The Dark Somnium - Every Night Something Terrifying Tried To Get Into My House | A Compilation of Home Invasion Stories

Episode Date: September 10, 2025

Here is a list of all the stories! My Worst 911 Call My Neighborhood has been invaded Why Did The Garbagemen start coming in the dead of night The Thing In The Hallway Won't Let me Leave My Room Something Walks Whistling Past My Window My Town Stays Inside when the wind blows from the west When Hell Comes Knocking Lock The Door The Suns Not Coming Up Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See https://pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

I've been a 911 dispatcher for about three years now. I don't know how my life eventually led me to work in this field, but somehow it happened. As you can probably imagine, it is not the best job to have. The pay is not great at all, and it is definitely not worth the emotional roller coaster that comes with it. I cannot tell you how many sleepless nights I've had due to what I hear on the other line. Most of my calls aren't too bad, mostly minor domestic destruction. disputes and armed robbery reports.

But, on rare occasions, I would get a disturbing call describing a murder scene or something along those lines. The calls with kids were also some of the worst, but one call sticks out, and it happened only a few weeks ago. I live in a decently small town, so crime is not a big issue, but I guess that is why whenever I get a call about a murder or grisly crime, it hits worse, much. All calls get to me, but not as much as the serious ones do. I'm not saying only some are serious and some aren't, but you get the point.

A few nights ago, I got a call at about 11.30 p.m. I don't usually work overnight, but one of my coworkers was out sick, so I volunteered for a double shift, as my boss would pay me overtime if I did so. I'm just sitting at my desk, daydreaming about whatever when I get the call. I brace myself and answer. This is what was said. 911. What is your emergency?

God, please help me. Please stop her! I was caught completely off guard by the caller's panicked voice and immediately put on edge. I knew already this was not routine, and I immediately tried to calm him down so I could find out where he was and send police, fire, or EMTs to his location. Sir, calm down. I need you to tell me where you are. It's 62 Yorker Street.

Please send somebody. I have an intruder and she's trying to kill me." Yorker Street was near the edge of town, so it would take police at least ten minutes to get there. I had to get enough information out of the caller to inform the traveling officers about what they would be dealing with if things escalated. Police are on their way. Are you hurt?

No, but she wants to hurt me. She's destroying everything in the house and she's screaming her head off. Through the phone, I could hear the muffled screams of a girl. It was now apparent that the intruder was inside the house. Is there anyone else in the house besides yourself and the intruder? No, I was alone before she broke in. Okay, I need you to listen to me carefully. Lock yourself inside a room and hide.

Stay on the line with me. I'm already locked inside the bedroom and hiding under the bed. Okay, good. Tell me what happened. I don't know. I woke up and heard things rattling in the living room. I got up and investigated and there was a curl standing there, fiddling with one of the cabinets. I tried to quietly return to my room and call for help, but as soon as I moved,

She noticed me. When she saw me, she started screaming so loud and charged at me. I sprinted back to my room and slammed the door shut, then I locked it. Is she near your room? No, I don't think so. We both then hear a loud bang, and the man gives out a fearful cry. Oh God, she's pounding on the door! Through the door, I could hear the rhythmic thumps on wood.

Now I knew the situation was becoming dire. Most intruders, if caught by the house's occupants, will usually try and flee. This intruder has not left after being seen. She was now trying to kill. Police tell the police to hurry. I think she's about to break down the door. They are on their way. They will be there soon.

I prayed they would be. Can you describe the girl for me? Yeah, I can try to. Already I was panicking for the caller. I couldn't have imagined how frightening the whole situation would be, but the description the caller gave me was bone-chilling. She looks like a child. She's not an adult.

That I know for sure. She looked to be at least seven or eight years old. She was wearing a small skirt and there were dark spots on it. Her hair was dark, about a shoulder length or so. Her neck was messed up. Her head was just hanging from her neck. Both her eyes, my God, her eyes were missing. There was no light.

The sockets looked empty. I was becoming more and more horrified the more he described her. This was no longer your typical bird. No little girl breaks into homes in the middle of the night with intent to kill. The little girl didn't even sound human, not by how the caller was describing her. Five minutes had passed, and I prayed the police would get there soon. The man was crying at this point, and he was growing more and more panicked with every passing second.

Do you know why this girl could have broken into your home? I don't know. He then stopped for a few seconds before continuing. She stopped banging on the door. I listened. And there was nothing. No noise other than the callers panicked breaths. Okay, stay very quiet for me.

Stay where you are. Okay. If it sounds like she's leaving your house, please tell me. Well, now that you mention it, this isn't my house. Wait, excuse me? This... He didn't even get to finish what he was going to say. As soon as he spoke, I heard a massive crash and the man yelled.

I heard the ear splitting screams of the man and the intruder. the line went dead. I sat at my desk, frozen and silent for a good few minutes. Then I broke down, and one of my fellow dispatchers who had heard my conversation while sitting at his desk immediately came over and comforted me. I told him what had just happened, and his face went wide as snow. He was horrified. He must be thankful, however, that he didn't have to hear it firsthand. The police arrived a very short time later. I wanted to find out. I wanted to find out. out what was going on as soon as I could. Thankfully, I have a friend of mine on the force who told me what she and the other officers

discovered. This is what she told me when I talked to her the next day. The house had no forcible entry, no windows were broken, and the front and back door were locked and secure. She and the other officers on scene were dumbfounded, as they couldn't figure out how the intruder got in. This either meant that the intruder was willingly let into the home, which the car was caller did not tell me, or that the intruder was already inside when the caller returned

to the house that wasn't even his, which at the time seemed to be most likely. Nevertheless, the cops eventually were able to pry open a window and get inside to check on the collar. The house was a mess. Everything from picture frames to glasses to even a refrigerator were wrecked. It was as if a demolition crew had a field day inside the house. The bedroom door was blown off its hinges. The door was in pieces, and there were wooden shards everywhere.

If the cops weren't already creeped out at this point, they were just beginning to be. My friend told me that a linebacker couldn't have caused that much damage to the door in one blow, let alone a little girl. She was already on edge, but it got much, much worse when they eventually found the collar. The man was found in the bathroom, connected to the bedroom he was hiding in. It was gruesome. His blood was everywhere, most of it flowing from a gaping hole in his abdominal region. Some of it, however, was on the walls of the bedroom and ceiling.

His eyes were also missing. My friend said a couple of police officers passed out or vomited from sheer shock after looking at the grisly atrocity that happened to the man. I was already horrified by what I heard. The man had died of very violent death, and this intruder was still out there. But my friend then told me something that made this case more bone-chilling than it already was. While looking around the house, one of the officers found an out-of-place wall near the kitchen. The wall looked to be artificial.

It was connected by another wall, but it was only about four feet high and seemed to serve no purpose. It almost looked like a barrier to the kitchen, though there was an opening right next to it. The officer knocked on it lightly. Not only was it hollow, but when the officer knocked it knocked. A small hole opened up. He knocked on it very lightly, but the wall was so weak that it was enough force to actually

penetrate it. He shined a flashlight inside and saw a blanket on the ground. But what caught his attention wasn't the blanket itself, rather the lump underneath it. He called for the other officers to come over to him, and they broke through the rest of the wall. They inspected the blanket. They inspected the blanket, and one of the officers lightly lifted it off the lump. they found was almost as disturbing as the dead caller.

It was the dead body of a young girl. They immediately closed off the area, and crime scene technicians came and investigated. After some time, the coroner came and took two bodies to the morgue. A few days later, the rest of the details came out about this case. I was eager to hear what the coroner and the police had discovered, and my friend called me to tell me the rest of the story as soon as she found out. The collar had died from, and this was the exact term my friend used, blood loss from being gutted. His eyes were never found.

The girl was identified as Taylor Watherton, a nine-year-old who went missing a little over two years ago. She went missing from a local playground, and she was last seen wearing a polka-dot-covered skirt. I didn't think much of it until I found a missing person's poster with her picture on it. She had black hair that ran just to her shoulders. As I was looking at her photo, I couldn't stop thinking about that skirt she was last seen in. I felt like I was missing something, and then it hit me, and I almost fainted as I remembered what the collar told me.

She was wearing a small skirt, and there were dark spots on it. Her hair was dark, about a shoulder length or so. Apparently, the coroner determined that she had been dead for not that long at all. to him, she appeared to be dead for no longer than a month. While the cause of death could not be determined exactly, her neck was broken, and it wasn't post-mortem. I told my friend when I originally talked to her that the caller said the house wasn't his. She did some digging and reported back to me around the same time the rest of the details were released. The house belonged to a man named Travis Quincy, who had recently been reported missing. He had apparently told

his family, he was going on a trip to Canada, as he had a few friends that lived up there and that they were going to have a guy week. However, he didn't return when he was supposed to. During this time, his family would rotate house-sitting. His brother, Colby, was the caller. I knew what he had looked like. His photo had been shown on the news a couple of times since his body was identified alongside a missing child.

He was a young man with straight, strawberry blonde hair and a decent build. After talking to my friend, I looked up a picture of what Travis looked like. If he was missing, I wanted to at least have an image of his face that I could put into the back of my mind. My heart dropped when I looked at a picture of him together with his brother on one of his social media accounts. It was captioned, back with the twin. He looked exactly like Colby.

