Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - ZIPPERJAW | Part 2

Episode Date: January 14, 2026

Listen to all 3 parts of ZIPPERJAW today with a 7-day FREE TRIAL of ⁠⁠⁠Dr. NoSleep Premium⁠⁠⁠. Cancel anytime. No commitment. Just go to ⁠⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠⁠⁠ to sign up. A small town is tearing off faces, and the only man who knows why is racing the clock against a monster that shouldn’t exist—and a truth that might destroy him first. ZIPPERJAW is a brutal descent into trauma, guilt, and generational evil, where the real horror isn’t what’s hunting you… it’s what you buried to survive. Fuel your nightmares with NoSleep Coffee — fresh, same-day roasted beans shipped right to your door. Use code NOSLEEP20 for 20% off your first order: https://nosleepcoffee.com Huge thanks to BetterHelp for sponsoring the show: Sign up now and get 10% off at⁠ betterhelp.com/dns⁠. Author: J.G. Martin Check out more of his work here: https://linktr.ee/jgmartin Check out his new book "Crooked Gospels" for more bone chilling stories. It is now available on Amazon here: https://a.co/d/iPwIw4E * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised. #creepypasta #horrorstories #drnosleep #scarystories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Want to listen to the entire three-part, Zipperjaw series today? Start your seven-day free trial of Dr. No Sleep premium now and binge all three parts without waiting. Just go to Patreon.com slash DR No Sleep to sign up. You can cancel any time, no commitment. That's Patreon.com slash DR No Sleep. Jonah's face turns white. Words coming so fast, they're stumbling over each other. Your father is? That thing outside? How the hell does that work?

Tough to say. I snap a fresh form onto my clipboard. If I had to guess, I'd say it's a manifestation of his inner demons. Not that they ever stayed inner. But it's him. I'd bet your face on it. He gives me a bitter look. You are betting my face on it.

Okay, so it's your dad's ghost or soul or whatever the fuck. Is that good for us? Bad? You know him. So you can predict him, right? My tongue presses the side of my cheek. Truth be told, I don't think men like my father can be predicted. The best you can do is survive them.

But the kid doesn't need realism. He needs hope. And more importantly, a reason to keep doing as I say. Yeah, I lie. We've got nothing to worry about. Come on, you don't have to pretend. I flipped the page hard enough that it tears. Look at your hand, Jonah says.

It's shaking worse than my grandfathers, and he had Parkinson's. You're scared. It's okay to admit it. Hell, I'm fucking terrified. A scowl paints my face. Stay on task. We're on the clock. 11.22 p.m. But he insists on making himself a headache. He jabs a finger across the room at the me-shaped indent in the drywall.

You don't think I saw what happened? I was right here, man. That thing told you to zip it, and you looked ready to piss your pants. And I get it. If it is what you say it is, then there's no shame in being afraid. Christ. Of course there's shame in it. Fear is the core difference between predator and prey.

And I am not prey. Not now. Not ever. You don't know me. I hissed through my teeth. And trust me, you don't want to. So stow the pro bono therapy and start telling me something useful. You're right, he says, shoving off the mattress and rounding on me in the armchair.

I don't know you. because you haven't told me anything about you. You're a walking question mark, a black suit wearing a man. If you weren't already dying, you'd probably hang yourself, wouldn't you? I cough. A red splatter painting my sleeve.

I'm considering leaving something similar across Jonah's face. Maybe that's the problem, he says, shaking his head. Take zipper jaw away, and you've got nothing. No purpose, no reason to keep breathing. On some level, you need to be. that monster. Without it, Tommy wouldn't even exist, would he? It happens before I can stop myself. My rage takes the wheel, my indignation. I'm shooting from my chair, snatching the kid by the front of his hospital gown, and snapping back my arm, fist clenched, and he flinches. He doesn't

fight back. He doesn't shove me off. He just flinches like he knows what's coming, like he just wants to get it over with. The same way I used to react when my old man would give me my father motherly love one bruise at a time. I let the kid go, collapsing into my chair with my head in my hands. There's an ache in my chest, not cancer, something worse. Shame. Guilt. About a thousand other emotions I spent a lifetime burying too, all of them crawling out for their day in the sun. You finished? I ask. Are you? You say you're a sociopath, but I don't see it. All I see is a man terrified to let himself feel anything that isn't rage. And so what if I am? I snap. My patience evaporating. What does that change? What difference does admitting that even make?

