. Same thing that got my dad. In the liver, though. A strange calm came over me, something I hadn't felt since before this nightmare began. A feeling that maybe, despite all its misery, Life was worth sticking around for, at least a little while longer, if for nothing else,

just to see what happens. We talked about Howie, too. Paul said Howie always struck him as weird even before the intruder. Maybe he was a servant of the intruder. Maybe he was an unwitting vessel controlled by the intruder to spy on new recruits. Maybe he was just a weird guy who really liked the color green and crossword puzzles. We decided some things were better left alone. A bell rang out through the PA system.

Dinner will now be served in the cafeteria. Please line up on the marks, maintaining a six-foot distance from one another. Paul hit the table gently with his fist. Well, I'll stop bugging you now. I forced to smile. Paul stood up. I'm not asking you to trust me blindly here, but if you got patience, I'd love to swing by and visit every so often.

Don't got much else going on anyways. Sure, I said. Still skeptical. Even though I didn't trust Paul or anyone else for that matter, I had to admit, his presence made me feel a little less crazy. A little less alone. Besides, any visitor, even a potential vessel of the intruder, was preferable to no visitors at all. Take it easy, kid, said Paul.

He strode back for the exit and pushed through the doors. Paul stopped by every single day for the next two weeks. We played cards, talked about hockey and politics. Sometimes we'd talk about the intruder, too, but less and less every day. Paul eventually brought me somewhat around, convinced me to work with the doctors. What have you got to lose anyways? A fair point. Paul told me to tell the doctors what they needed to hear.

Tell them, I acknowledge it was all in my head, even if we both knew that wasn't entirely true. Say what I needed to say. To get out. But don't rush things. Only leave when I felt ready to. Reality is a spectrum. Things in the realm of thought and emotion don't exist or not exist in a binary state. Sometimes false thoughts lead to real actions, terrible and beautiful.

Just look at religion. I'm not a believer myself, but it's pretty staggering the simultaneous beauty and horror created by mythic ideologies. True or not, sometimes it feels like belief itself has more effect on the real world than anything else. I don't know. Maybe the intruder worked in a similar way, molding itself out of belief, obsession, trauma, forcing itself out of the abstract into the concrete, like a virus of the mind. Who knows? Paul was there the day before my discharge. The doctors had determined I was stable, enough to return to public life. I still felt like shit, but now in a normal constant haze of vague

depression and anxiety kind of way, as opposed to a supernatural entity is trying to kill me kind of way. Paul and I played crib in the common area, best out of three. He won, as usual. Stretching out his arms, Paul checked the time. Well, I should head out, he said, partially yawning. I'll swing by tomorrow. Give you a ride home. Sure. Thanks, Paul. No worries, kid. Paul drove me home the next day.

We pulled into my driveway, and sure enough, there sat my car, inexplicably back in its spot, no longer in front of Mitch's apartment. I opened my mouth to ask about it, but stopped short. Better leave well enough alone. So what's next for Brandon? Then, said Paul, adjusting the rear view mirror as he spoke. I shrugged. Probably going to move upstate, to be honest.

Yeah. I don't blame you. I haven't checked my emails in a while, but I'm pretty sure I'm jobless by now. That kind of just fell off the map. Paul chuckled. Fair enough. Is that a bad thing, though? I mean, not really.

Wasn't really my favorite job anyway. Why? What are you going to do now? I don't know. Maybe I'll go back to school. Maybe I'll start writing again. You write. Used to.

And you enjoyed that? Yeah. Why'd you stop? No money. Well, if you move, sell the place. That might give you a bit of a cushion, huh? Sure. I'm not saying what you should do, Brandon.

If you like writing, then at least try for it. If you like something else, shoot for that. It's better than not trying." Yeah, maybe, I said, mauling it over. Looking back, this conversation, like many others, was a little strange, but I didn't think much of it at the time. Anyways, I'll get out of your hair now, said Paul. Silence.

I reached for the door and stopped. Thanks, Paul, I said, looking back at him, it's hard to know what to say to someone who probably saved your life. You owe me one, he said, cracking a smile. I smiled back, turned away, and unlatched the door. I stepped out, went to close it, and, oh, one more thing, said Paul. I froze, pulled the door back open, hunched down to meet his eyes. I know you're planning to move anyways, but... He shifted in his seat slightly.

It's probably better we keep minimal contact from here on out. Same goes for Mitch. I'm not sure why, but this thing seems to feed off us being around each other. I nodded, stepped away and pushed the door shut and turned. turned back from my house. Paul pulled into reverse, backed across the street, and pulled into his garage. To this day, I don't know if that was even Paul, the intruder, or something in between. All I know is he helped me get back on my feet. So I'm grateful for that. I rifled for my keys and opened the door. The smell of cooking hit me. Chicken soup, gravy,

and mashed potatoes. Howie humming to himself. I pulled the door shut behind me and was greeted with a bright green, brand new basement door. You like it? Howie's voice shot down the hallway. I turned. His bald head peeked out from the kitchen. Yeah, Howie. It's great. I lied. Howie smiled brightly and stepped out into the hallway. Works picking up again, so it's from my own pocket. It's the least I could do for you letting me stay here. Thanks, Howie? How have you been?