Craig just wanted to watch some TV before bed. A simple thing to ask for him, really. and could he find the remote? Of course not. He had just begun the process of pulling out all the couch cushions when someone started to knock on the front door, rapid and insistent. He let out an annoyed grunt and looked at the clock on the wall. It was five minutes to eleven. Uh, who is that? From the kitchen, Elsie called out. Is there someone at the door? Yeah, can you see who it is? He yelled back. I'm busy over here. I'm looking for the remote. I can't find the stupid thing anywhere.

kind of busy too, Craig. Can't you please do it? Elsie hollered back. She was fixing herself a bag of popcorn, and it had just started to pop, emitting tiny, greasy firecracker explosions in the microwave. It's kind of late, isn't it? Don't open the door unless you know who it is. He growled and stomped over to the door, a storm cloud brewing over his head. Who is it? Craig was answered by more brisk wrapping. His lip curled, and he peeked through the doorhole with a surly, what do you want, poised on the tip of his tongue. The words crumbled in his mouth. It was Mandy McTavish, the next-door neighbor's seven-year-old daughter.

She was standing on the front porch all by herself, wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms in the January cold. Her tiny feet were bare and ghostly white in the amber glow of the overhead porch light. Craig gasped. What the? And he yanked open the door. Mandy, what are you doing here? You don't even have any shoes on, honey?

Something wrong? The little girl looked up at him with a frozen non-expression, perfectly smooth and neutral. Craig had time to register that her eyes seemed strangely reflective in the muted light, almost as if they were emitting a yellowish glow. And then the girl's arm suddenly shot forward in a blur, fingers hooked to seize the front of his hooded sweatshirt. Craig flinched back from the unexpected movement, but Mandy's hand stopped just short of reaching across the threshold. Craig looked down at them in goggle-eyed surprise. What?

Mandy squeaked out a creaky little mule and dropped her arms to her side. A thin, delicate string of drool slipped from the corner of her mouth and ran down the side of her chin. Her voice dragged out in a rusty, atonal drone, the exact opposite of her usually bright-eyed, lelting little chirp. This was the croak of an ancient crone, a noxious old wretch suffering through the final hours of a long, odious existence. Craig felt a shiver raced down his spine. He blinked and cleared his throat. What do you mean us, Mandy? Is everything okay at home? Craig looked down into the girl's luminescent gaze, and for a second or two, he found himself wanting to do just that, to step back and invite her in, but at the same time, he didn't

want to, because something was wrong, horribly wrong. A finger of unease trailed down his spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The look on Mandy's face, the white pallor of her skin, and even though she was out there in the bitter cold in only her thin pajamas, the kid wasn't shivering in the slightest. She was just a skinny little stick of a girl. How could she not be freezing out there? His gaze had strayed down to the little girl's bare feet again. And this time, he realized they weren't actually making contact with the all-weather carpet

that covered the front porch. Mandy was floating several inches in the air. There weren't any footprints in the snow behind her either. Craig's heart abruptly started to pound in his chest. He thought, this isn't Mandy. It's not her. It was a crazy thought, a nonsensical thought, but it was true. This wasn't sweet, happy-go-lucky little Mandy McTavish, not at all.

This was a monster. Craig found himself swinging the door shut. He didn't know what was going on. but he knew that it was wrong, and that was enough. Mandy repeated, and the door slammed shut on her strange, blank little face. Craig turned the deadbolt and slid the chain in place, his hands shaking. No, no, you can't come in. Go away. Craig slowly backpedaled down the short hall, dreading the sound of another knock,

and he let out a little shriek when Elsie's questioning hands settled on his shoulder. He spun around, and his elbow knocked over her bowl of popcorn. It shattered against the wall. Popcorn and shards of glass sprayed across the floor. Elsie cawed like a startled cow and smacked him dead center in the chest with an open-handed slap. Jesus, what the hell, Craig? Look what you did? What are you...

Elsie, don't open the door. The words came out as a quivering plea. If she knocks again, ignore it, okay? Don't open that door. What? What are you talking about? Who's out there? Elsie pushed past him, still yammering out a barrage of unend,

answered questions, and Craig grabbed her arm hard enough to make her gasp. I said, don't open the door! Elsie smacked his hand away. What is wrong with you? Her face was pinched into an expression of bewildered annoyance. Broken bowl, popcorn mess on the floor, husband gone crazy. What the hell is this? Craig scuttled after her in an agony of anxiety.

His throat felt arid and tight. No one's out there. She turned to scowl up at him, still indignantly rubbing her chin. Craig, I can't believe that I'm actually going to say this. But are you high or something? I mean, really? Is this a joke? Because I'm not laughing.

There was someone there. It was Mandy McTavish. She was in her pajamas and she was out there all by herself. She told me to let her in, but I didn't. I didn't dare. I don't even know how to say this, but she wasn't. She wasn't what? Poor little Mandy was out there all alone in her PJs

and you didn't let her into the house? Craig! He struggled to find the words to express the terror he'd just felt, the overwhelming sense of impending doom, but he couldn't think of a way to express himself that wouldn't sound completely insane. What was he going to say? That Mandy was floating in the air, that she hadn't left any footprints in the fresh snow? He ran his hands through his hair and let out a long, heaving sigh.

Something was just… It was just completely off, Elsie. I can't properly explain it, but it made my skin crawl. I... Elsie turned her back on him and started to unhook the chain. He lunged at her and caught her hand in both of his. Don't! Please don't do that, hon.

I mean it. Don't do it. Craig... His wife trailed off. She blinked up at him, completely nonplussed. Are you... Are you okay? No, he thought.

I'm not okay. I'm scared. There was a scream outside, shrill and desperate. The Renfrews both jumped in unison. Elsie clawed back the little late. curtain that covered the doorlight, and they crowded together to peer outside, clutching each other like frightened children. A woman wearing only a bathrobe and one fuzzy slipper ran into view, all out sprinting down

the middle of the street, with her hair streaming back in the frigid breeze, and her mouth gaping open to let out another scream. A smaller form streaked in from behind and slammed into her with immense force. There was a flash of movement, and then wham. Two bodies were rolling together in the powdery snow, tumbling in a flailing tangle of limbs. There was one last shriek, high pitch and raw, and the two struggling forms rolled out of sight. The street was quiet again. If it weren't for the disturbance in the snow, it would have been as if nothing had happened out there at all. Elsie turned to Craig with a shocked, stricken look on her face.

What just happened? Was that Vicki Pinbrook? I think it was. Keep your voice down, okay? Turn off the hall light. Turn off all the lights. But Vicky? Elsie gestured weakly at the door. No, we aren't going out there. Are you crazy? Craig reached out and flicked the switch on the hall light himself. I'm calling the cops.

I don't know how I'm going to explain myself without sounding like a lunatic, but I'm calling them anyway. Craig crept back to the front door and turned off the outside light. He took another peek outside and froze. I think I'm going to bed now. Okay? Elsie's lip trembled. She was struggling against tears. I don't like this, and I'm freaked out.

and I just want to go lay down. Craig barely heard what she was saying. He was too busy staring out the window with the look of horror on his face. He took a deep breath and said, Not just yet, hon. Can you come here and tell me if you see what I'm seeing? The woman with the bathrobe and single fuzzy slipper was back. Elsie was right.

It was Vicki Penbrook, long-time neighbor and soccer mom extraordinaire. She was gliding down the street with her feet hovering several inches off the surface of the road. her bathrobe now loose and flapping around behind her in the stiff icy breeze. Her face was completely devoid of emotion, slack and flat. Like she's dead, Craig thought, and he felt a rash of goosebumps break out on his arms, dead and laying in a slab in the morgue. Oh, my God. Elsie whispered.

Look at her feet. Her feet aren't touching the ground. Vicky stopped directly in front of their house. She tilted her head back and appeared to be sniffing the air. A predator catching scent of its prey. How cold is it tonight? Almost 20 below. Elsie turned and clutched Craig's arm.

She's just about naked out there and she doesn't even seem to notice. Vicky revolved in mid-air to face the house. Even though Craig and Elsie were crouched down in the dark, he was sure she was looking directly at them. Craig hissed, get away from the door. And he grabbed his wife by the waist to haul her into the deeper shadows of the hallway. Vicky floated smoothly up to their front porch and ascended the steps. Her face was still and serene as a statue.

Vicky levitated across the porch in that surreal, dreamlike manner and stopped in front of the door, still sniffing delicately at the air. Vicky's eyes were glowing a dull, silky shade of yellow. She started to knock on the door, the rhythm rapid and insistent. Craig pulled Elsie close and they huddled together against the wall. Vicky called out. She spoke in the same dead, dragging rasp as Mandy McTavish, the rattle of dead leaves in a frozen gutter. What's wrong with her?

Elsie whispered. Her eyes were very wide and wet. Craig, I'm scared. This is freaking me out. Me too. Don't listen to her. Come on. He led his wife back into the living room, stepping gingerly through the mess of broken glass and popcorn on the floor.

He sat her down on the couch and grabbed his cell phone off the table. It was time to call the cup. There was a long moment of silence on the other end, a loud click, and then the mindless, one-tone busy signal. Like hell, really? I call 911. I can't even get an automated message on the line. Vicki finally stopped rapping on the front door, and the silence that came after was unsettling.

They looked at each other with the same troubling question in their eyes. What do we do now? Maybe we should make a run for one of the cars. was picking nervously at her pajama pants, harvesting invisible lint with pecking fingers. Jump in and peel out of here. Should we risk it? I don't know about that. I don't think we should. Whatever tackled Vicky out on the street, it was fast. Craig hesitated and added. I'm not completely sure, but I think it was Mandy that jumped on her. I mean, it was all over so quick. I hardly even saw what happened, but I'm

pretty sure it was her. So we just sit here and, what? Wait? clutched her hands together in her lap and squirmed. I don't want to stay here. I don't feel safe. What if they try to break in? I don't think they can break in. We have to let them in. I had the door wide open when Mandy was on the porch, and she tried to grab me, but she

couldn't seem to reach past the doorway. I think we're safe here. Out there, though. He sat down on the couch beside his wife and put his arm around her. She curled into him and grabbed his hand. Her palm was hot and sweaty. What's wrong with them? I don't understand this. I mean, it's like they're turned into...

