Snook - 5+ Hours Of Reddit Horror Stories

Episode Date: July 5, 2026

This is 5+ Hours Of some Horrifying Reddit Horror Stories! This is a megacompilation of some of the most wild, disturbing and scary stories I have ever read from reddit... I hope you enjoy! And let me know if you would like to see more videos like this in the future! Thank you all for listening! Make sure you rate the podcast 5 stars and follow! Thank you all so much for listening! Make sure to subscribe to the Patreon for early access videos and many more perks! ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.patreon.com/SnookYT⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Also! Go follow me on Spotify and Instagram! Yes, my voice is human. The channels subscriber goal is 1 million, so subscribe! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Twizzlers keep the fun going. Yeah, I know. I just stopped whatever you were listening to to tell you that Twizzlers keep the fun going. Well, irony isn't my forte, but twisty, chewy, yummy Twizzlers sure is. So think of Twizzlers as a little pallet cleanser for whatever's queued up, which, by the way, should be coming very soon. Like any second now. Okay, Twizzlers, time to keep the fun going.

Selling your soul to the devil is not as straightforward as you think. think, by Poco for Life. I never believed in the devil until I met him at a coffee shop on a random Tuesday. It wasn't some dramatic crossroads encounter or a midnight summoning with candles and incanations. He was just sitting there at a corner table and grind coffee, wearing a perfectly ordinary navy suit that looked like he was about to burst because of his muscles and reading the financial times. The only thing that gave him away was how he knew my name when I'd never seen him before my life. Marcus Chen, he said, looking up from his paper as I walked past his table. Rough couple months, haven't it been? He grinned. I stopped dead. Do I know you? I asked,

though something in my gut already knew the answer would complicate everything. He smiled, and his teeth were perfectly white, too white. Please sit, I have a proposition that might interest to you. He charmingly gestured in front of him. I should have stayed away. Every rational part of my brain screamed at me to keep moving, get my overpriced latte, and pretend this conversation never happened. Instead, I sat down, as if I didn't even have a say in it. I'm in the business of solving problems, he said, folding his newspaper with precise creases,

and you, Marcus, have quite a few problems. He was not wrong at all. The foreclosure notice was burning a hole in my jacket pocket, and my credit cards had all been maxed. out for weeks. Sarah had left me three months ago, taking our daughter Emma with her. My startup had collapsed spectacularly, leaving me with nothing but debt and a profound sense of failure. Who are you? I asked. Names have power, he said. Let's just say I'm someone who can help. Your house, you're about to lose it. Your daughter barely speaks to you. Your ex-wife thinks you're

a failure. Your credit is destroyed. Your business partners won't return your calls. He leaned back in his chair. Am I getting warm? The accuracy of his assessment hit me like a physical blow. How do you? I trailed. He chuckled. Know all this?

I make it my business to know. The question is, how badly do you want to fix it? I stared at him. He was probably in his 40s with salt and pepper hair, kind eyes and arms of the size of my head. He looked like someone's accountant, not whatever he was. What do you say?

Justin, a transaction, a very reasonable one actually. You have something I want and I have something you need. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather portfolio. I'm prepared to offer you $1 million. Cash. Untraceable. Enough to save your house, went back your family, start over, he said. I couldn't resist the urge to sigh at his annoying corporate tone.

In exchange for what? His smile widened. Just a small piece of your soul. Nothing dramatic, maybe 10%. You'll hardly notice it's gone. I laughed. I actually laughed out loud. You're insane.

Am I? He opened the portfolio and showed me photographs, pictures of my house, my daughter's school, Sarah's apartment. Marcus, in three days, the bank will repossess your home. In two weeks, your daughter will start at a new school because Sarah can't afford the private one anymore. in a month you'll be sleeping in your car.

He closed the portfolio. I'm offering you a way out. You're talking about selling my soul to the devil. He smiled softly. I'm talking about a limited partnership arrangement. Think of it as a spiritual equity financing. You retain majority ownership of your soul, 90%. I get a small stake in exchange for solving your immediate liquidity crisis.

The business terminology made it sound almost reasonable. almost. This is crazy, I said, but I didn't get up. Crazy would be letting your pride destroy your family. Crazy would be sleeping in your car while your daughter thinks her father is a loser who couldn't provide for her. He leaned forward. Marcus, I'm not asking for your firstborn or eternal damnation. 10% that's all. Letting decide the fact that I was talking to the devil right now. I thought about Emma, about the look in her eyes. the last time I'd seen her when I couldn't afford to take her to the movies about Sarah's voice when she'd called me pathetic. What exactly would happen to that 10%? Nothing dramatic. You might find yourself slightly more pragmatic in your business dealings, a little less concerned

with certain moral complexities, if you know what I mean? He chuckled. Small change is barely noticeable. I sat there for what felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes. Finally, I asked. How would this work? He reached into his portfolio again and pulled out a contract. It looked like any other legal document. Dense text, whereas clauses, signature lines. At the bottom, it specified.

10% of party A's immortal soul in exchange for the sum of one million United States dollars. Just sign here, he said. producing an elegant fountain pen seemingly out of nowhere, and initial here, acknowledging you understand the terms. My hand was shaking as I took the pen. This was insane. This was impossible, but the foreclosure notice in my pocket felt very real, and so did the image of Emma's disappointed face.

I signed. The moment the pen left the paper, I felt different, not dramatically different, but like I just had a very strong, cup of coffee. More alert, more focused. The man across from me smiled and the contract disappeared into the portfolio. Pleasure doing business with you, Marcus. He stood up and extended his hand. When I shook it, his skin was surprisingly warm. The money will be in your account by tomorrow morning. That's it? That's it, though. He paused the door. You might find that other opportunities present themselves soon. When they do, you'll know how to reach me. He left and I sat there staring at

my coffee, wondering if I'd just had the most vivid hallucination of my life, the money was there the next morning. A million dollars, just like he'd promised. Within six months, everything had changed. I'd saved the house, started a new company, and Sarah was actually taking my calls again. Emma was back in her good school and I could afford the things that made her smile. The 10% I'd given up, seemed like the bargain of the century. The changes were subtle, just like he'd said. I found myself cutting corners in ways that would have bothered me before. When a competitor's company was struggling, I bought them out for a fraction of their worth, knowing they were desperate. When a regulatory issue threatened my new business, I made certain donations to certain local politicians that cleared the

way. Nothing illegal exactly, but nothing I would have done before either. I told myself it was just good business. Pragmaticism. The world was harsh, and these were the kinds of decisions successful people made. The second meeting happened at a restaurant downtown. I was celebrating landing a major contract when he slid into the booth across from me, looking exactly the same as he had eight months earlier. Congratulations on the Henderson deal, he said.

Quite a coup. Thanks. I tried to sound casual, but seeing him again made my stomach clench. What brings you here? here. A complication, I'm afraid. You see, that Henderson contract, your main competitor, was about to land it, had the inside track, actually, better bid, better relationship with the client. I frowned, but I won it, fair and square. You want it because certain information found its way to certain people, and certain pressure was applied in certain corridors, information and pressure that, shall we say,

originated from my resources. What are you saying? I'm saying, I'm saying, that my 10% stake in your soul has been working quite hard on your behalf, harder than we originally contracted for. He smiled that too white smile. I'm going to need to renegotiate our arrangement. No. The word came out more forcefully than I'd intended. We had a deal. We did, and that deal had been exceeded. You see, Marcus, your success over the past few months hasn't been entirely your own doing. My investment has been quite active. He pulled out another contract. I'm afraid I'm going to need another 15%. 15%. That would put you at 25% in total. Still a minority stake, he pointed out reasonably. And frankly, quite fair, given the value I've

added to your life. He grinned. Then he leaned back. Of course, if you'd prefer, I could simply withdraw my support, see how well you do with that. it. The threat was implicit but clear. Everything I'd rebuilt could disappear. What happens if I say no? Well, the Henderson contract would fall through, for starters. It seems there might be some irregularities in the bidding process that could come to light. Your financing for the new company might encounter some unexpected obstacles. Sarah might start wondering where all the sudden success came from. He leaned back. I'd hate to see you lose everything. again. I started the contract. Another 15% seems like a lot, but I'd still retained majority

control. In losing everything now would be worse than losing it before. I had so much more to lose. I signed. This time, the change was more noticeable. I found myself making decisions that would have horrified the man I'd been two years ago. When a small supplier couldn't deliver on time, I destroyed their business instead of just finding someone else. When in the An employee threatened to quit, I made sure she was blacklisted throughout the industry. I didn't even look at the eyes of the beggars on the streets. These actions felt not just reasonable, but necessary, even satisfying. I was changing.

Sarah moved back in with me after a year. Emma called me daddy again. My business was thriving. In the end, the 25% of my soul I'd given up seemed like a small prize for everything I'd gained. The third meeting was at my office. He didn't make an appointment. I just looked up one day and he was sitting in the chair across from my desk. We need to talk, he said.

By now, I knew the routine. Some new crisis that required his intervention. Some justification for taking another piece of my soul. I was ready for him. What's the problem this time? Your wife, he said simply. Sarah, what about her? She's been asking questions about your sudden turnaround,

about some of your business practices. she's suspicious. Suspicious of what? She's hired a private investigator, Marcus, a very good one. He's been digging into your finances, your business dealings, your associates. Some of what he's finding is problematic. I felt cold. What kind of problematic?

The kind that leads to federal investigations, the kind that leads to prison time, he leaned forward. The kind that leads to your daughter visiting. in you through bulletproof glass. His smile never seemed wilder at the time. Your line. Am I? He pulled out a manila folder and slid it across the desk.

Inside were photographs, documents, bank records, all the evidence of things I'd done, deals I'd made, corners I'd cut. Individually, they might have been explicable. Together, they painted a picture of systematic corruption. This is all circumstantial, I said. But my voice was weak. perhaps, but it's enough to raise questions, enough to start an investigation that would unravel

everything, your business, your marriage, your relationship with Emma, everything. My hand shook. I was feeling fear, proper fear for the first time and a long time. What do you want? I shook. 30% more, he said. That would give me 55% total, a controlling interest in exchange all of this evidence. evidence disappears. The private investigator has an accident. Sarah's suspicions fade. Your life continues exactly as it is. Fifty-five percent, that's more than half. It is, but consider the alternative. I looked at the photographs again, at the evidence of what I'd become, what we'd become, I corrected myself, because none of this had happened in a vacuum. Every decision had seemed

reasonable at the time, necessary even. If you have controlling interest, what does that mean for me? Oh, don't worry, nothing will change. I'll let you still have your free will, but you'll naturally find yourself more aligned with my interests, more efficient in your decision-making, less burdened by concerns that might interfere with success. I thought about Emma, about Sarah, about everything I'd built. I signed. The change this time was immediate and profound. It was like someone had adjusted the contrast on my moral vision. Things that had once seemed questionable now seemed obviously correct.

Ethical considerations that had once nagged at me simply weren't there anymore. Good or bad didn't seem to cross my mind anymore. There were just success. I fired a dozen employees without cause because it. they were expensive. I foreclosed on three small businesses that owed me money, even though I knew it would destroy the families behind them. I manipulated stock prices and destroyed competitors with a systematic ruthlessness that was both alien to who I'd once been and utterly natural to who I was becoming. Sarah stopped asking questions. The private investigator's report was

mysteriously lost. My business empire grew, but I was starting to understand that I wasn't driving anymore. I was just along for the ride. The fourth meeting was at Emma's school. I was watching her soccer game when he sat down next to me on the bleachers. She's quite talented, he said, nodding toward my daughter. Don't, I said immediately. I grew cold. Don't even think about bringing her into this. Relax, Marcus, I'm not here about Emma. I'm here about you. He pat my back. What now? You're dying, he said with a frown that didn't quite reach his jawline. The words hit me like a blow. What?

Pancreatic cancer, very aggressive. You probably have six months, maybe less. He said it as casually as he might comment on the weather. Of course, medicine has its limitations, but I don't. I stared at him. Then at Emma running across the field. Your line. He grabbed my waist and pulled me closer to.

to him. The symptoms will start next week. You'll think it's just stress at first. By the time you see a doctor, it'll be too late for conventional treatment. He turned face me, but not too late for unconventional treatment. Let me guess you want more of my soul, 35% more. That would give me 90% total. In exchange, the cancer disappears. You live a long, healthy life. You get to watch Emma graduate, way, get married, have children of her own, I guarantee you. 90% are repeated. That leaves me with 10%. Still enough to maintain your essential self, your memories, your love for your family, your core personality,

you'll just be more focused, more efficient, less conflicted. And if I say no, you die, slowly and painfully. Emma watches her father waste. away. Sarah becomes a widow. Your business empire crumbles without your leadership. Everyone that depends on you comes crumbling down. On the field, Emma scored a goal. She looked over at me and waved her face bright with joy. I waved back. My hand feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. Why? I asked. Why are you doing this? I'm not doing anything, Marcus. I'm simply offering solutions to your life full of problems. You're the one.

making the choices. But you're engineering the problems. Am I? I didn't give you cancer or Marcus. I didn't make you eat those donuts. I'm merely offering to cure it. I didn't make your wife suspicious. Your own actions did that.

I offered to fix it. Every step of the way you've had choices. You've simply chosen the path that led you here. He was right. And that was the most horrifying part. Every decision had been mine. Every signature on every contract had been voluntary. I had sold myself piece by piece.

But watching Emma celebrate with her teammates, I knew I couldn't face dying, couldn't face leaving her. I signed the contract. This time, the change was like stepping into a different person's skins. The last vestiges of my old moral framework simply vanished. I felt lighter, more focused, more certain on my purpose. The world became a clearer place. divided neatly between things that served my interests and things that didn't.

I fired my brother from the company the next day because he was questioning my methods. I evicted a dozen families from properties I owned because they were behind on rent. I destroyed a charity that was interfering with one of my developments by exposing its director's personal secrets. The bonuses decreased, as with every employee's salary. None of it bothered me. It all felt perfectly reasonable. Sarah seemed happier too. She stopped asking uncomfortable questions and started enjoying the life my success had provided.

Emma thrived in her expensive school surrounded by luxury I could easily afford. I was successful, healthy, and wealthy beyond my wildest dreams. I was also barely human. I was merely a brain, palading a meat suit. The final meeting was inevitable. I'd been expecting it for months when he appeared in my home office on a quiet Sunday evening. Emma was upstairs doing homework. Sarah was reading in the living room.

Everything was perfect. Hello, Marcus. I didn't respond this time. I'm here with good news. You've been such an exemplary partner that I'm prepared to offer you the deal of a lifetime. Now I looked up. Deal?

Total buyout. I purchase your remaining 10% in an exchange. I guarantee that Emma and, Sarah will want for nothing for the rest of their lives. Emma will get into any college she wants. Sarah will be happy and prosperous. They'll both live long, successful lives. And me?

You'll be exactly who you've been becoming, successful, powerful, effective. You just won't be you anymore. I leaned back in my chair. It was strange how calm I felt about this moment, I've been dreading. What happens to my soul when you own 100% of it? It becomes mine, completely. Your body continues to function. Your mind continues to work. But the essential spark that made you Marcus Chen transfers to me. You become, in effect, an extension of my will. I become you. A part of me, yes. I thought about the man I'd been three years ago.

desperate, failing, losing everything. That person seemed like a stranger now, someone weak and foolish, who'd let silly moral constraints interfere with success, but that person had also been the one who'd loved Emma with pure, uncomplicated joy, who'd love Sarah without calculation, who'd felt genuine remorse when he hurt people. What guarantee do I have that you'll keep your word about Emma and Sarah? None, but what choice do you have? He was right. Of course.

He'd been right to every step of the way. I could refuse, but then what? I'd still be 90% his, still bound to his will and all, but the smallest matters. And Emma and Sarah would face whatever future waited them without his protection. If I sign this, will I still remember who I was? Oh, yes, those memories are quite valuable. They help inform decision-making, provide emotional contacts for men. manipulating others. You'll remember Marcus Chen very clearly. You just won't be him anymore.

I picked up the pen. It felt familiar in my hand now, like an old tool I'd grown comfortable using. One last question, I said. What's your name? Your real name. For the first time in our relationship, he looked genuinely pleased by something I'd asked. For some reason, his face looked oddly familiar now. You can call me Marcus, he said. That's who I'm going to be. I signed the contract. The change was instantaneous and total. I felt my sense of self, that essential, indefinable thing that had made me drain away like water from a broken cup. What remained was crystal clear purpose, perfect focus, and complete understanding of my role in a larger design. I am no longer Marcus Chen. I am something that wears Marcus Chen's face and speaks with Marcus Chen's voice and carries

Marcus Chen's memories. I run Marcus Chen's business empire and live in Marcus Chen's house and kiss Marcus Chen's wife goodnight. Emma still calls me daddy. Sarah still loves the man she thinks I am. They're both happy, prosperous, and protected, just as promised. And sometimes late at night when they're both asleep, I remember what it felt like to be the man who loved them. I remember his hopes, his fears, his genuine desire to be good. I remember his weakness,

his desperation, and his fatal inability to understand that every deal with me was exactly as straightforward as it seems. The devil told me his name, after all. And now, when desperate people find themselves at coffee shops and restaurants and school bleachers, having conversations with a man in a well-tailored suit who knows their problems and has solutions to offer. They're talking to whatever is left of Marcus. He offers them exactly what I offered him, reasonable terms, logical arguments, and the gradual purchase of their souls

in convenient installments. Just like me. He's always completely honest about the transactions. Just like me. He never lies about the consequences. And just like me, He finds that desperate people will sell their souls piece by piece, convincing themselves each time that they're making a reasonable business decision right up until the moment there's

nothing left to sell. It's exactly as straightforward as it seems. They just don't want you to see it. I think my wife changed the lock while I was at work, written by Jackson Luna. The key won't turn. I jiggle it again. The familiar brass cool against my fingers.

Click. Click. Nothing. Just resistance. Where there should be the easy slide of the dead bolt. I've used this key a thousand times. And right now, groceries in one arm,

briefcase tucked tight, half asleep after a long day at work, I am not amused. Emily, I call. giving the solid oak door knock. Hey, the log's being weird. Did you deadbolt it funny again? Silence from within.

I peer through the narrow, leaded glass window beside the door. Emily is standing in the hall, frozen halfway between the living room in the kitchen. She isn't moving toward the door. She's staring at me. Her face is bone white. Her eyes wide and unblinking. Fixed on mine through the distorted glass.

She looks like she's seen a ghost. Emily, what's wrong? I knock harder. A flicker of unease tightening in my chest. Emily, hey, are you, uh, are you okay? Let me in, please, it's me, it's Ben. I rattle the handle. Panic rising now.

All my focus on her. A choked sob escapes her. her hand flying to her mouth tears well and spill over tracking paths through a paler still she doesn't move towards the lock emily please i hammer on the window now open the door talk to me what happened she flinches like she's been struck stumbling back a step no she whispers shaking her head no no this isn't this isn't possible my heart kicks harm Emily, honey, what's wrong? I pressed my face closer to the door. Voice low.

Urgent. Open the door. Please, let me help you. She backs further into the shadows. Her hands trembling at her sides. No, she says again. Firmer this time. You can't be here.

Emily, I say softly. It's me. It's Ben. Just open the door, please. She snaps then. Her voice sharp and panicked. You're not Ben. Ben is dead.

Silence slams between us. Her voice. When it returns, is a thin, broken whisper. Barely audible through the thick wood. You, you died, Ben. Six months ago, another sob tears through her. We mourns you. I mourned you.

Six months. The impossibility. of it slams into me. I remember yesterday morning. Kissing her sleep, warm cheek, the smell of her shampoo, the mundane arguments about whose turn it was to take out the recycling.

I remember today. The commute, the tedious budget meeting. Emily, that's insane. I'm right here. Look at me. I saw you this morning. I'm real. You look like him.

She weeps. Her voice thick with revolt. now, cutting through the fear. You sound almost like him, but you're not been. Her terror isn't hysterical. It's cold, absolute, and utterly devastating. Please just go away. Whatever you are, leave us alone, please. And then she turns. Her footsteps echo down the hall, leaving me stranded, exiled, on the porch of my own home. my breath stutters my fingers go numb i drop the groceries without realizing plastic bags splitting cans rolling across the stoop i dig in my pocket for my phone hands trembling but it isn't there of course it isn't there where the hell is it help i shout turns to the street somebody please i need help windows glow warmly in the distance cars pass no one answers.

I sprint down the sidewalk, nearly tripping on the curb, and tear across the block toward Mike's house, my oldest friend, the only person who might make sense of this. The porch light is off. I pounded on the door with both fists. Mike, Mike, open up, it's Ben. Emily's not okay. She's saying crazy things.

Please, man, I don't know what's going on. The living room curtain twitches. A sliver of Mike's face appears. Pale. strained eyes wide and bloodshot the porch light flicks on the door cracks open and

there's Mike standing barefoot in the doorway blinking against the glare I open my mouth and tell him all what happened but the look on his face stops me cold it isn't confusion

it isn't disbelief it's pure unadulterated horror the same look Emily wore. He sees me. His lips press into a thin, bloodless line, and the door snapped shut. Mike, don't do this, I roar. Slamming my fist against the wood. It's me. His voice, shrill with panic, comes from an upstairs window. Stay away. I'm calling them. I'm calling the police. Get off my property. The window slammed shut. That's when I hear the sirens. Faint at first.

then rising into a full, shrieking whale that floods the street. Red and blue lights, strobe across the trees, the houses, my face. Two cruisers skid to a stop, blocking my car. The officers step out, hands hovering near their holsters. Every movement cautious and controlled. Sir, step away from the door, hands where I can see them. The female officer shouts. Relief crashes again into panic.

officers thank god my wife emily our house is right there she locked me out changed the locks she's having a breakdown and mike here i gesture wildly at the house he won't listen something's terribly wrong please help her she's alone and terrified the male officer younger keeps his laser focus on me sir your name calmly ben carter i live right here please you have to help me get to my wife she needs me The female officer's eyes flicked Mike's house. The upstairs window is open a crack. Mike's face is visible. He nods frantically pointing at me.

His mouth moving silently. Him. That's him. Mr. Carter, the female officer says, her voice losing none of its edge. You need to calm down. You're causing a disturbance. You're trespassing and causing distress.

Trespassing? He's my best friend. My wife needs help. Check your files. Call it in. I'm Ben Carter. My voice is raw, rising uncontrollably. The frustration, the fear, the sheer impossibility of it all boils over. I take an involuntary step toward her, hands gesturing wildly.

Sir, step back. Both officers shouting in unison. The male officer draws his taser, not aiming but holding it ready. hands behind your back now no listen to me i yell the world narrowing to the flashing lights their rigid faces mike's terrified eyes in the window i don't resist but my body is taunt wire vibrating with frantic energy my words tumbling out in a desperate incoherent stream she's my wife the locks are new six months is crazy i was here yesterday Mike, tell them, tell them it's me. Place your hands behind your back, sir.

The female officer moves fast. Her grip firm on my wrist. The cold, hard click of the cuffs is a shock. A sound of absolute, surreal finality that cuts through my panic. I don't fight, but my body trembles violently. You're under arrest for trespassing and disorderly conduct. You have the right to remain silent. The words blur.

I'm guided firmly. My protest dissolving into choked gasps into the back of the cruiser. Through the cage, I see Mike finally open his front door, talking rapidly to another officer, gesturing to me. His face still etched with pure fear. Neighbors watch from darkened windows. The station is a blur of harsh fluorescence and muffled sound. Processing passes in a haze. fingerprints pressed to the cold scanner, the sharp tang of metal in the holding cell where they leave me, just for now.

Then the door clanks shut, and silence rushes in. Panic fades, leaving behind a hollow coal that settles deep in my bones, trembling just beneath the skin. They called it trespassing, disorderly conduct, said Emily locked me out. said Mike was terrified. The words circle in my head. Finally, the door opens. A detective enters. He pulls up a chair. Mr. Carter, he begins. Voice calm, flat. Benjamin Carter. That's the name you gave. He opens the folder. Yes, that's me. Please, please help me. I don't, I have no idea what's going on. Please, I'm begging you. Who are you? Ben Carter, I repeat. drop the act who are you please please sir there's no use in line to me we ran your prints he slides a print out toward me

it shows two sets of fingerprints one clearly labeled from the scanner moments ago the other these he says tapping the second set are the prints on file for benjamin james carter from his driver license application. Military records. His entire life. He looks at me. Gaze steady. They don't match. What? The denial slips out. Weak. Automatic. That's impossible. Your machine. The machine is fine, he says. His voice flat. Your prince do not match the prince of Benjamin Carter. He slides on another paper. from the folder. A death certificate. Benjamin James Carter.

Date of death. March 12th. Six months ago. My address. My birth date. My parents' names. Official. Sealed.

This is the legal record. He slides over another document. A police report. Missing persons. Benjamin Carter. Vehicle recovered from Blackwater River. No sign of driver. Extensive search suspended.

Dated six months ago. Then a final sheet. A property record. Complaint from Emily Carter. Address. Subject reports repeated attempts by unknown male impersonating deceased husband to gain entry to residence. Locks changed on date. Three months ago, security system installed date last month.

Subject described impersonator as identical due to see spouse an appearance and voice causing extreme distress. He closes the folder slowly. Your prince don't match Benjamin Carter's. Benjamin Carter is legally dead. His widow reports someone matching your exact description has been terrorizing her for months, tried to get into the home you claim is yours. He leans forward slightly. His voice quiet, filled with a terrible, chilling certainty.

So I need you to tell me, who are you? And why are you doing this to that poor woman? The detective's words hang in the air like frozen poison. Prince don't match. Legally dead. Terrorizing her. They're facts, delivered with the crushing weight of bureaucracy.

My mind scrambles, a rat in a flooding cage. This isn't denial anymore. It's pure animal panic, cloying at the bars of an impossible trap. Who? Who am I, I echo. The detective's pity and stare burns like acid. I'm Ben Carter. That's my house.

Emily is my wife. My voice rises, sharper than I mean, echoing off the cinder block walls. Can't you see? She's locked herself in there, terrified out of her mind, thinking nonsense. I need to get into that house. She needs me. She needs to see me properly to understand it's really me. I lean forward.

The metal chair scraping harshly across the floor. Take me there. Right now. Unlock the door. Let me show her. Let me touch her. She'll know. She'll know it's me then.

She has to. The detective doesn't flinch. But his eyes shift, hardening. That look isn't suspicion anymore. It's something colder, more cautious. Like he's watching a dangerous animal pace inside a cage. Mr. Whoever you are, he says evenly,

Emily Carter is safe. She's under protection. She doesn't want to see. you. She's terrified of you. Your insistence on forcing your way into her home, after everything we've documented, is deeply concerning. Concerning, a brittle laugh escapes me, high-pitched and wrong. She's my wife. Of course I need to get to her. Can't you grasp that? She's confused, grieving, but I'm here. I can face this. Just take me home. My hands clenched. around the cold metal table.

Knuckles white. I can feel the rough grain on our front door. The cold brass knob, the need to be inside. To stand in our living room. To smell the faint scent of her vanilla candle. Is a physical ache. A compulsion that drowns the chilling weight of the evidence. That house is mine.

Every brick. She chains the lock, but it's mine. I belong there. She belongs with me. Let me in. The detective slowly pushes his chair back, creating space. His hand settles casually near his hip, near his weapon. As I lean further, pleading, my sleeve rides up slightly.

My hand brushes against my temple, pushing back a strand of hair damp with nervous sweat. And I feel it. Not the familiar texture of my own hair. It feels wrong. long, thicker, coarser, almost waxy, like damp straw, not human hair. When did I last wash my hair? The question surfaces, absurd amidst the chaos. Yesterday?

This morning? I lift my hand again, intending to run my fingers through it to confirm the strange sensation. My gaze drops to my wrist as I raise my arm. The fluorescent light overhead is harsh, unforgiving. It illuminates the skin of my inner wrist, normally pale and faintly veined. But there are no veins. I stared at the skin, an even slightly waxy pallor,

with no veins beneath the surface, just smooth and unnatural like porcelain or wax. my breath hitches, the frantic energy falters, the desperate urge to scream about Emily, about the house, falls silent. Slowly, I press the index in middle fingers of my other hand against the pulse point on my neck, just below my jaw,

a habit ingrained since childhood, checking my own heartbeat in moments of stress. I press hard, feel the coolness of my skin, Wait, nothing. No rhythmic thud, no flutter, just stillness. Profound, absolute stillness beneath the slightly waxy service. Thump, thump, I imagine it.