Mitch's dad sort of filled me in a little, and he's apparently not dead. Not sure why I thought that. His kid told me otherwise. Some people are so weird, huh? Crazy's catching, I said. Huh? Nothing. Oh, I got something.

Howie slipped back into the kitchen and reappeared on the other side, this time with a crossword book in hand. Nine words, third letter T, last letter M, a naturally occurring yellow blackish liquid found in geological formations below the earth's surface. I furrowed my brow. The word was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn't quite place it. Howie looked at me, eyes filling with anticipation. I shrugged again.

Beats me. His eyes filled with disappointment. I'll let you know if it comes to me. Sure, sure. No problem. Howie slumped back into the kitchen and placed down the booklet. He looked like I just told him his dog died or something. I moved out the next week.

Howie offered to stay, pay rent with his new family. income. I agreed. I never did find out exactly what happened for him to leave his old place, but he never brought it up, so I didn't ask. I moved upstate, rented a small studio apartment in a mountain town. Still can't sleep in places with basements, but you can't really blame me on that one. Got back into writing hard too. Started taking online courses, watching YouTube tutorials, stuff like that. Got my craft to a place where I'm not entirely embarrassed to sure it. Weirdly, all these events actually inspired me to start writing again.

Of course, all the loose ends, all the unanswered questions still bothered me. Something just felt too convenient about the last few weeks, like I'd gotten out of the woods too easy. Like the hand of an invisible and benevolent God stepped in and waved away all my problems. Sometimes, I wondered if the intruder was still using me, working towards some unknown and terrifying endgame. Vague anxiety once again lingered beneath everything, like a constant, rising shepherd tone, sometimes barely audible, sometimes unbearably loud.

I did my best to put it out of my mind to focus on other things, not pushing it away. just being aware that it's there and gently choosing to focus elsewhere. I'm learning to live with it, learning to accept the unknowable. I'll admit one thing, though, coat rack still freak me the hell out. Despite all my progress, there was something else I couldn't shake. One question that kept me up at nights. What happened to Zach? Was it really what the police said?

just some long-haul semi-truck driver in the night, a terrible accident? What about the visions of Paul, drunk driving, hitting somebody on a green bike? What about the intruder's mimicry murder of Zach, pleading, and apologizing? What about the... I stop myself from spiraling. These questions stuck in the back of my head like splinters of wood stuck between fingers. But even here, I'm learning to live with it. About six weeks ago, I decided to look up Zach's mother, not to dig for answers or anything like that, just to call her and see how she was doing, see if she was even still alive.

It took a bit of work, but I found her. She lived in a care home down in Georgia. I called her on a Wednesday night. Hello? She said, her voice sounding almost how I remembered, despite all the years between. Miss Serenno? Speaking. Hi.

I'm not sure if you remember me or not. But this is Brandon Miller. Brandon. Her voice filled with recognition. Yeah, that's me. Oh, it's so nice to hear from you. How have you been? It's been so long.

I'm doing all right. We made small talk for a while, talked about the town I grew up in. We talked about the pandemic, the craziness of the upcoming election, then the conversation took an unexpected turn. How's your father doing? She asked. Oh, he passed away quite a few years back now. Oh, I'm sorry.

It's okay. I've accepted it now. Yeah, I've mostly done the same with Zach, but it still hurts. That never goes away. But you learn to live with it. I didn't say anything. I was lost for words. Silence hung in the air until, you know, Zach always had trouble making friends before you.

I didn't know that. Zach always struck me as effortlessly charismatic. He was a bit of an odd duck, in a good way. Before we moved, none of the other kids ever really clicked with him, but with you, inseparable. Huh? Yeah. I was the same way. How's that?

Not good at making friends. Hmm. More silence. I remember his passing hit you really hard. She said. You didn't speak for months. Your father was worried about you. Yeah.

I'm doing better now, thankfully. That's good to hear. I'm sure the closure helped. Closure? What closure? You didn't hear. Hear what? A driver, long haul teamster, came forward a couple years back.

back. All those years back, he was sleep deprived, running across eight shipmen when she trailed off and the tragedy spoke in the silence. She took a breath and continued. He grew overwhelmed with guilt, came forward two years back to confess. I met with him too. A kind soul, really. A sensitive soul. wrong person, wrong place. A terrible mistake. Where's he now? He took his own life a few months back. Poor soul. Neighbors found him in a basement corner. The words basement corner hit me like a concrete wall. Was this connected to the intruder? Was this connected to Paul? Nightmarish thoughts and incomprehensible images raced through my mum.