Elsie trailed off. She didn't need to finish. Craig knew what she was trying to say. The idea was ludicrous, of course. Vampires weren't real. They were purely a figment of imagination, the stuff of bad novels, and even worse movies. But people can't float around through the air, can they? People can't. Try the police again. Elsie demanded. Keep trying. He tried again and shook his head. Still can't get through.

Elsie tensed. She held up a finger and said, Shh, do you hear that? Craig held his breath and listened. After a moment, he heard it too. Faint but clear, the hectic, hysterical wailing of multiple sirens in the distance. No wonder you can't get through. Sounds like every cop car, fire truck, and ambulance,

and the whole city is out there right now. Trying to deal with this. She paused. then added, Whatever this is, even... And let out an unsteady little cackle. Craig reached over and clicked off the standing lamp in the corner, plunging the living room into gloom.

You were right. We can't wait for someone to save us. We need to get out of here. We'll just sit here and be quiet and wait for a little while. If the coast looks clear later on, we'll make a run for one of the cars and get out of here. Elsie's reply was interrupted by a volley of muffled screams. They were coming from somewhere close by. no more than a few houses away.

A medley of terrified shrieks echoed and rebounded down the empty street. Wordless cries of horror and agony. Craig put his arms around his wife and they hugged each other, both of them clamping down hard against screams of their own. A man's voice rose above the din. Keep away from me. Stay back. I've got a gun.

I've got it. There was a loud gunshot and the man's hysterics suddenly cut off mid-wale. In the thick silence that followed, The only sound to be heard at 19 Chestnut Street were the wind moaning across the leaves and the Renfrews' own ragged, shallow breathing. They let them in. Craig whispered, They shouldn't have let them in. He pulled Elsie a little closer.

They cringed in the dark and clutched each other as chaos laid waste to the world outside the walls of their home. Shortly after midnight, the Renfrews decided to sequester themselves upstairs in their bedroom. They barricaded the door with Elsie's heavy antique bureau. The frequent rapping at the front door was fainter now, which was a blessing, but they could still hear the occasional bout of screaming echo up and down the length of Chestnut Street. The knocking was bad, but the screams were much, much worse.

Craig was watching the street below from the bedroom window. He'd seen far more than he really cared to see. By this point, some kind of fatalistic, morbid curiosity was compelling him to continue watching. The street was slowly filling with people dressed for bed in their pajamas, wrapped in bath towels, and sometimes even completely naked, out in the frigid cold. They were all people from the neighborhood, familiar faces. They came in twos and threes, sometimes alone, sometimes in small groups, and their feet never touched the ground.

They knocked on doors, and occasionally someone would let them in. Their numbers steadily grew larger. The glow of approaching headlights lit up the street, and a weathered-looking cheap Cherokee slowed to turn into the driveway of the house directly across from the Renfrews, its back end fish-tailing a bit on the fresh snow. Craig's breath caught in his throat. The guy across the street just came back home from work. He just pulled into his driveway. Elsie poked an arm out from underneath the comforter and waved her hand dismissively. They're going to get him. She murmured, and she pulled her arm back under her protective, quilted shield. Just like they probably got Darren.

You don't know that. Craig snapped. Just because he's not answering. his phone, it doesn't mean that he... Craig trailed off. What? Then he let them in? Maybe he wasn't inside when it started. Did you think of that? He could have been out on the town with his roommates.

He's in college, Craig. They're always going out. They don't care if it's a Tuesday night. Shh, he's getting out. Craig pressed his forehead to the glass and held his breath. The neighbor across the street was a stocky, surly-looking guy with a shaved head. Craig had never actually spoken to the man in the entire nine years he had been living on Chessna Street. All he knew about the guy was that he appeared to work a steady afternoon shift.

He lived alone, and he was fond of spending his Sunday afternoons blaring classic rock while detailing his Jeep in the driveway. Elsie was right. Outside of his house, he would be helpless, easy prey. They would get him. Craig wished there was some way he could warn him, but he couldn't think of a way to do it and still managed to remain unnoticed. All he could do was watch it happen. Mr. Jeep heaved himself out of his vehicle with his lunch bag in hand and stomped up to his front step, kicking up the snow in spiteful little puffs as he went.

He paused on the first step and turned to look behind him, his expression changing from his usual stony belligerence to one of shock and surprise. He muttered something in a puff of vapor and took a few hesitant steps forward, his cluster of keys dangling loose and forgotten in hand. Mr. Jeep's eyes went wide, and he stopped dead in his tracks. He dropped his lunchback and whirled around to run for his door, but it was too late. They came for him, five streaks of blurred movement darting in from every direction. They slammed into the man and threw him to his driveway with bone-crushing force.

In a blink of an eye, he was covered in a blanket of bodies. A pride of starving lines and sweatpants and nightgowns. The fiends tore off Mr. Jeep's coat and shredded his work uniform with him. with scrabbling hands, throwing ragged flaps of blue cloth to swirl and flap away in the wind. Oh, Jesus, Craig moaned. They got him. The attackers pressed their faces into the man's exposed flesh, and he screamed in agony. It was over in seconds.

They levitated away from the crumpled body like a video run in reverse, and they all glided off without looking back at their victim. Mr. Jeep lay face down in his driveway, naked, save for his underwear, work boots, and a few used scraps of his uniform. His skin was shockingly pale in the glow of the streetlights. Craig couldn't see any visible wounds on the body. He turned to the lump under the blankets and said, they ripped the guy's clothes off and they, they, uh, they went at him like they were feeding on him, eating him, but they didn't even break the skin, not a single scratch. I don't want to know the details. Don't tell me anything like that. You got it? I don't want to know. They were feeding on him, but what were they eating? What did they take from him? His soul, he murmured, and he instinctively

knew this was the correct answer. He nodded to himself thoughtfully and turned back to the window, morbid curiosity pushing past his fear. How long would it take for Mr. Jeep to turn? Craig froze. Mr. Jeep was already on his feet, and he was looking directly up at their bedroom window. But he wasn't really on his feet so much as he was hovering several inches in the air. impossible weightless and buoyant. The streetlights were shining brightly in front of his house, but Mr. Jeep wasn't casting a shadow on the ground behind him. None at all.

Craig backed away from the window. He decided he'd seen enough for tonight. He sat down on the bed beside Elsie and waited for the knock on his front door. Moments later, it came, loud and insistent. Elsie squirmed beneath her blanket fort. Craig rubbed her back until Mr. Jeep finally gave up and wandered off. He lay with her on the bed for a while and tried to think what they could do to save themselves. Their situation was bleak.

He whispered, Should I try the radio again? What do you think, honey? Elsie didn't answer. Craig sighed and clicked on the little radio alarm clock on the side of his bed. An hour ago, most of the stations had been broadcasting pre-programmed blocks of music or dead air, which was troubling. But now, almost all of them were blasting out an emergency broadcast message on a repeating loop. It consisted of several seconds of a high-pitched tone followed by a robotic-sounding voice

that said, A wave of violent civil unrest has spread across the nation. Martial law has been declared. Please stay inside and do not attempt to travel. Do not let anyone enter your home. Lock your doors and wait for further instruction. Shut it off. There's not going to be any further instruction. No one's coming to save us. You can't say that. I can.

Haven't you noticed yet? The sirens? What are you even talking about? Jesus, Elsie, why can't you try to... Craig closed his eyes and bit down on his growing irritation at his wife's frail, washed-out fatalism. Of course, she was losing hope. Why wouldn't she at this point? The entire world was falling apart around them.

The sirens. Do you hear them anymore? Craig held his breath and listened intently. But once again, Elsie was right. He couldn't hear them. anymore. At some point in the last hour, the hectic background of emergency vehicles wailing in the distance had fallen silent. He turned the radio off. He was unsurprised to see that the missing remote for the living room TV was sitting on his nightstand, teetering on top of a pile of

change. He considered going downstairs to check the news stations men decided against it. The same message was probably scrolling across the screen on every station. Why bother? What the hell is that? He whispered, but he already knew what it was. It was the sound of cold fingers tapping on glass. Craig looked over at the window and strangled back a shriek. Mr. Jeep was floating on the other side of the glass, his eyes glowing that hypnotic, dreadful shade of amber. The shredded remains of the man's work uniform fluttered in the wind.

His mouth was moving, and Craig didn't have to be a lip reader to understand what he was saying. Let us in. Craig took in a deep, shuddering breath and forced himself to stand. He shuffled over to the window on legs like rickety stilts and dropped the blinds down. He pulled the heavy curtain panels closed. The tapping continued. Craig stumbled back to bed and joined Elsie under the covers. They curled together in the hot, close darkness of their blanket cave and waited to see what dawn might bring.

The night lasted in eternity, echoing with the sounds of a world sliding into ruin. There was a squeal of spinning tires and the jagged tinkle of breaking glass, hysterical shrieking and futile pleas for mercy. Just before dawn, the sound of horror and strife came to an abrupt end, and the shell-shocked Renfrews both fell into a light troubled slumber. Elsie opened her eyes just before ten in the morning and nudged her husband awake with a soft tap of her elbow. He flinched and briefly struggled against their cocoon of blankets.