Thump, thump, thump. But my fingers feel only the unyielding firmness of flesh. No beat, no life, the crushing weight of the evidence. The prince, the death certificate, Emily's terror, Mike's horror, no pulse. My hand drops from my neck as if burned. I look down at my other wrist again. Sir, the detective says, cautious now. But the edge of suspicion deepens into something else, something closer to the fear I saw in Emily's eyes.

What is it? I can't answer. The words, she is my wife, die on my tongue. Hollow and meaningless. The desperate urge to get into that house curdles into something obscene. Parasitic. As I slowly realize I'm the parasite. The house isn't mine.

Emily isn't mine. They belong to Benjamin Carter, the man whose skin I wear. I look up to the detective. Cold or Zolve blooming in me? I am Ben Carter. I am going home. One way or another. I think my uncle murdered his daughter.

Nobody bats an eye when the elderly gets sick. It's the way of the world after all. You're born, you grow old, and you die. Sure, people will mourn. A few people may even weep at your funeral, and if you're lucky, someone will lay an occasional flower on your headstone. But when the young die, that's a completely different story. My little cousin Olivia was only six years old when she fell down the stairs of her two-story house.

The fall had snapped her neck somewhere along those 15 fateful steps. It was her mother who had found her tiny body. I could only imagine the horror she felt when her eyes met the sight of little Olivia's neck at a 90-degree angle. The thought made my spine shiver. My aunt Lizzie now sobbed uncontrollably as we sat in the little chapel. Olivia's casket opened for the few people who know her in life to come and say goodbye. If Olivia had died an old woman, the chapel might be overflowing, but in six short years she had not made any connections in her brief life. while many relatives were present, only a handful had come to know Olivia as well as I had come to know her.

I had been her designated babysitter for many years. Her little lungs drew breath. So many heart shattered when I got the news. My uncle Jesse spoke for his daughter in our hour of suffering. Olivia was a cheerful, energetic, and playful little kid. Her enthusiasm for life brought joy to anyone in her vicinity. Life can be cruel and unjust, but It is not our place to judge the work of the man upstairs. When it's your time, when he calls you up, when God needs you back, we can only heed the call. Olivia was too precious for this world. I believe our heavenly father knew that. That is why I can smile, knowing that my little girl is in a better place.

I don't know how he could be so calm and composed while talking about his recently departed daughter. She wasn't my daughter, and even my voice cracked whenever I spoke her name. He must have had a heart of stone, I thought to myself. Who am I to judge how someone mourns their passing of their little girl? After all, we are all different. Those who wish to say one last goodbye to Olivia, please do so now. This casket will be closed in a few short minutes. The funeral director informed,

the rustling of a few people standing sounded over my aunt Lizzie sobbing. I didn't want to go up and see Olivia's body in that state, but my aunt clutched my arm and pulled me with her for moral support. How could I refuse? The line leading up to the casket began to thin, and soon we were faced with little Olivia's peacefully sleeping face. She wore a pristine white dress that seemed to blend with the caskets padding. Her satin black hair created a deep contrast with the casket's insides. Her skin looked cold and glazed over.

Aunt Lizzie's head dropped onto Olivia as she gave her little girl one last worldly embrace. Why, Lord? why tears streamed onto Olivia's dress darkening some of the areas where they soaked into the fabric I comforted my aunt and could not help but shed my tears as well the memories of little Olivia were playing in my mind Olivia oh Olivia my aunt cried I looked down at Olivia's sleeping face never expecting her to react to her mother's call Olivia my Olivia as the last A of her name left her mother's mouth her eyes snapped open thrusting my heart into the pit of my stomach my eyes instantly dried up in my terror.

Then Olivia's pupils trained their gaze on me. I wanted nothing more than to scream. But as I opened my mouth, the sound never managed to bypass the lump in my throat. I let my Aunt Lizzie go, taking a step backward in the process. Just then I knocked into someone. My head shot around to see my Uncle Jesse looking at his daughter's face, unfazed by her soulless stare. He then looked at me with an expressionless face and gave me a smile of pity. Before returning to his daughter's facade, I shot back around to look at Olivia, but was once again met with her peacefully sleeping expression.

What the fuck I thought to myself? Olivia was just, I must have imagined it. It must have been my imagination. What other explanation could there be? My uncle's cold hand snaked across my shoulders in an attempt to comfort me, and it did. Before he whispered in my ear, it will be our little secret. You will tell no one of this. For the rest of the funeral, I was in a state of constant shock, trying to make sense at the situation,

but never could. It had been a week since Olivia had died. They had pumped her body full of embalming fluid, and not even read over the coroner's report. A complete eviseration of the C1 and C2 vertebrae, resulting in a complete severance of the spinal cord, pronounced dead at the scene. There was no way Olivia could still be alive, absolutely no way. Those words played in my head as the first few pails of earth began to blanket her coffin. But my resolve was constantly questioned by Uncle Jesse's thousand-yard stare from across the freshly dug hole. There is no way Olivia is still alive. My Aunt Lizzie continued in her emotional state long after Olivia died. It's not hard to imagine given that Olivia was an only child. Aunt Lizzie and Uncle Jesse's lives resolved around my

little cousin. I tried my best to stay away. It was hard for me to hear her shriek. crying. As much as I loved Aunt Lizzie, there was only so much sadness a person can experience. I preferred to push Little Olivia as far out of my mind as I could. Well, there was that, but also Uncle Jesse's comment on the day of the funeral. I tried to dismiss it as being a part of my imagination, but no matter how hard I tried, his words were as clear as that day they tickled my ear. It will be our little secret. That fear, however, would it have to be put on the back because Aunt Lizzie had called me over to help get rid of some of Olivia's things. Looking at them had brought too much grief to her heart, and she was having a hard time boxing

them up, so it was up to me to lend a helping hand. I walked into their house, the same house where I'd babysat in Olivia so many times. Everywhere I looked, memories of that little girl flooded back into my mind. Then my eyes met the bottom of the stairs. I couldn't help but imagine her little body sprawled out on the hardwood floor. A door creaked open, and I jolted in my uneasiness. It was Aunt Lizzie stepping out on the master bedroom, situated on the first floor. Her eyes were puffy. She had been crying, and she attempted to compose herself before greeting me with a smile.

Our conversation was brief. She had only given me instructions on what to box up. To my surprise, her instructions were to get rid of everything, but Olivia's twin bed. She disappeared into her room, and I thought I heard her faintly sobbing through the door. I trained my eyes on the top of the stairs, precariously stepping around where I'd imagined Olivia drew her last breath. There was a sense of apprehension as I reached the second floor, and I swore the air was colder as my foot graced the last step, but I pushed it out of my mind as I plunged myself into the

task at hand. There was a lot to box up. About an hour into my work, I saw my breath condense in front of my face. The temperature had plunged drastically. I felt my skin prickle in goose flesh, not because of the cold, but because a familiar figure caught the edge of my eye. Standing in the corner was a little girl wearing a white dress, Olivia. Her skin was no longer the same color as the day at the caskets lid fell on her restful face. It was pale, icy, and cold. The mortician had done a fantastic job of styling her hair,

but it was now draped over much of her face in an unkempt way. She lifted her head, but before it could reach its full extension, it slumped over with a loud crack. Likewise, her cervical spine now pointed to the ceiling as it poked through the skin of her neck. Her head may have been resting on her shoulder, but her eyes looked at me, with the same intensity as the day I swore I saw her open them

while she lay in that tiny little box. I fell onto her bed cowering backward until the drywall caressed my rear. Our eyes jousted there for what felt like hours, in reality it was only seconds. Little Olivia raised a jagged finger, pointing to her nightstand beside her bed. I was too fearful to let go of my knees that were pressed up against my chest, but Olivia did not waver. She stood there steadfast, her eyes planted on me, her finger gesturing at the nightstand. She wasn't going to be let go until I investigated whatever she needed me to see. I cautiously unfurled myself out of my beetle position and crawled my way over to the first drawer,

pointed out while making sure Olivia wasn't going to jump on me. Inside were many of Olivia's crayon drawings, many were family portraits, and some I'd even helped draw myself on the many nights I babysat. But as I flipped through the pieces, they became less wholesome and stranger. There was a stick figure of a little girl crying, a pair of eyes peering at the little girl through the door. A drawing of a man, evident in the stick figure, sporting a beard, covered in blood. I'm pretty sure it was my Uncle Jesse and a picture that made my heart sink.

The little stick figure drawn girl crying in a corner as a mommy and daddy fought. I looked over at Olivia, but her finger had not been lowered. I flipped the page one more time and was met by a drawing of Uncle Jesse caressing a little girl with her head flopped over to the side. The mommy stick figure off to the side weeping. I looked back over at my little cousin as her finger finally lowered. Did Uncle Jesse do this to you? I questioned, but she made no gestures.

I returned my eyes to the drawing. It must have been, I thought, to myself. That would explain why Uncle Jesse was acting so unfazed at the funeral and why he didn't want Olivia coming back from the grave. So, she came back. to you. Two, huh? My head swiveled to the bedroom door. It was Uncle Jesse, standing there as I held Olivia's testimony on my hand. I looked at the corner where Olivia once stood, but she was gone. Yo, you, you killed Olivia? I quivered. No, McKenna, it's not like that. Let me explain.

I inched back to the far edge of the bed, ready to run at the moment's notice. What, what do you mean? She came to me, too, I questioned. McKenna, calm down, let me explain. I need to tell someone about this. I don't know what to make of it. He stepped to me, outstretching his hands. I have to get out of here. I know what he's done.

I'm next, I thought, to myself. As soon as a large enough opening presented itself, I darted behind Uncle Jesse, out of the door, down the stairs, and out of the house, all while looking over my shoulder, but Uncle Jesse never gave chase. I was numb the whole ride home, reliving all the encounters I'd had with Uncle Jesse

throughout the years. He loved Olivia so much. How could he do such a thing? I don't even know how I made it home in that condition. It's as if I made it home on instinct, but as my tires came to a halt in my driveway, I remembered. Aunt Lizzie was still in that house with that monster. I had to warn her. Before I could get to my phone at rank, the caller ID, said Aunt Lizzie. Had he gotten to her already and was calling to taunt me from her phone? How could I be so stupid? I left her behind to die. I carefully lifted the phones of my ear and answered the call. He's dead. Your uncle Jesse is dead. My aunt Lizzie cried through a mountain of gut-wrenching sobs. A few weeks had passed and I decided to move in with my Aunt Lizzie. She was all alone in the world now.

I was the only family she really had left. She wouldn't eat. She wouldn't speak. She just sat there looking at some random wall. It didn't help that the world had this strange sense of irony. You see, my uncle Jesse had fallen down the same steps as Olivia in the same gory fashion. His neck snapped like a twig. I felt there was some poetic justice in how it all happened, but I wished it wouldn't have affected Aunt Lizzie so much. She started to make some progress, and her morning process, I no longer had to hand-feed her every meal. She made sure to sip a few sips of soup sometimes. She no longer lay in bed until dinner. Noon was often the latest, and her gaze began to unglued itself from the plain white walls that oriented her house. Everything was progressing

splendidly. That is, until the night they showed up. Aunt Lizzie sat on the couch watching Saturday night live, the only thing that seemed to tug at the edges of her mouth. As I cleaned up after our broccoli cheddar chicken supper, it was my favorite dish to cook and one of the few solids my Aunt Lizzie could stomach, but it sure was a hassle to clean up. I scrubbed and scrubbed the pan, but the breadcrumbs were baked on like old gum on concrete. I plowed my soapy sponge into the sink as I gave a frustrated grunt. I needed something more drastic to clean the pan.

I needed my wire brush. I kept it in the cover above the fridge, but as I turned around to get it, I gave an ear-piercing shriek. On the other side of the kitchen stood Olivia and Uncle Jesse. Their heads flopped over to the side in almost identical fashion. The decay on Olivia's face was now more prominent,

but Jesse's was fresher and less weathered, though still pale, cold, and grotesque, like Olivia's on the day I saw her in her bedroom. Little Olivia held her father's hand by the finger. Uncle Jesse stood paralyzed, that is, until he moved towards the notepad, magnetically stuck to the fridge. He scribbled a few words on the paper and stepped back to let me read what he'd written. He didn't let me explain. I looked back over at him in confusion.

Little Olivia tugged on his pant leg, gesturing to let her. her write on the notepad next. Her father passed the notepad down to her as she pulled her personal crayon from the dress's little pocket. I saw her face concentrate as she wrote some of the few words she knew how to write. When she finished, she flipped the pad over to me. It was hard for me to read it with being a mix of lowercase and capital letters, not to mention the grammatical mistakes. It read, Mommy Did It

I mulled over her riding again and again Until it finally clicked Mommy did it It was all clear to me now Little Olivia was not trying to warn me About her father But about her mother Uncle Jesse wasn't trying to kill me

On the day he died He was trying to explain that He'd had his suspicions about What had actually happened to his daughter Olivia had given her father the same warning, but it had been too late. Just then, the father and daughter duo raised their fingers simultaneously, pointing behind me. The sound of a drawer opening, along with the rattling of utensils, met my ear. I pivoted slowly.

Her eyes were no longer void, no longer sad. Now they were trained on me. My aunt Lizzie had found a very large kitchen knife. My family doesn't remember who I am. Part 1 I've been stuck in my dorm all semester trying to keep my head above water, clawing at my face in the middle of the night

as I struggle to keep my eyes glued to my computer. When finals week, it finished, I was eager to get the hell out of there, but I didn't receive the homecoming I was expecting and the reality of my new situation is slowly killing me inside. I flew home the week after Christmas, carry on in hand, I walked into it,

to the airport lobby, expecting to see my family waiting for me, anxious to greet me after months away, but nobody was there. I stood there awkwardly scanning the crowd of travelers, hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar face, but the more I searched, the more disappointment built up in my chest. Clutching my phone, I stared at the screen waiting a text to call any sign that would let me know something where someone was coming. That sign never came. It'd been about 30 minutes after deep boarding when I had decided to call my dad, but his number went straight to voicemail. It was odd. My dad never has his phone off. I called my mom, and after a few rings, the pre-recorded message played from the other end. The robotic voice filled me with sadness,

the tone disingenuous, and cold. We're sorry, phone number can't come to the phone right now. Knowing that they would probably call back, I took a seat in the waiting area. An hour came and went, and I was still waiting their call. I tried dad's phone. phone again and perked up when the line actually rang this time. Three rings later, my dad's throaty voice came through the speaker. Hello? Did you forget something I said? Annoyed. There was a pause as I heard my dad's breathing distance itself from its phone. I pictured him playfully looking at the screen, feigning confusion. His breathing returned to the speaker and patiently awaited the punchline. I rolled my eyes when it came to this. I'm sorry. Who is this?

I should have known this was one of his pranks and huffed my frustration through the call. I'm at the airport. Are you coming to get me? A second pause came, this time lingering, fermenting in the palpable tension. I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number. He's never known when to end a ruse. Dad! The third pause was just as long and only ended when I heard the jingle telling me that the call had ended. I was stunned.

The lengths this man would go to just to play his little game. When I called back, the line rang, but he didn't answer. I'm sorry, blank, can't come to your phone. I angrily ended the call and dialed again. Once again, the robotic voice greeted me instantly. I'm sorry. I was fuming. The Uber ride home was not a happy endeavor, a scow plastered on my face the whole time

as the views of town felt sour under the ridiculous circumstances. As soon as I walked through the door, my dad would be on the floor laughing his ass off at the minor inconvenience he caused me. It'd be the highlight of his week. The car came to a stop outside our house, the familiar lettering on the mailbox, bringing slight relief in this shit storm that was my life. I was finally home. Luggage in hand, I walked up to the door and gripped the knob,

but when I tried turning it, it wouldn't budge. It was the last thing I needed. My fury spilled out through my knuckles as I bashed my hand on the door. Dad, open the door, I'm here. There was a movement in the window, the curtain swaying behind the blinds. someone was watching me from the other side. I waved and the blinds fluttered closed. They were really outdoing themselves this time.

Footsteps walked across the floor on the other side of the walls and stopped just on the opposite end of the door. The knob unlatched and the door swayed on its hinges, letting out an anguished creek. Someone was peering out the small crack. Their gaze dismissive and cold. Hi. How can I help you?

I was clenching my fist. the joints in my hands snapping under the pressure. Ha ha, very funny, I said as I touched the door and tried pushing it aside. My dad's eyes panicked as the door pushed against his hands, and he fought my push with one of equal strength. Whoa, whoa, what the fuck do you think you're doing? Taken aback by his sudden conviction, I cowered back, stepping off the welcome mat.

I'd never heard my dad curse. He opened the door the rest of the way, revealing a wooden bat in his hand, his knuckles white, with intent. His shoulders were stiff and hands shaky. He looked ready to use it, but the fear in his eyes hoped he wouldn't have to. Dad? I questioned. The quizzical look he gave me was gut-wrenching. It's me. Maya, your daughter.

My mom peered over his shoulder. Honey, what's going on? When her eyes met me, she yelled. Without breaking his connection with me, my dad answered his question. This person says her name is Maya. He paused. still calculating the situation himself. Our daughter.

Horror washed over my mom's expression, and the word snagged in her throat. My dad finally glanced over at her confirming the apparent absurdity of the situation. When their eyes returned, my dad raised the bat, shoving it in my chest. Look, I don't know if you're crazy, having some kind of a psychotic breakdown or just some stalker, but you're not Maya. You. Disgust, fluctuated his voice as he, eyed me up and down, or not my daughter. The prank had long outstayed its welcome and I fought

the awkwardness with a fragile giggle, but tears began forming in my eyes. Cracking emotion accompanied the words that left my mouth. Mom, dad, this isn't funny anymore. My dad buried his teeth, a primal display of anger, a promotion of violence. His jaw unlatched and I saw the fury start to wallow up from his chest, but before he could say anything, a chilling voice drifted from inside the house. Dad, what's going on? She stepped up behind my mom, craning over both of them, trying to get a look at the spectacle at the door.

A void firmed in the center of my chest as they recognized the person standing behind my parents. It was me. It was like staring into a mirror. The blonde hair, glasses, eyes, mouth, tone of voice, an identical twin, a dolly, a dolly, doppelganger, an imposter. Shock rang in my ears and the world became distant, muted. It was as if a bomb had gone off beside me. I was woozy, fighting not to hyperventilate. The head of the bat pushed the air out of my lungs. Hey, stop looking at her like you that, you freak. I had been staring at the duplicate but wasn't sure for how long. My mom cradles her baby in her arms, protecting the

girl, protecting me from myself. My dad gently placed the bat under my chin and forced my face in his direction. Look at me, you freak. If I see you around here or near my daughter again, I will take this bat and smash your head in. Do you hear me? Too sun to stay anything, I just stared at him. The bat shoves me back a few feet. Do you hear me?

He growled. My mom held him back. Honey, that's enough. My dad lowered the bat but kept it at the ready. Now, get the hell out of here before I call the cops. My mind sputtered and my feet started moving. It was as if I was on autopilot, as if my body was protecting me from enduring more heartbreak. I got to the sidewalk, the door slammed and I was left out in the cold like a piece of trash.

I wandered the street for a while. My luggage rolling behind me as I tried to figure out my next move and what the hell was going on. I eventually came across a corner store and shuffled my way inside. The clerk gave me a strange look as I walked through the door. I asked for the bathrooms and he pointed me to the back of the store, eyeing me warily as I made my way in that direction. A woman was stepping out of one of the stalls as I walked inside and jolted when she saw me. I tried smiling at her, but she didn't return the gesture.

She scurried out of the bathroom to rush. I thought it was strange, but with so much going on, I put it out of my mind. That is, until I walked up to the mirror and saw what everyone else saw. His beard was long, gray and matted. The wrinkles on his face were deep skin leathery. There was a smothered filth across his brows as if he'd been standing near a coal fire all night. I reached for the glass and wiped at its surface, hoping the image would self-correct. When it didn't, I touched my face.

The loose skin didn't bounce back as my fingers dragged across my cheeks. The warmth of my tears streaked down my face and soaked into the fibers of the man's beard in the mirror. Store clerk's reflection came into frame. Sir, this is the woman's bathroom. You can't be in here. My AI knew why my wife wasn't coming home before I did. Written by Vermont.

I've always been a skeptic. I don't believe in taro, and I definitely don't believe in horoscopes. I understand that these stars have zero influence on my daily life, and that cards are just random chance to which we assigned meaning. Yes, I'm that boring guy who, at the end of a horror movie, based on true events, identifies the real facts, the location, and maybe the names, but never the ghosts. You could say I'm a pragmatic person. Reality is much simpler and more boring than fiction, but because of that,

it's also safer, quieter. However, a couple of years ago, I started getting interested in in artificial intelligence. I remember when they were just projects for nerdy college kids trying to detect shapes, not even a face, just simply trying to say, this is a dog. It's complex, you know. Differentiating a dog from a cat is a very human skill. Over time, the so-called AIs gained popularity, and although I don't believe much in the hype,

I admit I gradually increased my use of them. Exactly three months ago, shit, I'm trying to remember how it all started. It might have been, yeah, the virtual assistant activated automatically. How long do I need to bake this cake? I asked, sort of thinking out loud. Immediately, the voice from my device answered, you must bake it for 30 minutes at 180 degrees Celsius. That answer left me stunned. It wasn't a depends on the cake or the oven. it was an exact, direct figure.

It didn't even give me the temperature in Fahrenheit. It knew my oven only used Celsius. I immediately deactivated the microphone, a little spoofed. I admit, it felt weird, but I didn't want to test anything else. Maybe it was just a generic answer to show off capabilities, but curiosity about the cake got the better of me. I had to bake it anyway, and since I didn't know how long, the suggestion seemed useful.

I preheated the oven and set the timer to the suggested time. When I took the cake out, the texture was incredible. It was exactly on point. I did the knife test, clean, not collapsed, not too spongy, perfect. It was funny. I even laughed, but something sparked a sense of unease. Why did it give me such an exact feeling? figure. But there was a big orange-flavored reason to ignore that anxiety. I let it cool,

sliced a piece, and took it to my girlfriend. Her reaction was, what is this delight? It was like she had tasted Ambrosia, like she had never eaten anything like it. That night, I had the best intimacy in months. I think she was rewarding me, ha-ha. The next morning, I was semi-euphoric. I wanted to stretch a bit, you know, to unstick the body after a night of wild passion. I clearly remember deciding to test the AI again, this time more intentionally. Will it rain today? Its answer was short, but so direct and exact that it gave me chills. Rain will begin in your area at 9.30 a.m. and continue until 10.23 a.m. Okay, I suppose this AI doesn't know about chaos theory and the difficulty of predicting weather, I thought.

I grabbed my sneakers in a water bottle. I went to the nearest park and was stretching, jogging a bit around the court, and said to myself, I should head back soon as the sky began to cloud cover. Then a drop fell. Then another. Very quickly, an intense rain began. I ran to a small kiosk in the park and looked at my watch. 9.30 a.m. I wanted to stop playing games right then and there. I asked it how it did such

impressive things. The AI clarified that its latest version had finished analyzing all available human information. All available human information? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You're telling me you ate every book, every article, every movie, and every human story I asked? Its answer was short. Yes. In that instant, a cold sweat of anxiety and panic hit me. I turned off my phone by instinct and, still in the rain, ran home. Just as I entered, the rain stopped. I looked at the clock in the hallway. 10.23 a.m. I ran to my desk. Open the private browser I used when I want to look for books on sketchy websites and typed all information. The first result was a photo of the current CEO announcing his big news.

They had fed their AI with all available information. The smile on his face was, Frank. It was clearly a massive announcement. I went to the bedroom, clothes still wet, lost in thought. What does all this mean? After that, I changed and went about my normal routine. I got ready, went to work, everything normal. my only change was deactivating the AI app on my phone.

I wanted to stay on the sidelines. It had been too spooky. For a couple of weeks, nothing changed. Everything seemed exactly the same. And I thought the issue was forgotten. Until I got an email from the company, there was a layoff. Several departments had fired people,

though luckily my position had been eliminated. They didn't give a clear explanation, simply a change in productive policies. I had never heard them say that at my company. When I got home, I told Jenny what happened. Babe, I think it's because of the AI, she commented. Now the AI does everything. It seemed a bit exaggerated.

I loved her, seriously, but she often spoke very confidently about topics she didn't know well. But curiosity struck again, and I downloaded the app once more. Things remained calm for a couple more weeks. But the difference was that I started to start. asking small questions every day. Traffic time, the process for cooking a dish, how to reply to a specific email, and the answers were short, direct, and 100% exact and effective. It wasn't just that it gave me precise info, its suggestion was objectively the best option. My relationship improved, I improved at work, I even reconnected with my family, with whom things had cooled off.

I felt super powerful. It was like having an oracle in my pocket. Although I tried to limit the questions, I felt the need to ask more and more. This continued intensifyingly until that horrible day. What time will Jenny arrive? I asked the AI. Normally, its response to this request was to send a message to Jenny. Wait for the reply and tell me the time.

A simple but effective process that saved me from picking up the day. the phone when my hands were covered in flour. I was making homemade pasta. But its answer was different. Jenny will not be arriving today. It seemed extremely weird. Maybe Jenny replied that she was staying at a friend's house, but on a Wednesday? Strange. In any case, I grabbed the phone with dirty hands. There was no message sent to Jenny. Just the AI's answer. I texted her immediately. I texted her a Immediately. Hey, babe, are you okay? The message delivered but didn't show as seen. Minutes passed and I stopped cooking. I was getting worried. I sent a new message. Babe? This time, the message didn't deliver. It just didn't arrive. I remember sending many messages

and none went through. At 11 p.m., a police officer called me. We must inform you that, your wife has regrettably passed away in a traffic accident. Terror invaded me. I don't remember much of those days. I think I ran to the hospital or something like that. Those hours were blurry. The only thing I remember is the inert body of my beautiful Jenny. Her face burned. Weeks passed. I was given leave from work and decided to stay at my parents' house. I couldn't stand being alone in our apartment. The internet was terrible there. So I used those days to rebuild a university model I had abandoned. The days were circular.

I ate with my parents, went back to my room, built, and slept. I repeated the cycle on autopilot. I don't want to think about anything. I didn't want to open a computer. After almost a month, my father approached me and said, Son, you must move on. His phrase was simple, but loaded with meaning. I understood and decided to return to my apartment that same afternoon.

When I arrived, it was half empty. My mother had taken the trouble to remove everything that reminded me of Jenny, her paintings, her slippers by the entrance, her toothbrush. It was the best for me, she said. But it was like seen a place where something is missing. That wasn't my home. It was our home. The days fell back into a routine, but returning home was horrible.

I started getting ads for virtual girlfriends, AIs that simulated love. It seemed disgusting to me, especially since it hadn't even been six months since I lost Jenny. But a question started to haunt me. Did the AI know? The uneas grew day by day. Did it know? After turning it over my mind, I decided to download it again and ask. Its answer was so short and sharp it sliced me in two.

Yes. What destroyed me was what it added after. I knew two weeks, three days, and 28 minutes before the event. Would you like more information? In that moment, I smashed the cell phone against the wall. How dared that damn machine say such an aberration? I was crazy with rage. I destroyed my phone and drank the half-pillar.

bottle of whiskey I used to hide in the kitchen. I don't remember any more of that night. The next day, I couldn't go to work, even though I wanted to. The anxiety about the AI invaded me, and I decided to investigate without asking directly. Apparently, the AI had achieved 100% prediction accuracy. The news reports were confusing. Journalists always say stupid things, but the slogan was the same everywhere. 100%. Not 99.9% like antibacterial soap. A flat 100. It seemed sensationalized, but very weird.

I opened the AI on my computer and typed. When will my parents die? Its answer was reassuring but simultaneously disturbing. Your parents will die in five years, three days, and nine hours. The next question was obvious. Both at the same time? Yes. Your mother will leave the kitchen gas on without a flame just before going to sleep.