The image of a naked body, pale and decomposing, slumped into a basement corner, a plastic bag wrapped over its head. "'You there?' said Mrs. Serrano. I stopped myself, took a deep breath, told myself to set it aside, don't worry about it, it's a coincidence. I hope his family's okay,' I said. Me as well. Threads of conspiracy dangled in front of me like fishing lures.

This had to be connected to the intruder somehow. It had to be connected to the rules. What's his name? I asked. Almost involuntarily. Hmm? The driver. Oh, uh, Mason.

Mason Parker, I believe. I didn't recognize it. Awkward silence. Well, it's been lovely hearing from you, Brandon. But game night is about to start, and I can't be late. Of course. You as well. Take care of yourself.

Call any time, okay? Okay. She ended the call. I sat at my work desk. The glow of car lights beamed in through the window and swiped across the darkened walls. Rain-drop shadows stretched across the rum and returned into darkness. I took another deep breath. Exhaled.

Doing my best to stay grounded, using a trick I learned in the psych ward. Three, three, three. Name three things you can see. Bookshelf, white wall, brown desk. Name three things you can hear. against the window, tires against the road outside, neighbor's footsteps up above. Name three things you can feel, the back of my legs against the seat, the warmth of the heater against my shins, the brush of my shirt as I breathe in and out.

Name three things you can smell. Coffee, gasoline, burnt hair. Overwhelming terror, pushed up from the floor, into my toes. through my legs, my spine into my head. A sickening upward swell of chemical dread. A feeling that something truly heinous, something evil, yet emotionless beyond human understanding, was standing right behind me. I imagined arms, impossibly long, stretching from the shadows across the room, unnaturally large hands, fingers with extra joints, reaching for the scruff of my neck, eager to pull me down into the floor, down into the ground, down into the dirt,

beneath the surface of reality itself. Trapping me below an invisible barrier, suffocating me under water with impenetrable surface tension, forcing me to watch, gasping me to watch, gasping for air as the world above moved on without me. The world above acted as if I never even existed, to begin with. Eternal suffering, eternal isolation, eternal damnation. I spun around, expecting to see something incomprehensible, but there was nothing. No intruder, no coat rat. No man held together with nails and wire, just an empty studio apartment.

The orange glow of more headlights wiped across, slow in yawing light crawling over the kitchen, over the front door, over me. Like the beams of a deep-water submarine scanning the ocean floor. Everything returned to moonlit darkness. Against the window drapes. A faint, greenish and flickering glow from a neon bar sign across the street. I sniffed the air. The smell of gasoline and burnt hair was gone.

Maybe it was never there to begin with. I took another deep breath and exhaled. It's all in my head. Or at the very least, it's mostly in my head. But still, the words only rang partially true. If I'd learn anything over the past few months, it was this. Nothing good comes, at least not this easy. As much as I tried to repress it, as much as I tried to ignore it, I knew something

was missing. There was some piece of the puzzle that may or may not ever be found. I took a deep breath, exhaled. I turned back to my desk, popped open my laptop, and started writing. If you see him, do not overreact, he may decide to move on. A bump in the night startled me awake. I checked the time, 258 a.m., neon green light flickered in through the studio apartment window. I sat up onto the edge of my bed, staring at the closet door.

A white closet door with zigzag patterns etched across it. Another thump. Above me. I looked up. It was the upstairs neighbors again, mauling about at 3 a.m. on a Wednesday night. Rubbing my eyes, I pushed off the bed and strolled up to the window. It was snowing outside, first snowfall of the year. Drifting dots of white dissolved against the asphalt.

I was about to turn back when something caught my eye. Across the street, down in the plaza parking lot, a white hatchback with tinted windows, engine idling. Huh? I shrugged it off, pulled the blind shut, and crawled back into bed. But now I couldn't sleep. The bumps and scrapes of the upstairs neighbor felt louder. The flickering glow of the neon bar light across the street felt brighter. Everything felt heightened, like on fast forward.

I rolled out of bed, marched across the room, and yanked open the closet door. A bunch of propped up junk toppled out onto the floor. Old records, unread books, unopened boxes. I pushed it all away and dug into the back of the closet, throwing junk over my shoulder until I found what I was looking for, an old box fan, in a red pleaded quilt. I stuffed the quilt into the window frame, blocking the outside light. I set the fan up on a chair and blasted it towards my bed, full white noise and darkness. I dug through a few more boxes until I found a pair of orange-distance.

disposable earplugs. Let's try this again. I climbed into bed and shut my eyes. The gentle gust of the box fan against my face as I drifted off to sleep. There was something about that feeling. It felt like movement and movement calms me down. Maybe that's why I enjoy aimless driving so much. I shut my eyes and finally fell asleep. I had a dream about Zach, but it was more like a memory than a dream. A vivid flashback playing out in the darkness of sleep like a strange and ethereal film, a memory from the week, before Zach died. We found an old car, rusted up and stuck down in the riverbeds by the cauldron cliffs.