Jonah's quiet for several moments. It means you can take off your mask, that you can stop running from your past and finally start being honest with yourself. And if this thing really is your father, I'm thinking that might be important. I avoid his eyes. It's not that simple. There are things I've bury that would break me to dig up again. You couldn't possibly understand. He folds his arms. Oh, did you murder and cannibalize your father too then? No? Then maybe don't sit here and act like you're the king of trauma. You want to know what I went through? Fine, I'll tell you, because I'm not a fucking coward. Something inside me boils, but I don't say a word. I sit there stewing while the kid digs deep, excavating another nightmare while I do whatever it takes to avoid my own.

I saw that thing. Zipper jaw. Break down my door, he croaks. Saw it lurch inside, swaying like a scarecrow on children's legs. It had scissors lodged in its skull. Did you know that? Purple ones, with little stars on the handle. My grip on the pen tightens. Adelaide had a pair just like those, didn't she? It backed me up against the stairs. Jonah continues. Then it leaned in close. Its head jerked to the side. Its little hand grabbing those scissors and wrenching them free.

Jonah's voice catches. Black bile sprayed out, thick, viscous, and it started humming, dragging the scissors down my chest, cutting a square from my pajamas. And do you know what it did then? I shake my head, jaw clenched. It's stuffed. He brings a hand to his mouth, nauseated. It's stuffed.

that scrap of my pajamas into its open wound the hole in its skull where the scissors had been like it was making my shirt part of itself and its face I asked do you remember what it looked like it didn't have one no nose no ears no skin he bites his lip it looked more like fabric brown and coarse burlap maybe and and so where its mouth should be was a zipper smile My heart pounds. Adelaide had mentioned a mask, one she was designing for the no-thing. Did father take it like he took her scissors?

Was it not enough for him to kill her? He needed to pervert her memory, too. Jonah pauses, brows furrowed. Question. What is it? I ask, impatient. It's just, he pauses. Well, you told me your sister killed your father.

That zipper jaw made her daughter. made her do it. But if your father's zipper jaw, then you're saying he, what, made her kill him before killing herself? That doesn't add up. A lump forms in my throat. The kids trying to punch holes in my theory. The sort of holes I don't appreciate. Let me paint you a clearer picture then, I say, an edge to my voice. My father was being investigated by the state for child endangerment. He knew it was only a matter of time before he got locked up, before he lost everything. And for somebody like him, an abusive sociopath who fed on control, that'd be just about his worst nightmare. He didn't see us as children, kid.

He saw us as property, punching bags he could lay into whenever he needed to blow off steam. He wouldn't be able to stand the thought of losing control of us, of facing the humiliation of a trial. So what does he do? I leaned forward, hissing through my teeth. He takes control of the narrative however he can, even if it means killing himself to do it. Jonah blanks, stunned. Hold on. You're saying the first zipper jaw murder was staged then?

That it was... My father was a narcissist, I say, cutting him off. The kind who'd carve off his own face just to be remembered as the victim. If he felt backed into a corner and figured the only way out was suicide, that he'd make damn sure Addy and I suffered too, Killing us alone would be too easy, too kind. No, he'd want to make sure he killed the memory of us also. My knuckles cracked.

Only he never got to finish me off. Just Adelaide. Why, though? Did he bleed out before finishing his plan? Or is there something I've chosen to forgot? Something my mind stitched over to keep me sane. Picture this. It's late at night.

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Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com. slash d n s mr chambers there's a woman at the door only we don't get guests in this apartment my name is ruth mitchins she announces i'm a social worker with the state i'd like to speak with you about tommy and adelaide if you have a few minutes a second later and father's bursting into the room addie and i share his eyes narrow we cower as he marches forward, hands pumping in and out of fists, practically salivating with violence. You told on me? Again? How many fucking times do I have to repeat the same lesson before you damn well learned? He reaches for me, and Adelaide throws herself in front of me.

Fine, he snarls. I'll start with. The social worker calls out again. Mr. Chambers, I can hear the television, so I know someone's home. For a second, dad's hand hovers halfway to Adelaide's throat. Then he wrenches it back with a curse, fingers curling into a fist at his side. So sorry, Ruth. His voice flips like a switch becoming bright and apologetic, almost sing-songy. Just getting out of the shower. Can you give me five minutes to make myself presentable? Of course, Mr. Chambers. I'll wait right here.