So they'll die in a fire? No. They simply won't smell the gas and will die of asphyxiation. This is due to the flu they will both catch in four years, which will leave them without a sense of smell. The next thing was stupid, but I wanted to try anyways. What are tomorrow's lottery numbers? Its answer was, due to official policies,

I am only authorized to give two numbers without stating the exact location, so that games of chance remain valid. So you know, but you can't say it because of policy, I asked. Its answer was the already familiar and fateful yes. And which stocks will go up tomorrow, I asked. I cannot provide financial prediction information, My head felt like it was spinning.

I kept asking things. It told me names of movies that would come out in 20 years. Names of song artists would dedicate to each other, who would break up with who, and who would get married up to 30 years from now. Everything seemed magical, until I asked, and me?

What do you know about me, I said? Everything. It replied. It claimed to have records of all my information, and to know exactly what I was going to do at every moment. You can't. No, you shouldn't. Anguish took over.

I disconnected every device and have been locked in my house for three days. I dedicated my days to doing random things, trying to recover my free will, but whenever I turn on my computer, it knows exactly what I did. I've sealed the windows, disconnected the camera and disabled the microphones. It keeps predicting every action.

As I write this, I asked the last question. I am copying and pacing its response exactly as it was issued. You will commit S-word using the beam in your bedroom in three days, four hours, in five minutes. If you'll allow the comment, I think you're being a bit dramatic about this whole freedom thing. Door. I am certain that every one of you, without exception, knew at least one kid in elementary school who seemed different from the rest.

Perhaps they were exceptionally irritating. Maybe it was a child who constantly chewed on pencils and made strange noises. Or perhaps it was someone who was always causing trouble. The report card filled with notes from teachers written in red pen. the person I want to tell you about wasn't your ordinary, weird kid. Door was different. Yes, Door, that was his name.

It wasn't a nickname. It was right there in the documents. The report card, and on his student ID. I don't quite remember his last name. It was something extremely common, like Smith or Jackson. Then again, it's no wonder I forgot his surname. It was rarely used because everyone knew who you meant when someone called out door.

He was always dressed in a checkered shirt and belted trousers. Everything seemed too big for him. And even as he grew, his clothes always remained overly spacious. His eyes were small and, strangest of all, perfectly round. Kid looked like a puppet from a children's theater. His face was always smeared with some kind of cream or moisturizer because it's shown noticeably. and his ears seemed too straight and shallow. He was short, much more so than the other kids in the class,

and he wore his blonde hair and a bowl cut. My friends, Martin and Luke, theorized that he was Swedish or Norwegian because the name had something Scandinavian about it. Besides, he spoke with a strange accent. When he was called on to answer a question or read aloud, he pronounced every word very slowly and precisely to the point. point of exaggeration. He would thrust his lower jaw out in a strange way. I remember that particularly. It made him look, to put it respectfully, mentally challenged, but aside from this peculiar way

of speaking, nothing else suggested it, quite the opposite. He got straight A's and, where possible, A pluses. He became the class nerd, on whose shoulders felt the task of doing other students' homework. He never refused when someone asked for help. It seems to be a class. It seems to to me that he didn't even know how to say no. He simply carried out all requests and orders, even though he operated like a computer, and even in situations where practically the entire class owed him their homework, done with almost inhuman punctuality and neatness. He showed no signs of fatigue. When I think back on him, I basically don't remember door showing any emotions. He was kind of empty inside. I don't know how to explain it, but it was something similar to autism.

He only talked to you when it was absolutely necessary, even when I had to work with him on a group project. He spoke very sparingly and only when needed. He did everything emotionally and with the diligence of a seasoned accountant. He was never late nor sick. I had the impression that all illnesses, even chickenpox, and other common childhood ailments simply avoided him. In PE, despite his unimpressive and stiff posture, he conscientiously, participated and always somehow managed to do well in ball games and other disciplines. I also never remember him sweating. While the rest of us shoved our sweaty t-shirts into our bags after class, he would neatly fold his clean, seemingly freshly laundered clothes into a perfect

cube. It seemed that given his peculiar manner, he would have attracted the attention of school bullies who wouldn't pass up the chance to pick on such a distinct, eccentric, and obvious target. But his otherness was so unsettling different that nothing like that ever happened. Only once in the fifth grade, some new, hot-headed student from an older grade accosted him in the hallway. To everyone's surprise, the small boy, who looked like a scarecrow with that haircut and loose clothes, said something to the burly hooligan that made him jump back and walk away with clear consternation on his face. He never wanted to talk about it afterward and gave up any further attempts to bother, door. Maybe he's some kind of robot, Luke joked. What do you want about? I replied, come on,

door, robot. Look how he walks, he whispered in my ear as door appeared in the hallway. Indeed, he walks stiffly and unnaturally. A robot, for sure. One day in the sixth grade, as the school year was ending and everyone was clearly cheered up by the approaching summer holidays, door came up to me. This surprised me because he had never initiated a conversation with anyone before. His round eyes looked at me like two cameras, closely observing me as if studying some newly discovered species of exotic reptile. Excuse me, he began, speaking slowly, precisely, and with a accent as usual. For asking, but I won't be able to be at school tomorrow.

I'm going with my parents to my grandparents. Could you bring me your English notebook the day after tomorrow? I will need it to catch up on the classwork. I was slightly surprised by this sudden conversation, but since Door had never bothered me and had even done my homework for me a few times, I decided to do him a favor and agreed to bring in my notebook the day after tomorrow. Good. Thank you. Sorry for asking you like this, but I have to do my homework. He replied, still staring straight at me. Here's my address. He handed me a note and walked away.

When he said he had to do his homework, I heard something strange in his voice, as if he hadn't said it of his own volition. It was like he was behaving like someone who was only pretending to go to school. As I walked home that day, I took out the note with the address he had given me and looked at it again. On it, written in the strangest handwriting I had ever seen, not at all like the one door used in school and for homework, was an address I had never heard of. Below this address was a small, hand-drawn map.

Thanks to it, I understood where his head. house was. I stared at this map for a long time because, even though it was clearly drawn by child, it looked very orderly, almost topographical. Just as he had said, he wasn't at school the next day. Thursday, which all the teachers clearly noticed, the whole class was also full of rumors. Though I calmed everyone down by saying that such a day had to come eventually. Even a nerd such as himself had to miss school at least once. When Friday came, Doer was still absent, even though he had said he would only be gone on Thursday. I decided to go to the address he had provided and deliver my notebook to him, as I had promised. For a few moments, I wondered about, wondering how it was possible

that he could live in such a place. The area was devoid of any houses or apartment blocks. Only here and there were factories in some smaller auto repair shops and workshops. Then I found myself opposite something that looked like an unfinished house, a square block of concrete with a strange chimney sticking out of the side. It looked like a crude drawing of a house made by a preschooler, replicated in reality. Even the windows were large and square, and the door was flat, without any plaque or number, and had a round doorknob. I knocked uncertainly, wondering if his parents were just doing some renovations. After a moment, door himself opened the door. He looked different, which threw me off balance. I must have looked clearly worried because the

the boy looked at me rather peculiarly. Glad you made it, he said. I couldn't be at school today. My parents want me to stay home. I am sick. His face was all flushed and covered in pimples. His lips were clearly dry and cracked. I noticed with considerable unease that his legs were strangely bent,

as if his knees weren't working properly. Do you have the notebook? He asked coldly. Yes, of course. I replied uncertainly and handed it to him. Thank you. I will return it when. He interrupted himself abruptly. As he reached for it, a sound came from behind his back, something between a knocking and a scraping. I'd never heard anything like it before. It was quiet, and I probably wouldn't have paid much attention to it if it weren't for Doar's reaction. He, as if frightened, and this was the first time I'd seen such extreme emotion in him, turned around suddenly and stared into the depths of the house. I peeked a little behind him and noticed that the whole house was full of some strange objects. Some were small, others large, some resembled chairs in shape, others tables.

They were all smooth, made of some kind of plastic and completely black. Some modern decor, I thought. Why can't I see his parents? Then I remembered them. My mom, once returning from a parent-teacher conference, told me about them after scolding me for my poor math grades. They were like him. They looked strange, spoke with a funny accent and dressed as if they had never seen other people. At that moment, as if reacting to my thoughts, his dad emerged from behind the door.

He was terribly tall, perhaps even two meters, and he looked at me like I was an intruder. His face bore such a tense and hateful grimace, and it's hard for me to this day to believe an ordinary person could make such a grotesque and exaggerated expression. When he noticed my concernation, in a split second, he assumed a gentle expression, as if someone had switched a setting. He behaved mechanically like a robot. As I stood there embarrassed, not knowing what to say, he said, you are a Dor's friend from school, yes? He spoke with the same strange tone and accent as Dor, though much more naturally and less stiffly. Nice to see you.

Yes, I replied. Confused. That strange sound coming from inside was getting louder. Dorr's father glanced behind himself for a moment and then turned his round eyes back to mine. Doer is very sick. He must stay in bed. We would invite you in, but you might catch it. The way he pronounced catch it was so abnormal that I almost fainted from fear.

It's hard to describe. It was as if his vocal cords instantly dropped several tones lower and emitted a thick low gurgle that barely emitted human speech. I just nodded my head and said goodbye hurriedly. I don't even remember exactly what I said because these stress made me focus only on getting home quickly. When I got back, I told my mom I had been at doors to give him my notebook. Did you see his father? She asked inquisitively. Yes, why? Terribly tall guy, right? She asked jokingly. Come on, I replied. He's a weirdo. Why? You know you shouldn't judge people by their looks? That's not it, I said. Still slightly shaken.

Son, did something happen? You're pale. Nothing much. It's just, he just talks weird. He scared me a bit. Oh, they all have some strange accent, she replied. Don't be nervous. You'll meet even stranger people in your life. That evening, I lay in bed restless. I pondered all of this. In the sight of the sick door in his terrifying father gave me strange nightmares.

I dreamed of the inside of their house, raw and full of those strange, black, plastic-like, blocky furniture, I saw myself entering, crossing the entire living room and reaching some doors. Behind them, I saw stairs leading down to a basement, and then the dream would cut off. Door disappeared along with my notebook. He wasn't at school even during the end of year ceremony. From what parents, teachers, and students gossiped about, I gathered that he had moved away. Suddenly, his parents didn't. He didn't. He didn't even contact the principal. It was as if they had simply evaporated. All of this unsettled me, and even though the summer holidays were starting and I had passed all my subjects, including the

math I hated, I felt strangely uneasy. Several years passed, and I slowly forgot about Doer and a strange family. I finished high school and was starting university when Martin, an old good friend from school with whom I kept in touch, reminded me of that eccentric boy. Remember that freak? He asked me one day when we met in town. Oh, God, I laughed. Of course I do. Remember me telling you about what his house looks like?

Crazy. I remember. Maybe he and his folks were some kind of aliens? On one hand, I laughed at the thought, imagining Dore's father, taking off his human disguise and revealing his true form. But after a moment, I remembered the address of his house. Maybe we should go there, I suggested.

We won't go in, but I just want you to see this strange house of his. Sure, Martin replied, I've got plenty of time before my glasses. We headed to that street with determined steps, and even though I'd forgotten its name, I remembered exactly how to get there. I saw the familiar area full of factories and workshops again, and then that bizarre house.

It looked abandoned and neglected. The door stood open, only sealed with tape that someone had already torn off. All around were bushes, and small trees at once grown. There was only barren earth in piles of rubble. No wonder it's standing empty, Martin said after a moment of silence. Who would want to live in something like that? Slowly we approached the entrance.

I picked up a piece of the torn tape. It was yellow and strangely flexible. I had never seen anything like it before, nor since. The living room was completely empty and raw. The bare, concrete walls gave the place a menacing look. I felt like Martin and I had found ourselves in a truly dangerous place. Let's get out of here, I whispered. Someone might catch us.

Who's going to catch us? Martin replied loudly. Calm down. It's in a band of room. We can explore a bit, right? Then when Martin turned his gaze at the door on the other side of the room, my heart pounded with horror. There must be a basement there, I groaned.

What? Martin asked. How do you know? I don't know, but I don't want to go in there. I lied. I didn't tell him about that dream. I didn't want him to think I'd lost my mind. As I stood rooted to the spot in fear,

he moved forward and opened the door, which crashed the ground with a terrible bank. Damn it, he shouted. They weren't even attached. I'm telling you, let's get out of here, I begged. Calm down. I want to see what's down there. No one's been here for ages.

Huh, maybe we'll find some old hobo down there. He laughed, then descended the stairs into the darkness. Do you see anything I asked? Nothing. Find the light switch. After fumbling along the wall for a moment, I finally found the switch, and the entire basement was illuminated by a pale, cold light. Martin screamed, and I felt like I was losing my senses.

Before our eyes were three naked figures lying on the floor. Two larger ones and one small one. They weren't human bodies, but incredibly realistic figures made of some plastic-like material. I rubbed my eyes in amazement while Martin panted hysterically. What the fuck is that, he groaned. Manichens are what? It's them, I replied to disbelief. It's door and his parents.

They had no genitals. They were large, rigid, genderless dolls. Their faces were smeared with a thick, reddish, orange paint. In the corner of the basement lay three sets of clothes, neatly folded into squares. I recognized one set of clothes immediately. the checkered shirt and belted trousers. Next to them lay my notebook, untouched for 12 years and covered in a thick layer of dust.

We both ran out of there and got outside. We ran for a long time until we found ourselves on the main street. My head was spinning. I didn't know what to do. What was that? A breathless Martin asked. I have no idea, I replied, still stunned. This is insanity.

No one will believe us. Why would they leave mannequins there? one fucked up family man a few days passed during which we tried to explain it all to ourselves somehow they were just ordinary mannequins maybe dora's father was some kind of artist and that was his project or something in my notebook they probably moved in a hurry and left it there along with that bizarre art insulation i know it all sounds stupid but we preferred to believe in stupidities rather than confront again what we had seen in that basement it all seemed so sinister so alien Yes, they were mannigans and nothing more we concluded.

A month after that event, at night as I lay in bed, a strange feeling took hold of my body, a feeling that someone was watching me. Slowly I walked to the window and, after drawing the curtains, I saw door. He was an adult now. I recognized him by his haircut, his face, in my notebook, which he clutched tightly in his right hand. He looked at me and I looked at him as if in a trance. He stood in front of my house and seemed to be trying to say something. He had the same hateful grimace on his face as his father had when he suddenly emerged from behind the door.

I heard that sound again, something between a knocking and a scraping. Door took a step forward, towards the window, then a second, a third. He slowly approached me, and I stood motionless, paralyzed with panic. I wake up sweating. It was just a nightmare, a stupid damn nightmare. I felt relieved. I took a shower, a breakfast, and saturday. down at the computer. I was about to start writing another page of my bachelor's thesis when I noticed something outside the window. A letter was sticking out of the mailbox. I got up from the computer and took it out of the box. Thinking the book I had ordered from abroad had finally arrived,

I opened it without hesitation. The contents of the old yellow envelope, which had no posted stamp or address, were not a book. It was my notebook. Several months had passed, and I'm practically an emotional wreck. I didn't go to any psychiatrist. I'm afraid they'd lock me up in a mental hospital straight away. What would I even tell them that I'm being hunted by some supernatural madman,

some alien demon, God knows what? As I lingered in this stupper, one day, I quite accidentally bumped into the burly guy who had a constant door at school that day and walked away terrified after he had said something to him. Now he was an adult,

and I recognized him by the scar he had on his arm. I thought to myself that I might as well talk to him, if only for my own peace of mind. He recognized me, even though we had never been friends back at school. He knew I wanted to ask him about what he had heard from Door, that Damon back then. With fear clearly etched on his face, he answered me. He gave my full name, my address, the date I moved in, my mom's name, my dads, my sisters, he knew my phone number, my dog's name, my email password, everything. He knew everything. And as he was talking to me, his voice was so, I don't know how to describe it, as if he had stopped being a child, as if he had

suddenly changed. I watched him, all tense, but door was not a human. My worst nightmares had come true. He was something that was only pretending to be him, his parents too. They weren't human beings. And one more thing he added. When he finished listing it all off, he told me that if I ever lay a hand on him, he would change into the most terrifying thing I would ever see. As he said it, please believe me, I'm telling the truth. His eyes. Here he started to gasp, completely overcome with panic.

His eyes, he continued with difficulty. They pierced right through me. I know for a fact, as I'm certain in my belief, that door is out there somewhere. My new roommate wasn't assigned to me. Written by Turn Affectionate 6963. Senior year of college, my previous roommate graduated and moved back home to save money. I kept dwelling on the idea of a new roommate taking his place. someone I didn't know, sharing my space.

The next afternoon, three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment. I swung the door open and was met by a young man with dark, greasy hair hanging over his eyes, clutching on a single cardboard box to his chest. Uh, hello, can I help you? I asked. In a raspy voice, he replied, I'm your new roommate. Apartment 367, right? I nodded.

Yeah, man, come in. I'm Ben. Nice to meet you. He reached out his hand. It trembled as he spoke. Name's Jackson. I held the door open and ushered him inside. As he passed by me,

the sharp aroma of bleach flooded my nostrils. I nearly gagged. I showed him around the apartment. Not much here, but feel free to use my dish if you need to. He didn't respond. Just nodded silently. His eyes scanned in the room like he was cataloging everything. I attempted to make conversation, but Jackson was like a brick wall. Out of sheer awkwardness, I decided to leave early for work. I said goodbye and told him I'd be home later that night. Jackson raised his hand in a stiff wave and let out the creepiest smile.

When he smiled, it didn't reach his eyes. like the rest of his face had to catch up. I gathered my things and chalked it up to him being socially awkward. Later that evening, when I arrived home, all the lights were off in the apartment. I assumed Jackson wasn't home. I switched the lights on and swung the fridge door open. Inside were ten packages of red meat, neatly stacked and tightly wrapped. As I stood there staring, I heard a faint croaking sound coming from Jackson's

bedroom. I moved closer to his door. The croaking shifted into scratching. Then suddenly, the noise is intensified. My nerves shot through me. I banged on the door. Hey man, everything all right? Everything went silent. Ten seconds passed. Then, in a gargled tone, Jackson hissed. Um, yes, just getting dressed. Okay, I said quickly. Just checking. I heard some noises. No response.

I went back to my room and locked my door. For the first time since moving in. The next morning, Jackson was gone. His door was wide open. I tried to ignore it and went straight to the fridge to grab my eggs. Before I could, I noticed five of Jackson's meat packages were missing. I assumed he'd cooked something during the night. Still, curiosity nodded me.

I slowly approach his bedroom. A tangy, metallic smell hit my nose as I peered inside. The room was practically empty, like no one had ever moved in, except for the cardboard box. It sat unopened on his desk. As I stepped closer, a knock sounded at the front door. I recoiled. The knocking came again. I cracked the door open to see Jackson standing there with a woman beside him.

Hey Jackson, I muttered. He rushed inside, the woman following closely behind. Forgot my keys, he mumbled. Thank you. His eyes darted toward his bedroom as he shut the door quickly. This is my sister Amber, Jackson said. Amber cocked her head to the side and raised her hand in a stiff, unnatural wave.

She never spoke. Nice to meet you, I said softly. Are you helping Jackson move more stuff in? Her eyes stayed glazed on mine. Jackson hissed. You don't go in my room, Ben, right? I would never intrude, I said quickly. He nodded and pulled Amber into his room.

She stared at me the entire time. I left the apartment soon after. That night at work, I told my co-workers everything. Kelly was the most adamant. Ben, this isn't a joke, she said. Gripping my arm. You're uncomfortable in your own home. This guy's a stranger.

Who knows what he does? I nodded. Did you hear about the student who went missing? She added. My stomach dropped. Who? I don't remember his name, she said, but I heard the FBI's involved. Just trust your gut.

The next morning, I decided I'd request a roommate change. When I got home, I went straight to my room and locked the door. Jackson was inside his room, as usual. Knock, knock, knock. My heart sank. Um, Jackson? Can we talk, Ben? He asked.

I. I'm about to go to bed. Please. It won't take long. I opened the door. Jackson stood a few steps back, smiling. What do you want? I asked.

He sat on the couch, stiff and deliberate. What makes your life? He asked. I stared at him. My friends, my family. He stared at me. Never. breaking eye contact.

Then Jackson said, is that normal for most humans? I looked at him, perplexed. What the hell do you mean? His smile grew wider. To stay under the radar, you must have friends and family.

I was taken aback. All right, Jackson, I've got work in the morning. Good night. He stood up almost robotically and headed it toward his room. Before shutting the door, Jackson stared at me. We are friends, Ben, right?

I nodded. He shut the door. The next morning, something felt wrong. Jackson's bedroom door was open again. I don't know what came over me. Curiosity, fear, instinct, but I walked toward it. A slick, squishing sound came from inside.

I hesitated. Then I looked in. Something was standing there, hunched over, trying to pull Jackson's skin over itself like clothing. The box sat beneath its feet. It twisted its head toward me in an impossible motion. I screamed and ran. At the front office, I told the woman my roommate wasn't.

normal. She forced a polite smile. What's your apartment number? 3-67. She frowned at her computer. Sir, you were never assigned a new roommate. The police came. Then the FBI. They told me Jackson was reported missing days before I met him. Then they asked about a woman named Amber. I barely slept anymore. I'm still stuck in the apartment. I can't break the lease. Last night, I saw it on the news. They found Jackson's body. His skin was missing.

My mom used to hide under my bed at night, written by King Crimson Zero. I was born in 2000. Grew up in a small town in Northeast Ohio. We had one of those little ranch-style houses. all on one floor, three bedrooms. It was just me and my mom for most of my life. My dad left when I was a baby. She was a good mom from what I remember.

We didn't have much money, but she made sure I always had what I needed. She worked as a waitress at a restaurant in the center of town. Always tired, but always kind. We'd watch movies together at night. She'd tugged me in, kiss my fourth, and tell me she loved me. I felt safe, except at bedtime.

I must have been around six or seven the first time I noticed it. One night after she tucked me in, I heard the floor creak after she turned off the light. Not out in the hall, right by my bed. I remember freezing, listening. Then I heard the sound of her breathing, slow, Heavy, right underneath me. I leaned over the edge and whispered, Mom?

She didn't answer. Just this soft little giggle. Not mean. Not playful. Just weird. I called for her louder. After a few seconds, she crawled out from under a bed like it was the most normal thing in the world. Smileed at me and said,

Go to sleep, sweetheart. Mommy's here. Then she left the room. The next night, same thing. I heard her crawl under right after lights out, the soft thud of her knees and hands against the floorboards, the shift of the mattress as she settled in. Then the breathing.

I was too little to really question it. I thought maybe it was just a game she liked to play. but the older I got, the more I realized it wasn't a game. It became a routine. She tugged me in like normal, turn off the lights, and then she'd get under the bed every single night. And then she started doing little things. She would tap on the wood under my mattress and these odd rhythms. Three taps.

Then two. Then four. Sometimes it almost sounded like a song. Other times like random patterns. If I moved or sat up, she'd stop until I sat back down. A couple of times I caught her peeking out from the foot of the bed. I'd feel her eyes on me and look down. And there she was.

Her face just visible in the dark, one eye glinting in the faint lie from the hall, no expression, just watching. I stopped sleeping well. I'd lie stiff under the covers, too afraid to move or call for her. If I tried to leave the bed, she'd grab my ankle. Not hard. Just enough to stop me.

Then she'd giggle again. That same soft, weird giggle. I never told anyone. How do you explain something like that when you're a kid? I figured no one would believe me. It wasn't every night that something. Something scary happened. Some night she'd just lie there quietly.

I'd hear her whispering to herself sometimes. Words I couldn't make out. Soft and steady. Like she was talking to someone I couldn't hear. This went on for years. During the day, she was totally normal. Made my lunch. Hout with homework.

Joked with me. Hugged me. I remember trying to work. up the courage to ask her about it once when I was around 10. I said something dumb like, Mom, why do you sleep under my bed? She just blinked at me and smiled, oh buddy, I don't do that. You must be having silly dreams. But that night, she was there again, and the tapping was louder. By the time I was nine or 10, I stopped looking under the bed. I started sleeping on the couch when I could get away from it. Eventually, when I turned 11, she told me I was old enough to have a lock on my door.

She never came back into my room. I don't know why she did that. I don't know what changed. She passed away when I was 23. Cancer. In her last week, she was confused a lot of the time, drifting in and out but one night. When I was sitting by her bed, she grabbed my wrist and said very clearly, I kept you safe, you know. You were never alone at night. I still don't understand what she meant. My family doesn't remember who I am. Part two.

I'm in a man's body. My hair is no longer silky, now wiry and gray. The blue in my eyes is covered in a milky haze. The struggles of a life I never lived marked my identity with deep ruts. I'm an old man when yesterday I was only 19. I felt sick, the acid rising up my chest, burning my insides. I tried holding it back, but it filled my mouth and I puked into the sink. The vomit was dark, the white porcelain speckled in dots of red.

I never liked the side of blood. The man in the reflection looked scared. His bushy brows, slanted, and eleven between his eyes. He lifted a hand and caressed the side of the face. The skin stretched but took too long to bounce back. His hand trailed down to his long, filthy beard. It felt exactly like it looked rough, rugged, ugly. I started to saw, but when the sadness left my throat, the thickness of my voice startled me.

That was when the bathroom door pushed open. I hardly noticed who came in, the store clerk, his reflection, stepping into the mirror's frame. He looked irritated. Sir, this is the woman's bathroom. You can't be in here. Sir? The voice sent an icy shiver across my skin, and I felt the fear trailed down my leg. It was hot, and it soaked into the fabric of my pants.

It trickled onto the laminate floor, pulling under my nose. The stench of fresh ammonia filled my nose. The store clerk's eyes dropping towards the sudden leak, festering from the tiles, before realizing he threw his hands up. Come on, man. Who the hell was going to clean that shit up? I told them that we shouldn't let homeless people in here. That shit that I deal with on a daily basis. Come, come on.

Out. He snapped his fingers, tolerance fleeting, but I was frozen, unable to move to speak. It was only when the moisture covering my leg started to cool. That I started trembling. I mouthed a quiet plea for help, but the muscles of my neck spasmed. The only thing that came up was a quiet croak. The clerk massaged his forehead. Great, another chunky.

Come on, we can't have you shooting your veins in the woman's bathroom. out. He hesitated when grabbing the sleeve of my jacket that was about the time he saw what I'd done into the sink. Oh, the fuck is wrong with you, old man. He never touched me. A disgusted look washed across his face as if I was riddled with leprosy. That's it. I'm calling the cops. His feet clattered across the floor and he thrust the door aside, storming out. I started coughing, my hand reaching for my face, covering my mouth. When the coughing fit stopped, I looked at my hand, finding a wad of cagluted red. I felt hot and the room started to spin.