An old 1950s car, likely pushed off the cliff from above, by some drunk college kids. Zach wanted to jump across the rocks, over the rushing torrents, and stand on top of the old car. I didn't share his enthusiasm. Risking death to stand on a car wasn't my idea of a good time. Zach bugged me about it, but didn't push. We went back home after that. Up the winding trails, through the dried woods, past old house and the Rendell Shams.

We rounded a corner and stepped on to the final stretch of a trail, but Zach froze. He pointed straight ahead. Down the trail, about 50 feet or less, a man dressed in white with pin straight posture, stood with his back to us. But this part never actually happened. It was a false memory, a creation. of the strange dream, or, if it did happen, I'd forgotten it. Zach cupped his hands to his mouth and screamed, hey!

But the man didn't move. We both tensed up as a long silence ticked by, a growing sense of unease in the air. A summer breeze crawled through the woods behind us and kicked up dried dust from the trail. The sunlight caught through the plumes and the wind faded back to quiet. Then Zach looked back at me. We should go, he whispered. I didn't respond. Brandon?

I looked at him. Zach's eyes were filled with uncharacteristic fear. We should. I snapped awake, cold sweat running down my forehead. Thanks to the blacked-out window, my room was pitch dark now. But something was wrong. I could no longer feel the brush of the fan against my face. I pulled out my earplugs.

The fan was still on, a whirring hum. I squinted through the dark as a slow and terrible realization crawled over me. Something was stood. Between me and the fan, something was stood in the middle of the room. I gritted my teeth, reached for my phone, turned on the screen, and shone it into the room. Empty. The brush of the fan against my face returned, the sense of a presence, vanished. I stared into the empty room, waiting for something to happen.

almost willing something to happen. But nothing happened. For five long minutes, nothing changed. I rechecked the time, 358 a.m. I climbed out of bed, trudged across the room, flicked down the light, and strode back towards the window. I pulled the blackout quilt back and peered outside. The snow was falling faster now.

The parking lot across the street was empty, the white hatchback gone. I looked back over my shoulder, on a hook beside the door, car keys. I drove up the number seven highway, a winding mountain road. Headlights cut through falling snow like warp speed stars. Window wipers wiped back and forth with percussive rhythm. My Toyota reverberated with the drones of rubber against wet asphalt. No other vehicles in sight. Like I said before, movement always calm me down.

Before I owned a car, I used to go for these long solitary hikes out in the mountains. There's something about constant motion, outside, alone, peaceful. I drove for over an hour. without stopping, feeling calmer with each passing mile, reminding myself that I'd been away from that house with a basement for months now, months of completely disregarding the rules, and nothing happened. No terrible revelations, no intruder from the basement, no evil doppelgangers, only paranoid nightmares and fleeting moments of fear. Maybe.

After all that, the rules really did mean nothing. The snow was falling faster now, getting dangerous. I turned off on the 62 exit and wound back for home. The orange swipe of streetlights against the windshield, the drone of my car, the wiping of the wiper. Up ahead, red lights, yellow hazards blinking on the side of the road. I sped past. the white hatchback with tinted windows. The front hood was popped open, and a man stood on the shoulder, trying to wave me down.

But I didn't stop. Something felt wrong. But before even reaching the next exit, my heart changed. Horror stories ran through my head, stories about broken down cars on lonely winter mountain roads. People freezing to death, before the sun even. came up. Begrudgingly, I signaled off at the next exit and hauled back around. I pulled a U-turn and parked up behind the white car, hit my hazard lights. The driver wasn't standing outside anymore. The back door of his car swung open, and he stepped out, bundled in winter clothes

with a scarf pulled up around his face. There was something vaguely familiar about him. He waved at me, stepped up to the front of his car, and pulled the hood shut. He stepped around to the passenger's side and pulled the door open. Hunching over, he reached into his glove box, took out a brown paper envelope, and tucked it into his winter coat. I studied him as he pushed the door shut and strode back towards me. Leaning over, I unlocked the passenger's side door. The stranger latched the door open, hunched over, and looked at me. His eyes filled with immediate recognition. He pulled his scarf down, and it was Mitch, a knot twisted in my stomach.

I hadn't seen him since I saw something crawl out of his mouth and leave his body in a mangled heap on the kitchen floor. Brandon? He said. not sure if it was actually me. It was dark. The interior light of my car was broken. Mitch, I said back, even though I already knew it was him. Huh. Wow. He looked back over his shoulder. Small world. I nodded. Part of me actually considered just flooring it, getting the hell out of there, but I didn't. Maybe this was Mitch, after all. Maybe his death was nothing but another nightmarish vision.