Elsie shushed him with a finger to his lips. She peeled back the blankets and said, I really, really have to pee. Me too. We'll go together. They crept out of their bedroom and tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom. Both of them skittish as wild horses after being barricaded upstairs for so many hours. Craig stood watch at the door while Elsie took care of business,

his feet shuffling around in an urgent little got-a-pea dance. He heard Elsie stifle a giggle behind him, and he found himself smiling a little too. In the light of the day, it was almost possible to convince himself that the horrors of the previous evening were just a dream. It had to be a dream. The sun was shining, wasn't it? They came downstairs with Craig in the lead, an aluminum baseball bat cocked over his shoulder.

Elsie followed close behind with a letter opener clutched in her hand. They did a quick sweep of the main floor, both of them flinching every time they rounded a corner, but they were still alone in the house. Craig nodded his head towards the big double windows in the living room. Let's have a look outside. Maybe it'll be okay. He tried not to wince at how insane that sounded. Of course it wasn't okay.

Literally nothing was okay. Elsie wrinkled her nose and asked, Do you smell something burning? The odor was faint inside the house, but it was there, acrid and sharp. It wasn't the nostalgic mellow tang of wood smoke curling into the winter air out of a neighbor's brick chimney. This was the noxious stench of a housefire. Craig flung the curtains back and inhaled sharply, his mouth dropping open in shock. Oh, hell, come here and look. She raised an eyebrow and asked, Do I really want to see this? Craig didn't answer. He couldn't. He was speechless. The wind had

died down overnight, and the still air outside the window was heavy with the haze of dirty, gray, black smoke. Two house fires were visible from the window. One was guttering out on the next street over, and the other was burning fiercely just a few houses away. The neighboring homes were heavily scorched on either side of the inferno. It would be a miracle if they didn't go up in flames as well. Most of the houses in view had their front doors standing wide open, including the house that was burning steadily to the ground. The open doorways looked like mouths, yawning wide to let out a despairing scream. Further down the street, an overturned car was lying on its hood on the sidewalk. It appeared to have been flipped over by brute force. The driver-side door had been torn off its hinges

and flung into somebody's front yard. Mr. Jeep's insulated lunch bag was still lying in his driveway. A large, shaggy-haired shepherd mix trotted across his front lawn and flipped it over with a questing snout, sniffing for leftovers. Finding nothing of interest there, the dog strolled away, its body language stiff and alert. Well, so much for it being a dream, Craig thought, and he struggled against the urge to sit on the floor and start bawling like a toddler. It was real, all real. Now what?

Elsie joined him at the window. She gasped at the mayhem outside. I think it's the end of the world. Houses are burning down and there's no one left to care. Where did they all go? Craig waved his hand at the empty street outside. Those, you know, those things were all over the place last night. I saw dozens of them.

Where are they? Basements. Elsie murmured quietly. They're hiding in closets and under beds, hiding away from the daylight. Isn't that what vamps? You don't have to say it. Elsie flinched. The words weren't supposed to come out as a harsh bark, but they did anyway.

Elsie shrank away from him. He softened his tone and tried again. I think you're right. They're not pounding on the same. the door right now, so they must be hiding somewhere, waiting for sunset. It's a good time for us to get dressed and get out of town, because we can't stay here again tonight. Where are we going to go?

Elsie ground her palms against her eyes and blinked up at him. She looked dreadfully tired, tired and diminished. Seriously, where could we go? There was an emergency broadcast on every single channel and radio station. The internet isn't working either. This is obviously happening all over the country. Maybe even the entire planet. Who knows?

Where are we going to drive to, Craig? A deserted island. I haven't figured that out just yet, hon. I'll admit that I don't know what it's going to be like out there on the road, but I'd honestly rather take my chances out there than... The roads are going to be a freaking mess. You saw what happened to that car out there? Yeah, that'll be us.

We'll get stuck somewhere behind a pile up of cars, and when the sun sets, we'll be screwed. They'll surround the car and rip off the doors, and that'll be it. Listen to me, Craig snarled, and he resisted the sudden urge to grab her by the arms and shake her. He gritted his teeth and said, I think we very well might be the last people on this damn street. When the sun sets, this is where they'll be coming, Elsie. All of them, the whole neighborhood, all of them knocking on our doors and tapping on the windows until dawn.

And they'll come back tomorrow night too. They'll come back every night, over and over again. and I don't know if I can face that. Can you? Elsie paled. She hugged herself and sighed. No, I don't. God, no.

At Craig's insistence, they both wore heavy boots and bundled up in layers. According to the thermostat outside the kitchen window, the temperature was hovering around ten below, and if the streets were snarled in a chaotic mess of crashed and overturned vehicles, they might very well be forced to strike out on foot. He found a box and packed up a loaf of bread, some canned goods. goods, bottles of water, and the first aid kit from the bathroom, anything he could think of that might be of practical value. The box was starting to get pretty heavy by the time he was done, but Craig was a big guy.

He could probably carry it for a long time if he had to. Here's hoping that it doesn't come to that. Elsie tried to put on a brave smile, but it faltered. I'm scared to leave. I don't want to stay, but I'm scared to step outside. When Craig pulled her into a tight hug, it was like embracing a mannequin. You can do this. He breathed into her ear.

I'm scared too. Who wouldn't be? He pulled a knitted wool cap down snugly over her ears. Which car are we taking? Mine or yours. There was a hard lump of dread stuck in Craig's throat. Now that the time had come to abandon their rabbit hole, he felt an overwhelming urge to call it all off and stay right where they were, cowering in their own house.

The street appeared to be deserted, but it wasn't safe out there. He could feel the danger in the air. prickled the hairs on the back of his neck. Death was waiting for them on the other side of the door. Yours. You drive. He fished his key fob out of his coat pocket and thumbed the unlock button. Outside, there was a muted clunk as the door lock slid open.

Craig hefted the bat. I'll go out first, he said, and he pulled back the chain. You ready? Elsie pressed her lips together and nodded. Can you carry the box? She hefted the box and nodded again. Her mouth now just a little. little slash beneath her nose. Craig took a deep breath. Okay, let's go. It wasn't until he was

bleeding on the driveway that Craig would remember the dog he'd seen sniffing at Mr. Jeep's lunch bag. By then, it was far too late. The air outside was frigid and tainted with the caustic stink of scorched paint and burning drywall. One of the houses beside the inferno down the street was starting to catch, and the smoke was floating along in thick, choking clouds. Craig held up the bat in a double-handed death grip and charged out the door, Elsie close behind him. He started to skirt around Elsie's little Fiat, and a large, shaggy dog suddenly burst out from between the Fiat and Craig's Volkswagen sedan, growling low in its throat. It was Lion, the McTavish's five-year-old Chow. Mandy had absolutely adored him.

They had often rolled around together in the McTavish's front yard, giggling and slobbering and grunting the afternoon away as the sun shone benignly from its lofty perch in the big blue sky overhead. He licked his lips and croaked, Hey, big guy, take it easy, buddy, okay? Craig had always known Lyon to be an amicable, tail-wagging sort of fella, but at some point during the course of the previous night, something had changed his demeanor entirely. The Burley Chow's body language was aggressive and tense, the stance of a dog who was about to attack. Lion's eyes were normally mild and slightly saddled, looking, the eyes of a good old boy living in a state of melancholy peace with the easy world around

him. Now they bulge from their sockets like twin spheres of volcanic glass, blank and merciless. Lion? You stop growling. Bad boy. You? The McTavish's dog answered with a murderous-looking snarl. He reared back on his haunches and coiled to leap. There was no time to turn heel and run. Craig grasped and swung the bat as hard as he could at the dog's wild, fluffy skull. It darted aside, and the bat pinged off the snow-covered blacktop, sending a puff of powdery white into the air and a painful shiver up his forearms. The chow came at him with snapping jaws, and Craig backpedaled, swinging the bat in front of him in swift, desperate little arcs. Shit, shit, get back in the house! Craig bumped into Elsie hard, and they both lost their footing.

She dropped the box of supplies and fell to the ground. Craig immediately tripped over her legs, landing heavily on top of her. The only coherent thought in his head was, Don't drop the bat. Don't drop the bat. Elsie shrieked. No, Bat Dog! And a split second later, Chow was on them.

Craig lashed out with the bat and lion ducked beneath his awkward swing, darting in to drive his fangs deep into Craig's upper thigh. He shrieked up into the heavens and ran the wide end of the bat into the top of the dog's head. Lion let out a strangled wine and shook his head savagely. Skin and denim took his head. tore beneath the dog's fangs. Reveolets of crimson ran down his leg and stained blood flowers in the

snow. Craig screamed and hammered Chow a second time, then a third. The beast clamped down even harder and started dragging him back to its hiding place between the cars. He frantically pummeled at the dog with the bat and screamed for help. Elsie leapt to her feet and yowled. She planted her boot into the dog's side, and he responded by giving her husband's leg another shake and dragging him away even faster. Elsie grabbed a double handful of Craig's coat and began to engage the beast in a fierce tug of war. Lion gave her a wide, primal grin from around his mouthful of Craig's upper quadriceps and heaved with all his might, dragging them both several more feet through the loose, grainy snow. Craig screeched and battered away at Chow's head and neck with renewed vigor.

His head was buzzing from agony and panic. The leg of his jeans was soaked through with blood, Good, warm and steaming in the sub-zero air. The dog squinted his eyes shut against the bludgeoning and kept hauling Craig across the driveway, almost robotic in his determination to carry the human away and maul him to death. Get off me! Craig dropped the bat and ripped off his thick leather gloves. He drove the tips of his thumbs into chow's slitted eye sockets, hooking his fingers deep into its main for leverage. Lyon finally released his leg and tried to shake him off, whining and yipping against the agonizing pressure.