He takes a deep breath. Like magic, his face starts to rearrange itself. The snarl smooths into a smile. The violence drains. from his eyes, replaced by something soft, warm. It's like watching a monster pull on human skin. He straightens his shirt, runs a hand through his greasy hair. Then he drops to one knee before us, hands settling on our shoulders. Either of you say a word, he whispers, leaning in close enough I can smell the beer on his breath. And I'll kill you, understand. I know he isn't kidding. But I tell myself he can't hurt us, not after tonight. Once the social worker steps inside, she'll see, she'll save us, she'll take us away to somewhere safe, somewhere happy, a home full of love and warm meals,

and parents who don't have fists for hands. All I have to do is be brave. Just like Addy promised, the next ten minutes pass in a blur. Father tears through the apartment like a tornado, snatching beer cans off the coffee table, shoving pill bottles into his pockets. The pile of dirty laundry in the corner disappears into the bedroom closet. The dishes stacked in the sink get crammed into cupboards. No time to wash them. Just hide them. He catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror and curses. He grabs a razor. By the time the lock finally turns, Adelaide and I are standing in the hallway exactly where he positioned us, smiling, clean-faced, coached to say, hello, and... Nice to meet you. And nothing else.

The door swings open. Father stands in the threshold, transformed, clean-shaven, doused in cologne and mouthwash, wearing a suit I didn't even know he owned. The tie slightly crooked. Ruth! His voice is warm, apologetic. So sorry about the weight. Please come in.

I'm Howie, by the way, he says, extending a hand. And these are my two rascals. Ruth shakes his hand, smiling. She's younger than I expected. mid-thirties, maybe, with kind eyes and a leather portfolio tucked under one arm. This is Tommy, father continues, his hand settling on my shoulder, not hard, not yet. Don't be shy, buddy. I manage something that might be a hello. And my little arts and crafts monster, Adelaide. Addy doesn't speak. Her hand finds mine

and squeezes once. Father's fingers tighten on my shoulder before he releases me with a gentle pat. To Ruth, it probably looks affectionate. Can I offer you some tea? He asks, already moving toward the kitchen. Or coffee? I know I kept you waiting. I'm fine, thank you. Ruth follows him, glancing around the apartment, taking inventory. I'm actually here to discuss the abuse. Father says it simply, like he's commenting on the weather. He pulls out a chair for her at the kitchen table, The same table that two hours ago was buried under empty bottles and pill containers. All of it vanished now, hidden in cupboards that bulge at their seams.

Come on, kids, sit down. He gestures to the chairs across from Ruth. It's time I own up to my failure as a father. The words, it like cold water. Addie's hand tightens around mine. I can feel her pulse hammering against my palm, or maybe it's my own. Not five minutes ago, he'd promised to kill us if we said a word. And now, Ruth shifts in her seat, and hovering over her notepad.

Mr. Chambers, it's unusual for someone to lead with that. Can you tell me what you mean? Well, father settles into his chair with a heavy sigh, running a hand through his damp hair. My therapist says radical honesty is the only path to real change. So yes, I yell. I lose my temper. I send them to their rooms when I should probably count to ten instead. He looks at us with what might pass for remorse.

I'm far from perfect, Ruth, but I'm trying. He places a hand to his chest. My therapist says, radical self-honesty is the surest path to self-improvement. So yes, I yell, I scold. I send them to their room. I'm far from perfect. Ruth shakes her head. That's not what I mean.

Adelaide tells me you've struck them, locked them in the room for days. Our father exhales, weary and wounded. Addy, are you having nightmares again? Poor thing. Nightmares? Ruth asks. I don't have nightmares. Addy blurts.

He pats her hand with paternal concern. It's okay, sweetheart. The social worker's just trying to help. He looks to Ruth. Their mother's death hit Adelaide the hardest. Abigail used to hum to her every night, even stitched her a friend in light of Addie's condition. Condition?

Addie was always intense. If she didn't get her way, she'd make scenes, cry in public, accuse her mom of things she'd never do. Other children tend to avoid her. That's not true! But Ruth holds up a hand. Everyone deserves to be heard. And you told me you've had trouble making friends yourself, dear.