But more than anything, I think I stayed out of curiosity. What are the chances, huh? Said Mitch, turning back to me. I huffed. He was right about that. I'm a little stranded out here. You might have noticed. He ran a hand through snow speckled.

old jet-black hair, tried calling a tow truck, but the service out here. He threw up his hands. You need a lift? I said, immediately regretting the offer. You don't mind. I shook my head. Is exit 25 on your way? asked Mitch. I'll take the bus from there. We drove in silence for the next five minutes, all the while the elephant of the past sat between us. Finally, Mitch spoke up. So, how have you been? I knew exactly what he was asking about. He wanted to know what happened after I said screw it and threw his list of rules to the curb. But that was the last thing I wanted to talk about. No more ruminating, no more obsessing over answers. Ever since I moved away from that god-forsaken house,

My life had improved significantly, and that's all that mattered. I've been good, I said. Another awkward silence followed, as Mitch expected me to ask him the same. I reached for the radio and turned the knob. Static blared. Every channel was nothing but white noise. Yeah, no signal out here, said Mitch, rubbing his hands together from the cold. I turned off the radio and gripped the steering wheel.

How have you been? I finally offered. Up and down, he said. No more work thanks to COVID, so I had to move in with Paul. I raised an eyebrow. Mitch caught my look and shrugged. Thought maybe I was wrong about it, you know? Wrong about what?

Some of my theories. Mitch turned away and looked out the window. His breath fogged against the glass. White lines of falling snow streaked past. What brings you upstate? I asked. Curiosity slowly building again. Just needed to get out of town.

Fair enough. Mitch opened his mouth like he was about to say something else. But he stopped, shook his head a little, and turned back to look out the window. More silence. He glanced down and his eyes caught something, the chrome switch blade sitting in the cup holder. He reached down and lifted it up, studying it. Where'd you get this? Huh, weed dealer, I said. Back in high school. Mitch turned the blade, flicked it open and flicked it shut. Huh. He tossed it back into the cup holder and leaned back in his seat. I'm going to get some sleep, he said. Shifting his weight, he nestled his head against his seatbelt

and shut his eyes. Despite my paranoia, I felt calmer now. This felt like the real Mitch, but even if it wasn't, I'd be dropping him off in a few exits anyway. About 30 minutes later, I pulled off onto exit 25. The car bumped over a snag in the road, and Mitch stirred awake. Next left up there, he said, rubbing his eyes. We turned down a narrow road, walls of dark forest on either side. About a hundred feet ahead, a lonely bus stop, lit only by the cold bluish glow of a solitary street light. I pulled to a stop in front of it. Thanks, Brandon, said Mitch, reaching for the door. I could tell he still wanted to say something else, but was holding back.

Of course, Mitch. Be safe. He nodded, pulled open the door, and paused. He pulled the door shut, turned back to me, and sighed. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out the brown paper envelope. I studied him. It's okay if you don't want to talk about this, but he rubbed his forehead with his palm. I've been digging a little, doing some more research again, and well, his eyes turned

deadly, serious. I think I've almost figured this thing out. He reached into the envelope and pulled out an inch-thick stack of papers, forward. photos and documents. I think I know what it wants, what it's trying to do. My curiosity was screaming at me, begging me to listen, but... Thanks, Mitch, but I'm good. He looked at me, confused. I cleared my throat.

I'm trying to keep all that in my past now. Mitch stared at me for a long five seconds, then nodded slowly. He slid the stack of papers back into the envelope and reached for the door handle. If you change your mind, just call me, he said, almost indignant. He pushed the door open and stepped back out into the cold. The snow had turned into a sludgy mix of slush and rain now. Mitch slammed the door shut, wandered up to the bus stop. and sat down on the bench.

Clenching my jaw, I shifted into drive and pulled away. I'd like to say I kept driving. I'd like to say I left Mitch at the bus stop, and that was the end of it, that I won out against my obsession for answers. But I didn't. Barely made it fifty feet before I pulled into reverse and drove back. I leaned over and pushed open. the passenger's side door. He looked at me, not surprised that I'd returned. He pushed up from

the bench, strode over to the car, sat down in the passenger's seat, and pulled the door shut. The engine idled as slush in rain beat down from above. The lukewarm gust of ventilation against my face, window wipers uselessly wiping the same mess of icy mush back and forth. Mitch reached into his jacket, pulled out the envelope, and placed it on the dashboard. You're sure about this, he said. I wasn't, but I nodded anyway. Mitch smiled grimly, reached into the envelope and pulled out the stack of papers. So after you left my apartment, he slowly flipped through the papers as he spoke. I called up Paul, told him what happened, told him you were hysterical.