Craig held on for all he was worth and kept pushing with his thumb until he felt the dog's eyes pop. The animal screeched and went wild in his hands, snapping its teeth and flailing. He rolled. The dog's head still trapped in his hands, and he shoved the thick-said animal beneath the Fiat's front bumper, wedging him deeper under the car with a few hard kicks with the sole of his boot. Blinded and trapped, the chow descended into a writhing, snarling frenzy. Elsie hollered. Oh my God!

and rushed to his side. She hooked her hands beneath his upper arm and tried to haul him off the ground. Craig used the baseball bat like a crutch, and together they managed to heave him to his feet. His entire body was trembling and cold, so cold, except for the shredded wound on his leg, it burned like hellfire. Back inside! He gasped. Hurry!

They took five or six lurching steps together before a matted-looking golden retriever came streaking in from down the street. It latched onto the sleeve of Elsie's coat and started trying to pull her to the ground. Elsie squealed and attempted to kick the animal in the chest, but it hopped back and yanked her around in a circle, trying its damnedest to throw her off balance. Craig lurched into the fray and brought the bat whistling down onto the dog's back. The retriever let go of Elsie's arm and turned to fight its new opponent. Fangs bared to kill. Craig roared down at the snarling animal and whacked it across the head with an air-whistling blow.

The dog went spinning into the dead remnants of last year's flower bed and lay there, its hind legs kicking spasticly in the air. Two more dogs came racing up the driveway, a terrier mix, and a bulldog. Craig shoved Elsie up the front steps and clambered stiffly after her, hopping backwards with his lips skinned back from his teeth in a grimace. Don't let them get in! And stopped to face the dogs at the top of the stairs, squaring off with them as Elsie scurried through the front door. He swung hard and the terrier flopped. phonelessly down the steps, its cold black eyes staring at nothing. The bulldog, however, was made of sterner stuff. It stubbornly advanced against the whirling swings of the baseball bat

and backed Craig across the width of the porch, tirelessly hunting for an opening. The bat felt like it weighed 50 pounds. Craig's arms were starting to feel like old rubber bands, brittle and weak. The burst of terrified adrenaline was starting to give way to shock and blood loss. Elsie, get ready to open the door! Craig fainted a thrust with the the business end of the bat and hollered, Now! The door swung open as the dog jumped away from the bat, and Craig launched himself backwards through the doorway.

He landed and rolled into a clumsy backward somersault. Elsie slammed the door shut, and the bulldog rammed into the other side. It scrabbled at the door with its claws, bellowing for blood. Christ! Craig moaned. His blood was leaking onto the hallway tiles. He'd never seen so much blood in his life, and certainly never his own. The bite wound was a torn up mess of denim and mutilated flesh.

Looking at it made him want to vomit. They tried to kill us. Craig's voice chittered up and down. He was shaking uncontrollably. They almost did. Honey, your leg! Elsie grabbed a scarf off the hook on the wall and nodded it tightly around his upper thigh. He winced at the pressure.

We have to get these pants off and clean the wound. She said and started tugging at his belt buckle. It'll get infected. They knew we'd try to get away. Craig whispered. His face was wide as a sheet. They're using the dogs to keep us trapped inside. They're making sure we'll still be around when the sun sets. Here, let me do that. Elsie stood up and peeked out the window. Her face went pale. There's at least ten of them now. All different kinds of breeds. It looks like most of them are

wearing collars. They were all someone's pets. Not anymore. What are they doing? They're just pacing around the yard, waiting. More of them are coming. Coming now. There's 15, 16, 17. Damn it. What are we going to do? Elsie's words were gray and hopeless. What can we do? Nothing, Craig said, and he leaned against the wall. His head was swimming. Absolutely nothing. We're trapped. The power went out an hour before sunset, and it stayed out. Fortunately for Craig and Elsie, they had a fireplace installed in the living room a few years ago. Normally, it was used for a more aesthetic reason, but it did throw off a little heat, enough to make the living room tolerable. Elsie went upstairs to retrieve blankets and pillows, while Craig hunted around the kitchen for some candles.

He lit a few around the living room and gave Elsie a curdled, cheerless smile. I had to turn the water off. The pipes might freeze downstairs. Elsie shrugged. She pointed to the candles and said, Should we have these lit? I don't know if it's a good idea. They know we're here. Would you rather sit here in the dark?

No. Me neither. Craig held up a bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey. He gave her a waning smile and said, We should drink this. I think it'll help. But you took those coating pills for your leg. Should you mix them like that?

I'll be fine. Here, Elsie reached for the whiskey. She took a swallow straight from the bottle, grimaced and then took another one. It's going to be a long night, Craig said. Drink up. She braced herself and tipped the bottle back again, then made a face and coughed. Elsie pushed the bottle back into Craig's hand, and he had a few good nips from it himself.

The whiskey burned down his throat and lit a cozy fire in his stomach. It would warm the chill in their bones and dull their senses. It would help them cope with their awful new reality, if only for the night. They stood at the living room window and watched as the indigo blue of winter twilight deepened into a dark violet of nightfall. Sensing the imminent arrival of their horrible new masters, the dogs slunk away with their tails between their legs, seeking shelter from the sharp bite of the cold. As the stars began to wink to life in the black sky above, the new residents of Chestnut

Street started floating into view. The streetlights were dark and dead, but between the moon and the guttering house fires, the street was lit with an anemic, flickering glow. It was bright enough for Craig and Elsie to watch, as they slowly gathered out front, a silent crowd of emotionless faces. Many of them were children. The youth of Chestnut Street would never age. They would never grow tall and confident, never graduate school and move away from the neighborhood to start families of their own. They would never evolve into the people they might have become. The lost youth of Chestnut Street belonged to the moonlight now, and in its sallow glow they would remain children forever.

The ghouls moved in to form a ring around the house, and, as one, their dead voices rose up together in a chant. Let us in, they said, and with those words there was a promise of peace. It was very simple. Craig and Elsie could either freeze and starve within the cold tomb of their home, or they could open the door to the mob outside. One death might take a number of days, and the other would be over in a matter of second. But both were equally horrific in their own way. Dead forever or forever alive, those were the two choices. Because life as they knew it was no longer a possibility.

No matter which end they chose for themselves, no one was left to remember their names. All they had been or ever could be, all of it would be extinguished forever. If they gave themselves to the crowd, they would become one with the others. One voice, one hunger, wandering and wanting for all of it. eternity by the cold and indifferent light of the moon. And if it ended the other way, well, there would be nothing at all. Craig couldn't decide which one was worse. Elsie asked Craig if he thinks it hurts them.

If they can still feel. I don't think so. I don't think they feel anything at all. They're not aware of what they are or who they used to be. They just are. No past, no future, no concerns at all except for their hunger. There's only the here and now. The chant outside went on and on, slow and deliberate, maddening.

Craig and Elsie sat in front of the fireplace and drained the bottle to the last drop, mostly in silence. When the booze was gone, she curled up against him on the couch, saying she loves him, and that she's glad she gets to spend her life with him. She tried to say something else and started to cry instead, raining hot, bitter tears onto a shoulder. Craig pressed his lips together in a tight, quivering line and held her as she let it all out. After a while, her chest shaking sobs died down into sniffles, and she drew away from him. Her face was stony and brooding.

It'll be okay, he mumbled. His head was swimming with the booze and pills. We'll, you know, we'll get through this, hon. It'll be okay. No, it won't. It won't be okay. Don't say that. Don't say anything. Just... When the last of the candles guttered out with a hiss and a tiny puff of smoke, they stuffed the twisted wads of Kleenex into their ears and wrapped themselves in a cocoon of blankets by the fire. The combination of booze and sheer physical exhaustion quickly pulled Craig down into a deep, murky unconsciousness.

He didn't stir when Elsie carefully wriggled out of the blankets, and he slept right through her shrill, bird-like cries as she saw it into her own wrist with a filang knife. Craig didn't know what she'd done to herself until he literally stumbled over her body the next morning, tripping over it and landing on his hands and knees in the puddle of her cold, tacky blood. He was bleary-eyed and shivering from a combination of the cold and his hangover, and for almost a full minute he sat there in Elsie's blood, unable to believe it, incapable of believing it. But then he started to scream.

The screams tore out of his throat like jagged shards of glass, and they were real, just like the blood on the floor, was real. It was so horribly, unmercifully real. Craig screamed until his voice gave out. His wailing made the dogs outside perk up their ears. They looked hopefully at the house, looking their chops and tentatively wagging their tails. They were all very eager for an end of their servitude to their new masters, the things that only came out at night, the things with no smell or warmth on their bodies. The new masters commanded without words, and their will was as cold and sharp as winter air around them. Perhaps the end would come, and the dogs would be allowed to flee.

They stared at the house with hungry eyes and waited. The day passed in a haze of weeping and misery. Craig opened a bottle of vodka, and he had mostly killed it by the time sunset rolled around. He stood in the living room window and watched them gather in front of his house, a patient mob of blank faces and burning eyes. When they were finally assembled, the crowd closed in tightly, filling every window and doorway with their bodies. They demanded for Craig to open up and let them in. He was the last of Chestnut Street's former residence, the final remnant of an era gone by. Craig's world was only two days dead, but it was already long forgotten. The new residents of Chestnut Street weren't aware of yesterday, and they would never worry about tomorrow.