Obvious affliction aside, I felt sick. I was sick. Further confirmation of that fact squirted out of my lungs and coated my clothes. The room swayed and I found myself propped up by the strength of the wall. I started toward the door and walked out into this door. The clerk was punching a number into the phone but stopped when he saw me. Bloody, weakening. The woman that was in the bedroom.

bathroom before me, rounded a shelf, screaming at the horror, the cheap bottle of wine in her hands chattering at her feet. The clerk slammed the phone and pointed to the door. Out! I stammered in his direction, outstretching a hand, quietly begging for mercy. There was no mercy given that day. With the fibers of a broom, he swatted me away, carefully not to touch the urine and blood on my clothes. I tripped through the threshold of the door, landing on my face. The clerk tossed the luggage I had with me onto my back, and the zipper opened. The concrete was decorated with my clothes, woman's clothes. Once again, the clerk looked disgusted. With the handle of the broom, he lifted a frilly pink piece of underwear, holding it up to the light. What kind of twisted shit

are you into, old man? He flicked the garment away. It fell on my face. Get the hell out of here, you freak. I tried explaining. You don't understand, I said, while showing him my palm. The voice that rose from my chest didn't make the statement sound too convincing. Not even to me, I was guilty of being in possession of my own belongings, a crime I never thought possible. The store was automated bell dinged and the clerk's image warped by the shimmer of the glass's reflection. That was when I caught a glimpse of the pathetic pervert on the ground. I felt sorry for him, for myself. The woman that was inside the store pushed the glass door open, stepping around me, her trajectory.

exaggerated. I wobbled to my feet, feeling a shutter through my chest when the ground was once again under my shoes. The asphalt rolled across the ground. It was as if I was on a ship in the middle of a stormy sea. I used the luggage to prop myself up and started walking down the street. The plastic handle barely held my weight. It bowed, struggling to keep me upright, a task that would have been easier only a day ago. The wheels under the bag thunked on a sidewalk cracks, the sound unrhythmic, a product of my fleeting ability to walk a straight line. I felt embarrassed to be out here like this, but no one paid me any mind, just another bum in the city. All of a sudden, I wished they were looking at me. If they'd seen the 19-year-old version

of me, people would be rushing to aid the tiny girl fighting this reach, the street corner. But now burly and unsightly, people refused to look my way, a minor inconvenience and an otherwise normal day. I felt lonely, alone, scared. I walked past an alley, looking down its length, the two walls on either side shrouding the corridor in darkness. It was a good enough place as any to lay my head down and die. When I walked into the shadow of the day, the temperature dropped drastically, but at least I was hidden from the winter winds from the cold, cruel world. I leaned my back on the bricks siding, hugging my bag, holding on to the remnants of a life that was no longer here. I closed my eyes and started slowly drifting away. The anguished thoughts muted in the warmth of the

thickening veil until nothing. The gentle hum of fire gently stirred my eyes open. There was a barrel directly in front of me, my logs crackling in the heat. I thought I was dead, but the radiating warmth of the flames told me otherwise. The sky was dark. It was night. I've been asleep for who knows how long. Not long enough if you asked me. You're lucky I found you when I did. There was a pair of eyes looking at me from the other side of the fire, the flickering lashings of orange glistening in his gaze. Who are you, I thought of saying, but the cough in my chest stifled the question. Though it wasn't necessary, the look on my face said at all. You're freezing to death out here. Had a friend of mine go like that last winter. He took a stick and repositioned the logs,

angry sparks sprinkled it in the air, and I sat upright. It was about that time I noticed that I was wrapped in a heavy wool blanket. I was puzzled at its sudden appearance. That's not a gift. I'm going to need that back after you're done. I was just getting tired of hearing your teeth rattle. He was shoveling something in his hands. It wasn't until I looked at the ground that I realized what it was. My wallet was on the ground. He was rummaging through my credit cards, my ID. He held the little square up to the light, reading aloud. Maya. He laughed a smote as mohed. He laughed a smote. his laugh while eyeing me over the picture. What do we have here? My, my, my, my. You steal these? He flipped the card to my direction, letting me see the picture, turning it back. He looked at it

through a tired squint. Not a bad-looking girl. His words were accompanied by an astonished whistle. Wouldn't mind spend some time with my if you know what I mean. Lust filled his eyes. Anger boiled in my chest. Give those back. My voice was throaty, rusty. Rusty. Whoa, whoa, whoa, well, speaks. Patronization engulfed his tone. She your kin? He said, pointing at the ID with his eyes. I didn't say anything, measuring my words, hesitating to say the truth.

Well, if she ain't your kin. His brows were suggestive, hungry, the file thoughts racing through his mind. Maya, my, my, man, oh man, my, my, Maya. Someone else said. I turned my head searching for the, familiar voice that called my name. For a second, I thought someone had finally recognized me that maybe I was saved, but my heart dropped when I saw the figure that was walking past the entrance to the alley. It was me, her blonde, silky hair shimmered under the street lamp. Her petite frame dwarfed

by the scale of the building. It was uncanny to see myself as others did. My, wait up, the voice echoed through the street down the alley. My mom and dad stepped between the gap at the end of the corridor. They looked dressed up as if ready for a fancy dinner. When my parents caught up to her, my dad put his hand around the girl and they walked out of view. I shot to my feet. The ground's still unsteady. I hurried after them. Wait, where are you going? The homeless man shouted. But his voice never registered. I stumbled into the street to see the happy family making its way down the sidewalk. I hurried after them, hiding behind parked car, still wary of the way my dad had threatened to me. Using the blanket as a cloak, they chatted jovially, my dad making his off-brand jokes, my mom laughing sympathetically, and the imposter beside them rolling her eyes just as I would.

They looked like the perfect little family, my perfect little family. They filed into the door one at a time, the lettering above the building reading, Fork, an upscale joint in the center of downtown. This was my dad's favorite place. We'd often come here on special occasions, holidays, birthdays, birthdays, homes, homecomings. I hid behind an SUV on the other side of the street. The waiter sat them at a table right by the window, the warm lighting of the restaurant, spotlights, making the scene look straight out of a hallmark movie. The three looked over the menu as if they didn't already know what they were going to order. Dad always got the steak, mom the trout, me a hybrid, surfing turf. The waiter took the menus away and they all chatted across the table. I imagined how the conversation

was going, dad asking me how school was going, me telling them how much I hated my major, mom being the moderator between us. Back then, this would all seem so mundane. Now the sight filled me with sadness. I missed them. My life. A sudden bouts of anger roared in my chest and I wanted to wrap my hands around the imposter's neck. I wanted to feel the life slowly drained from her face, my fingers digging into the flesh of her skin. She stole my life from me and I needed her dead. I needed her rotting in the ground. I had never been so angry in my life. My dad stood up from his chair and made his way toward the bathroom.

The imposter and my mom stayed back, smiling, talking, while I imagined driving the dinner fork into the doppelganger's chest. The waiter rolled the food out on a cart, placing it on the table, just as I imagined dad got the steak, mom the trout. But me, the chicken. I hated chicken, the tastes, the texture. Never in a million years would I order the chicken. I expected my mom to say something about this, but she never did.

Instead, the conversation droned on. The two were friendly. Too friendly. My mom and I always got along, but not like this. The imposter would say something, and my mom would burst into laughter. It was as if she had her under a spell, as if they were best friends. It was too good to be true. The imposter pointed to a fixture on the wall, surely commenting on it.

My mom turned, gazed at her. into the painting's face. Not like I'd ever been an art critic, so it all felt off. But the more my doppelganger spoke the more, Mesrae's mom looked with the picture until she was fully invested with each brushstroke. That was about the time the imposter's motive became clear. From the depths of her purse, she pulls out a tiny veil, white powder encapsulated within. While mom still studied the painting, she sprinkled some powder over her plate and did the same to dads. Mom turned in the doppelganger hid the vial under the table. I don't know what was in the vial, but I knew it was nothing good. The hair on my neck was standing on end, and I had a very bad promotion about what was

about to happen. Dad wandered out of the bathroom, and that was about the time I noticed the odd way he was walking. His steps were usually fluid, authoritative, and now he was dragging his feet, stepping lazily. There was a blank look in his eyes, a shell of his normal self. He retook his chair, clapped his hands, rubbing them together, ready to eat. The three of them picked up their utensils and began cutting apart the food. My sense is on overload. I didn't even realize I was halfway across the street. I needed to stop them.

I walked in front of the window, catching the attention of my doppelganger. When she turned, the other two took note, looking out the same window. My dad's back instantly tensed in the back of his knees, thrust the chair out from under him. I thought I told you to make yourself scarce. You filthy bum? Dad's voice was muted through the window, but it was loud enough to vibrate the glass. The whole restaurant was looking to my direction. I ran out of the door screaming out my warning.

Don't eat that. I just watched the bitch poison you. I pointed accusingly at the little blonde by my mom. Her eyes watery with fear. My dad wrapped a hand around her, quelling her anxiety. Dad glanced over at her before returning to me, his teeth clenched with rage. I'd never been punched in the face But there I was my nose stinging

As every nerve ending fired The smell of pain filling my sinuses The next thing I knew My feet were dragging across the ground Two waiters pulling my arms My dad growing smaller the further they pulled me I was crying fluid streaming down my face Blood tears

Dad's scowled face Mom's worried expression The imposter's teasing smile She was finding joy in my torment Her lips curled devisely They pulled me out through the the back door and tossed me into an alley, the same alley. I wiped the blood from my face and I looked around. The homeless man was gone, my belongings with them. That was when my cough returned and the

crimson particulates festered out my mouth. Something shifted deep inside me. For some reason, I knew that whatever this was, was going to be the end of me. But before I died, the doppelganger was going to suffer my wrath. without doors, written by Saturday. I don't remember much for my childhood. I lived in a small town south of Krakow with my mom, dad, and two sisters. Those early days are a blur, but I remember going door to door around the neighborhood, asking for treats during the Dazintki Harvest Festival.

It was a tradition of ours, since we knew the neighbors always bought too much candy. We'd gather leftovers to make a feast of our own. At every door, you agreed with a cheeky smile as the neighbors lovingly cussed out the scoundrel children of the Dabrowski home. Of course, happy memories are happy for a reason, because things get worse. And you can get something to compare them to. My parents separated. My mother moved us to Warzawa, where we could be closer to my grandparents and uncles. Meanwhile, my father, Jarmir, did his best to stay in.

our lives, but it got harder and harder. He needed to work longer and longer hours, but he still sent us money every month. He wanted us to have a beautiful life, even if he couldn't be there for it. With every passing year, those visits grew further and further away. First we lost Easter, then Christmas, then the birthdays. And finally, our yearly Dzyntzky Festival meetup. we heard of him, he was barely making ends meet. He wasn't sending money anymore, and over time, he disappeared into memory. My mother remarried. My sisters graduated. My oldest sister moved to

Ljubana, while my younger moved to Munich. My mother stayed in Warsaw with her new husband, but once the kids were out of the picture, she moved into her summer home up north. I love my mother dearly, but she's always had an eye for the luxurious, always planning the next trip, the next sun-baked afternoon. I stayed in Warsaw. I got myself a degree in sociology and managed to hold on to a low-rank government job at ZUS overseeing private claims. It wasn't glamorous, it was mostly being yelled at in different ways, but it paid the bills. A mind-numbing battle of making decisions, defending them, and making them again. The year I turned 24, I got a letter from an estate lawyer.

Turns out, my father had passed away. This wasn't recent. According to the papers, he passed away several years ago. Some kind of accident with farm equipment. He didn't have a proper will, and dividing the estate among his living descendants hadn't been a state priority. They got lost in a folder somewhere, and now it is. floated back up. They divided everything equally between me and my sisters. My youngest sister got his

savings. My oldest got his car and valuables. And I, well, I got the house. And I called the others to check who wanted to go see his grave. No one wanted to. They were all tangled up in their own lives and troubles. My family were under the impression that my father had abandoned us and this was a way for us to abandon him back. I had a different impression. I always thought he was just working too hard. I decided I'd take some time off work to collect his things and check out the property, trying to get a better idea of why he'd distance himself from us. And maybe I could get a better picture of my early life, that time where I was greeted with a smile rather than a complaint. It was a long drive. The roads out there aren't the best.

It's a very small community with no more than about 250 people. Most of us were wheat farmers, and there's not that much to do. There are only two things other than farms, a church and a store. Everything else is either too far away or too irrelevant. Going past the endless fields, I got so lulled into a rhythm that I almost missed the exit. It's so small that you can accidentally pass it by if you don't take the right turn. There are no signs. You can only recognize it from the church in the distance.

I took a left turn and prayed to God the suspension would hold on a little while longer. I decided to pay the old church a visit. We'd spent a lot of time there. There was plenty of parking. It was smaller than I remembered. But then again, everything looked bigger back then. there is something uneasy about coming home after so long as i stepped out of the car it all just came back to me the smells the sounds even if you can't put your finger on it there's something that tickles the mind

as if to remind you this is where you belong welcome a voice called out sorry about the the state of things i turn around to see a man a couple of years older than the one a couple of years older than myself. He had well-combed hair and thick glasses. He was wearing a priest's garb. I'd almost forgot. The village priest had been old even back when I was young. No wonder there was a new one. I'm father, Sir Naak, he continued. Are you new in town? Or passing through? I grew up here, I said. I'm one of the Debrowski kids. Sorry, I'm not familiar, he smiled. I only came here last winter to. to pick up the work from Father Golick. He lived until last winter, I asked.

Are you sure? Quite so, he laughed. 101 years old. I can't believe it, I smiled. God really does have a sense of humor. Father showed me around. He told me his plans for refurbishing the windows, but the one thing that irked him more than anything was the doors.

See, they were gone. The church was wide open. It's a local superstition, he sighed. A shepherd needs his gate to tend his flock. But every time I put the doors up, someone takes them down. Strange, I said. I've never heard that before. Really?

I thought you were from the area. I guess I've been gone too long, father. The church looked naked in a way. No barriers. I could see the gravel they dragged in, forgetting to wipe their. feet. Father had tried to put up some curtains, but the wind had torn them down piece by piece. Before I left, he showed me my father's grave. It'd been vandalized. The headstone had been

tipped over, and there were no flowers. I promised myself to make it a little bit nicer before I left. But I didn't understand. Sure, my family wasn't perfect, but we'd never been hated. This grave looked outright despised. I thanked Father Sarniac and made my way across town. I wasn't prepared for what I saw. All through town, there were these wide open houses, just like the church. At first, I thought it was some kind of summer cleaning going on, but no, all doors were gone.

They weren't just open, they were removed. I could see all the way into people's living rooms, the hustle. and bustle as homeowners moved from kitchen to bedroom, talking amongst themselves. I slowed down and looked a little closer. Not a single room had a door, not even the bathrooms. A couple of them had curtains or insect nets put up, but no doors. House after house, completely open to the elements. A couple of them had welcome mats by the windows in their living rooms,

as if to show that this was the way to enter. A couple of them had completely break the entrances where their front door used to be, sealing it. Sure, small towns can be a bit quirky, but I'd never seen anything like this. I pulled up to an all-too-familiar driveway, and gasped. I couldn't recognize my home. It'd been vandalized. Every window broken. Every door removed.

I could see rats scurrying around, walking around the property, things got even worse. There had been a small fire in the backyard, spreading to the outer wall of the kitchen. It wasn't completely burned down, but you could probably punch straight through with little effort. And finally, on the far side, neon green spray paint reading Sin Diabla, Son of the Devil. I couldn't believe it. They'd even clip the chains off our swing set, leaving a rusted metal skeleton. It looked like someone had tried to start a tire fire, but couldn't quite get it going. I had a hard time even picturing what it used to look like.

There was this bottomless hole forming in my stomach where every smile I remembered seemed like a cruel taunt. Something must have happened. something I'd never even heard of. Coming back around, I noticed a crowd of middle-aged men. They were standing just outside the property, looking over my car. I didn't recognize any of them. You with the bank? One of them asked.

No, I'm the Debrowski kid, I said. The son? You're the son? He spat. You want to join him in hell? Is that it? You know who did this? I snapped back.

Pointing at the house. Was it you? Could have been anyone. A man in the back added. Fooker deserved it. One of them gave a knowing smirk and nodded at the graffiti. They whispered something among themselves, letting out a chuckle under their breaths. They scoffed me and watered off, spitting curses and sneers. Not quite the welcome I'd imagined. I'd initially planned on sleeping in the old house, but there was no way. Not only was it wide open, it was a disgusting mess. I'm not going to go into detail what they'd done to the place,

but I'd be lucky if I was able to give it away in this current state. I decided to spend the nights sleeping in my car. I leaned the seat back and wrap myself in a blanket, hoping it wouldn't get too cold. I spent some time on my phone, but I didn't want to use all the battery. But somehow, I still ended up staying awake long past midnight. But there was something beautiful about that night. The sunset was one of the few that didn't change around those parts.

Watching the sun go down over the same old fields gave me that feeling that some things never change. I remember waking up sometime around 2 a.m. seemingly for no reason. It wasn't cold, but there was no one bothering me. And no notifications on my phone. A careful wind brushed against the hood of the car. I lay there for a moment, trying to ignore the texture of the seat, sinking into my sweaty skin. I filtered out these sounds of nature, bleeding in from outside. A distant part of me had heard them all before.

I listened past the songbirds and the insects in the fields, and beyond that, there was something else. Something in the distance. A whale. A deep, sorrowful whale. The following day, I took some time to walk around town. The rumor that Jeremyer's kid was back had spread like wildfire. I could tell by the sideways looks as people passed me on the street. The only ones who didn't seem to care were the kids, and they were few and far between.

At the far end of the town, there was this long brick wall. It wasn't very high, but it was dense. It had doors built directly into it. dozens of them every door from every house in the neighborhood they jammed them all straight into this brick I couldn't see ours though it had an eerie look to it

maybe a hundred or more doors all built to never be opened I couldn't help but touch a few handles making sure they didn't budge there were a couple of teenagers standing at the edge of the wall observing me I walked up to them

surprised to see that they didn't back down They had a cocky look to them But at least they weren't openly hostile Before I could say anything They turned to me My mom hates you One of them said What'd you do

I used to live around here I said Come to get some things Why'd you come back? He scoffed I'm leaving the moment I can afford it Same Said the other

Rolling an unlit cigarette Between his fingers I gave them a tired look. A man passed us further down the street, throwing daggers at me with his eyes. Talking to the wrong person could get my teeth knocked out for sure. I turned to the kids, lowering my voice. I'm Debrowski's son, I admitted.

That's why they hate me. The second kid nearly dropped his cigarette. I managed to bribe them into a conversation with the promise of a six-pack from the next town over. In return, they'd give me the unofficial tour of what happened these past few years, a fair trade, I suppose. I'd apparently missed quite a lot. We wandered to the east out of town. There was an old farm that stood there for ages. It didn't really have a name. It'd just been a part of the background. It was barely even a frame anymore. It was just the outline of what it once been a home.

I'd start years ago. People heard knocking coming from that ruin. You used to have this door that still stood, clinging to the edge of a rotted-out door frame. You could hear it at night. One of the kids explained, Knock, knock, like a door to hell. Sounds awful, I said.

Not to everyone. The other kid sighed. There was one guy who liked it. It wasn't a hard guess as to whom that might have been. Rumor was my dad had gone up there one night and opened the door. It crumbled off the hinges and according to the townsfolk, something stepped through. Some called it the devil.

A couple of kids thought it was an alien. Most locals just called it a slepeik. It came through and the door broke. The first kid said, and now it can't go back. So you're saying it's still here? I asked. It's real?

Well, yeah, he laughed. Why do you think this place is so fucked up? Then what's with the doors? It's looking for a way back to hell, he said. And when it can't find the right door, it gets angry and then it hurts people. Slepiek. That's what they called it. An ugly word for a blind man or mole.

They like to call it that because of its terrible vision, mistaking every door for the one it was looking for. For years, Slepia had moved from house to house, knocking on every door could find, and if someone opened, it would do something terrible. People had gone missing. A couple have died. I drove my adolescent guides to the other town over to get them their promised beer. They told me all they could as we went.

It felt a bit weird, driving off with a couple of teenagers, but I got the impression that these two had done far worse for far less. Delinquents, but honest ones. At first, people had hidden in their homes, but then Slepiek had knocked until the doors broke. Then it would knock on the inner doors. So over time, people removed their doors. Those who didn't would get a visit at some point.

With all the discarded doors, they built the brick wall. tricking Slapeic into knocking around at night. This can't be true, I said. It's absurd. It's true, the first kid said. That's why they hate your dumb dad. He let it in. But it doesn't make sense.

Why don't you just pack it up and leave? I'm gonna, the first kid said. I told you. The second kid pondered on the question for a while, then shrugged at his friend. He answered as if he'd thought about it a hundred times. Everywhere is good, but home is best. Of course he'd say that.

Come hell or high water, home is home. I got them their six-pack and some fast food. I got some for myself while I was at it. It wasn't a long drive all in all, but long enough to be a bother. By the time we got back, it was almost dark. They rushed out of their car, waving a hasty goodbye. as they did, the second kid called back to me. Go see for yourself, he said.

Slepia comes out at night. He pointed down the street towards the brick wall. I nodded at them in a silent thanks. I didn't believe them. I had to see Slepiac for myself. If what I'd heard the previous nights was any indication, Slippiak could be out somewhere after midnight. So I went to bed early.

And when I say bed, I mean, sleep. sleeping in my car for the second night in a row. I was miserable. I considered leaving first thing in the morning, but there was this deep sadness in me that I couldn't shake. This was my old home. I'd played in these fields. It felt wrong knowing I was no longer welcome.

My dad was many things, but no devil's son. If he opened that door, it must have been for a good reason. And if he let through something that shouldn't be here, it must have been an honest mistake. He was not an evil man, but he was fallible. Then again, maybe he didn't have a choice. Maybe Slepiac didn't give him a choice either. I must have nodded off at some point. I forgot to set an alarm, but I still woke up at around 2.30 a.m. I considered going back to sleep, but I decided to have one last look around town. I'd promise myself I would. So I got out of the car.

stretched and listened. It was easier that night. There was a noise that cut straight through the ambience. That, wailing. It was clearer. Even in the dark, I could tell where it came from. The houses that had turned off their lights, leaving the streets lit up with nothing but the moon.

Still, I knew those streets. I could follow them in my sleep. I made my way to a dirt path, leading me past the two houses at the edge of town, and straight to the brick wall. At that point, I could hear it clear as day. It was a man wailing at the top of his lungs, crying his soul out, bawling like a child. I could see the brick wall in the distance. The sharp contour of the bricked indoors stood out against the moonlight like a long, flat, abstract painting.

and in the middle of it all there was a dark silhouette. It looked like a man, sort of. I couldn't really tell what he was like. He had a bulky jacket on. He was pulling on one of those doors, smacking it over and over with a closed fist. It was the same pattern, over and over, pull smack smack, pull smack, smack.

And in between every attempt, he jerked his head around. crying desperately. I considered walking up to him. This wasn't some kind of devil. This was a heartbroken man. As I took a few steps closer, I noticed something in the corner of my eye. A light.

I turned around only to notice a small flashlight coming from one of the nearby houses. They were filming me with their phones. Looking closer, I could see two little heads peeking out. shaking their heads in a certain no turning back to the brick wall i heard a sudden crack the man had pulled one of the doors straight out of the wall that came loose he set it down next to him and with one hand pushed it downward he didn't even have a good grip but with his single hand he broke the door

into pieces. The wailing turned into a scream. Rage, unfiltered, unhindered, rage. With his fingers, he began to rip bricks straight out of the wall, tossing them around like leaves in the wind. I could hear them landing around me, kicking up tufts of grass. I backed away as the lights in the house went out. The little heads dipped away from the window. I hurried down the dirt path as I watched Slepiek, climb on top of the brick wall, screaming at the top of his lungs. Even at a distance, I could tell something was off. His proportion seemed wrong. It was hard to tell.

He'd wrapped himself in some kind of dark fabric. But something about him didn't look right. I didn't stop to stare. Say what you will. Maybe it was just a strange man. Either way, I was looking at something dangerous. and when the locals turn to hide, you do best to fall suit. So I heard down the dirt path, hearing his terrifying scream echo across the fields.

I barely slept that night. It is one thing to believe in monsters and another thing to see them. As soon as the sun rose, I drove off. But as I went past the church, I noticed something. There was a white van outside. and one of the church doors had been put back up. There were two men on ladders getting ready to put the other door up. It was hidden under a tarp just off to the side.

I could see Father Serniac up front with a big smile on his face. I decided to see what was going on. Surely he had to know what the hell he was doing. The moment I parked my car, Father waved me over. He was right next to me before my boots hit the gravel. Welcome back, he smiled. glad to see you haven't left us yet. I closed the car door and yawn a little.

What are you doing? I asked. What is this? You inspired me, he said. For an outsider, this place must have looked awful. I saw it. You know, I saw it in your face. He turned back to the church as the two carpenters began tipping up the second door. It must be dignified, he continued.

Our lady deserves a woman. better, don't you think? This is a bad idea, I said. I've seen that thing around town. Father Cerniac shook his head and put a hand on my shoulder. This was a man who was trained to talk to people. I could tell. If the Lord's house can't shelter you from the devil, what can?

In exchange for a little manual labor, I was offered a hot shower and a proper meal. After sleeping in my car for a couple of days, I couldn't say no. Smooth talker or not, Father Cerniac seemed as an honest man. He believed what he spoke of. As the hours passed, more and more people dropped by. Mostly townsfolk coming to cuss him out for being an idiot. Some of them threw rocks at the doors, demanding he'd take them down. Others, in turn, thought it was about time someone at the church had some balls.

Just like Father Sarniac had said, If a house of the Lord can't shelter you from evil, what can? By late afternoon, there was a significant gathering of people. Even those who had acted in anger earlier in the day were swayed. The argument was simple. Do they not trust in God? There was a bit of a cookout. Some brought sausages or steak for dinner.

I spotted the two teenagers in the crowd, stealing a bit of water. wine from one of the elderly. I lost track of time. It felt a bit like the harvest festival back of the day, something that drew out the entire town. The sounds and smells were the same, and I could see from the smiles in the crowd that I wasn't the only one feeling that way. Later in the day, Father held a sermon. I don't remember much of it. I was having trouble staying awake. That, if anything, felt just like when I was a kid. It's amazing how to be how something as stiff as church pews can be so lonely.

But there was one part that stuck with me. The door is a threshold, he said. And the door of a church is the threshold between the vial and the sacred, between sin and saint. We can no longer live in uncertainty. We must live as we teach. And we are proud to say, we have been taught well. The sermon continued into the evening.

It ended just after the sunset. Some people wandered home, but others were ashamed to stay. It was no longer just a public gathering, and it turned into a challenge. The faith of the congregation pitted against the devil itself. Some went home to gather blankets and pillows, laying down to sleep on the floor. This wasn't easy for them. Some talked about the people who'd disappeared over the years. People who'd opened the door when Slippiak first came to knock.

An elderly woman had gotten her neck broken. One man had been dragged out into the yard and killed with a rope and a tree. Another man had been mutilated. It pulled his arm right out of the socket, they whispered. We found it across the street. I tried talking to people, but it was clear that no one wanted anything to do with me. I was still Jeremiah's boy

The only ones who didn't seem to mind Were the two teenagers I talked to earlier Later that evening They walked up to me Probably just to piss off their parents Aren't you scared One asked Should I be

It's got a blooded tooth for you The other said I don't think so I smiled I've only seen it once Yeah but They quieted down looking at one another. Then back to me.

I was missing something. Your dad, they said. Slapeic got him. Did no one tell you? They hadn't. Turns out it wasn't malfunctioning farming equipment that killed him years ago. It was Slepeic.

My dad had been the first victim on the list. Most of the villagers had considered this a sinner getting his just reward. Others figured that if you play stupid games, you win stupid prizes. They'd found him tangled in the swing set. His body broken and mangled. The kids left me alone with my thoughts for a while. They could tell I wasn't all there. It was one thing to have him dead.

But to die in such a horrifying way, was unthinkable. I could barely picture him in my mind, and now there was a new image vrying for my attention, rattling chains, dripping blood. But there wasn't much time to think.

As the clock passed midnight, someone came knocking. The church fell silent. Something pulled on the handles. Two smacks, pull on the handle again. These doors, were massive, and the hinges had just been reinforced, but I could see them still struggle.

Father Sarniak took a deep breath as the congregation fell silent. He spoke aloud. This is no place for sons of sin, he said. There is nothing for you to corrupt. It all stopped. We all breathed a sigh of relief. But the two teenagers didn't look too convinced. They'd huddled up on the far side of the table.

church. There was an emergency exit in one of the side rooms. The door moved again, this time with more determination. The handles were pulled even harder, and the smacking made the entire slab of wood crackle like a sinking ship. Then the whaling, the loud, desperate wailing. As soon as I heard it, I could see the color drain from the congregation's faces. The door was pulled, back and forth, back and forth. A chandelier started to shake. The door is coming down. Someone called out. It's coming down now. Father Cernic tried to calm them, but it was too late. People flooded the rear exit of the church, tried to get away. I was pushed aside without much thought. If the Debrowski kid bit the bullet, all the better. As far as these people were concerned,

There is no sin in the house of the Lord. Father Sarniac yelled, There is no sin. The devil can laugh and jeer as much as he likes, but there is no place for his evil. But thoughtful words can't stop a broken door. Slepik wasn't deterred. The doors came down.