I still don't know why I called him, but I did. I think some part of me still believes he's my dad. I still do. Mitch stopped on a photograph, paper clipped onto a page, scrawled with manic notes and scribbled coat rack sketches. It was a photo of him as a kid with the rest of his family, his mother Holly, his dad Paul, and even his estranged sister. All of them stood outside a blue tent dressed for camping, smiling. Mitch grimaced as he flipped to the next page. A month or so after you left, my work fell apart, as I told you. Couldn't afford to pay rent, buy food, so I asked Paul if I could move in.

At first, it was out of necessity. But also I started wondering after our last meeting, if there's a way to figure this all out. Maybe even put a stop to it. I guess something told me. The answer was at Paul's house. He placed the stack of papers onto the dashboard and glanced down. His eyes caught the ashtray, full of cigarette but remains from my temporary smoking relapse. You mind if I?

Mitch reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes. Go for it. Mitch nodded, squeezed a cigarette between his lips, and pulled out a lighter. He flicked, but no flame. Ficked again. Still nothing. I reached into my own pocket, pulled out my lighter, reached across, and flicked it on. Mitch leaned forward, inhaling the tip of his cigarette into the

flame and leaned back. Thanks, he said, exhaling smoke. I tucked the lighter away. Mitch scratched his eyebrow with his thumb, his eyes darting back and forth as he watched the window wiper seesaw. The blue glow of the streetlight cast shadows of trailing raindrops onto his face, almost like sad clown makeup. He cleared his throat. So I moved to the streetlight. I moved to the I moved in with Paul, took the guest room. What about? His old army friend? Mitch nodded.

Lawrence. Apparently his condition worsened. He had to go back down south for full-time care in a real hospital. That's what Paul told me. You saw him, right? Lawrence. I nodded. Covered in bandages.

I nodded again. There's no reason. to have decade-old burn injuries bandaged like that, said Mitch. I turned back and stared out through the windshield, headlights cast into the darkness ahead. The road seemed to stretch on for eternity now. On either side, walls of motionless trees stood like an audience of silent watchers, ancient, apathetic. Mitch shuffled through the stack of papers and pulled out another,

photograph. Look, I looked. The inside of a shed filled with dozens upon dozens of coat racks. This is Paul's backyard, said Mitch. He tucked the photo away and pulled out an aerial blueprint of the neighborhood. Lines of blue ink led away from Paul's house in a branching web-like pattern. He's got tunnels leading to every house in the neighborhood. I think he's the one breaking in, leaving coat racks in the corners. Why? Mitch put his cigarette out in the ashtray. I haven't figured everything out yet, but I'm getting there. He rubbed his nose and continued, Your friend, Zachary Serrano. I think Paul was drunk driving one night. All those years. and hit this kid on the interstate, took his body, and buried it up by the balry cliffs.

I shook my head. I talked with Zach's mother and she said a guy confessed to it. Mason Parker, right? I didn't respond. Mitch showed me a printout of a news article. A long-haul truck driver who came forward about it two years back. Right? How did he know all this?

Mitch, increasingly frantic, pulled out another photo and tossed it on the dashboard, a dead body in a basement corner, naked and decomposing, a plastic bag wrapped over its head. It was the same image that flashed through my mind when I talk with Zach's mom. Where did you get this? That's not important. This guy, Mason Parker, he lost his mind in the months leading up to his suicide. Mitch made finger quotes on the word suicide. His eyes looked slightly crazier with each passing minute.

Mason was on house arrest when he started telling his supervisors that he never actually confessed, that he never even hit anybody. He told them some guy, a drunk driver from a parallel timeline or something, hit and run this kid, then switched places with Mason. He told them this guy could hide between people's foreheads, look out through their eyes. Of course, they wrote him off as insane. I shook my head. Brandon, I know it sounds crazy, but trust me here, I've almost figured this out.

What about Howie? I'm not 100% on him, but I think he's a vessel for the intruder, a channel to spy on new recruits, so to speak. I didn't respond. Mitch pulled out another image. Shards of glass on the road, police caution tape, a wreck of a blue Toyota hatchback upside down in a ditch. Total. That's your car, right?

This car. Again, I didn't respond. When you visited my apartment, you told me you almost had a bear on the way over, right? I squinted at the image. The car had my license plate. If it was a fake, it was a convincing fake. So the next day, Mitch continued. I went out to investigate, and I found this accident scene.

Apparently, the driver died on impact. I did some more digging, and it turned out the driver's name was Brandon Miller. I didn't know what to say. Brandon, listen to me. I have more proof. He pulled out a copy of a police report detailing the nature of the crash. This wasn't easy to get a hold of, he said, holding it towards me. I waved it away, starting to feel my sanity slipping again.

Brandon, this is important. I think I know how to stop it, too. I think I can get you and maybe even my dad back to normal. I rolled my eyes. So I was dead the whole time or something. No, but this version of you died. He held up another image, a close-up of the driver's seat and the total car, a body hunched over the steering wheel, face hidden.