And there it is, father's smirk, a flicker of triumph behind his gentle mask. How did their mother die? Ruth asks. He hesitates, milking it. She killed herself, he whispers. Because of the things Addie said about her, the gossip, the lies, it broke her, and I. He drops his face into his hands, sobbing. Ruth touches his shoulder.

I'm so sorry, Mr. Chambers. He looks up, eyes red but dry. I just try to keep peace now. I let them stay up late, order takeout. I'm terrified of losing them too. Addie slams the table. You're a liar. You drink all day and I know. He cries, cutting her off.

I'm an alcoholic, but I'm trying. I go to meetings. Tell her, Tommy. Addie begs me. But he's already looking in my direction. That silent promise. That invisible knife between us. Speak and die.

Well, Ruth says, closing her notebook with a sigh. I think Tommy's silence says plenty. She gives Addie a disappointed look. Making up stories isn't helping anyone. You need to stop dragging your brother into them. She stands. Mr. Chambers, you've been very open. I'll return in a month to check.

your progress. He walks her to the door, feigning gratitude. Addy screams. He's going to kill us! You can't leave! He hugs her tight at his side. Shhh, it's okay, sweetheart. Stay up as late as you want tonight. She's right! The words tear from my throat, high and desperate. He said he'd kill us. The room goes still. Ruth's smile falters. Her eyes move between me and my father, really looking this time, searching for something. Father meets her gaze steadily. Let's out a tired, wounded sigh. Tommy, he says softly, and there's hurt in his voice. Real hurt. There's something that sounds like it. Why would you say something like that? He looks back at Ruth, shaking his head. I told them I'd kill them with tickles before bedtime. It's, we have this game we play. I thought it might

I'd cheer them up, but... He trails off, running a hand through his hair. Maybe I shouldn't joke like that. Not after everything. Ruth exhales. The suspicion drains from her face, replaced by something worse. Pity. Tommy, Adelaide, no more of this.

Do you understand me? You need to stop filling each other's heads with stories. Your father is trying. She stands, smoothing her skirt. Thank you for your time, Mr. Chambers. I'll return in a month to check on everyone's progress. Of course. And Ruth?

Father walks her to the door, one hand on the frame. I really am trying. For them. For their mother's memory. I can see that. She touches his arm, brief, encouraging. I'm sure she'd be proud, Howie. Good night.

The door closes. The lock turns. The chain slides. home. For a moment, there's only the sound of father's breathing, deep, controlled, the kind of breath you take before lifting something heavy, or breaking something fragile. His smile is gone, the warmth evaporated from his eyes. Addy puts a protective arm in front of me, both of his inching backward, trying not to make a sound. Father rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and takes a step toward us.

Not back for a month, he says quietly. That's plenty of time to hide your corpses. You with me? Jonah asks. His voice sounds distant, muffled, like I'm hearing him through water. I blink hard, once, twice. The apartment walls dissolve like wet paint, replaced by flickering fluorescence and shattered drywall.

The smell of my father's cologne fades, replaced by antiseptic and stormwind. I'm fine, I rasped. The memory clings like cobwebs. Father's threat, Ruth's blind faith, Adelaide's silent scream. All of it tangled with what I know now. Jonah was the sole survivor.

Out of dozens of victims across four decades, only this kid ever faced zipper jaw and survived. I told myself it was luck before, that he'd cut too shallow, that the paramedics arrived too fast. But now I'm wondering if it was deliberate. If the cold, calculating piece of my father that still lived inside of that monster

spared Jonah specifically to lure me here, to drag me back to this corpse of a town so he could make good on the promise he made 40 years ago. Either of you say a word and I'll kill you. A shiver crawls through me. You sure you're good? Jonah asks, concern in his voice. 11.34 p.m.

I said I'm fine, so I'm fine. I say impatiently, reaching for my clipboard. Now keep talking. The kid stares at me, silent, then does what I say. Like I said, it had me pinned. Its smile widened, those rusty teeth rattling as they began to unzip. He makes the sound. It's mouth unfurled like a sack fallen open.