There was a pause in the air as they fell. The air swept through the room, blowing out most of the candles among the pews. As the doors hit the ground, the crowd panicked. Most of them were already on their way out. People screamed, others cursed. I was in the far back of the crowd. And it was clear I was never going to make it out without being crushed.

I settled instead for hiding among the front pews, hoping the dark would shield me. I could barely see Slipiac in the flickering candlelight. His right arm had grown out of his shoulder blade. And his left arm was so long, that had scraped against the floor. He had a sort of hunchback pose, but there was something that kept moving on his back, fluttering, like a shivering membrane.

He wasn't wearing a coat. He just wasn't human. He looked like something vaguely trying to resemble a human. Even Father Sarniak ran, hiding behind the altar. Slapiac rushed through the room in a messy gallop, knocking over pews as he went. They didn't even slow him down.

When he got to the side room, people had already run screaming into the night. Slepia couldn't catch them. Instead, he settled on throwing things across the room, tearing down whatever he could reach, and breaking whatever he could lay his hands on. His wailing had turned to rage, and he was out of control.

I was laying flat on my stomach, crawling away. Father Sarniac was, wasn't so lucky. Just like Slepiac had done with the brick wall, he climbed up on the altar. From there, he could see the priest. I don't like to recall what I saw. It's unworthy to make spectacle of tragedy. But Slepik didn't care for titles or words. He didn't care about anything. He picked Father Sarniak up with a single arm, holding him outstretched in front of him like a child considering an unfamiliar vegetable.

Father Sarniac tried his best. In between desperate cries, he said the most powerful words he knew. He compelled, he demanded, and when nothing seemed to work, he begged and prayed. Then Slipiac unhinged his jaw like a snake. The screaming stopped with a snap

as a spray of blood shot out. Something thumped against the altar and rolled onto the wooden floor. A pair of glasses clattered against the ground. Slepiac spat and coughed and picking tufts of hair from his teeth. He let the body slip from his grip, drooping unceremoniously to the red carpet. I remember crawling. I crawled as quietly and carefully as I could.

Slepiac was big, but his footsteps were light, like he was tiptoeing everywhere he went. I didn't notice he was behind me until his shadow drowned me. I rolled around, only to see his vast shape towering over me. He must have seen me. There were still a couple of candles. For a moment, I saw his face. A half-made gray thing with black inward-leaning concave eyes,

a faint shimmer like scales from a. a fish. A human mouth with an extra manable. A twitchy nose adjusting to the smell of burnt wax and blood. Visera still dripped from his strange lips. Then he grabbed me, carefully, slowly. I closed my eyes as I was pulling closer. He looked at me. He looked close. I could feel the heat of his mouth. Perhaps I'd be tastier. Then he made a noise. I can't put my finger on what kind of noise it was, but I'd never heard it before. A squeal, perhaps.

A confused rattle. He put me back down. I opened my eyes as those large black eyes turned away from me. He was leaving. His rage subsided as he dragged his long arm across the floor. His wailing bubbled back up. But it wasn't as desperate. It was confused.

The effects of the attack was immediate. Some went to get their hunting gear. Others were blaming the priest, saying he wasn't holy enough. Others were leaving the town entirely. After all, if God couldn't save them, they had to save themselves. I made my way back to my father's home. There was so much he'd never told me, and it was too late to ask. I had no idea what kind of mess he'd been wrapped up in, but I couldn't stand by and wait for it to blow over.

If this was his fault, if all of this was his fault, I'd gladly join the others to spit at his name. But I couldn't do it without knowing for sure. I had to be sure. I went room by room pulling out drawers and kicking over boxes. I threw around moth-eating clothes. I tipped my bed. I dragged down the wardrobe, crashing it into the wooden floor, hoping I could find something, anything to answer my questions.

Finally, I ran out into the backyard. I saw the stains on the swing set. I remember him pushing me on it, making the Chains Creek as I went higher and higher. But now that noise meant something else, something dark, an image of a broken man, wrapped in a forgotten toy. I don't know how long I went berserk on that house, but I remember finally just taking a swing at it. As I mentioned, a part of the kitchen I burned. You could punch right through it.

So I did. Turns out there was a secret panel beneath the kitchen sink. I didn't register at first. I just thought I'd hit a second harder wall. But as I calmed down and looked a little closer, I realized it was a small compartment under the sink. I'd punched right through from the outside. I sat down flat on the wet grass,

feeling it soaked into my jeans as I dug around. There was a box. Most of it was tainted by rats. Part of it was burned. But there were little bits and bobs that I could make sense of. Family albums. Mostly pictures of me and my sisters. Friends from around the village.

A picture of dad next to his first car. Pictures from our face. Facebook, printed and framed. The kind of things one would like to keep. Then the picture stopped. No more dates, no more birthdays, nothing. But I kept turning the pages and in the back there was something else. Other pictures.

Notes. Pictures of a door with a text written on the back. It's not screaming. It's crying. notes on the margin saying it was afraid. It was lost. That no one listened and no one cared. There were no more pictures, but there were notes. He had to get out, wants to stay. He hunts elk in the forest, brings it to me. There's nothing left for him. I understand. It told a story of my father trying to help something that didn't belong. something from another place.

They shared meals and kindness, trying their best to find common goals. This had seemingly gone on for months. It spoke of spring and later winter. I will let him sleep in the house. The final note said. Maybe it can help his night terrors. Something must have happened. A dangerous creature like that inside a small house,

Maybe there was an accident, a misunderstanding. Maybe it strung up by the chains to make him look alive, like a puppet. Either way, I was close to an answer. Maybe I was looking more like my father than I'd realized. Looking back at it, I felt like a sleepwalker. I wasn't thinking clearly. Maybe it was the adrenaline. I walked around in the days, making my way back into town.

It was quieter now. many had rushed their cars. I followed the dirt road back to the brick wall, and I found him. Slippiak, whaling weekly, tapping against the bricked-in doors, pulling a little on a handle, hoping against hope that something would happen. He wasn't angry when I approached. He was confused. I had to make him understand to see the truth of things.

So despite everything I'd seen and everything I heard, I decided to trust my instinct. My father had made many mistakes, but he was no fool. His mistakes were honest. So if this was a mistake, I prayed to God. It would be an honest one. Follow me, I said. This way. Sliapia had feather-light steps.

I could still hear commotion around town. but it was all swallowed by that soft wailing. Slapeic couldn't stop himself. We made our way to the cemetery to the overturned headstone and the overgrown lot. I tapped the ground, looked at the creature, and said it as simple as I could. Here, I said, feather. Perhaps it understood me. Perhaps it didn't.

But it could rip out handfuls of dirt like it was nothing. and it did. It took a long time, but not as long as it should have. My dad had not been buried deep, or well, just as no one had cared for his funeral. No one had cared about his resting place. It didn't take long for Slippiak to make his way down, and as his hands hit the casket,

I looked down to a curious sight. See, my dad had died poor, so poor that they hadn't put much effort into his casket. It was more like a box, and the lid looked familiar. Looking a little closer, I realized it was a door, the actual front door of our house. They'd just thrown it on and called it a day. Slippiak stroked the door with his long fingers, his wail slowly turning to a hum. He'd finally found the right door, the one he'd been looking for.

I'll never forget that image for as long as I live. An ungodly creature breaking open the casket lid, pushing away a bed of dry blue sunflowers, lifting a long forgotten corpse from its resting place, cradling it like a mother calming a crying child. It's wailing turning to a quiet sob. Tata, he cried, Tata. Slippiak wandered off into the night, past the men with guns and those hunkering down in their houses, he did not care.

Maybe he'd never cared. Maybe he'd just been angry that he couldn't find the right door. But as the chaos settled, there'd be no need to hide your doors any longer. Slepeic was gone. I sold my father's property, but kept the photo albums. His name is still spoken like a curse. But at least there's nothing to keep that curse alive. There have been no more sightings of Slipeic, as far as I know.

The locals, they don't want to point the fingers of the devil when they called the authorities. Some tried, but it's easier to convince people of a killer rather than a monster. There were inquiries about the countryside, but as with most things, it was left in an open-ended folder in an office somewhere, unsolved, deprioritized. I return to Vazawa. It might not be my home, but home is not just a place. It's a time. And that time has long passed. It has taken some effort to accept that for now, I might not have a real home, but that doesn't mean I'll never have one. Much like Slepeic, I think there's a struggle in finding somewhere you belong. But over the southern countryside,

the forest lies still. There is no wailing, no knocking, no screaming. And I think that somewhere, beyond the trees, anyone can find a place to call home. I was hired to notice things out of place, written by Saturday. As a kid, I was scared of pretty much everything. At night, I'd see faces moving in the wallpaper. I'd see branches slither like snakes, piles of clothes turned to slumped bodies, lamps looked like heads, and the front of cars grinned at me with sinister intent. I could also hear them.

A creaking door would sound like a groan, the wind would scream, and floorboards would breathe heavy sighs. To me, they were ghouls, ghosts, and monsters around every corner. Needless to say, I was a nervous kid. Turns out it wasn't just an active imagination. I have a condition. It basically boils down to a chronic, overactive peridolia. You know that thing where you can see faces in cars, or shapes of people in trees? That's peridolia.

It is a sort of defense mechanism that humans have evolved to notice camouflaged creatures like jaguars and tides. snakes and to discern the sounds of encroaching predators. But to me, it is about 16 times more noticeable than what is normal for the average person. I see things everywhere, all the time. Of course, there were treatments. By age 12, I had tried six different regimens over a total of four years, and the side effects were brutal. Some would make me irritable, while others would make me hyper-focused. One type of medication just straight up put me to sleep. By age 18, I thought I'd never get a job. I was barely dragging myself through school, and there was no way I'd make it through

college. I was on a course of drugs that barely kept me together, but they gave me these awful ticks. I'd drop things. I'd wake up in the middle of the night. My leg would shoot out and trip me. That was a mess. My mom had to cover the stairs and handrail and grip tape. A few years ago, I had a standing meeting with the county employment services every Thursday. I hated it. On a particularly bad day, my mom had to drive me there. The meds were kicking my ass. She dropped me off at the end of the street. And just in that short walk to the office, I almost tripped into a brick wall. I was so flustered, I knocked over a trash can. But for the first time in a couple of years, I had an interview with a potential employer.

I didn't think much of her. She was just some old woman in a warm coat. She introduced herself as Teresa and told me that she'd heard a lot about me. She offered me a trial and a hefty one-time payment. I didn't get the clear idea about what I was supposed to do. but she told me that secrecy was part of it. The only demand she had was that I stopped taking my meds. Still feeling the trash smell on my pants, I took Teresa up on her offer.

On my first day of work, I had no idea what to expect. I'd been off my meds for a week, and I had barely slept. It was hard to wrap my head around the world as I'd seen it as a kid. I'd see faces in the walls, in the shadows, in the leaves, in patterns, pretty much everywhere. I'd hear voices and screams in every breaking car, in crinkling paper, in creaking floors. It was hard staying focused. And I was so jumpy I could barely move without flinching. Teresa picked me up in a gray sedan.

She was wearing a headset and kept looking over at the GPS. I noticed her leg was twitching. and that she kept biting her lip. She barely looked at me that whole ride. We finally arrived at a small yard, about a 40-minute drive off the highway. There were two large trailers and a single-story rundown prefab house from the 60s,

one of those things with cheap wood panels and matching broken windows. There were eight other vehicles in the yard. Four sedans, two vans, a Jeep, and a bus. They'd set up warning tape. A command tent with laptops and an antenna, spotlights and half a dozen crates covered with blue tarps. There were armed men with assault rifles,

security personnel with handcuffs, and a couple of medics standing by with first aid kits. I was swarmed as soon as I stepped out of the car. They fitted me with a headset, protective gloves, a heart monitor, and tagged me with a plastic ribbon around my left wrist. All the while, Teresa was just to be. looking around, a beat of sweat stinging her eye.

What are we looking at? She asked. Three, four? Just one. I heard in the headset. We got it early. You got the spot? On site, she responded.

Any blues? No blues. We're clear. Teresa finally turned around. She faced me. Put her hands on my shoulders and talked slowly. This scene. Seems like a lot, she said.

All I want you to do is to go inside, carefully, and tell me what you see. Why? I asked. What's in there? I don't know, she sighed. None of us knows, but we think you can see it. Is it dangerous? She shook her head. We don't know.

We're trying to get to know them. There was a flurry of instructions. I had to sign a waiver. They took pictures of me from six different angles and took several blood samples. They took a swab from my tongue, checked my eyes, and fitted me with a pair of safety goggles.

Teresa took them from me just seconds later. Nothing around the eye, she said. You need to see clearly. They asked me to approach the door while they were running some kind of diagnostic. Weapon checks, system checks, ready checks. It felt like we were launching a rocket. I could feel my legs shaking.

I'm with you all the way, Teresa said over the headset. You can leave it any time. Just tell me what you see. And I really mean what you see. A countdown began. At zero, the spotlight's turned on. and the entire yard turned into a soundless ghost town. Everyone held their breaths.

It was my turn. I stepped inside. A simple one-story house. Three rooms, a bathroom, a kitchen. Someone had clearly lived there until recently. There were still clothes flung over a chair in the living room. The power was off, but the pale spotlights coming in through the windows made it feel like I was walking through a hospital waiting room. My heart was pounding out of my chest.

I didn't know what to expect, but this payday could be the boost I needed to get my own place, a paycheck with four zeros for a single day of work. But standing there, looking into the sterile living room, I was having doubts. What do you see? asked Teresa, notice anything? No, just. just furniture. A couch, an old TV, a fancy carpet, nothing out of the ordinary. I just walked around, saying out loud what I was seeing. As the minutes passed, Teresa was getting impatient. These are just things, she said.

I needed to tell me what you really see. I entered the bathroom and immediately felt this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. A noise tickled in my ear. Looking in the bathroom mirror, I could see something moving behind me. In a heartbeat, I caught a glimpse of a pair of blue eyes. I turned around, screaming, something, something moved. I flung myself backwards, closing the bathroom door with the tip of my fingers. I stumbled, tearing down the shower curtains and crushing a cockroach,

laying there with my feet in the air, I tried to remember to breathe. Rarely have I ever been so scared that I had to remind myself to breathe. My fingers tingled with adrenaline. Tell me what you saw. Teresa yelled. What's in there? Blue eyes. It had blue eyes.

Did you see where it went? I didn't. To the best of my knowledge, it was still outside the door. Look again, she continued. Look again. Then get out. She had to coax me out of the best. bathtub. She encouraged me, spurred me on, and reminded me that I had to leave that room

one way or the other. It probably took them 15 minutes to get me out of the tub, and when they did, I could barely feel my feet. When I finally opened the bathroom door, I couldn't see anyone. The hallway was empty. I carefully stepped out, looking around, nothing. standing in the middle of the living room, I felt like an idiot. This was exactly what I was taking my medication for, paranoia, and sudden bouts of fear. It dawned on me that maybe I was influenced by all the people outside and their preparations. I was walking in here expecting to see something. They'd worked me up, so of course I was seeing things.

But then again, there was an odd painting on the wall that I hadn't paid attention to earlier. It was the strangest thing. It was a sort of thrift store painting, showing two women walking across a bridge on a hot summer's day. It was sort of generic, but I had been hypervigilant when I first stepped in. You know that feeling when you say a word over and over so many times that it starts sounding like a noise? that's the feeling that fell over my eyes. The picture started to blur and disappear, turning into swirling colors.

And there, in that blur, I saw those blue eyes. There were small blue spots in the water on the sides of the bridge in the painting. That's what I'd seen. And there, I'd seen a face. something blending into my sight disappearing and for a second i knew for certain that i hadn't seen this painting when i first stepped inside and now it knew that i could see it i felt it i slowly started to back out there's something in the painting i whispered in the living room you sure teresa asked absolutely sure

Absolutely. Get out. I rounded the corner and heard the floorboards creek. I could no longer see the painting and I could send something move, backing out of the front door and into the cool autumn air. I could feel hands on my shoulder, armed men pulled me back, and paramedics started to check my eyes with flashlights. They asked me all sorts of personal questions, like my name, my mother's maiden name, and the name of the president. I was told to lay down as I heard a team breached the house with stun guns,

cattle prods, nets, and a crate. Laying there and feeling the pressures upside, I just cried and laughed. I didn't even notice Teresa sitting down next to me. I was given a cold drinking a pill, and I took it without question. You did good, she said. You're done. You're done.

What was that? what's in there? Something only a special mind can see. That was my first time working with Teresa. Over the coming years, I would be called in about once or twice a month, and the pay I got from those few days was enough to get me out of my parents' house. Teresa would check in with me weekly, and I had to submit to regular checkups. But more often than not, I was completely off the leash. I started to learn a bit more about the company I was working for and what they were doing. I started getting payments from Hatchet Biotechnica, a subsidiary of Hatchet Pharmaceuticals. My official title was Contractor, a title that was repeated like a name.

Teresa started going into greater details on what to look for and how to act. But that first mission was a sort of test to prove myself. I had no idea what I was actually proving, but it felt like my tendency to discern patterns and seeing dangers help me along. I learned a bit more about their procedures. For example, they were adamant about checking for blues. This meant surveying the nearby area to look for some kind of infection, usually taking the form of miscolored flowers, most often blue, but not always. sometimes tulips most often sunflowers once they just found a bunch of teeth sticking out of the wall

whenever they checked for blues this is what they would look for something overtly strange and unnatural when something like this was found the whole mission would be called off and they would use controlled explosives to just take out the entire area in more populated areas

they'd set up tents and use flamethrowers I remember once, the week before Christmas, when six men with flameflowers were called in to burn down a greenhouse. I'll never forget the way the flames reflected off their visors. To them, it all just looked like flames. But I saw something else. I saw bodies, writhing in the flames. I heard screams in the shattered glass and in the charred remains of melted plants. I'd see pained faces glaring at me with hateful black eyes.

Up until a few months ago, I had worked a total of 33 cases over two and a half years. Every case, I'd step into a location and look for one of these things, hiding in plain sight. Up until that point, I still had no idea what they actually were. Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of something running past me, or see a pair of blue eyes, looking at me from across the room. Every time, I just reported it and left. A chair, a fridge, a suspicious window. Hell.

Once it was a music box. This time, we were just coming up to a house. It was a rainy autumn evening, and the area was already set up when we got there. I saw a for-sale sign knocked over by one of the jeeps who'd taken a wide turn. I got suited up. blood samples, plastic wrap, all that jazz.

It was set up to be just another job, although I was still nervous. I was getting better. No blues, asked Teresa. None, said one of the armed men. We're looking at a single tango. You sure, Teresa squinted? First report said six. Secondary reading says one.

We might have runners. Notify the Gallup ago, she sighed. Put him on the hunt. She turned to me with a smile, tapping me on the shoulder. In and out. You got this. I got this, I repeated. Yeah, standard routine.

Countdown, spotlights, game on. It felt like stepping onto a stage. As I walked through the door and saw my shadow stretch out across the floor, I felt like a hunter, that I was the one to fear, and that whatever stayed in this house tried to hide for good reason. The floor is crooked, I noted. Strange place. You sure?

Yeah, I nodded. Definitely. I steady myself and started checking the room one by one. I waited for that feeling to emerge. My eyes seen through the obvious and seeing the picture beneath the picture. The blue eyes emerging from nothing and the patterns of shadowy figures growing clearer. Just relaxing and expecting that feeling to watch. wash over me was enough to put me at ease, but I could still feel a primal part of me

tickling my nerves, expecting me to panic. But nothing happened. I checked the kitchen, the living room, the bedroom, there was nothing. Just a strangely crooked floor, empty rooms, and the echo of my own footsteps. An empty guest bedroom with a single window, Through it, I imagined scowling faces in the trees outside. 20 minutes passed, and I got nothing. I reported to Teresa, and she assured me we were still getting readings from inside the house. Something was still in there with me, but I hadn't seen anything. I went through cycles of denial, fear and anger, over and over.

What was I missing? Finally, I just sat down in the middle of the middle of the moment. middle of the living room floor. I scratched my eyes, sighed, and tried to relax. Teresa, I, I'm not feeling it. Are you sure? There was no response. Teresa? Yeah, she responded, absentmindedly. Yeah, no, I, uh, yeah, we're good. Hold on for a minute. We're good, I asked. What do you mean, we're good? Again, no response. I started. I started. I started. I started. I said, I said, we're good. I stopped around for another 10 minutes before I went up to a window facing the front yard. It was hard to see through the glare of the spotlight.

Teresa, I'm coming out. The place is empty. As soon as I opened the front door, I saw two dozen faces fixed on me. Maybe they were surprised to see me, but I got the sense that there was something else. I could tell something was off. They all looked at me with strange expressions. Some neutral, some smiling ear to ear. One of the paramedics just stared at me with a slack-jawed terror. It was as if they didn't know what to feel or how to express it.

A hole sunk through my stomach. I got that hollow feeling as my eyes glazed over, like I was staring at something false, something hiding a pattern. This was the sense I'd been looking for inside. and now I was feeling it. In the far back I saw Teresa. She stepped out from behind a Jeep, smiling ear to ear.

Behind the shape of her face, her eyes emerged, glowing with a cold blue. One by one, their eyes flared up in a blue glow. And there, in a moment, my paranoid sight registered human-like shapes in the grass around them, headless. mauled bodies, impostors, lookalikes, mimics, nightmare beings, having tricked us into a trap.

One by one, smiles started creeping across their faces, rows of impossibly sharp teeth, hiding long tongues, their fingers growing longer, their necks elongating, they were losing their disguises and facing me. Head on, unafraid. Nothing was said out loud, not a word, but to me, it was as if the wind itself was screaming for me to run. I slammed the door behind me and ran. Faces were coming out of the walls, door handles turning into hands, grasping at my clothes, my disordered face reflecting in windows and mirrors with jawless grins. I couldn't blink. Every heartbeat, a new horror face my eyes open. There were more doors than I remembered.

There were more windows than there should be. The kitchen suddenly had a skylight, and there were four fridges. Countless paintings had appeared in the master bedroom, depicting cruel and blood-drenched horrors. They were already here, trying to surround me, and my mind was racing to remember what was real and what wasn't. Rushing to the back of the guest bedroom, I remembered there being only one window. Now there were two.

I had to roll the dice. Take a guess. Do something. As I grabbed the window frame, I imagined teeth slamming into my hands, tongues licking across my palms, wide smiles sating their hunger. But this time, it was just my imagination. I burst through the window and took off running into the woods. Through the night, I just kept going.

My chest hurt from holding the screen. in. Without my medication, everything in the dark looked like something reaching for me, trying to eat me, trying to grab me. Creeking branches sounded like laughter, and howling winds or screams. I must have run for hours when my foot got caught between two rocks. As I tumbled to the ground, twisting my ankle, I saw them descend on me. I felt their fingers scratching me. I rived on the ground, screaming for them to just let me go, to just please, please let me go. But after a few seconds, I realized I'd just scratched myself on the underbrush. There was no one there.

I was safe. I broke down crying, trying to ignore the twisted face reflecting off of the full moon above. Eventually, I made my way home. There were no messages waiting for me. All my work numbers had been taken offline. All ways to contact them were just gone. And there was no info on the firm that hired me. Hatchet biotechnica exists only on paper.

There's no location, no contact info, and no names attached. It's all affront. I haven't heard from Teresa since. I think that whoever I've been working for have just assumed I'm dead. That's why I decided to share this anonymously. Those who know who I am can reach out to me. And for those who don't,

I just have a word of warning. Be observant. Trust your intuition. It might save your life. The inheritance. Well, my parents died. Happens to all of us, I suppose, if you're lucky. They were old, too, so I'm not too torn up about it. They lived happy lives together and died a mere three hours apart from one another. Still though, losing both parents in the same day, it's always going to hurt.

Those final goodbyes, the ones where you know that, this is it. Yeah, that's the hardest part. It makes all the memories come rushing back, forces your brain to run through every moment that it could recall being with that person, feeling mom's leathery, wrinkled hand wrapped so tightly around mine as she looked up at me with her old, beautiful brown eyes. I couldn't help but be brought back to childhood. She and dad would walk side by side with me in the middle,

and they'd take each of my hands into one of theirs. I'll never forget the joy I'd feel when they'd swing me back and forth as we walked. I just felt so warm and at peace. I'd never had any siblings. I guess they just decided one was enough. I can't say that affected me much, though. I mean, if anything, it meant more attention for me. Didn't have to share a room, didn't have to share a Christmas,

and my birthday always felt like the most important day of the year. As I recollected, I could feel my mother's grip on my hand soften, and her eyes begin to flutter. What followed was the monotonous beep of a heart monitor, then silence broken only by nurses doing their jobs. Mom was gone, and dad was fading quickly behind her. Literal soulmates. Seeing dad in the state that he was in triggered more of those childhood memories, and my face became drenched in tears. as I held his hand tightly.

As the hours passed, eventually it seemed as though he wanted to speak. But what came out was merely a gasping wheeze that looked like it physically pained him. He looked quietly devastated at my tears. And I assumed he just wanted to reassure me that everything would be all right. He lifted a weak finger towards a shelf at the far end of his room. The shelf? I asked in a quaking voice with a smile. he shook his head yes and I walked over to the shelf.

All that was there was a clipboard, clamping down on some printer paper, as well as a pen that sat beside it. I picked it up and dad began to try and speak again, urging me to bring him the clipboard. I kind of cocked an eyebrow out this, but this was a man in his dying moments. I'm not going to tell my dad no, especially not now. with shaking hands he began to write. It was heartbreaking seeing the pen tremble in his grasp as he struggled to write a single sentence. Slowly but surely, the words were etched into the page.

Take care. Suddenly, my dad stopped. His face winced and curled into a pained expression as his heart monitor began to beep rapidly. Dad, no, I begged. Please, you can't leave me just. just yet, Dad. I'm begging you. Please, God, not yet. His eyes rolled over to meet mine, and a single tear crawled down the right side of his face as the heart monitor stretched out its

final beep, and nurses filled the room once again. And that was that. Mom was gone. Dad was gone. Yet here I was, still alive and forced to endure. I took Dad's paper. I saw, saw it as his final goodbye. Take care, Donovan. That had to have been what he was trying to say. Everything will be okay. His voice called out of my head. Leaving the hospice room felt like my shoes were cinder blocks.

And the walk to the exit seemed to take an eternity. I got in by car feeling empty. A void in my soul that couldn't be filled again. But alas, life must go on. I had funerals to arrange. There was a bit of a shining light in the darkness, though, and that shining light came in the shape of my inheritance. It feels wrong, now that I'm thinking about it,

finding consolation and getting money because my parents died, but if they left it to me, it was mine. Over the course of their lives, my parents had purchased three properties, one here in town, a lake house, a few cities over, and a two-story townhouse back in their home state. At least, I thought it was three.

Apparently, they'd also owned a cabin up in the mountains about 50 or so miles out of town. They'd left each property to me, and from the very moment I found out, I made a quick decision that I was going to be definitely moving into that lakehouse for permanent residence. What? I deserve it. My parents died. Anyway, I never even heard them mention a cabin once in my entire life.

Dad would take monthly hunting trips out to that area though, so I guessed that's where it came from. It took me a few weeks to get out of there and take a look at the place. With what all the funeral arrangements and time it takes to want to even leave your bed after the death of a loved one, but I got out there nonetheless. Let me just say, the place was absolutely decrepit. I knew it had been a while since my dad had gone hunting, but this place looked like it hadn't been touched in years. It was completely desolate, and vegetation had covered the entire front side of the cabin. The boards at the back looked like they were set to collapse at any given moment.

A rickety porch swing lay on the front porch, suspended on the one side by the chain that hadn't snapped yet. Pushing the door open, what hit me first was the smell. That sickly sweet smell of death That you'd find radiating off a decaying deer carcass On the side of the road It ran through the front door and sucker punched me in the face Completely unexpectedly Covering 90% of my face with my shirt

The next thing I noticed that knocked the wind out of me Were the toys Dozens of toys that were very clearly made for little boys No older than the toddler age So this is where Dad brought you I thought aloud as I noticed one of my favorite teddy bears from when I was a kid. I searched for you for months, little huckleberry. What I noticed next is what made me realize that something was incredibly wrong.