There was only one measure of time in the new world, and that was now, this particular moment, and then the moment that follows directly after. The citizens of the New World were united by one burning universal desire. They would systematically root out the hiding places of the remaining survivors from the dead era, and they would wear them down with the dull, implacable logic of their three-word chant. The New World would consume what was left of the old, night after night, week after week, until there was no trace of it left. And when the feast was over, the moon would replace the sun as the champion of the sky,

and the people of Chestnut Street would wander for all eternity by its pale and cheerless glow. Lost and hungry for something they would never have the capacity to understand, trapped forever in a singular shifting instant in time. They would drift to and fro in the dark, forever unsatisfied without knowing why, united as one, but completely and utterly alone. There's only two possible conclusions to this story. Craig slurred at them through the window. I can use the knife or I can let you win.

Which one's worse? He stared out at them, his former neighbors, and he saw a uniformity that was strangely comforting. The moon-mite world of the ghouls outside might be ruled by hunger, but it would also be free in its own way. Free from doubt, anger, humiliation, regret, guilt, or even sadness, as the whole world world died, those afflictions died along with it, never to exist again. Hunger is bad, but there are things worse than hunger. My wife killed herself. I sat in her blood.

That was a lot worse. Craig limped over to the front door, his breath puffing in the frigid air. He hadn't bothered to build a fire that day. And what was the point? It would be an effort wasted on a dead man. He pulled back the chain and opened the door. They were waiting for him, a dozen of them crowding the porch as the rest spilled down the steps and into the front yard. Let's us in. One said. They waited for his response, eyes glittering in the dark. Craig wiped his tears away and stepped back from the doorway.

Now or tomorrow, the next day or the day after that, it would eventually come down to either the knife or the crowd outside. And in the end, did it really matter anyway? No, it didn't. Not anymore. Come in. They knocked the door off the hinges and splintered the frame as they surged inside. There was a split second of terror, a flash of agony and horror. And then it was done. Craig rose from the hallway floor, and he floated out into the moonlight to join the others. It was a new world, a moonlit world, and Craig was reborn. I've been losing an average of 30 minutes of sleep every night for the past 10 days.

Now I'm down to a paltry four hours and 30 minutes. My walls are beginning to shift and my vision is blurring. I have to focus. I need to focus. Someone out there has to know. Does anyone know why the garbage collectors have switched to the night shift? Even asking it sends shivers down my spine. It's late, and soon I will hear them turn up to collect.

I can't sleep upstairs anymore, not where they can see me. Now I sleep in the living room with my gun propped up against my shoulder. The wait, a stern reminder that I am present. I am awake. I am a threat to them. They won't try anything if I'm a threat to them, right? I'm sorry, let me explain. My name is Tyson.

I'm a farmer with a thriving family. a loving wife and two bright young boys. We live in a very remote area that requires a significant amount of divergence for basic services. I won't say where, I won't risk my family or my business, especially knowing what kind of armchair detectives there are out there. I respect what you all do and fear you in equal measure. So I'd rather throw you a bone you can thoroughly chew on, as opposed to delving into mine in my family's personal info.

What I can tell you is this patch of land has been in my family for six generations, was not acquired illegally, built on sacred land, and to the best of my knowledge, has never had a violent occurrence or bloodshed. We're normal, hardworking folks who have always tried to do right, which makes what is going on here all the more difficult to understand, to quantify and reason with when the basic logic gives way. I hear you. You're undoubtedly scratching your heads and asking, why are the garbage collectors such an issue?

And I don't blame you. I'll get to that. Something shifted by my gates. No sound. Can't be the garbage men. You hear them a mile off. They're not subtle about making their presence known. The first night they turned up was so startling that I, honest to God, thought we were

being robbed by the most unprofessional thieves. this part of the world had ever birthed, rambunctious, loud, and borderline jovial in their candor. It was always the same, each and every time. The sounds of the huge mechanical vehicle roaring as it drove up my dirt road, crushing twigs and kicking up dirt as it ground to a stop by the gate some fifty feet from my front door. Two thuds, boots hitting the ground, stumbling over the main gate where our trash was left for the garbage man on Tuesday.

Usually a couple of surly men got out, grunted, and hauled ass out of the area as soon as possible. These two couldn't have been happier to be there from the sound of things. Young men, the smiles almost visible in their tone. This the one, Bill, looks ready to me. I reckon it is, Jeff. Let's get her done. A laugh, a high-five, the sound of something being dragged and thrown into the truck before they'd back out of the driveway and go. off into the night. Unusual, right? My wife and kids certainly thought so, especially when

the trash was still there the next morning. Maybe they were some weird kids pulling a prank. My wife Lucy remarked, taking a sip from her coffee and glancing nervously at the window. I think she was saying it more for our boys' benefit than our own. I nodded and ushered them away from the windows, told them to go play. The next night it happened again. No specific time, so much as that dead of night period between 1 a.m. and 3 a.m. when when the world falls totally silent around you.

None of our animals made a peep during that time frame, nor did we dare to, because when we heard them roll up again, we were paralyzed with fear. It took a few minutes to realize it, but when I looked to my wife and she returned my fearful glance with a wide-eyed stare and a nod, we scooped up the boys and huddled in our bed, the exact same sounds, the exact same timed footsteps, the exact same conversation. We heard them drag something wet into the truck before leaving after maybe 15 minutes. My younger boy, Jace, was always anxious and hearing this uncanny valley shit at his age sent him into a panic attack.

We spent the remaining time soothing him while my older son, Travis, took to peering through the window with me. Our pig pen that lay some forty feet to the right of the house had the door ripped off the hinges, and a blood trail leading from the entrance all the way to the farm gates where the garbageman had been. When we mustered up the courage to inspect further, the pigs were silent, unmoving, and staring at the long dirt road that led away from the home, the tall trees that littered our farm looming overhead as if to silence them from telling what they'd seen. We tried calling the city council to complain, but they were as perplexed as we were, said

trash pickup was still Tuesday, and that since it was only Sunday, we weren't due. They advised we file a complaint with the police for trespassers, but that yielded absolutely nothing. In the meantime, things escalated. Night three brought us the same routine, same sounds, even after we'd taken to putting a lock on the pig pen, they still took one. time making sure to leave a small pile of viscera behind, perhaps as a warning. We elected to putting the animals in the barn and dead-bolting it, hoping the pranksters

would get the message and perhaps get bored. I'd ordered a CCTV camera, but with my location being so out of the way, it was going to take time to arrive, and I wasn't about to stand in my window with a camera pointed out at some weirdos. We didn't consider the consequences of this defiance. It was night five. The boys were sleeping in our room, and like clockwork, they showed up and pulled me from what little sleep I was getting.

My wife soon after. Goose bumps raised on our skin and a chill in our bones. We strained our ears against the open window, hoping to hear their frustration and subsequent decision to leave. The routine continued until Jeff spoke to Bill. The moment they opened their mouths, I knew something was horribly. wrong. This one bill looks locked to me.

I reckon it is, Jeff. Let's pay him a visit. They rattled our front door knob and politely knocked at the door. Five rhythmic knocks. Five seconds of silence. Five more aggressive knocks. I bolted downstairs and grabbed my rifle, keeping the lights off, but my aim focused on them.

Adrenaline pushing fear aside, if only to defend my family. I don't know who you are. But you've been coming onto my property unannounced, and I ain't standing for it no more. I pulled back on the bolt, and the sound filled the room. You got three seconds to turn on your heels, or I'm firing. My eyes adjusted to the front door, and in the darkness, two shapes stood behind my door, shrouded by the shadow of the night. They were tall, with thin legs and bizarre movements like they were swaying in place.

Those three seconds felt like an eternity. One! The shadow to the front leaned forward, trying to press its face against the glass. Something was wrong. Two! It moved away and tapped the letterbox, testing if it opened up. When it did, it held it open and spoke as the second shadow stepped closer. Three never came.

Instead, I backed away out of terror and barricaded our room, unable to speak. It repeated my last words back to me. exact same pitch, exact same tone, but something was off about it. Like hearing your own voice played back through old speakers, you sense an eerieness to it. As I'd instinctively taken steps back, however, the other one spoke. This was the first time either said anything that didn't repeat, and I swear to God, it makes my heart pound in my throat just talking about it. We have come to collect.

Come outside. My legs carried my body before I could register what was going on, rushing to the bedroom and locking it. I pulled my family in close and held my head down to theirs, desperate to block out whatever ungodly sounds erupted from our front door. It took a half hour before they gave up, assumed their usual routine and left. The sound of the tire speeding off the road, bringing some degree of relief. the following morning, when our nearest neighbors, the Gundersons, reported a break-in at their

farm some five miles up the road. The perpetrators had smashed through the gate, entered the barn, and done such a violent axe to their cattle, that of the ten of them that had been attacked and mutilated, only two survived and were immediately put out of their misery by the patriarch, Ted. You've been having problems with these sons of bitches, too, Ty? He bellowed down the phone once I began retelling our sleepless events. Shit, you sound like hell and probably look worse than the cows at this point. I ain't having it.

You got a young family to support, and when they hurt one of us, they hurt all of us. Tonight we put an end to it, you hear? I nodded, agreeing to stake out our property that night and do whatever needed to be done. Hands still shaking, I grabbed a stiff drink from the cabinet. Never been much of a drinker. Most of this was my dad's for the tougher times. But if times weren't tough now, I don't know when they would be. Ted rolls up around 11 p.m.

Wife and kids are asleep, and we shoot the shit in the living room for a while, mainly discussing how the harvest had gone and what we could do to protect our livestock in this day and age. The conversation petered off, as they often do when a night draws on. But it was as we fell silent that the realization swept over us. We were going to confront these people tonight. I gripped my gun a little tighter as Ted gave me an assuring nod, peeking out the window for any signs of the garbage men. Son of it, my farm!