Just this dark. maw. And from inside, he swallows hard. I heard them, voices, people I knew, previous victims, all of them whispering, their faces hanging from the roof of its mouth like ornaments of skin, open mouths, carved eyes. He wretches onto the linoleum. It's black, viscous, more bile than vomit. The voices, kid, what were they saying? Jonah scrapes himself upright, dark fluid crusting the gown. I'm half expecting to see tears in his eyes, but instead they're two sunken bits, detached and empty, like he's finally learning to strangle his emotions before they can strangle him. My mother, he croaks, staring past me with a thousand-yard gaze.

The voices told me it wasn't cancer that killed her. They said it was. His hands shoot to his hair, fingers digging into his scalp. They lied! The scream tears out of him. They were liars! Tell me what they said. But he's frantic now, pacing like a caged animal.

He's stalling, probably hiding the part that will unlock everything. But midnight is closing in like a guillotine, and there's no time to waste, dragging answers out of him. So I do the thing I hate more than anything else. I let go. I give the kid the wheel to his own story, and pray he steers us where we need to go. Forget the faces. What happened next? His breathing steadies. He nods.

finding his threat again. My dad came out of his room with a shotgun, shouting that he'd already called the cops. Then he saw a zipper jaw and went white. The thing leapt off me like an insect, clawed straight up the wall. Dad fired, a bunch. The shots didn't do a thing, though.

Just punched holes in drywall. It was on him in seconds. He swallows hard. It threw him through the upstairs railing, and he fell, hit the floor in a shower of sleep. splinters, his neck. Jonah brings a hand to his mouth. And you?

I asked, quietly, pulling his focus back. What did you do? Ran! He's chewing his thumbnail now, tearing at the cuticle. Bolted for the kitchen. Tried to find a knife, a weapon, anything. But then a shadow fell over me. His eyes go distant again, seeing it.

I look it up, and there it was, crawling across the ceiling. It's patchworked dress hanging himself. It dropped on all fours right in front of me, rasping. He wraps his arms around himself. Its jaw was wide open, and inside, his voice drops to a whisper. Inside were those faces, still whispering, still telling me lies about my father, saying he deserved it, that he'd been lying my whole life. My stomach flips, recalling the conversation between his old man and Dutch.

Lying about what? My mother, he crooks. about how she died. He gives a weak sob. Expressions cycling between grief and rage, like he can't decide which one to feel. The voices said it wasn't cancer that killed her. It was Dad and Dutch.

The words come faster now, tumbling out like he needs to expel them. Her treatments were going well, really well, but then Dad saw the life insurance pay out, how much it was worth. Dutch came up with the plan, helped Dad kill her split the money, so Dutch poisoned her over weeks, something untraceable,

something that would look like her body was just giving up after the fight. Jonah wipes at his eyes, now red and puffy. Or at least, that's what the voice has said. I study him. And you? What do you believe? His mouth hangs open. For a second he's torn, caught between the child who loved his father and the truth he can't

unknown. Then the confession slips out. Light as a laugh. I think the faces were right, my brow furrows. But you just called them liars. It's closer now, much closer. Jonah's hand goes to his ear again, tugging. Only there's something different about the gesture now.

It's like he's trying to adjust the volume on something only he can hear. They were liars, he says, but he sounds confused, uncertain. The voices, I mean, no, wait. He shakes his head. My dad and Uncle Dutch, they were the liars. Dad lied about everything, he says, voice gaining confidence. About mom, about caring. His lips twitch at the corners.

He deserved what he got. Kid, you're contradicting yourself. Am I? He tilts his head, and the motion is too smooth, too measured. Or are you just not listening? Aloham rises from the corridor outside, mangled, broken. Jonah's eyes drift toward the door. His hand stops tugging his ear and falls to his lap.

The fingers drum once, twice, against his thigh, as if keeping time with something. It's not fair, he says quietly. And I can't tell if he's talking to me or to himself. You keep calling them lies, but they showed me the truth. They helped me see. Snap out of it! But he continues, his voice rising. He was a monster.

My father, your father, All of them are. The voices just, they just opened my eyes, made me understand. His lips curl upward, widening into a manic smirk. Then he blinks. The grin falters, confusion washing over his face. I don't. I don't feel so good.

He looks down at his hands like they belong to someone else. It's Zipper Jaw. His voice cracks, fear bleeding back in. It's in my head. It's... Zipper Jaws fingernail. creep against the door. Jonah flinches, and when he looks back at me, the fear is gone again, smoothed away like someone wiped a cloth across his expression.