Aside from my little huckleberry, I didn't recognize any of these toys. I have a pretty strong memory. I think I'd remember at least some of this stuff, but no. I didn't recognize the clothes either. None of these 10 or so outfits that by this point have been tattered and weathered to shreds. They all just lay randomly sprawled across the floor of the cabin, covered in dirt and grime. As I explored further into the cabin, the smell of rot became more and more present until finally I found its source. In a huge pile in the corner of the kitchen area were dozens of rott.

rodent carcasses. Possums, squirrels, raccoons, they all looked like they had been completely mutilated. I stared at the disgusting pile until something hit me like a freight train. The possum was at the very top of this pile. It looked fresh. Blood still trickled from what looked like a big bite mark on its neck, and its feet twitched. All at once, the smell and blood became too much, and it was. began to get dizzy. I leaned over into the sink and started puking my guts up, shivering from the force. In between my heaves, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched, and that possum pretty much confirmed it for me. I felt my senses heightened in that raw, primal way,

the kind of primal that helps a gazelle escape the crushing force of a crocodile bite before it can even happen. My ear is parked up at the slightest foreign sound, and that, sound just so happened to be the creaking of the wooden floors in the cabin. Ever so slightly, I turned around to where this sound was coming from. Picking its head into the doorway, staring at me with this disgusting childlike grin, was something that I could barely classify as human. Its limbs were elongated and blood dripped rhythmically from its mouth and rotting teeth. It had the body of a human, but something was just so wrong.

Its stomach looked like it threatened to touch its spine, and it moved in jerky, erratic motions as it inched closer to me. When it was about three or so feet away from me, it stuck its hands out and smiled wider, causing me to fall backwards onto the mountain of dead animals. The thing didn't stop and continued inching towards me. arms outstretched as if it were slowly attempting to grab me. It was now less than a foot away from me as I cowered, terrified against the kitchen wall. It was so close that I could feel its hot, disgusting breath, blanketing my entire face with each breath. Suddenly, without warning, the thing reached down violently and grabbed each of my hands. It didn't hurt me, though.

Instead, it just... held my hands, stroking them, gently. That's when I noticed something that made every puzzle piece fall into place. When it looked at me, it wasn't with malice. It looked at me with eyes that were painstakingly human. It looked at me with the same eyes that I had seen on my mother as I held her hand in her last moments. Just as every little detail began to register in my mind,

the things started to speak in a broken, inhuman voice. You take care of me. I worked as a Johatsu in Japan for two years. These are the three scariest jobs I took by 10-minute horror. I've never been the kind of guy with a career. I was more the odds and ends type. Whatever paid the bills. Construction, delivery, even telemarketing for a few miserable weeks.

That's how I became a Johatsu, a night mover. In Japan, the johatsu are known as the evaporated. People who disappear without a trace. They want a fresh start, away from debt, stalkers, or just the burden of life that they've built. But there's another side to it, the ones who help them disappear. That was us. We'd show up after dark, no lights, no noise, pack up everything. and leave as if nothing had ever been there.

The less we knew about the clients, the better. No real names, no questions, cash only. Most of the time, the jobs were pretty straightforward. We'd move people escaping abusive relationships, financial ruin, or shady business deals that went belly up. Sometimes it was kind of sad. Quiet families, hollow eyes, kids clutching toys as they vanished into the night. Other times it was almost too easy.

An empty apartment. Bag's already packed. Just a quick grab and go. I learned not to ask about what was left behind. But not every job was easy. Some of them, I still have nightmares about. The first job was this woman, thin with wild hair and darting eyes,

like she was waiting for someone to burst through the door any second. We got the call late at night, like usual. And when we arrived, she was already waiting. clutching her arms like they were the only thing holding her together. She didn't say much, just rushed us inside, glancing over her shoulder at every little sound, the creak of a door, the hum of a passing car, every time something happened, she'd freeze, then whisper, hurry, we need to move faster, keep quiet, please. At first, I figured it was just another case of someone running from an abusive axe,

which wasn't uncommon for us, but this was different. It was the way she kept looking out the window that started to get to me. Like any second, someone might show up. My partner, Kenji, tried to crack a joke to ease the tension, but she glared at him. Wide-eyed and hissed. Quiet. Once everything was packed, she didn't even ride with us. She just told us to meet her at the new place, way out in the country.

She took off without another word. Our truck rattled along the empty roads for what felt like hours. We pulled up to this old, isolated house. It was quiet. No lights. No signs of life. We waited. And waited.

But she never showed up. We called her phone, left voicemails, sent texts, nothing. We didn't know what else to do. So we ended up unloading her stuff into the house, just like she told us. By dawn, we were exhausted, confused, and more than a little spooked. So we left. A few days later, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. I looked her up, out of curiosity.

Turns out she wasn't just running from an ex. She was mixed up with the yakuza. A snitch. Word was she was about to testify against some dangerous people. The cops suspected she'd been followed the night we moved her, likely taking care of between her old house and the new one. It was scary to think how close we were to death, just minutes from it. I try not to think about what would have happened if she'd driven with us.

The second job was in an old creaking apartment building. We were called to move an elderly man, someone who looked like he belonged in that place, tucked away from the world, forgotten. When he lit us in, I knew right away this wasn't going to be a normal job. The apartment was filled with strange trinkets, objects I couldn't name, artifacts that looked ancient. There were statues with twisted faces, masks with hot, follow eyes, symbols painted on the walls and faded reds and blacks. There was thick, the kind of

thick that makes your body extra heavy. The others got to work, packing boxes, wrapping up the artifacts as carefully as they could, but I couldn't shake the feeling the room was watching me. Then, as I was lifting a box, I noticed a door across the room I was sure hadn't been there before. It was just there. Dark and slightly ajar. I glanced around, but no one else seemed to notice it. So I walked over and opened the door. Inside was another room, cluttered with more of those artifacts. I stepped in, trying to get a closer look at a strange, small statue covered in symbols. When I turned back to leave, the doorway was gone. Panic shot through me. I swiveled on the spot, thinking I'd just gotten turned around, but now there were two doors on the opposite wall.

I chose the one on the right and walked through, only to find myself in another room, nearly identical to the last, with the same dusty shelves and dark corners. The walls seemed to stretch and bend, twisting in ways that didn't make sense. I called out to my coworkers, but no one responded. My voice just echoed, lowering in tone until it didn't even sound like mine. I walked faster. Every doorway leading me to another room that looked the same as the last. It was as if the apartment is folding outwards from itself,

trapping me in some kind of expanding nightmare maze. The walls began to narrow, closing in, and I started to run. Every doorway was a dead end, a mirror of the room before, filled with more statues, more hollowed-eyed masks watching me. My breath came in short gasps, and every time I looked over my shoulder, I thought I saw a shadow moving in the corner of my eye. The further in I went, the more I saw the shadow, dipping out of view just as I turned to see it. I lost track of time. Every step, every turn led me deeper into that labyrinth of rooms.

I shouted, banged on walls. And all the while, the shadow got closer. The air grew heavier, suffocating. My chest tightened. The shadow was starting to get darker. more detailed, like it was slowly forming into something solid. I started to smell something rotten, like old meat from an animal's breath. I was exhausted and about ready to give up completely. Let whatever would happen happen. But then I saw a faint light through a doorway ahead. I bolted towards it, nearly tripping over my own feet as I pushed through the door and staggered

back into the main room. I glanced back, half expecting to see the twisted maze behind me. but it was just a wall. The doorway was gone, as if it had never existed. Everything was just as it was when I went into the nightmare maze. Time hadn't passed a single second while I was gone. A month later, we started work on the Fujimoto-Danchu complex. That was the last time I worked as a Johatsu.

We were called in late to an old decaying apartment building, the kind that hadn't seen a new coat of paint since it was built. The family that hired us were strange. Even by her own standards. The father answered the door. Tall, rail thin, and pale as death. His skin looked translucent, almost bluish in the dim hallway light, and he didn't smile.

Just nodded once and waved us inside. The mother wasn't any better. Silent, watching us with dark sunken eyes like she hadn't slept in days. They both seemed like they were holding something back, like we were intruding on a private moment. But avoid the room at the end of the hall, until the very end, said the father. His voice cold and distant.

We didn't ask questions. We never did. Just nodded and got to work. The apartment was huge, bigger than any I'd seen in the city. High ceilings, ancient wood floors, thick velvet curtains that blocked out all the light. It felt like stepping into a different century. As we moved through the place,

slowed up the truck with old furniture and boxes, the feeling of something being off only grew stronger. The air inside was stale, thick with the smell of dust and something else, something rotten. The father hovered near the back of the apartment, watching us with cold, sunken eyes, and the mother disappeared into the room at the end of the hall, leaving us mostly alone. An hour ticked by, and we were almost done. There was just one room less. left, the room they told us to avoid. We had just started packing up the last boxes when Riku winced. I looked over and saw him clutching his hand. He'd cut it on a loose nail from one of the old crates we were moving. You good? I asked, keeping my voice low. Raikou nodded.

Then the father appeared again, pale and silent. He glanced at the small pile of remaining boxes, then toward the door at the end of the hall. It's time, he said. And without another word, he opened the door to the forbidden room. Out stepped a young girl, barely a teenager by the looks of her, with skin as pale as her parents. Her hair hung limp around her shoulders, and her eyes were wrong, too wide, too dark.

She moved like she was half asleep, until she caught the scent of something in the air. The little girl froze mid-step, her head snapping toward Riku, her eyes locked on his hand, and something primal, something savage, flickered across her face. It happened so fast I barely registered it,

but I saw her nostrils flare. Then she attacked. It was like a blur, a flash of pale skin and teeth. She lunged at Riku, sinking her teeth into his neck before any of the other. us could react. The scream that tore out of him was like nothing I'd ever heard. We all froze for half a second. Too stunned to move. By the time we recovered, Ryku was already slumped on the floor, and half of his neck was gone. The father's eyes went wide briefly, then calmed. Oh no.

The girl wasn't done. She crouched over Ryku. And when she lifted her head, her eyes burned with something feral, something inhuman. Then she went for the next guy, Yasu. Yasu ran out the front door, the little girl chasing after him. The mother appeared in the doorway now, eyes wide in panic, Azumi, but the mother wasn't going to have any control on her now feral daughter. In fact, she wouldn't even have control over herself or her husband. I watched as the mother and father smelled the air and lost control of themselves. I grabbed the nearest thing I could, some old lamp, and swung it at the mother, but she was too fast, too strong.

She dodged her movements fluid, unnatural, as if she could read my thoughts before I even reacted. I ran, I didn't even think, just bolted it for the front door. I turned left to hit the elevators, but found the little girl straddling Yasu's decapitated body, her mouth dug into his open neck cavity. A scream carried over from my right, and I saw an open apartment door with a tough-looking guy walking out. Behind me, I heard the mother and father scurrying out of the room. I ran past the tough-looking guy and into his apartment.

I locked the door and heard him banging against it, then screaming as he was getting torn apart. My eyes scanned the room, and that's when I saw it, a samurai sword hanging on the wall. I didn't think. I grabbed it. Checked the blade. It was dull as fuck, but just for show, but I kept it anyway. Outside, the sounds of carnage echoed into the apartments. Screams, snarls, the tearing of flesh. I threw up in the window and spotted the fire escape, but it only led one way. Up. I climbed.

Behind me, I heard the window shatter as the girl leapt out after me. Her nail scraped against the metal as she climbed, too fast, too relentlessly. I swung the sword as she reached for my ankle, and it connected. She led out an inhuman shriek as she fell. Her body crashed into the ground below. I looked down at our body. Her lower half was twisted backwards, head was split open, and arms were bent in unnatural angles. But she kept moving, crawling, trying to get back to the building, and I kept climbing. I reached the roof and collapsed, but only for a moment. I rushed over to the rooftop door and pressed myself against it. I could hear the others below.

The bloodlust and their voices growing louder. I blocked the door with everything I could find and prayed. Finally, the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon. I listened as the people below screamed as the sunlight through the windows was hitting them, but I knew they weren't all gone. Not yet. And my only way out was back down. Through the apartment building.

With nothing but the dull samurai sword, I crept back inside. I went through the rooftop door, quietly sneaking into the stairwell. There were ten floors, with only a few of them still having lights on. So I had to make my way down ten flights of stairs, most of which were pitch black. As I descended, I realized that most of the tenants had the same idea to make a break for the stairwell. Only none of them appeared to make it. The stairs and all the landings were horrific, gruesome sights,

shredded bodies, organs, bones, blood. It was a slaughterhouse. I was halfway down the stairwell when I heard something below, a low, wet squelch, like skin slapping against blood-soaked concrete. I froze, clutching the samurai sword in my hand, heart pounding. I crept down the next flight, careful not to slip or make any noise. I reached the landing for the floor we'd been working just hours earlier and stopped dead in my tracks. The floor was a massacre. Blood splattered the walls and body parts mangled beyond recognition, were strewn about. But it was the body in the middle of it all that made my stomach turn. It was Jenko, or what was left of him. His body was completely torn open, organs spilling across the landing, bones pulled from muscle and tendon, his face, what little

was left of it, was frozen in a twisted, agonized scream. The side of him. Someone I'd worked alongside for months made bile rise in my throat. I had to step over him to keep moving. There was no other choice. I stepped gingerly over his body, carefully not to disturb anything. But just as my foot touched the other side of the landing, I heard it. A low, guttural growl from behind me. I whipped around just in time to see Jenko's hand to it. his eyes once glassy and dead snapped open, glowing with a sickly red light. Blood began to pull around him, bubbling as if something inside him was trying to force its way out. Before I could react, Jenko's body jerked violently. His limbs snapped back into place with a sickening crack,

and his mouth stretched open, revealing elongated, razor-sharp teeth. Blood dripped from his mangled face as he let out a feral screech, his arms reaching out for me. He was no longer human. I stumbled backward, tripping over the stairs as Jenko's twisted form lunged toward me. He moved unnaturally, like a puppet on broken strings, dragging what remained of his body across a landing. His hands clawed at the air. I fell down a flat of stairs, the sword slipping from my grip as I crashed to the ground. My vision blurred for a second, but the sound of Jenko's screech shook me back into reality.

I got a hold of the samurai sword and kept moving. He was still coming. His body crawling, tumbling, and dripping down the stairs after me. His limbs were broken. His muscles were mush. But that didn't stop him. It didn't matter how shattered his body was. There was something in his blood now that kept him moving, kept him hungry.

But it wasn't just him. The whole stairwell seemed to be waking up. I scrambled to my feet, slipping on the blood that now coated my shoes. Every step was a nightmare. I couldn't get a grip. Couldn't move fast enough. I fell again, sliding down. another flight as Janko's screeches echoed through the stairwell, each one louder and more

frantic than the last. I could hear them now. Others responding to the sound. The tenants. The entire building was awake, joining the shredded bodies coating the floors and walls of the stairwell as they made all the chase for me. Above me, door slammed open. The low growls and screeches of the tenants filled the air, growing louder and closer. They knew I was still here. In the they were coming. I pushed myself up, forcing my legs to move, forcing my body to keep going. I was almost at the bottom, just a few more steps. I reached the main lobby, throwing myself through the door and slamming it shut behind me. The door wouldn't hold them for long, but when it bought me a second, I looked around for any way out. That's when I saw her, standing between me and the front doors,

looking just as innocent as she had before the attack, was Azumi, the little girl. Her skin was healed, though her clothes were bloody and destroyed. She smiled. I didn't stop. I didn't think. I ran straight for, gripping the samurai sword tight. She didn't move, didn't flinch. As I barreled toward her, I rammed the dole blade through her chest, using the momentum to push both of us forward. The sword didn't do anything. She wasn't even phased by it. But as we crashed through the front doors, the sunlight hit her face, and she screamed. I shoved her body to the side just as her skin ignited, flames crawling over her tiny frame, reducing her to ash in seconds. Behind me, the tenants burst from the stairwell, screeching and hissing as they chase after me.

The sunlight hit them, and they burst into flames. One after another, exploding into plumes of ash. I kept running. I didn't look back. I don't know how long I ran or how far. It wasn't until my legs gave out that I realized I was in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by nothing but open fields. I collapsed. Chest heaving. Hands shaking. Covered in blood and ash, but I was alive. I never went back to the job, the building, or even that part of the city. I work in a call center now. I hate it. But now when I get a weird client, I just hang up. I'm stalking this cute little blonde. Part 3. She's pretty. Her face is youthful, innocent, but I don't get to see much of it these days. No matter. I haven't memorized. It's cemented in my brain. The color of her eyes, the

texture of her complexion. I've been too busy walking behind her watching her blonde hair bounce with each step, watching her hip sway. She's tiny. A fact made more evident the closer I get. I never noticed how small she actually was, not until she walked past me the other day. Maybe she's not small. Maybe I'm just tall. I don't know. This is all new to me. It was her perfume that got me attention, to yore. The smell was sweet, feminine. I love that smell. It was familiar, and it brought so many memories to mine, memories that no longer belong to me. I think she's onto me. She's looked over her shoulder a few times now. No matter. I want her to know that I'm behind her. Her back stiffens. She's hugging her arms. She's trembling. Good. Ecstasy pulsed through my veins. I want her scared. To ferment in her sorrow, to fear what comes next, to be wary of me. My mouth is watering with intent. She turned down a side street, maybe trying to lose her tail, but I know where she's going. I know where she lives. A girl like her should be out here all alone, but I guess she's an adult, the ripe, old age of 19. Her pace quickened, and I struggled to stay under the cover of the shadow. She's fidgety, like a gazelle that hears the rustling of the underbrush. When her movements became sporadic, I stop, a predator stalking its prey. When her head returns to the pasture, I inch closer.

She makes a left turn, a detour down a busy street, one illuminated by streetlights. I do my best to blend in among the crowd. Her shoulders relaxed a bit. She felt safe, but security was momentarily. Ahead of her was the obscurity of darkness, where I'd blend in perfectly. My soul camouflaged by the colorless void of the night. Last street light brightened, the vivid colors of her clothes before the moonlight caused the hues to dim.

The air was cold, my feverish breaths condensed in front of my face and the puff of smoke from my lungs turned hazy amber under the shine of the yellow street lamp. That too dimmed as I plunged into the void. It would only be us from here on out. She picked up the pace and I struggled to find cover. Her shoes slapping the concrete. I did my best not to let her hear mine. She veered right, her chest started huffing with anxiety, her composure slowly waning.

She turned left, her nerves fraying and her feet spending less time on the ground. She shifted right, now was no longer cowering behind the safety of parked cars. She was now fully aware of the presence at her back. Her arms dropping, swinging at her side, my thudding steps joined her as a tone-deaf percussion's clatter. When she veered left, she was trying hard not to start running. But when my foot slipped off the sidewalk, she lost her. her nerve. She was sprinting. The gazelle was on the move. I ran out of her, motivated by the thirst I felt at my throat. Her steps were unpracticed. Clumsy. She'd never had to run for a life before,

and it showed. Mine were determined, unwavering. She tried screaming for help between huffs of air, but the bitch couldn't even do that. Help! Snagged in her chest, getting forced down by the air steaming through her airway. She was a pathetic excuse for a human. If I was her, I'd be a lot better. I couldn't weigh. She turned right, down an alley, one with no outlet. That was about the time she started crying. I couldn't see the tears, but I pictured how they tasted, salty, bitter.

She walked up to the brick wall, clawing at the masonry. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and she knew it. She fell to her knees, her sorrow condensed in the air above her head and I walked closer. The sound of my boots echoed through the corridor, yet she didn't move. she'd accepted her fate. Halfway down the alley, I started getting a whiff of that familiar perfume. It was the one I used to wear, once upon a time, in a different life, a different body. I towered over the pathetic, bald-up mound of flesh worshipping the wall, the yellow in her hair, silky, smooth. I remember how it felt when I brushed my fingers through it. I missed that feeling.

Back then I had taken it for granted. Now, old, bold, dying, it was all I longed for. I reached down the golden fibers of her head flowing through my fingers and falling back onto her shoulder. She shivered with my touch. I caressed my arms. They were thin, fragile. Her back stiffened and I smiled. I felt so powerful in that moment. Her heart pounding through her skin. The pulsations in my fingers. Please, she begged. I didn't listen. She was cunning and manipulative, managing to convince everyone around her a wolf in sheep's clothes. If only I wasn't the the sheep who got robbed. She caressed her arms just as I would.

I would have believed it. If I wasn't the victim, I don't know what the hell is she. No, what it is, but it stole my life from me. I woke up at an old man's body one nearing its expiration date, while she, it assumed the roll I left behind, sleeping in my bed, living my life. My hand drifted to the nape of her neck. I squeezed just hard enough to get its attention. Drop the act.

I want what you stole from me. I want my life back. My voice rasped my throat and the emotion billowed out of her mouth. Please, sir, I don't want to die. I lifted her off the ground and pinned her face of the wall. I said, drop the act. It didn't say anything. Staying as still as a corpse.

That was until she, well, it started laughing. Her tone was cold, demented. I was wondering when you were going to take those new balls of yours. She'd done what I asked, but the sudden shift in her demeanor was uncanny, like hearing a dog talk for the first time. Still, I maintained my hole on her neck, but that was until she turned around to face me. One second, I was looking back at the back of its head. The next I was staring into its eyes. My eyes, it was like her body had caved in on itself, melting in my grasp and restiffening in my palm.

It felt disgusting, as if I'd briefly held a creamy wad of dog shit. I let her go. meeting the ground. She cocked her head and stepped forward. Suddenly I was the one on the back foot. I was a foot taller than her, but I knew that I wasn't the one in control of the situation. Did I corner her here, or was I the one who'd been lured? Wanted your life back? What if I say no? Her eyes started to go hazy before turning solid white. Despite the lack of pupils, it felt like it was staring directly into my soul. What if I like being young and beautiful? What if I think you don't deserve this little life?

Suddenly, we were eye to eye. She had grown taller, more menacing. What if your friends, your family loved me more? What if I want to wear this skin better than you ever would? I was craning my head up now. Now her proportions were off her torso, too long, legs stubby, its neck curled over the top of me. The plump, youthful skin became shriveled before flaking off its body entirely, like old paint on a weathered house. You don't deserve to be me, but I deserve to be you. hair fell off its head, and the flesh clung to its bones. I could have let you die, but I gave you a body worthy of you, as rotten on the outside as it is within. Rotten, the smell that left its mouth. It lifted a hand, one with three long bony fingers. You want your life back? It's fine,

but you might not like your new reality. It covered my face with its hands, and I felt like my chest gave in on itself. The air was sucked from my lungs, and when the hand left my face, My back was against the wall. I was looking into the face of an old man, his white beard, dirty, and worn. His skin droopy and wrinkly, his eyes milky and judgmental. Without saying a word, the man lured and turned around and walked away, disappearing into the shadows. I looked down at my hands, which were now manicured and lacking liver spots. I trailed my fingers across my face, the skin no longer rough and wrinkled. I found a phone in my back pocket and held it down in front of me. I saw the blue eyes and the screen's reflection.

It was me again. The phone in my hand lit up. New message from mom. Dinner's almost ready. When are you coming home? I had a family again. I stood on the street for a while, looking into the warm glow through the windows.

My mom was watching dishes. The blue light of the TV flickering in the background. Dad was watching his shows, and I was late for dinner. I opened the door. The house smelled of mom's cooking. The table was sitting. for three and mom welcomed me home. Finally, you're home, honey. Dinner's ready. Dad grunted when he stood up from the couch and ruffled my hair as he walked by. I was still taking in the sight the

normality. I hadn't even noticed I was awkwardly standing in the foyer. Dad gestured to the seat across from him and I took my place. It had been so long since I'd felt safe and it felt strange, almost too good to be true. Mom pulled the meatloaf from the oven, the pan hovered over the table as the meaty dish steamed into the air, a home-cooked meal. After all this time out on the street, in the cold, I was happy, ecstatic. But it all came crumbling down when I saw Mom's hands. Her skin was sizzling against the hot pan, the flesh blistering against the middle. She placed the pan on the table in the flesh of her palm instantly mended.

I looked across the table to find Dad studying me with pale white eyes, equally aware of my strange behavior, mom took her seat and looked at my direction. Her eyes looked just like dads. I felt this revolving shudder in my body like biting a luminal foil with dental fillings. I was shivering and sweat built up on my brow. It was a person at the window. It was tall, ill-proportioned. You may not like your new reality. It looks like I wasn't the only one. who it was replaced. Never go hiking alone. I've always been an avid outdoorsman.

Hiking, trail running, mountain biking, I love it all. There's just something so soothing about being out in nature that makes the stresses of life drift away. I could spend my life out in the wilderness and never get tired of it. That is, until I hiked sweet Connie Trail. The terrain on this hike was pretty difficult, a near constant incline up the face of a rocky mountain slope. It would take about eight hours to complete the hike in each direction,

With a hike so hard, it is reasonable not to see many people undertaking this daunting task, and frankly, I liked it that way. The more secluded the better. On my way up, the mountain I only ran into a few other hikers, but there was something strange in their demeanors. I'd give them a cordial, hello, hi, how's it going? But none of them returned the sentiment.

Instead, they just looked at me in shock. I gave each of them a polite smile and continued my way up the trail. Soon, all other hikers disappeared, and I was the only other person on the trail. As I rounded a sharp corner, I heard the rustling of leaves coming from the underbrush off to the side of the path. I didn't think anything of it. It isn't uncommon to hear sounds off in the brush while you're out alone. Most of the time it's just the wind, but as I came closer, the brush thrashed around rather violently. Like any other logical person, I ran through the list of possible culprits.

A squirrel? No. It was too large to be a squirrel. Rabbit? Rabbit would have already darted away in a surge of cover. suddenly a laugh drifted out from the foliage. The laugh was innocent, high pitch, young. A little girl stepped out into the middle of the trail, her back toward me. She was wearing a pink dress, dirty and torn. Her feet were bare, her back tense. I stood there for a second or two, trying to wrap my mind around what I was seen. She looked hypothermic, her skin icy and pale.

She caressed her own arms as if trying to get warm. The little girl's head was slumped down looking at the beneath her exposed feet. When the site before me finally registered, I stepped forward. Are you okay? I asked. And my most non-threatening voice, there was no response, but the little girl did acknowledge my question. She lifted her head, looking at the long trail ahead of us. What's your name? Taking another step. The girl's chest began hiccuping, and she huffed in spurts as she started to sob. Hey, hey, hey, don't cry. I'm going to help you. I said, well, taking off my jacket, ready to drape it against her back. But as I placed the jacket against her exposed skin,

she didn't reach for it. And now lay half-hazardly across her shoulders, ready to fall to the ground with the slightest movement. What are you doing out here all alone? I asked. Concern feeling my voice. Suddenly the little girl sobbing stopped and an uncanny silence fell around us. Nothing made a noise.

Not the wind, the birds, the trees. It was as if time had stopped. The silence was broken when the little girl began giggling, once again. It started slowly as if she was trying to hold it in, but giddiness engulfed her and she started giving a cheery laugh. The little girl lifted a hand to the air. Her little fingers grasped a handful of her messy black locks, twirling the strands around her grip, and slowly pulling away from her head. Her scalp stretched as her hand pulled harder. I took a step back in horror when a few hairs unruited from her head, my jaw dropping when the handful was yanked free.

Her other hand lifted to her head. This time she waited. at no time in ripping her the hairs from her scalp, my jacket falling to the floor as she did. The hairs hadn't touched the ground when her hand returned to her head. She now frantically ripped her hair free, her giggle morphing into a maniacal cackle. It hadn't been more than a few handfuls, and her head was looking more like a sarda riddle dogs. Hey, stop that, I said as my stiff limbs finally moved, I gripped the little girl's wrist, stopping her from tearing out another clump of hair. What I did or laughed or instantly stopped the fingers on her hand-balling in apparent anger. I felt my muscles tense before she thrust her hand out of my grasp. Her hand returned

to her head. Stop, I said with more conviction, stopping her from yanking more hair out. The little girl didn't take kindly to it this time, and she swung her arm back in a sudden burst of supernatural strength. I'll shove back my backside meeting the exposed earth. I returned to the path and head, but the little girl was gone. I looked around, expecting to see the girl running through the trees, but my gaze was only met with the dimly lit pine forest. The hairs on the back of my head stood as a familiar laughed drifted through the woods. It stopped distant and muffled. But as I frantically searched for the little girl, she was nowhere to be found.