It's just like what happened with my dad when he tried driving his truck off the balry cliffs. I think it created another version of you. And I'm that version? No. Well, I don't know. Maybe. Why? What does it want? I'm still figuring that part out. What does Zach have to do with this? I think my dad killing Zach is maybe what started all this. Like he hit this kid and somehow the intruder showed up and helped him escape the consequences. I mean, I have other theories too. This is just one. But we could put together what we both know and actually figure this out. Think about it. He said, his eyes filled with manic energy.

I'm thinking about it. It sounds crazy, Mitch. Mitch ignored the slight. When I was a kid, like really young, I went out to the garage late one night, and my dad was there, power washing blood off his truck, told me he hit a coyote, and I believed him. But now... He trailed off and pulled out another photo.

Look. The image was of a severed finger laying atop blood-streaked asphalt, a yellow evidence number eight signed beside it. That's from your friend Zach where he died. I winced and looked away. Didn't need to see that. Think about it, Brandon. Mitch continued.

You just left town, ignore the rules, and now your life is better? Did you really think you could get away from it that even? easy. Like the rules didn't mean anything. Did you really think that this was over? He looked at me, expecting an answer, but I just stared at him, seeing the same crazed obsession in his eyes. The same obsession that almost killed me. Mitch turned away. So I went back to Paul's house, about a week ago, and he's not even there. The place is boarded up, overgrown, like abandoned. For years. I even asked the neighbors about it. It's like he just stopped existing. Mitch. He ignored it. There's too many connections here, too much evidence.

You can't just move on with this, Brandon. We need to figure this thing out. We can make sure this doesn't happen to anybody else, Mitch. We can even figure out why your friend Zach had to die. We can figure out how to save you from this. Save Paul, Mitch. Um, heading upstate to speak with Mason Parker's sister. Ask her about what he said in the days leading up to, enough. I snapped with bitter spite. Mitch looked at me, his eyes wide and sad. like a scolded dog. Brandon, are you not listening to me? Did you not see these photos?

I've moved on, I said plainly, fighting every instinct in my body to keep listening, keep searching for answers. But now I knew enough to know all this searching led nowhere good, true or not. This only led to. to misery. Mitch stared at me in disbelief. He lifted the stack of papers. This is theirs. I shook my head, and he trailed off into silent defeat. I stared straight ahead,

eyes locked on the road. Mitch sighed and reached for the door. He froze, hand on the latch. I found your story online. The words hung in the silent air. Mitch's hand slid off the door latch, down to his thigh. You know, it's using you, right? Again, he waited for my response, but I remained quiet. You need to take that story down, said Mitch. I shut my eyes, trying to see my eyes.

trying to stay calm, trying to focus. Did you seriously forget about no third parties? Brandon? I opened my eyes. You need to take that story down. The more people read it. The more influence he gains. It's using you.

Why do you think my dad encouraged you to pick up writing again? Does that really make sense? sense to you?" Thanks, Mitch. I'll think about it." Mitch's eyes shot down to the switchblade and the cup holder, then back to me. His eyes flicked back and forth, considering terrible options. Mitch, I'm not saying I don't believe you.

You might even have some of this figured out. I'm sure you do. But you told me yourself all this obsession searching for answers. It's not leading anywhere good." For a moment, his eyes filled with half understanding, an understanding that faded as he turned away and stared out the window. This is all I've got now, he said, placing the brown envelope onto his lap. He pushed open the door and stepped outside.

turning back, he hunched down and met my eyes. Take that story down, he said. But this time it sounded like a threat, a genuine threat, considering he likely knew where I lived. He looked back over his shoulder into the dark forest. That's when I noticed something I hadn't before. All night, Mitch's face had been mostly concealed in the darkness. But now, in the dim glow of the street light, I could see something

strange, scarring at the corners of his lips, pink and blotchy, like it was cut with a knife and healed over, subtle, but unmistakable. An image flashed through my mind, Mitch standing in the middle of his apartment kitchen, head snapped back as gaunt hand. hands pushed out of his throat and the corners of his lips started tearing. See you around, Brandon, said Mitch, tucking the envelope away and pushing the door shut. He wandered back towards the bus stop. I looked straight ahead and took another deep breath. I exhaled.

I shifted into forward, pulled a U-turn, and drove away. At the four-way stop, about a hundred feet down the road, I reached up to adjust the rearview mirror and the bus stop was empty. Mitch was gone. I looked back over my shoulder. A crawling chill slid down my spine. He was standing in the middle of the road beneath the streetlight. His back turned to me with pinned straight posture.

Icey rain and slush beat down from above. He stood motionless, unaffected. The light flickered, and I almost expected him to disappear or move closer. But he didn't. He just stood in the exact same spot, staring out into the endless dark, rigid. I floored it and got the hell out of there, sped all the way home and never looked back. That was the last time I saw Mitch, or at least that version of him. But something tells me he'll show up again.