It's almost time, he says brightly. Only 15 minutes to go. He starts rocking in place, like a child waiting for Christmas morning. I grip my gun. Jonah, listen to me. You need to fight this. But I don't want to fight it, he says simply. Don't you see? It's the only thing that makes the pain stop. When it's close, everything makes sense.

All the hurt, all the confusion, it just goes away. A smile, blissful, delirious crosses his face. You'll understand soon. Is that why Jonah carved off his father's face and ate it? Because the thing outside was pumping him full of psychic Novocaine, numbing the guilt so we could get the job done? Son of a bitch, I breathe. No wonder it's right outside.

It knows exactly what it's doing, bending the rules without breaking them, keeping me from the data I need to put it in the dirt. You don't like the truth, do you? Jonah asks with an exaggerated frown. You get upset whenever you have one of your memories. He slides off the bed, bare feet slapping through his own puddle of puke. You shouldn't run from them, though. They're gifts. I draw my gun, tell I'm on the hammer.

Sit the buck. down. He stops, letting loose and uneven laugh. He sounds so much like him. Who? My dad. You want to know what I did when I found him at the foot of the stairs? All broken and bleeding. Let me guess. You ate his face. No! He roars. A vein throbs near his temple. His hands pump in and out of fists. You keep calling at his face. He seethes. But it wasn't.

It was his mask. Understand? The lie he showed the world. He takes a step toward me, swaying slightly. And I removed it because I'm a good son. Because I wanted to give him the gift of dying as himself. My lip curls. I bet he was overjoyed.

He wags a finger at me, and a chuckle bubbles up from his throat. There you go again. Hiding behind your jokes, acting like you're above it all. His eyes are buzzing now. pupils blown wide. My father did the same thing, made everything a joke, so we never had to feel anything real. He stopped swaying and goes very still. Except at the end, at the end, he couldn't joke. He was too busy choking on his own blood, too busy dying to make me feel small anymore. The chuckle returns, sharper, more gleeful. All the pathetic master could do was sit there with his

broken spine and broken neck and broken teeth, gasping like a fish while I worked. His fingers twitch, mimicking the motion of scissors. Cutting, peeling, tearing. And his whole body shudders. His shoulders roll back, head tilting toward the ceiling, lips parting on a soft exhale. When I was finished, he continues, voice dreaming now. Zipper jaw told me to really look at him. To see him, bro.

who he truly was. Just raw tendon plastered to a skull. No more masks, no more lies. And it whispered to me. His voice catches with reverence. It whispered that I could taste all those lies too. That his face held thousands of them, and I'd only uncovered one.

A soft moan escapes him. All it would take is a few bites. His tongue darts out and wets his lips. But once I started, I couldn't stop. With every bite, I saw more, more of who he really was beneath the mask, and I hated it. Every lie I swallowed just made me angrier, hungrier. And yet you still tried to kill yourself afterward. Funny how that works.

His expression flickers. The smile cracks at the edges, confusion bleeding through. You don't, he blinks, like he's trying to remember why he's standing, where he is. You don't get it. Zipperjaw isn't a monster. It's a healer. It showed me the truth. Made the pain stop.

Made everything clear. He wraps his arms around himself. But it only works when it's close. When it's... He trails off, staring at the battered door, at the shape moving beyond it. When I felt it leaving, pulling away, it was like all that clarity

he started to drain out of me. I was sitting there next to my father's corpse, all that blood, his face and my stomach, and suddenly I could feel again, the horror, the guilt. Everything I'd done came crashing back and I, he chokes on the words. I begged it not to leave me, begged it to take the pain away, forever this time, and it listened. It gave me the scissors, told me I'd never have to hurt again, that I could be with it always, be part of it. But only if I was brave enough. His hand drifts to his bandaged throat, fingers tracing the line of stitches beneath the gauze. And I was. Christ. So that's the final hook. The monster doesn't just relieve pain. It replaces it. It becomes the only thing that makes existence tolerable. And when it leaves, the withdrawal is so

devastating, the death feels like mercy. It's a drug, and Jonah's still hooked. The walls shudder. The whole room does. There's a guttural snarl from beyond the door, one I can hardly hear over Jonah's enthusiastic clapping. It's almost time, he says. We still have 20 minutes, and I need every last one of them. It shouldn't be able to get in, not yet, not unless my pocket watch starts screaming. For the first time in three years, glyphs are spinning across the antique glass, symbols. The system flickers through threat scans faster than I can track. Event detected. Classification.