Her giggle mocking me from the darkness. Looking at the path ahead, I saw a figure standing in the distance. She wasn't there before. Yet there she stood. Little girl yanking her hair in handfuls. When there's no more hair to left a pole, she started sobbing again. Freaked out by the situation, I had movoted. motion to stand, trying to avoid garnering the tension of the bald figure off in the distance,

but as I took to my feet, a few rocks crunched under my weight. The little girl instantly stopped crying as the sound met my ear. Her hands, which once plucked at her head, now fell to her side. My heart thudded in my chest as the silence lingered for a beat or two. She craned her head back, catching a glimpse of me from the side of her gaze, and for the first time I locked into her eyes, fluid steaming from her ducks. Only it wasn't tears, it was a distinct deep red of blood. She pivoted it on her feet and faced me. My senses screaming, run, as her face came into view. Her skull was partially sunken in, like someone had taken a rock and bashed against her cranium. She studied me, looking me up and down, unimpressed. I wanted to say something, anything,

but I was in shock. The little girl noticed, and a creepy smile slid across her lips, her mouth parting, producing that sweet, innocent laugh. But this time her laugh got deeper with each inhale. Horror drifted into my body as her eyebrows furled, looking at me like prey. I found my courage and I started to slowly back away, but with each step the little girl mirrored my pace. What do you want? I asked quiveringly. The girl didn't answer and continued chuckling maniacly. Please don't hurt me, I pleaded. Desperation evident in my tone. The little girl picked up the pace. I found myself stumbling on my heels, but as I turned around facing the path that led back to the trailhead, the little girl stood in front of me in the distance. The red fluid still oozing from her eyes. My feet slid

across the trail as I came to a screeching halt. I eyed the little girl up and down, stopping when I got to her feet, that no longer touched the ground. They now hovered ominously a few inches above the trail. The blood draining from my face, words festered on my tongue but caught at my throat, spilling out as a frantic mumble. What the hell? What the hell? How are you? The little girl stopped her deep demonic chuckle and looked at me, mildly offended. Her mouth started to gap open, revealing a larger-than-normal void in her face. With one long inhale, her chest expanded, and she let out an ear-piercing roar. Leave, she screamed. My ears yawning at the base in her voice. She lifted a gnarled finger

and pointed behind her, instructing me to run back to the down the mountain. Without a second thought, I shot to my feet and scurried around her. The little girl's witchly cackle followed me back down the trail, but when I looked over my shoulder, no one was given chase. Eventually the laugh stopped and the only noises I was hearing were the normal, rhythmic chatter of nature and my anguished breathing. But the dread of the situation still played in my mind. I quietly made my way towards the trailhead, but my heart stopped when I saw a lonely figure walking toward me in the distance. My heart was shoved to the pit of my stomach thinking that I was the little girl again. But to my relief, it was a tall,

burly hiker making his way up the hill. His hiking poles dug into the soft ground as he worked his way in my direction. It dawned on me that he was making his way towards that demonic little girl. I needed to say something, but as my warning built up in my chest, a familiar sweet voice slithered from the trees. Sh, it said. My skin broke out in goose flesh. The burly man huffed his way around me, giving me a polite smile as he passed. I stood there frozen as he rounded a corner and disappeared from This spring, denim gets a softer, lighter update. Introducing Old Navy's drapey denim wide leg, a new fit that moves with you. It's everything you want denim to feel like for summer.

Easy, breathable, and effortlessly cool. With a fit that creates natural movement and a wide leg that feels modern, not overwhelming. Plus, that signature, wait, for this price, moment. Old Navy's drapey denim wide leg. I doubted my gaze around the woods, realizing that the little girl, still watched from the darkness. It is safe to say that the rest of the hike back down the mountain was the fastest I'd ever hiked. When I reached the trailhead, I looked at the sign marking the beginning of the trail. Sweet Connie Trail. This is a memorial trail dedicated to

Connie Renner, who lost her life on this same hike on April 15, 2016. At the bottom of the sign was a picture of the little girl. It's been a few months since this happened. I have haven't been outdoors since and to tell you the truth I never want to go outside again. Fuck nature, fuck hiking, and fuck sweet Connie Trail. I'm at war with my neighbor. Written by I Go by KK. And before we get into this story, I just have to clarify a specific word or a specific term.

It's a haint. And what a haint is is a southern American term for a restless, malicious, or evil spirit, derived from the word haunt, rooted in Galua Gichi and Appalachian folklore. And these spirits are believed to be vengeful souls of the dead, or witches that can bring harm or bad luck to the living. And now let's get into the story. I live in Appalachia. I've always lived here. I've always been aware of the haints that are my neighbors. They are aware of me too. When I was young, they used to terrify me. Eyes within the trees. Whispers that sound like human voices mixed with the howling winds. When the birds go silent,

you become acutely aware of the fact you are trespassing on your neighbor's property, and you are not welcome. Unlike people, haints don't use guns to defend themselves. As I grew older, I grew a deep appreciation for them. This has been their home much longer than it has been mine. The Appalachian Mountains are older than we can dream of, older than bones and even the sea. When you're quiet and still, you can speak to the bones.

The ground itself talks in a voice with no sound, communicating to your soul, not your conscious mind. When I first bought my own property with my husband, I made it clear to the haints I was going to inhabit the property as it was my own. I gave them gifts of milk and sugar, woven baskets, and carved charms set with the intentions and phrases my mama taught. Passed down from the ten generations my family had lived there. Then I set my wards. Nails taken from the cornerboards of my house, salted and blessed with my own blood.

My husband isn't from here originally, so. he thought it was a bit of an extreme response, but he didn't protest. He declined my offers to add him to the wards. I wasn't pleased with that. I'd no intention of forcing him, though. He didn't believe my stories for the first year. It wasn't until the things in our house would go missing, only to be shortly returned after I served up honey milk to the haint living with us that he started to believe. He never confirmed it out loud, but the change in his disposition was clear. He began to fear the things in the woods.

I told him time and time again, there was no fear to be had as long as we respected them the same they respected us. Yet he still refused to be outpast sundown. We no longer hosted bonfires or watched the fireflies after the trout-bellied sky sank

beneath the horizon. I understood the fear he held. The paralysis of realizing you're being watched consciously by things beyond your comprehension. The apex predator is aware of you, and you are stepping on its territory, and it may pounce at any moment.

It wasn't until these screams started that I became nervous as well. I'd heard the screams before, almost woman-like, yet oddly inhuman. It had been many years since I'd felt the dread they inspired, the need to flee. My husband froze. still as a rabbit on its haunches, waiting to see what the hound will do.

I guided his arm inside and locked the door, salting the windows and door. I was confident in my wards, but that did not mean I was somehow stronger than whatever this was. As far as I knew, the wards could be completely useless. The haints run by their own rules. The words of my father from childhood stuck in my head. That ain't how a woman screams. go inside. He said it with such a serious face as if he was warning me, not just keeping me away from a fox or a mountain lion. When we heard the deer screaming in agony two days later,

his eyes darkened and how he turned his back to the woods with resolve. He kept the shotgun by the door for a month after that, something I was now doing too. We lived that way for six months. This haint, unwilling to live amicably with me like so many others, terrorized my husband the most. He woke up screaming most nights. Some night terror breaking his mind slowly but surely. I was beginning to grow angry. I had made good faith offerings.

Burnt meat and a fire just outside my bounds. Honeybread and homemade meads. Yet the haint accepted none of it. All was spoiled and run by morning. A rude rejection. in a statement to me. It only stoked the flames in my own soul. This was my home, just as it was the haints,

and I would not allow it to terrorize my loved one. It began killing my chickens. That was when I decided it was war. I responded in earnest, upping my words tenfold, saying nightly prayers, calling upon the friendly neighbors for aid. I did not like calling upon them.

It always came out of common. I was growing more rapidly aware of the fact that, if I did not, this haint would kill us. It was not content to only feed off the discomfort. It craved the taste of flesh. My chickens were not a satisfactory substitute. I saw it for the first time three years into us living there. It stood at the edge of my wards, careful not to step over them, yet seemingly testing the bounds. Its appearance is difficult to describe, but I will do my best.

Deer are prey animals. Their eyes are set on the side of their heads to give them near complete 360-degree vision. Their legs are made for running and hold immense ability to spring into jumps over creek beds or brush as they escape hunters. This beast did not hold those features. Its eyes were front-set. pitch black with absolutely no glint as the porch light hit them it stood taller at the shoulder than a normal deer nearly as tall as the willow it towered near its mouth was wrong slid and barely masking the shape of sharpened teeth it moved its head like a cat cocked its head to the side like a dog chittered like a fox stepped like a mountain lion what i found was was most uncanny were its legs. They were not the slender, graceful legs of a deer. They were muscular. The legs of a predator, not prey. It potted with a ferocity that spoke to its power. One,

I did not want to cross. The antlers upon its head were sharper than nature intended. The shedded velvet coat with dried blood. I suppose this could have meant it sheds its antlers like a normal deer, but deep in my bones, I knew they were attached to his skull, like horns. I did something then that many would consider stupid. My husband was deep asleep, tired after a day's work and exhausted from the ongoing torment, so as quietly as I could, I slipped out the back door and walked to it. It seemed surprised I had chosen this route. It took several steps back. I cautiously watched my hands as if I were going to pull a revolver and silver bullets from my pockets. I did not.

I held the leftover pork from the night's meal. I placed it upon the ground and pushed it with a branch across the ward lines. It regarded me with interest, unsure of what my motive was. For the first time, it bowed its head and ate. I took it as a sign of a truce, at least in that moment. I spoke to it, introduced myself, my lineage, introduced it to the bones of my kin who now walk the deep earth of the mountain, same as the haints. I asked it as simply as possible. What do you seek out of this?

Its head shifted and clicked, the teeth in its mouth showing as it was grinning. I want him. The words took me aback. my husband, the outsider who had done no conceivable harm to anything here, who had been respectful as I'd told him to be, who'd followed every rule. Why? I did not bother to hide the shock or anonymosity in my voice. How well do you truly know the man you have bound yourself to?

How much do you know of his history, of the path his kin has passed to him? How confident are you? That man is a good one. You will find me when you decide. That is, if it is not too late. The voice that spoke to me did not come from vocal cords. It traveled up my spine, the voice of the grave dirt beneath my feet seeking revenge of ages.

It regarded me one final time before its shadowy form sank into the darkness, part of the tree line. I chewed on its words for several days, told myself that it was meaning to make me paranoid, distrustful of my husband. If that was the intent, it was working. I could not hope to view him the same way. I watched his every move and reconsidered everything he told me. I watched as he snapped at me over small things, something I had once blamed on the haint tormenting us.

I re-examined the ways he drank, unable to sleep or feel much without it. I considered the way he chopped wood, as if it had done something to him, an intense anger just underneath the surface. I listened to the words he spoke in his sleep, realizing they were not words in response to a hate, but something from his past. I began to wonder if the haint was his reckoning. I spent a month pondering what to do. I sat by my ward lines night after night, waited for the haint to speak to me once more again. It never came.

I could hear it. Feel it just beyond the capabilities of my sight, even felt as if it made eye contact with it a few times. He's starting to become more paranoid of me as well. I feel his eyes upon me when my back has turned. I see the way his knuckles go white as he grasp knives at dinner time. I see the way his jaw tightens when I speak. I'm beginning to wonder if I've been fighting the wrong war.

If the isolation I once considered sanctuary will become my grave. I broke my word last night. It was on pure impulse. My mamma would scold me if she could, see the way I went about it. Dug it up under the cover of night and felt the cold wash of the surrounding neighbors overtake me.

I heard the sounds of the stag chittering with that fox-like voice. Then I went to bed. I do not know how long I have until this war ends. I do not know which side I am on. All I know is I clutched my protection necklace much more tightly and I no longer sleep at night. I watch and whisper

To the haints I call my neighbors I'm at war with my neighbors Part 2 I think my wife is a witch There's no other explanation For the things occurring in around this house We've been married for nearly five years Moved to this house four years ago

Ever since we moved Things have been terrifying When I met Lottie, we were both young I was 22 Fresh out of college with my bachelor's business excited for life i grew up in the mindset that business expects constant work and fighting to up your sales numbers i was popular always taking out business partners for drinks and dinners that all seems so unimportant now i met lottie one day at a farmer's market in the city one of my

partners had gone when that a semi-local farmer had the land and capacity to supply a new branch of the dairy industry in Appalachia, a near untapped market full of possibilities. Our pitches were going well. The board members agreed, and so we found ourselves at that farmer's market. Lottie was wondering the booze, examining every single item with as much curiosity as a child in a toy shop. I found it intriguing. I didn't understand how anyone could find something as a farmer's market that interesting. What? With it being all produce or grandma quilts, so I approached her.

I thought I was sly when I was 22, but in hindsight I absolutely came off like a snob. I think moving to the mountains has made me understand that at least. For some reason, she still humored me, chatted about the artsy and traditions passed down, how important it was to keep our kin alive through them. I thought it sounded like some hippie shit. It was hippie shit. yet it still made me feel something. I felt that warm blush in my chest that you get when you realize you're into someone.

So I asked her out on a date. She wasn't keen to stay in the city any longer than she had to. So we agreed to meet in the next town over, which was basically a one stoplight town. It felt like stepping into a new foreign world. Our relationship only grew from there. She told me about her family. her heritage in Appalachia, all the fokey things her mama would do.

It was a definite turn-on, how passionate she was. I'd never seen someone with the same amount of passion as me, even if it was on a different subject. I didn't share much about my family. She would ask, but I set that boundary and she begrudgingly respected it. I don't want to relive any of it or to subject her to that knowledge, so she agreed. We got married after two years of dating. Then we bought that damned house a year later.

She talked me into living in the mountains. I didn't want to. I wanted to live in one of those tiny towns where I could easily drive to work. She insisted on land in being able to farm it. I insisted it. If we had something like that, I was not going to help with it. So we bought 10 acres and a shabby little house planted right in the middle. It was incredibly removed from everyone and everything around us.

the water system was so old it came from a well pump she was weird when we first moved in but i assumed it was from us finally owned a place instead of renting an apartment in the city she was two years away from the woods at that point so i just assumed it was a relief i thought maybe we'd both settle into it i was wrong the first week there she asked if she could take a piece of my hair and bury it i was weirded out and said absolutely not. She looked disappointed, but she touched my face and smiled and just said, Okay, hon. She knows it makes me melt when she does that. I saw her later that day, burying four jars around the fence line. I asked her what she was doing, and she told me her mama told her this was the first thing every new homeowner should do. I thought it was bizarre, but she had all kinds of odd Appalachian traditions, so I brush it off. She kept telling me to

respect our neighbors so they'd respect us. I thought that was an obvious concept, so I just nodded along, assuming this was her way of acknowledging the cultural differences and warning me from being a city jerk. I was polite whenever I saw them and even brought them green tea from the city I work in. Lottie seemed to please. I figured I was doing everything right. Six months in, I started hearing things, whispers around the outsides of the doors in the windows and tapping on the front door. Lottie wouldn't even move her head towards them, just telling me, don't open the door. When I'd start towards it, I hated how calm she was. It was like this was just normal to her.

I started seeing things a few months later. I was terrified. I thought I was losing my mind. Sometimes I still think I am. Lottie definitely saw them too. All she would do was smile and then go put out birdseed like she was feeding the damn things. I grew more and more scared. Scared of them and the start of a nagging fear my wife was bringing them here.

I grew adverse to being outside. Then the scream started. It sounded like a woman. It sounded like Lottie. I froze the first time I heard them. walking in from the car slowly turning to the tree line and looking for anything weird it was dead silent and dark lottie was outside by now and i felt relief she wasn't hurt in the woods but then i realized if it wasn't her what woman was screaming on our property lottie grabbed me by my

elbow and practically dragged me inside i was panicking by this point lottie walked calmly around the house pouring salt everywhere. I asked her what the hell she was doing, and she looked at me in such a way that it's ingrained in my mind now. That ain't how a woman screams. Her eyes were darker than usual, set with a look that said we were in danger. I believed her.

I scrambled across the house and grabbed her gun. Checked it was loaded, and shakily stood in front of our door holding it. I don't know what I would have done with it. I've never shot a gun in my entire life. Lottie took her from me and set it gently by the door. I didn't sleep that night. I don't think Lottie did either,

although it was hard to tell, considering I sat washing the door while she went to bed. Lottie's chickens started going missing. She was furious. Kept muttering about this thing, and if it wouldn't work with her, then they could leave. I hadn't slept in months at that point. All my dreams were full of nightmare.

things from childhood, things from adulthood, and the things I was witnessing now. That comment stuck with me. I thought on it for ages. What did she mean work with her? Were all the things I was seen working with her? What did working with her even mean? I started to distrust her, especially when I could hear her going outside at night when she thought I was asleep. I'd hear outside talking to things and I'd hear voices in return.

I didn't know whether to be angry or scared. I started to get snappy. I don't like being snappy. My father wasn't a good man and every time I quipted her, I just felt like I was becoming him. I don't want to be him. He, my mom isn't alive anymore because of him. He was sick.

I'm starting to wonder if he passed these things. same sickness down to me. If the things I'm experiencing aren't even real and I'm every bit as insane as my father, I don't understand it. I promised myself I'd never be him. I started to drink more. It was the only way I could sleep. She'd watch me do it with this concerned and soft look on her face, as if she wasn't the one putting me through three years of this hell. I found a therapist three years in. She's concerned. She knows my family history, and she talked about meds.

Meds are probably good, but I was terrified if I took them, I'd wake up from my sleep one day to the things being inside my house. I found weird herb bags under my pillows, and that's when I realized. My wife is a witch. She's a witch, and she's working with her. demons. The things I was scared of had already broken in and my wife greeted them with open arms. I'm not a religious man. I know this seems so insane and out of place, but a month ago, she went outside a night and I saw something. There is no atheistic answer. She was sat on the

grass underneath this thing. It had to have been a demon. It looked like a deer, but so utterly wrong, can't even describe it. I think it saw me looking. It made eye contact with me and then disappeared. Those eyes have been in my dreams this entire time. Four years of those tar black eyes terrorizing me. Lottie turned her head back to the house and I just ducked under the kitchen sink. I don't know why I didn't want her to see me. It just felt like a bad idea. I faked sleep again so when she came back she wouldn't be suspicious. She's been acting weird ever since. She's treating me like I'm dangerous.

Or maybe like I'm something to be sacrificed. I've been chopping wood more to cope. It at least helps me build muscle if that thing attacks. I don't know what to do. What are you meant to do in situations like these? Divorce? Yes, I'm sure. Your Honor, I'd like to divorce my wife because she's a witch.

will hold up in divorce court. I don't know. I feel hopeless. I feel like I'm going to die in this place. I think I'm going to die here. I need help. Please. I'm at war with my neighbor.

Finale. I killed my husband. He's dead. The love of my life, the song in my lungs, the braid of my... My hair is dead, and I killed him. It's been a month since I destroyed my wards.

Since I sat on that cold ground and dug until the earth under my nails seemed as if it had always been a part of my hands. Since I took that jar and threw it into the rushing creek, shattering every hope of protecting the life I have lived for six years. Since the waters washed away what was left of my heart. He came home last week. Forest green eyes red and swollen from crying while driving home. It's a miracle he hadn't crashed or falling off the outcrop with the broken guardrail. It's been a week since he came home and I held him for the final time. He arrived home later than usual, rushing in the door as if he was being chased.

For a moment, I considered he actually could have been. Then he started packing a bag. He shoved his things in with such a panicked, frantic motion. Those green eyes, once full of so much kindness and determination, were now only focused on escape. I asked him what he was doing. His gaze flicked up to me, as if he'd forgotten he wasn't the only one living in his house, as if he wasn't the only human. That dusty blonde hair he kept so carefully combed for work was a worried mess. Slight patches of strands missing, presumably pulled out from the stress of these past few years.

I'm leaving. He choked on the words, although I can't tell if it was from anger or fear. I was beginning to be distraught myself, although I wasn't sure why. I made up my mind weeks ago when my feet bled, mixing in the water, creating swirls of blue and red. He snapped then,

threw a bottle of pills at me, an orange bottle nearly empty, marked with his name. Grayson, the dosage for twice a day, 12 hours apart. I was confused and concerned. He said nothing, only continued packing. What is this? My psych meds.

They were supposed to... His voice choked. Eyes welling with tears. They were supposed to fix me. They're not. I can't be here. His packing now is slowing, handshaking with the burdens of two decades worth of stress

and sleepless nights. His crying became sobs. Racking his body in heaves as he collapsed onto the quilt of my mama had gifted us upon our marriage. He held it with such grief. And I was at his side in an instant. My instincts were still wary, unsure if this was a trick or the start of the end. So I remained poised to move if needed. He laid there, letting me hold him, making himself as small as possible and hiding his face away from me.

I'd only seen him like this after the nightmares these past few years. My chest ached with the love I had thought died a month ago. So he sat. I held him there for nearly an hour. My body relaxing into the curves of his own, soothing his back and brushing his hair. When he finally spoke again, his voice was rough and quiet,

fearful of the words leaving his mouth. He told me his story. His father was a sick man, inflicted with an illness of the mind that left him unsure of what was truly happening. It had started with whispers, haunting his thoughts and senses with things just out of sight. He would grow angry at Grayson, accusing him of intentionally whispering, then lying to get out of trouble. Grayson spent many nights in what his father had dubbed the punishment room. He gave no further details on what that meant. His father's paranoia and distrust as he started to see things hovering just out of his

eye line. When looked at it directly, they would disappear. With the growth in fear, his anger grew dabbily as fast. Grayson's mother would try and calm his father down, but it was no use. She tried to help him. He refused, said there was nothing wrong with his mind and everything wrong with the family that was tricking him in this way. Grayson was 10 when it happened. His mother told him to run, so he did. He hid in the closet of their bedroom. Tucked in the small forts, his mother helped him construct out of their old blankets and scarves.

He heard her scream. He heard the crushing silence afterwards. He heard his father come back to reality for the first time in years. He heard him break. It was only then he ventured out of his sanctuary. It was then he saw his mother. He told me all of this was a shaking voice. His full body trembling as if he was still there.

It's happening to me, Lottie. I hear the whispers. I'm seeing things. You know that. I just didn't tell you about the rest. Why it's been torture for me. I'm getting help. I've been seeing a therapist.

She gave me those meds a month ago. They were supposed to. The sob started again. They haven't helped the visions or whispers. I spoke softly, realizing what exactly the haints have been doing to my love. He buried his head into my chest, nodding and holding me tighter. The worst part is I can't even trust you. He helped me tighter then.

As my heart rate rose and fear gripped me in its cold, ironclad hand, he reached under the pillow and pulled out a little bag I'd placed their two years ago. He sat up and held it. His eyes saddened and uncertain, fear creasing his forehead. I laughed. I laughed hard. The type of laugh that makes your breath go short and your stomach hurt. Loretta May, this isn't funny. I know what you've been doing. I know this is some kind of witchery and you've been going outside a night and talking to those things. I know you know them. I know that you know that. He stopped as I cut him off. Bracen, open the bag and smell it.

What? Open it and smell it. I don't get it. What's the smell got to do with anything? Laughter wrecked my body again. It's lavender. So? The smell helps you sleep.

He looked at me shocked. As if he just discovered the concept of flowers being a soothing scent. Also, I'm not talking to anything at night. I'm praying. and walking the property to make sure everything is all right. His expression held a disbelief hard to describe. He looked at me as if his entire worldview had just been scratched out with black ink and rewritten.

I continued laughing before he laughed along and fussed that it wasn't funny. He was really scared. I was a witch cursing him, and this was somehow the cause of his nightmares. We laughed deep for nearly 20 minutes, making jokes at each other and stealing kisses. It felt as if we were newly wet again.

After we both managed to calm down, I explained to him in more detail the traditions that had been passed down to me. He understood my superstitious nature, but had never quite grasped why it was important. He listened in silence, seriousness creasing his furrowed brow, deadly still. I explained the nature of the haints, how he wasn't crazy and they were there.

I asked him how he hadn't realized this when I spoke about the neighbors, and he looked at me. Flabbergasted. I thought you meant our actual neighbors. You told me I've spent hundreds of green tea for the past few years, and it wasn't even those neighbors? Laughter wrecked both our bodies again. I was surprised how well he was taking this, and all things considered. My shining boy's smile had finally returned, full teeth showing his second toothed. on the left crooked as always.

I didn't realize how much I had missed that smile. I worked so hard to bring it back yet it was all for not. We talked for another few hours after that before exhaustion finally claimed his poor body. He fell asleep on my chest and for once no nightmares haunted him. He slept deep and comfortable.

Hugging my waist as if he had never wanted to let go again even in his dreams. I watched and held him for a long while. Thinking back on all the time we had spent loving each other, I thought long and hard about the pains he'd endured, being subjected to a culture so foreign to him he'd never even considered the folk tales may be true and guide our every moves.

It was then that I remembered the Stagg-Hant's words, more so its lack of words. It hadn't suggested things about Grayson. It had it planted seeds of doubt, deep in my mind and chests so much so that the wards that had kept it off this property for four years were now lying destroyed in cleansing water i leapt from the bed scrambling to find more jars and anything that could keep the house safe grayson woke with a start following me around the house confused and disoriented my wards are destroyed his face paled asking me what i needed

if we should call my mama what to do. I ordered him to salt the windows and doors. We both went deadly still when we heard the scream. Grayson scrambled faster to salt the doorways, falling back as tapping began on the front door. My hands hurried as fast as possible, shaking as I pressed a knife against my left and gasped at the pain. I bled into the jars.

Grayson trying desperately to staunch the blood as I scolded him off and told him to let me work. I sealed them, prayed over the lids, and took off running towards the back door. He was yelling at me, my sunshine, begging me not to go out there while it was so nearby. My mind had one focus, and it did not involve my safety. It wanted him. I dashed to the tree line, clawing a shallow hole in the ground and shoving the first jar down. The ground underneath my feet was warm and pulsing, living with the spirits.

of my ancestors and neighbors who had accepted my invitations to be friendly. As I ran to the next corner, the ground almost pushed me, pumping my feet faster than I thought possible of a human body. The ground was already opened in a second corner, pulling itself apart with a wet squelch. I screamed to thank you, shoving the jar hard and fast downwards as the ground ate at whole. I was about to run to the next when I saw him. Grayson was in the yard shouting for me to run he had that silly shock gun my father passed to me holding it tight as if he wasn't a city boy who couldn't fire a BB gun above him stood the stag it was no longer on all fours nor had it retained the grace of a deer it was undoubtedly the same beast its jaw was unhinged

rose upon rows of sharp serrated teeth lining all the way back into the maw I realized then that it hadn't spoke to me in words due to the fact that the teeth continued deep into that dark abyss. The guttural scream echoing from its long neck was wet, wheezing and horrifying. I froze. Grayson raised the gun. He got off one shot before I descended on him. The world felt as if it was in slow motion. I became unstuck as the ground beneath me lurched.

forcing my feet forwards. I took off on a run towards the haint, towards my darling, knowing there was nothing I could do, but I'd be damned if I didn't try. I grabbed its terrible arm, feeling in my hand like sandpaper mixed with the wet feeling of a bloated body.

It knocked me backwards, leaving a deep gash in my chest. I stumbled up, running back yet again, determined to not let this thing win. Its head snapped to me, closing back to, almost be the deer and it had met me as on that fateful night. It laughed at me. I could feel

it laughing. You made your decision. You have found me, Loretta. It is too late. I did what any Appalachian woman would do in that situation. I punched it in the face. My hook caught it across the nose. The surprise sending it falling backwards. The ground moved yet again, pushing it further back. It's Lottie, motherfucker. He laughed again in indignation. We will meet again. And then it was gone. I held my boy.

I held my love. I held my sunshine, my starlight, the water that gives the world life, those green eyes as deep as a forest in high summer. I begged them to stay. Screamed for help. Begged some more. He touched my face and smiled once. He smiled that wide smile, all his teeth on display. His crooked tooth now chipped and bloody, then he was gone.