He bellowed, springing to his feet and bursting out the door before I could get a word in edgewise. He was halfway down the road before I could ask him what he was doing. He turned, his eyes wild with fear and rage, pointing a shaking finger to the small shape that was his house far across the hill. It was on fire. pillars of smoke billowing forth as the fire danced in the light, illuminating the surrounding fields. I can't stay here while my farm, my livelihood burns away.

If those bastards are behind this, well, you can bet your ass they won't last the night when I'm through with him. I'll teach him a lesson about the value of things, the things people throw away. He turned on his heel and ran to his truck, speeding off before anything more could be said. This would be the only night the garbage men don't pay us a visit. I get a bit of extra sleep, but my wife doesn't. She just stares out the window at the Gunderson farm in the distance and shakes her head. She knows how there will be no help on the horizon.

She knows how close we are to that fate, and seeing that scares me to death. The eighth night, they arrive with no vehicle sounds, no grand buildup to the crescendo of their routine. They whistle softly, as if calling an animal, patient in their call as they scrape some. something around in the dirt. I'm crippled by fear and cannot dream facing them. I look around in the dark and see Lucy is still asleep. Travis is snoring in the corner, but Jace.

Jace is wide awake and transfixed, and staring at the window overlooking our driveway, reaching out to open it. I leap out of bed and just about tackle him away, the shock of waking up to such a violent affair sending him into a panic attack as the entire family snaps away. awake in a frenzy, shouting over one another as he cries uncontrollably. This has got to stop, Tyson. We can't do this anymore. Like this.

Lucy was exhausted, her eyes barely open and her teeth chattering. In the moment of silence between us, the whistling started again, almost mocking in its tone if it weren't for the sinister giggling behind it. She screamed, walking towards the same window. It took everything I had to hold her back as she fell to pieces in my arms. The entire family crippled by nerves and a lack of sleep. It was only when one voice cut the air that the final night's events were set in motion. The things people throw away.

Oh no. Ted. One look into my wife's eyes and I knew what she was thinking. There was no stopping her. She darted around, packing the kids clothes and any essentials she could find, ignoring the whistling outside and instructing our boys to focus on getting whatever they needed. You do what you need to do. I don't care if the nearest town is a three-hour drive or I undergo the seven-hour drive

to my mom's. I will not stay another night in this fucking house, not until they're gone." She was almost delirious, fueled by fear and anger as she darted around like a hurricane, turning over tables to get what she needed as if prepping for a weather event. Within the half hour she'd been rushing around, the noises had faded. and the outside once again fell silent. I couldn't leave the house. It'd been in our family's lineage for generations.

We'd been born here, lived here, and died here, no matter what. As the head of the family, it was my job to stay here and protect it, even if I couldn't protect those that I loved most under its roof. She waited another hour before getting in the car and leaving, kissing me with all the passion she'd had when we first met. I told Jace he had to be strong, and that he'd one day conquer his fears, because I believed in him. I told Travis that as the eldest, he needed to protect them like his life depended on it.

Then, just like that, I waved them goodbye, and promised I'd join them at their grandmother's house when this was all over. Now all that was left was to sharpen my resolve and to find out what this was. I took the chance to try and get some sleep during the day, but no matter how hard I tried, It wouldn't come to me, so liquid courage it was. One way or another, this was going to end. Night 9. The penultimate night.

Not a sound. I mean, that is the most literal sense. The wind didn't move. The trees didn't speak. Not a single blade of grass danced and no dirt was kicked up. Everything was silent. So silent, my own thoughts were amplified in this void of sound. Every insane thought of what could happen flitted through my mind and forced me to double check

every window and door, triple check the locks, and ensure no oversight was left. Couldn't let them get an opportunity, even if it's just me. I know they're watching, even now. If I didn't know any better, I'd have said a shadow moved just behind the porch window. Can't be sure, not without checking. I think they were biting their time, keeping me on edge to make sure I knew they could I'd step in whenever they wanted and do as they pleased. But I kept my nerve.

I resisted the urge to bolt to the truck. I've got my whiskey and I've got my gun. I'll see this through even if it kills me. Night 10. Now we're all caught up. I checked on the animals this morning and what was left was a pile of bones, flesh, and waste. They'd been taken the night before and I don't know how I didn't hear during the silence. There was but one horse's body left.

Teeth marks riddled the torso, and the legs had been torn off. Our crops had grown fetid, decayed, and worn. Nothing in our farm would yield a damn thing anymore. My livelihood was decimated in front of my eyes. Gone. It's late now. I'm sat in my armchair with the rifle loaded and ready. My hands are shaking, and my knees won't stop bouncing.

I feel the dread start in my gaze. gut and worm its way through my chest before lodging in my throat and forcing every breath to be a labor of pain. They came early tonight, truck roaring and routine sounds in full swing. Only there weren't two sets of thuds this time. There were six. They walked up to the porch, a shadow covering every facet of the window and door panes, not a speck of light coming through.

The voices don't change their pattern. They never do. This the one, Bill, looks ready to me. They pound their fists against the window, a dull moan emanating from the background, pained, muffled, and growing in strength. I reckon it is, Jeff. Let's get her done. Nails drag down the glass, a horrific groaning accompanying the repeated intonations of their

god-forsaken phrases. The things people throw away. Ted, poor Ted, smashing his head against the wall, repeating it with every sick swing. It was only when I heard the fourth voice that I finally looked out the window, perhaps on instant. Not until they're gone. My Lucy, my sweet Lucy calling to me. I can't begin to tell you what I saw when I pulled back the curtains for just a split second, but every forbidden aspect of it burned into my brain.

and it will not leave me even as I shut my eyes from the surrounding chorus of madness. My kids. My kids are now saying they've come to collect, that I must come outside. That whistle has come back. It's almost soothing. I can't bear to do this on my own. I can't live with that image of this in my skull anymore. I miss my wife.

I miss my kids. I miss sleeping soundly at night. What if it is them out there? What if they're really just wanting me to get help and my own sick mind has put me in such a state that I'm here, asking you for help on something that is at its core, truly simple? I'm going to put down the laptop and open the door. I have to know. I have to.

Why did the garbage men start coming in the dead of night? Does anyone know? Through my peephole, I saw that it was still there. The flayed skin glistened under the dim glow of the hanging incandescent light bulb. It knew I was watching and came close until the peephole framed only its visage. The deformed faces of my neighbors stared into me, smiling. It pulls back without warning, and once more I get a good look at it. Two human forms smashed together, the smaller one clinging to the larger one's torso, resemblinging

a gibbon and her young, but distorted into something fleshy and vile. I could see the sinew of its exposed muscle, the blood vessels, and the flaps of flesh that hang off it. It runs off into the dark corners of the hallway, but I am not fooled. I know it's trying to lure me out, and I don't want to find out why. I need your help, please. I'm trapped on the fourth floor of Rochester Heights in room 405. A dilapidated high-rise. in East Oakland. Within the last six hours, at what must have been dead midnight, something horrible happened. Whether it was an invading force or a corrupting evil, I don't know. But I can't leave, and my room is the only safety I have. And even then, I don't know how long until it gets in.

I'll have to go back, recount all that's happened leading up to this. And maybe, just maybe, someone can help me. It all started with that damn fetish. Not the sexual type. No, it was an idol. It was 4 a.m. and I was about to throw in a load of laundry before I was off to bed, and there it was. Splayed out, smack dab in the middle of our laundromat, still slick with blood.

I didn't know what I was looking at. Some spindly thing strung to a wooden crescent frame. But with each passing second, more of its form registered my mind, and I nearly doubled over and lost my breakfast at the realization that it was a skinned, headless dog, crucified. The cops were called, and it was found out that the new cameras that were touted by management and used as justification for yet another outrageous rent hike were nothing more than a deterrent, as they were useless and not even hooked up to a power source.

They've let my bathtub sink halfway into the room underneath me, so while it was frustrating, I wasn't surprised. Later, it came to be known that the dog was Mrs. Lorenz, beloved poodle, Butterball. The poor widow was hysterical and demanding a full-scale investigation. She might have gotten her way had nightfall not greeted us with yet another messed-up finding. Harold, a shut-in who lived on the top floor, was found dead. I'm a night owl through and through, so I was awake when the discovery was made. There was no commotion, just hushed whispers and tense bodies.

I tend to creep around the stairwell between the fourth and third floor, since it's scarcely populated and has a small accessible window that I can smoke out of. I was trying to fish for a signal this time since my Wi-Fi was acting up, and my cell signal was dead altogether. That's when I heard them walking down the stairs, talking. Elena and Macy from the fourth floor, I could tell from their tone that something was wrong. and the time, 2 a.m., no one but me was up this late here most days. I strained my ears to listen. Folded like a fucking pretzel, and there was a mess everywhere. Tony says he thinks he's been there

since they found the hag's dog in the laundromat. He tried calling the cops, but it's not going through. Elena was whispering to Macy. Pre-parreled from the second floor, the one that Carter beat up for stalking his girlfriend. What was her name? John? It's Joanna. Don't be mean. This is serious. What did Tony do about the body? Sorry, I just think she's frumpy and plain, way out of Carter's League, and nothing yet. He told the manager, and he tried calling the police too, but no luck. He wants the body out of here as soon as possible, so he sent Tony out to the station in person.