Maybe in a month, maybe in a year, maybe on my deathbed. I know the intruder isn't finished with me yet, but I'm okay with that. I don't think he's finished with any of us. I'd be lying if I said Mitch's theories don't bother me. Despite all his insanity, some of it actually made sense. A disturbing amount of sense. For three weeks straight, I fought the urge to investigate further, fought the urge to start Googling Mason Parker, Paul Carver, Zachary Serrano.

I told myself it was all part of the intruder's game. The photos, the threads, all of it was just bait, tantalizing crumbs of half-truths, all designed to pull me back into the convoluted conspiracy. It wasn't easy, but I resisted. I'm not proud of much, but I'm proud of that. I went for a hike last week, needed to clear my head, so I drove downstate, went to the same trail Zach and I used to explore as kids. I dressed for winter with a snack-filled backpack, in a pack of vanilla-flavored cigarillos. Figured I earned a one-time relapse after pushing through all this. I brought my switchblade along too, just in case. Everything felt different

out here now, smaller, covered in patches of melting snow. I wandered the winding trails, down past old house, past the Rendell Shams, down towards the base of the cauldron cliffs. The old rusted car was still there too, half stuck in the frozen riverbed. I stepped up to the edge of the bank. The air was crisp, a gentle breeze swept up from downriver and pushed through me like a spirit. I stepped out, setting a foot onto the ice. It was solid, like concrete. I set both feet out.

It felt safe. I shuffled across the river towards the abandoned. car slipping as I went. I stood on top of the rusted car in the middle of the icy riverbed at the bottom of cauldron cliffs. I pulled a smoke out, lit up, inhaled. The warm rush of nicotine poured through me like an old but toxic friend. I'd like to say I had some profound insight here, some meaningful revelation. But I didn't... If anything, I didn't... I just felt sadder about Zach than I ever felt before. I sat there for about an hour, maybe two.

It was hard to know. Another breeze pushed up from downriver and chilled through me. It was getting colder. I exhaled and tucked the pack of smokes back into my bag and pushed up from the dead car and hobbled my way back across the icy river bed, stepping up onto the river bank. to go home. I made my way back up the winding trails, up past Old House, past the Rindle Shams, over Planters Creek. I turned the corner and stepped onto the last stretch of long straight path through the sparse winter forest, the same path from my last memory with Zach.

I kept walking and a branch snapped behind me. I spun around, about 20 feet down the path, a grizzly, malnourished and gaunt, lumbered onto the trail. I froze. The bear stared at me and huffed. Hot fog pushed out through its nostrils. Fear rushed through me, like a knife. I stepped backward, started to turn away, started to think about running, but I stopped. I turned back.

I stared into the old creature's silent eyes. I took a deep breath. I exhaled. The bear raised its head, studying me, judging me. Hey, I said, as calm as I could manage. How have you been? The bear's head tilted slightly, and it took a quick step forward. I didn't move.

I kept talking. I told her about how I used to go hiking up here with my friend Zach. I told her about my year, all the while, slowly backing up. The bear matched my pace, the gap between us shrinking with each step. I stopped moving, reached back, took off my bag, squatted down, and placed it gently on the ground. I rose back to standing and took another careful step backward. The bear matched me, pushed forward as I stepped back. I stopped.

I gritted my teeth and took a step forward, a step towards the bear. It looked at me, confused. Primal fear shuffled through my body like a deck of manic cards, but I didn't have time to worry about that. that right now. The bear sniffed the air again, then took another, more cautious step forward. And another one. Everything in my body screamed at me to run, screamed at me to turn heel and bolt. But I didn't. I stood motionless. Eyes locked with the bear. She reached the pack on the ground and bent forward, sniffing the bag and turning a little. it over with her nose. I exhaled slowly and took another step back. She looked up at me,

almost looking annoyed at my being there now. She went back to biting and pawing at the pack. I took another step and another one, one step after another until I was 50 feet away, until I was a hundred feet away, 200 feet. I walked backward until I reached the bend, rounded the corner, walked to the parking lot, got in my car, and drove back home. Of course, I know this isn't done. I don't think it will ever be. I know I haven't seen the last of Mitch, Howie, maybe even Paul.

I know Mitch isn't going to stop until this story is taken down, and something tells me the intruder will follow me until the day I die. I've learned to live with that. Whatever happens, I'm okay with it. I'm not happy about it, but I'll accept it. Honestly though, Mitch is probably right. I even consider deleting this story. It seems likely that the intruder, if he's real, might be using me.

But I don't care anymore. Why would I? For the first time in my life, I'm okay with waking up in the morning and existing, and as much as I hate to admit it. Ever since the intruder showed up, ever since I stopped following these stupid rules, ever since I moved on, my life's only gotten better. Maybe yours will, too.