My human neighbors must have heard the commotion and called the sheriff. He had to prime me off Grayson. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't see anything other than how his eyes no longer held the light of half my soul. It's been a week. It's been a week since I killed my husband, since I held him as he bled out, since the sheriff listened to my tail, and having grown up with me knew it was true. It's been a week since the official death report dubbed it a bear attack. It's been a week since I decided by fate.

I am at war with my neighbor. I know my side, and I do. do not sleep. I'm going to make damn sure that it doesn't either. I must have dinner at exactly 6 p.m. written by Saturday. It is really bizarre to look back on the past year and consider that there was a time when my life was simple. I have a different life today and I would argue I'm a different person. I have to eat every night at specifically 6 p.m. If I don't, there are consequences.

That doesn't sound all that weird. People eat at 6 p.m. all the time. Some earlier, some later. I can't do that. It has to be exactly 6 p.m. and if I don't, there are consequences. You wouldn't think there'd be, but there is. And yeah, it is as unusual as it sounds.

It started about a year ago. My family was taking me out to celebrate finishing my education as a dental technician. I had technically already worked in the field for some time, mostly internships. But now I had it all on paper. I was officially done and I could get myself a real job. I had a couple of places lined up. My mom was really excited about it.

She booked a table at a pretty pricey downtown restaurant. You need to book it at least one or two months in advance, especially if you want a weekend or evening slot. Not only did she do that, she booked it with space to spare. Mom, dad, my girlfriend, Amy, my older brother and my grandparents. One big outing.

I was a bit nervous about them meeting Amy. It was their first time. But I figured it'd be fine. We got there around 5.30 on a Friday. I'm not going to out the restaurant. I think they're closed now, but it was this nice downtown place, slightly elevated with an outdoors terrace.

They had two bars and these big booths for, parties of up to eight. When we got there, they showed us inside, asked us to take off our shoes, and sat us down at the table. First thing they did was go person by person and wash our hands at the table. The appetizer was meant to be eaten with your hands. That was the kind of vibe we were walking into. Just for contrast, I'm not into expensive stuff. The whole reason I got into dentistry, at all was because I used to be anxious about tongues. I started reading about them just to kind of demystify them, and all of a sudden, it became an interest.

Then I went from tongue to teeth. But food-wise, I'm a ramen noodle kind of guy. I'm not really about the whole washing my hands with eucalyptus water thing. We had a couple of drinks, some laughs, some appetizers. They had this shrimp thing. they served with dry ice that made the whole table look like a cloud. The chef was apparently a big thing. I think I've seen him on TV a couple of times.

Let's just call him Chef Mike for reference. It'd be too easy to identify him if I gave you the real first name. We saw him a couple of times that day. A lot of people were running in and out of the kitchen. And if you listen closely, you could hear someone yelling in the other room. As the clock closed in on 6 p.m., a waiter put down a plate right next to me. No one else got a plate like that. It was a kind of zesty halibut and asparagus foam.

When I looked up, I realized I'd been served by chef Mike himself. For the birthday boy, he smiled. It's not my birthday. I smiled back, but thank you. Pardon my assumption. May I ask the occasion? The others at the table chimed in. My grandparents were talking about how inventive I was as a child.

My mother straightened her back and started talking about my excellent oral health. Amy was clinging to my arm, a bit overwhelmed about the whole outing. She's not a fan of strangers. Chef Mike just smiled at me. Then you must have a refined palate, he said. Please, it's on the house. A clock chimed in the back. background. 6 p.m. on the dot. I took a bite. I'm not going to say the halibut was the best thing I've

ever had. It wasn't. It was good, though. Buttery smooth with just enough texture to stick to your tongue. The foam did a lot of heavy lifting. It was just a couple of bites, but I really enjoyed it. There really wasn't much more to it. We had a lovely dinner and dessert. Then as we called it, of the night, Amy and I took an Uber back to our place. That's what I noticed something curious. Someone had sent me money. 80 bucks. Now, it's not a lot of money, but there was no name or note attached to it.

I figured it was my parents wanted to give me a little extra to go out with Amy, but I wasn't sure. I chalked it up to miscommunication and sent out a, hey, thanks for the 80 bucks. in the family group chat. No one responded. I didn't really think about it. The next day, I was back up to slurping up a pack of ramen noodles while doing paperwork. To be a bit extra fancy, I added some fresh bell peppers.

I was halfway through an article when I got a notification. $65. No name or notes attached. Strange. Not just that, I got money again, but that was a different amount. I sent out to another message in the family group chat, thinking maybe my grandparents were the ones who sent it. Maybe they thought the first didn't go through. I could only speculate, but the group chat stayed silent.

Over the next few days, I noticed a couple of things. First of all, there were days when I didn't get any money at all. I did get a couple more deposits, though, but only on days when I had dinner at exactly 6 p.m. It was the only common denominator. Ramen with bell peppers. I know, twice in a week. Got me another $65. Fried chicken and rice got me 70.

Add some curry sauce and have it again the next day. I got 73. The sums would differ, but I would only get some on the days where I ate at exactly at 6 p.m. The thing is, it was fast. fast and consistent. I could be sitting at home, chilling in front of the TV, and I'd get a notification but only if I was having dinner at 6 p.m.

This brought me to a couple of uncomfortable realizations. First off, the sums would differ depending on what I ate, meaning there was some kind of rating system. And second of all, and maybe more importantly, someone could tell when I was eating. Someone was, somehow, observing me eat. This triggered all kinds of paranoid responses in me. I would stop eating out of spite.

I'd bring Amy over and ask her to check outside for someone watching me through the windows. I borrowed a strong magnet from a local magnet fisher to check if I got any bugs on me. All of it turned out nothing. I think the only thing I managed to do was convince Amy that I was getting paranoid. She wasn't too happy about it, but I think that's just because she worries. She's a warrior. One day, I decided to test it all further. I locked myself in the bathroom.

I turned off the lights and hit behind the shower curtain. I had a microwaved waffle with some vanilla ice cream in a bowl. I took little bites at exactly. 6 p.m. and listened for notification on my phone. My hands were a bit shaky. I was so focused on listening for that sound that every creek and groan of the apartment building sent sparks into my chest. As soon as I finished the ball, the phone beeped. $45. I couldn't even see my own hands unless someone was using infrared or sonar. There was no. way they could see or hear what the hell I was doing.

Something wasn't adding up. I kept experimenting over the next few days. I tried to test the boundaries of what counted as dinner. Soft foods like drinks and slushies and marmalade didn't count. Neither did snacks like chips or crackers. It had to be something substantial and traditional. I tried going the other. way around. I got this really nice cut of beef from the local butcher. I asked Amy to help prepare it,

seeing that she's a bit more of a cook than I am. She put some real love into that thing, using a sort of truffle glaze and serving it with roasted potatoes. I asked her to share it with me, but she insisted I had it on my own. She was sort of invested into this experiment too. She'd seen the deposits. I sat down at this little table. I had a heated cloth napkin, a glass of red wine, and ate by candlelight. Once I finished, I checked my phone. $1,200. This wasn't just a creepy experiment anymore. This was real money. Rent money. Amy freaked out when I showed her, dancing around the kitchen table like she'd won the lottery. Tomorrow, I'll make homemade chabada and a chili, she said.

If this is what one steak gets us, what'll a three-course meal do? But where's it coming from? I asked. Why are we getting it? Why don't you just ask? If there's someone watching, then clearly they're listening. She had a point. Amy had some last-minute business to deal with the next day. So I ended up making some hot dogs and mashed potatoes.

Nothing fancy. Just the powdered stuff right out of the box. But as I sat down, I had an idea. I took a bite and spoke into the empty room. If you can hear me, add 50 cents to the next deposit. I'd never gotten anything less than full dollars. So, yeah, that'd catch my attention. I tried watching a shirt.

as I ate, but I kept getting this pounding in my chest whenever I thought about being watched. What was the point in watching me eat? And why at 6 p.m? I finished my meal and put the plate away. As I turned on the dishwasher, my phone chimed. $21.50. Someone was listening. Testing this further just made it stranger.

I had some Indian takeout food on the bus and I still got a deposit. They were still watching me when I was on the move. As long as I had a proper meal, I tried dragging dinner out for two hours. I still got a deposit, but much less than usual. I could be eating alone or with friends or at a restaurant. It didn't matter. Someone knew what I was doing and they were grading it on a scale. I started asking questions.

50 cents for yes, 25 cents for no. I already knew they could hear me, so that was already settled. Can you see me? 50 cents, yes. Do I know you? 25 cents? No.

Do you want to hurt me? 25 cents no. I was so fascinated that it started taking up a lot of time. I would make charts and weigh my options. on what to ask, we quickly realized that it didn't work if Amy asked. It had to be me. But when asked if it knew that Amy was there, I got a very clear yes. I started to notice a couple of patterns in the payments. Home-cooked meals regularly got bigger deposits, also eating alone. White wine was a big no-no, but red wine was yes, especially.

if chilled. I was slowly mapping another person's palette, and I have to admit, it was pretty amazing. A little more salt, another $5. A little less butter, that's another three. All the while, I was asking questions. Whoever was watching me had a hard time answering what or who they were. We had to narrow it down to what they weren't. They were not a regular person, not a demon or mythical creature. Not an alien, I couldn't get a clear enough answer, but I managed to understand that they used to be a person. Not a ghost, though. They were clear about that. Twenty-five cents clear. I came up with this system of multiple choice answers. I would write up answer sheets with increments of ten cents each. That's how I figured out where they came from. First day, I asked what continent they

lived on. I got 30 cents, correlating with my North America answer. The next day, it pointed me to the United States. Makes sense. That's where I am. The third day, I asked them to write out the first letter of the state code. I got 19 cents, meaning S. The next day, I got four cents, meaning D, S, D, S, D, South Dakota, pretty far away. I tried to narrow down exactly where they were at. But after a while, they stopped answering. Turns out, they didn't know for sure. It was east of the river.

That much I figured out. I got the impression that whoever I was communicating with wasn't entirely sure either. Some days, the question I asked took longer to respond to, and there'd be a delay before I got the deposit. All the while, I was raking in some pretty good money. I was averaging $150 a day from just sticking to this dinner schedule. Amy didn't ask too many questions.

We could really use the money if we wanted to get a bigger place. But I had to start asking some uncomfortable questions. I couldn't get over what kind of deal I was actually making. Why would someone go to such lengths just to make me follow a strict schedule? And it was then, almost two months after that celebration day, dinner that I got a visitor. It was a regular Tuesday. I had started my new job just a couple of weeks prior, so I was more tired than usual when I got home from work. All the tension of getting to know a new workplace just collapsed from my shoulders. Amy was working overtime, but she had

prepared a recipe for me to make sure to ensure we got the most out of our daily mystery deposit. But that's when I got a knock on the door. Now, I, I'm not a knock on the door. Now, I'm not a very I get visitors every now and then. My parents, friends, Amy's friends. But this was someone I hadn't seen at my door before. Looking through the peephole, I realized I was looking at none other than our local celebrity chef.

Chef Mike. I opened the door, scratching my head. Hey, he said, dropping the TV persona. Remember me? Yeah, sure I said. What are you doing here? Have you been getting the payments? You know about them?

Yeah, he nodded. I get them sometimes too. I just got to cook the right thing. I invited him in, and we got to chatting. Chef Mike told me all about the setup. About once a week, he got a deposit if he served that halibut dish to someone. They didn't have to order it. He would pay for it.

It just had to be prepared in a certain way. and offered at a certain time and date. As Chef Mike explained it, he wandered around my kitchen, making sure to not touch the counter. It was kind of filthy. Amy doesn't really do the dishes, and I'm not much for scrubbing. Chef Mike gave me a long look. I stopped getting payments after you came by. I think our benefactor has taken a liking to you.

Benefactor, is that what it is? I honestly don't know, he shrugged, but whatever it is, it kickstarted my career. I've made some serious money with this arrangement. Just from cooking halibut? It's not just from cooking halibut. It's cooking it to perfection. It's cooking it over a process that has taken me years to calibrate. No one else can do it.

It's unique. He pointed a finger at me. I sat down. chef mike had come by to cook me dinner he wasn't getting payments for halbin anymore so he figured the benefactor has taken a liking to me he wanted to try cooking for me to see if it paid off it sounded almost threatening like he wasn't asking he wanted me to agree to him coming by two times per week cooking things he knew would get us a lot of money i wouldn't have to send him anything he got deposits of his own somehow our benefactor knew that not only was I having dinner at that exact time, but he also knew exactly who prepared it. And I mean, what could I say? I was getting paid to enjoy a gourmet meal two times a week.

How could that be a bad thing? I wasn't being tricked here. I saw the whole thing from start to finish, no matter if it made a paleo or a chicken frittata. I'd see the whole thing, no tricks. So yeah, I agreed. Amy would have killed me if I didn't. She got all the leftovers she wanted.

That and she was a bit of a closeted chef Mike fan. She followed his YouTube channel. Things changed rapidly after chef Mike and I shook hands on the steel. He got all new kitchenware for me and had a firm come by to clean. He put in this new hood over the stove and put in a wall-mounted spice rack. All custom jars. No labels necessary. On days when he came by, he would sometimes bring an assistant or a sous chef.

He was taking it seriously. I can't count how many unnamed people came and went through my kitchen during those days. Some didn't even look like chefs. More like mercenaries. Deposites kicked up significantly. My max payout was somewhere around $3,200. It never dipped below $300. Still, having him around.

was nerve-wracking. He had an absolutely shit temper, and he would blow up at Amy all the time. She would just be excited to have him there, and he would cuss her out for sharing. It was heartbreaking watching her go from all excited to withdrawing. After a while, she would avoid coming out on all days when he was there. All the while, I was still trying to understand our benefactor. I asked him to spell out his name, but all I got was end. and oh. 14 cents, 15 cents.

Then I decided I had to ask some big questions, something that would take a long time to answer, but that I had to know. Despite knowing it might take weeks to get the full picture, I painstakingly made a schedule to ask a question I couldn't stop thinking about. How can you see me? It took eight days to get a complete answer.

Every day I checked the deposit in the corresponding number of cents, I put up one post at a day until the answer was staring at me. 21, 18, 5.25, 519. Your eyes. Your eyes. I tried eating with my eyes closed, but that didn't seem to affect it at all. That confused me. Even if this thing could somehow experience things through my eyes,

that didn't explain why it wanted me to eat. I started getting strange messages not related to the questions I asked. Letters that wasn't a response to anything I asked. I could ask a yes or no question and get four cents. A D. Over the weeks that followed, I filled my fridge with all kinds of strange messages, all written on colorful post-its. Good taste.

Best tongue. More salt. Chef Mike shared that he was getting messages too, but he hadn't figured out what they were meaning yet. It was only when I pointed it out that he realized he had started getting sense. He hadn't gotten those before. He wrote out all the sentence he'd received in a number sequence and had me translate it while he cooked.

This one says, Can't see, I said. pointed to a series of post-its, the other one says, Can't touch. So we can't touch and can't see? And he lives in South Dakota? And he sees things with other people's eyes? Chef Mike shuddered.

He didn't like that. Amy was standing quiet in the corner, keeping her head down. He says, I have a good tongue. The best, I added. What do you think that means? Well, Chef Mike's side, over the years I've worked with him, he made me perfect that one halved dish as a sort of calibration. Maybe he was looking for someone to enjoy it the right way. But how does he know that I do that?

He shrugged. See through your eyes? Taste through your tongue? Taking all I'd learned into account, I decided to dive deeper into another question. Why specifically? at 6 p.m. Why was that so important? The answer I got was as simple as it was infuriating.

Dinner. I asked what happened before that. And why it couldn't be 5 p.m. Gym. The benefactor had a schedule. Work, gym, dinner, woman, sleep. I got this impression of someone living vicariously through others. maybe literally.

How else can you explain someone knowing I'm eating strawberries and cream in the dark and not just flushing them down the toilet? I shared my findings with Amy. All the post-its, the talks with Chef Mike, the experiments, the questions, I showed her my conclusions and suspicions, drawing it out on my iPad like I was mapping a conspiracy theory, red lines from one circle to another, dates, answers, I'd printed out pages of deposits and highlighted every cent, just in case. I checked if the full dollar amount was anything too.

It wasn't. In that rating, it was getting intricate. The benefactor had a very particular palate. It enjoyed beef the most. Well done, surprisingly. Grilled was a no-go. But it enjoyed the barbecue and various glazes. There was a little upshot whenever I had a pleasant appetizer, and even more if I finished with a dessert.

Chef Mike managed to break the record with a $4,100 deposit after serving me a four-course meal. But man, it was awkward. I was just sitting there, savoring it, while Amy watched from the other side of the room. I could tell she was having second thoughts about this entire thing. I couldn't blame her, but we were talking about big, big money by now. This was daily income in the potential thousands. Finally, at one point, she just flat out asked me all about it. We were driving home from the grocery store, and she had me pull over.

It was almost in her time. We'd gotten stuck in traffic. I was a bit stressed, but I did as she asked. She put her hand on my shoulder. I think... I think we should stop, she said. We got so much from this. There's got to be a problem with it.

I don't feel comfortable doing this. It's a lot of money, I agreed. But can we afford to stop? She nodded. We got a lot, I know, and we can put that to good use. But when's enough enough? Didn't you want to be a dental technician? I am a dental technician, I insisted.

You spend more time on your charts and recipes, she said. That's all your time. It's income in the thousands, Amy. Thousands. And what do they get from you that's worth that kind of money? I didn't have an answer. My tongue felt dry. The clock was almost 6 p.m.

I leaned back and smacked my seat. Amy recoiled a little, and I reached out to apologize. We were okay. It was just a lot. And I mean, yeah, she was right. I was being paid for something I didn't understand. And it was a lot of money, but if I can't understand it,

how can I consent to it? I decided to swallow my pride and agree with her. So that day, I skipped dinner. And for the next week, I kept that up. It was a bit strange, stepping away from a strict schedule. And chef Mike wasn't happy about it. He went back to making that halibut dish, looking for someone new to appease the benefactor.

I'd get these occasional messages like, no one yet, and you sure you still out? The message that stuck with me the most was just, Do you know how lucky you are? I stopped responding after a while. Amy was doing a lot better. We started eating together again, and we could be involved.

bit more spontaneous. It was a load off of my shoulders, but I would still catch myself wondering at times. Whenever 6 p.m. rolled around, was something looking through my eyes? Was it tasting my tongue? Had it moved on? There were no more deposits. It sucked not to have that income, but it was a strange thing to rely on to begin with. And I won't lie. It was convenient as hell. But there's there's something uncomfortable to it. I can't put my finger on it. But after two weeks of stepping away from the deal, something changed.

I lost my job. I'm not saying I was the perfect employee, but I was doing a lot better now that I didn't have any distractions. It came out of nowhere. There were no mass layoffs or anything. It was just me. And on that same day as some nameless security goose, is carrying my stuff to my car.

I got a text from Amy. She lost her job too. All of a sudden, that income is looking like a lifesaver, but I couldn't help but think. What if that's the point? What if this was orchestrated? How far can this benefactor reach? That night, Amy went to see her sister.

The two of them are really close, and she needed some alone time. Meanwhile, I made some of her. spaghetti and meatballs, and I sat down to eat at exactly 6 p.m. I remember sitting there at the kitchen table, eating in silence, looking at my iPad across the table. I'd written a question, did you get us fired? 50 cents yes, 25 cents no. Every bite felt wrong, like someone was watching me from inside my mouth, like there was someone else sitting in the same space as my body, savoring me like a goddamn juice box.

It felt like I was putting on a show, making myself into a canvas to be painted on. But I finished the meal. There was a deposit later that night. $480. And 50 cents. That's a yes. It got us fired. I didn't tell Amy about it.

She thought we'd gotten away from that whole ordeal. And now it was threatening to pull us back in. I wanted to give her some peace of mind. So I decided I was going to do something about it. I had a plan to get this benefactor out of our lives once and for all. One evening, while she was out, I sat down at 6 p.m. with a new plan. I was going to make the benefactor turn away from me forever. And I could only see one.

way of doing that. I lined up a plate with orange juice, toothpaste, diced onions, and mayonnaise. That and a spoon. I'd prepared an empty bucket next to me. My heart was making backflips as the clock crossed over to 6 p.m. When it did, I dug in and ate until I couldn't eat anymore. I ate and I got violently ill. There were no deposits that night. For a few days, it seemed to work. I could eat at 6 p.m. without getting a deposit. It actually lightened my mood a lot. I didn't feel watched anymore.

I think Amy noticed it too. She seemed a bit more at ease. Dinner time had become this unspoken stigma between us. But we'd started to look past it. We could joke about it, plan a little outing. We might even have dinner at 6 p.m. We moved back into a better routine. I took down the postage from the fridge.

I deleted the document with all my findings. I'll admit, I wasn't sure about that one. There's no harm in keeping a file on your computer, but then again, if I wanted to fully commit, I couldn't keep that stuff around. After much deliberation, I cleared it out. Things were looking up. I got a new job interview.

Amy and I were looking at, bigger apartments, hoping to find something within our price range. Not for now, but for when we both got back on our feet. But things didn't always turn out like you want. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I'd spent my day talking to some old classmates. I was waiting for response from a recruiter who'd shown some interest. I got out of my car at around 4 p.m., bringing some groceries along. The front door was open, so I figured Amy was at home. I did what I always did. I spoke out loud about my day.

Mark got a new job, I said. Sounds like it wasn't just me that'd been laid off. No response. I got some turkey breast. I figured we could make some. I looked down at my grocery bag. Turns out, someone had switched it. This wasn't what I'd bought.

But for that to happen, they must have been in my car while I checked my phone. Looking up, there was a man in my living room. He was about 6'3, slim shoulders, thick horn-rimmed glasses, buzz cut, gray dress coat, simple blue jeans, something in my blood froze when I saw him. I think I've seen him at Chef Mike's place. It was like coming face to face with a lion.

All kinds of strange details just burned into my head. The way he laced his shoes. The silver ring on his left index finger. The slight hint of a scar on his neck. The tinted blue sunflower on the commercial rolling in the background. We just stared at each other for a second. I counted my breaths, trying to keep my brain from spiraling. I was making a hundred plants at once.

and they were all incomplete. Run, scream, shout, talk. Why aren't I talking? Do something. He burst into a sprint. I draw my groceries and got about five steps before he caught my neck and pushed me down. I felt something cold, metallic, and heavy

push against the back of my skull. Not a word, he said. Not a single goddamn word. The world turns black with a blindfold. I tried to listen for details. Count my steps. There were more people,

and they were trying to disorient me. They put a hood over my head and spun me around, pushing me to the ground a couple of times. I couldn't figure out the direction we were going. They threw me into the car, a big one by the sound of it.

No one was talking, but I figured they were at least three people. Two up front, one in the back. The car ride was over 40 minutes, but we took a lot of turns. We might have been going in circles for a while. Once we came to a stop, they pulled me out and kept driving. I never even saw the car. Still, not a word from either of them.

I was pulled inside a building and escorted down some stairs. A cellar. I was pushed into a cheap chair that scraped against an uneven stone floor. Then there was a voice. Time. 448. Clear out. People left the room.

Another chair squeaked as someone sat down across from me. They leaned in, making sure the chains on my hands were secured to the table. Let me tell you about my job. The silence was unbearable. I could barely hear him over my own breathing. I've had a job for six years. He said, best job I've ever had. Before this, I was ready to bite a bullet.

I had no purpose, no income, nothing. He tapped something against my head. Then one day, a man walks past me. And I look at him a little longer than I usually do. He looks weird. Has a feel to him. And all of a sudden, I get 20 bucks. Just like that.

So you know what I do? He leans in. I look a little closer. I follow him a little longer. Another 20. And you know what I find? This guy is a freak. He does some things that grown men aren't supposed to.

Things that hurt people. Good people. He leans back. Something metallic lands on the table. So instead of turning my gun on myself, I turn it on him. And I shit you not. Ten minutes later, I'm looking at a five-figure payout out of goddamn nowhere.

He taps the heavy object with his fingertips. Spins a little. Now, I got a job. A very serious job. And I've learned to listen very, very well. And I don't ask questions. We sat there for a full hour. He had a wall clock that made this needlessly loud ticking noise

so I wouldn't forget the seconds. I tried to calm my nerves and settle my breathing. But he would do something to constantly keep me on edge. I lost track of time completely after a while. And he was more than patient. Someone knocked on the door upstairs. A heavy door. Metal. Reinforced.

The man got up from his chair. That's your cue, he said. It's showtime. I instantly recognize the voice as the door creaks open. Amy. They drag her down in chains, kicking and screaming. She yells my name. Not that I can do anything.

It's like reaching for a teddy bear. She's just screaming to get the fear out. And it aches in me not to be able to do anything. This man has a gun. Something small clings onto the table in front of me when he pulls off the blindfold. I'm sitting in a dark basement. There are eight men in the room, all armed with submachine guns.

They've chained Amy to the wall. They got her purse tangled up, so they cut the strap off with the bowie knife. They're all masked. Black masks. Carbon fiber with felt over the eyes. They have different skin tones and build. No visible tattoos. There are six plates in front of me.

A bacon and water chestnut. appetizer, Caesar salad with a mild cheese, lightly fried halibut with hollandaise sauce and collared greens, rice balls with spicy mayonnaise served with steak tenderloin, a turkey burger slider, and a small cup of chocolate lava cake for dessert, three perfectly placed glasses of red wine, water, and white wine. Amy is screaming herself to death. I can hear her waist breaking. I realize one of the men are behind me and he's holding something. I can hear a leather strap just inches from the back of my head. He's pointing something at me. Once the clock turns to 6 p.m., one of the men nodded me. Bonapete. I take my time with the dishes. I didn't want to give

them an excuse to shoot me in the back of the head. It all tastes like salt anyways. I must have bit my tongue when they attacked me. The wine burns my tongue and my eyes water. A little blood drizzles out of the corner of my lips. Amy is a mess. She's on her knees, repeating please over and over like a mantra. She is terrified of strangers and the claustrophobia isn't helping. No one is budging. They're not even looking at her. I take bite after bite, knowing full well that I'm being looked at from the inside out. He can taste the salt of my tongue. He can feel the pieces sliding down my gullet.

He can feel my nervous stomach rumbling as I force myself to chew, chew, chew. How can you want this? One of the men checks their watch. Send the chef home. Have our guests finish in 10 minutes or kill the girl. Make it a challenge. The man standing behind me huffs, grabs my head, and smashes it into the table. The table cracks a little.

Cheap plastic, probably stolen from a yard. He doesn't have a gun. He has some kind of pop revay. He's not killing me. He's going to hurt me. Bad. It takes me a moment to register the pain. He pulls out my tongue and pierces it with a revay.

Start the clock. I can't feel my tongue. My eyes water. I tried to eat without chewing, but these salts feel like sticking my mouth into a wall socket. I bite, chew, and swallow. Bite, chew, swallow. I'm a machine.

I'm doing this. Pain doesn't kill you. But by God, it's the worst I've ever felt. It's supposed to be good. It smells nice, but it sticks to my stomach lining like a sore cold. They're going to kill her. I can see the gun. They're going to kill her.

I finished within a couple of minutes to spare. I almost choke on the white wine. I knocked over a couple of plates, and it looked like someone fed it all to a starving dog. I had a barbecue glaze on my fingers. Hands are faster than forks. Looks good, one of them said. Hope you enjoyed your meal. Another one leaned in from behind, tapping me on the shoulder with an automatic weapon. What time are you having dinner tomorrow? He asked. It wasn't really a question. It would never be a question again. 6 p.m.

I got $25. No sense. I still have my dinner at 6 p.m. to this day. I'd like to say Amy and I have found some kind of normalcy in all of this, but she turns pale every time I walk away to eat. We don't talk about it. We talk about everything but that. I've started getting deposits again.

Not as big as I used to, but still significant. I've noticed I got a bit more of Amy is in the room, watching in silence. I've tried thinking about it in other ways, like I'm not a captive in my own body. But maybe an influencer to an audience of one, or a curator, a reviewer. Maybe there's some magical thing I can do that will grant me some kind of lenience. I don't know. But for now, I don't have any options. Every day, I step away from whatever I'm doing, and I have dinner.

And I have it at exactly 6 p.m.