Analyzing. Stand by. The watch throbs like a heartbeat in my hand. Outside, the wind howls. Rain lashes through the broken window in horizontal sheets, soaking the floor, the bed, everything. And beneath it all is that mechanical growl of metal teeth grinding together. The watch face pulses, a flush of dark ink forming into words. Threat class, six, designation, zipper jaw, danger level, bloodbath.

My breath catches. Class six, there's no way. That's the highest threat class there is. It's reserved for entities that can create pocket realities that require full tactical teams and ritual preparation. The watch pulses again. Static washes across the display. glyphs fragmenting and reforming. The number stutter. Threat class, seven. Threat class, six.

They keep going back and forth, like it can't make up its mind. Seven, six, seven. Warning, entity evolution detected. Dimensional bleed, active. No, I whisper. No, no, no. Class seven isn't even an official designation. It's theoretical. A catch-all for cosmic horrors. Creature so powerful the order couldn't hope to contain them, much less destroy them. The watch stutters again. You've got to be kidding. It's evolving. Right now in real time. Growing beyond its original parameters. Learning, adapting, breaking its own rules. Combat assessment complete. Analyzing survival probability. Calculating. 99.7% likelihood of death. Recommended action. Immediate evacuation. Do not engage. Requesting overseer support.

The door shutters. A crack splits down the center. Error! Communications blocked by temporal interference. The screen fuses. You are alone, Inquisitor. Then that two vanishes, replaced by a single word. Run! The door bulges inward. Splinters rain down. A hinge tears free.

The pocket watch pulses one final time. The order's grim motto crawling across the display. In her name, we listen. In her name, we fall. I snap it shut. In her name, I growl. We finish what we fucking started. The door explodes, cartwheeling across the room.

It slams him to the wall beside Jonah, but the kid doesn't even blink. Next comes the feral cry. The animal snarl. It rips through the room, making my teeth ache and the window shatter with a scream of wind. rain washes across the floor, lightning streaks the sky beyond. You're back! Jonah gasps, falling to his knees with tears in his eyes. We're together again, at last! A towering figure lurches through the doorway, its stolen limbs creaking like ancient timber.

Jonah tugs at its patchwork dress, tries to get its attention. It doesn't even spare a second to look down. It just cracks its head toward me with a low-grown. There's another flash of lightning. Enough to get a glimpse of its burlap face, blood-stained hair, plastic eyes and the gleam of that zipper-mouthed smile. My hands snapped to my sidearm. I'm firing on it before I even finish my thought. Four decades of hatred pouring out one bullet at a time.

But zipper jaw doesn't even have the courtesy to stumble. Its teeth begin to part. The zipper unfurling like a sack being opened. Its lower jaw falls down to its feet, revealing an endless void where its throat should be. And I hear it then, just like Jonah described. The voices, the whispers. They multiply, layering over each other in a chorus of lies. I'm clawing at my ears, pressing hard enough to hurt, but it doesn't help.

They're already inside me, the words. Listen to them! Jonah pleads, following behind zipper jaw like an acolyte. They only want to show you the truth. No! I wheeze. They're lying. That's the problem.

They're telling me things about Adelaide I've spent 40 years refusing to see. Things I buried under myth and martyrdom and the comfortable fiction of her sainthood. She wasn't an angel, the voices whisper. She was a child, angry, desperate, violent. No, she was her father's daughter. Stop! She made you hold the scissors. My vision fractures. I'm staggering through broken glass, rain soaking through my suit, cold and sharp and real.

Addy meant everything to me. The words tear out of my throat. I loved her. That's what love is. The voices croon. Hirting people in the way they need to be hurt. My father's philosophy, his legacy, the one he passed down like a genetic disease.

My knees hit the floor. Lightning splits the sky, and suddenly I can't tell if I'm screaming or if it's the storm. It wasn't my fault, a whisper. But the voices don't answer because they've already shown me the truth. And the truth is, it was.

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