But it's been two hours since, and he hasn't even texted me once. I'm starting to get worried. Want to go look for him? No, that would be dramatic of me. We're not even dating, just messing around. Still, you know the donut royal is open 24-7. We can get a few and meet Tony halfway there. Elena said, and the two started walking down the stairs.

I froze, and the thought to try to sneak away came to me too late. The two women didn't even acknowledge me as they walked past. I knew three things then, that Elena was fucking our maintenance. man, that I'm either invisible or detestable enough to be invisible, and that Harold was dead. I wouldn't know it then, but I would learn later that night that this was just the beginning of a nightmare. I finished my cigarette and sulked back upstairs, still unaware that anything was wrong. I should have paid more attention to my surroundings during my trek, because I'm certain by then

it had already started. I only barely picked up on the fact that every light was dimmer. Not by much, but enough for it to be noticeable. I went back to my room, bolted the door, and tried getting my laptop to connect to the internet again. The only ones that loaded up were two random Reddit pages I had already loaded before the Wi-Fi crept out. I gave up after about 45 minutes and pressed my ear to the wall next door. I know it's weird, but sometimes I enjoyed listening to the sounds of my neighbors, Joanna

and Carter. But now they were quiet, except for the natural shifts and breathing that came to the same. with sleep. I wondered if they knew Harold was dead, and I wondered how they'd react when they found out. I wasn't there for the supposed blowout between him and Carter, but I had heard about it. Macy and Elena loved to gossip above my smoking spot. I think Harold caught them like I had, and the poor fellow, trapped within the cage of his delusions, confronted Carter. Everyone know he had a thing for Joanna, and she was too polite or sympathetic to ever be stern with him, so he must have interpreted it as reciprocation, and it ended with him getting

stomped out, and the residents being quietly grateful for it. Poor Harold, in his mid-forties and living with his geriatric mother, because he was too messed up in the head to go anywhere else. Mary was her name, I think, and then I felt a horrible tinge of guilt. Did she know of her son's death? And where was she? I used to fear ending up like him the most, but that was before tonight. Sleepless and frustrated, I felt the ache for another cigarette and I went for a smoke. I pondered why no one else was freaking out about his death or why it was being kept secret. I didn't consider it until then, but if he was dead and he truly died in such an agonizing

way, who had done it? And were they still around? Cold sweat trickled down my face at the question, and I felt compelled to turn around and head back to my room. After two more steps, I decided to do just that, but something else was off. The hallway was darker now, much more than before, and the air was cold in a way that's hard to describe. It's bitter chill piercing straight into nerve and bone. Vertigo threatened to overcome me with each passing moment as the pervasive wrongness intensified.

I couldn't define it at first, but as I kept walking, it became clear. The hallway was longer than it should have been. I froze, unable to make sense of that fact, and I scrutinized my surroundings a bit more. The ceiling was higher, too, by a few feet. My mouth was dry, and I tried to swallow, but nothing can bring me back to lucidity. Foot over foot, I forced myself to walk back towards my room, and I was halfway there when once more my heart stilled in abject fear. At the end of the hallway, from the fifth floor, someone was descending the stairs.

Strait of theirs. Rational thought should have driven me to head toward them and ask or warn them of what was happening, but some deep instinct knew it was wrong in all the ways a living thing could be. Even the stairs leading up to the upper floor felt wrong, as if they weren't of this world. I'd have to get closer to this approaching thing if I wanted to get to my room, so I turned back around and tried to dash as silently, but as quickly as possible, down the hall, but feared I would be spotted before I could.

A storage closet to my right that was never locked served as my refuge, and I tried to slink into it as quietly as possible. The closet used a repurposed apartment door, so it had a peephole for me to gaze out of. Minutes passed by at an agonizing pace, but it did eventually come into view. From the periphery it emerged, robed in ornate cloth and moving as if it were dancing on air. Upon looking down, I saw it was skating across the air, legless and flowed. From its hood, a strange blinking light cast out into the dark hallway. As it was eye-level with me and directly in front of me, I caught a side profile of its face

and held my breath to stifle a gasp. Its face was like TV static, flickering in black and white chaos. I closed my eyes then, fearing that it would turn to face me and I'd get an unobstructed look at it. In those still moments, as I waited for it to fling the door open, I thought back to to all the other strange things I had heard about lately. Tony had found nearly a dozen dead animals around the apartment perimeter in the last few days. He didn't want to talk about the state he found them in, and I wondered if they were anything like Butterball, skinned and crucified.

I waited until my body ached, and I mustered the courage to peer into the hole once more. An empty hallway greeted me, and I slowly opened the door and crept my way out. Me, Macy, Elena, Carter, and Joanna were the only ones that occupied this floor. I went to their door and caught myself when I went to knock. I hesitated for a moment before I tried the knob. I winced as it creaked open and I made my way in, trying to close the door as quietly as possible. I called out for them in a hushed voice, but as I looked around their empty living room,

I heard a muffled sound from the other room. I slowly crept across the apartment and looked through the crack in the open door. I didn't recognize them at first. I thought it was a pile of blankets, but as the heavy movement and labored breath caused something to click in my head, I couldn't stifle the yelp. It caused the head, or more aptly, heads to snap up to face me, and I had no delusions of what it was. Carter and Joanna had been fused together. They must have been sleeping when it happened as their torso, his head. Lips and legs were melted together.

Her head was fused to his chest and staring up at me with wide, unblinking eyes. I thought they had been flayed at first, but the more I looked, the more it seemed like the flesh had sloughed off them. They, it, hoisted itself up on all fours, if you could call it that, and both their heads let out a moaning sound. The mouths grinned at me as it took a step towards me, and I finally snapped out of it. They both ran at the same time, but it was slowed by its deformed mass, but the distance between us was still too close for comfort as I ran out into the hallway and towards my room.

I thanked God that I hadn't locked my door as I threw it open and turned to slam it shut, and without a moment to spare, I bolted and locked it. It tried the knob a few times, before it resorted to gentle taps, and then deafening, pounding, and then silence. Now it's just waiting there for me, but what I fear most, is that whatever did that to them will come back, lured by its presence, and do the same to me. It's been hours since, but the sun has not risen. I tried sleeping in the bathtub.

I couldn't stand the proximity of my bed to Joanne's and Carter's. But when I stepped in, I remembered that half the tub couldn't support my weight as water damage had left it half sunk into the floor. So I went back to the living room and saw my laptop still sitting there with this webpage open. If anyone can help or has any ideas, now's the time. I don't know how much longer I have left. Just now I decided to peer out of my window and was greeted by Stygian darkness, but what really scares me is the few breaks in it.

Occasionally, lightning flashes across the sky and illuminates the world beyond. A lifeless sand sea, lightning cutting through in brilliant flashes, stained by black and white pattering like TV static. I haven't slept since my last post, and Joanna and Carter are still prowling the hallway, messing with me. I can only guess that whatever warped their bodies also twisted their minds. I thought I was screwed, but then I remembered the bathtub. I went to it with my pack, filled with a few bottles of water in my laptop.

The landlord and management have known about it for six months now. Water had seeped into the walls and started to rot away the floor, so much so that the bathtub's far end was noticeably sunk in. When I showered, I hugged the drain end, fearful that my weight would cause it to fall through the floor. Now I went to that end and stepped in. It sagged and groaned with my weight, but held, so I started jumping on it, landing with as much force as I could muster until on the third try, the floor gave way and I went with it. I landed pretty bad, cracking my side across the outer rim of the tub, and had the wind knocked out of me, but I had done it. Picking off bits of debris, I struggled to my feet and stepped out into the living room. A single

mother named Naomi lived there with her two toddlers. I'd never talked to her, but had a brief interaction with her son who had asked me my name. I knew they often spent the night at her baby daddy's house, once again Elena and Macy's gossip keying me in, and it held true tonight. The living room and bedroom were empty, and I was grateful. I tried to hurry, as my fall wasn't exactly silently silent, and if anything else was out there, it surely heard. I rushed down the hallway in long strides, trying not to look, but there were details you couldn't help but notice. A section of brick wall had discolored monochrome, black and white, and back to faded red.

I didn't stop to observe. I had to keep moving. Only once I came upon several blood-stained doors did my pace slow, but I didn't stop. I tried not to think about the people who lived there or what had happened to the people. them, but by now the apartment should have been full of the sounds of life, instead of the bleak, oppressive silence I was drowning in. I made it to the stairs and practically leapt down an entire flight to the second floor. Blood pumping and confidence high, I was running now.

This hallway was warped like the one on the fourth floor, but in much more extreme ways. The walls had not only narrowed, but they were slanted, warping and turning at an angle with every foot until the hallway was nearly spiraled. I had to slow to stop to get my bearings as it was all so dizzying. The floor beneath my feet ceased to be shitty faux wood laminate and was instead a smooth stone that felt almost slippery. The brick wall had melted away to some mottled and stringy maroon cloth thrown over what looked to be grating made of the same smooth stone.

It looked almost organic, but at the same time it could have been fabric. The thick dangling strands made me think of sea anemone town. and I shuddered at the thought of touching them. So I forced myself to run once more, past an open door to a room that had a body perfectly bisected and sprawled out on the floor, the pile of intestines between the two halves writhing and rising into the air. I shut my eyes tight and ran past it to the next open door. It was Harold's room, and I feared seeing what had become of him.

I thought mercy was on my side, as the hallway eventually straightened out, and the next half-dozen doors were shut. But as I came up to the last doors that lined the hallway, the one on my left flung open with incredible force. Flayed hands from a black void reached out to grab at me, and I pivoted out of the way just before they made contact. But I couldn't stop my momentum and went stumbling onto the cold, slippery floor. I tried scrambling back up as the door to my right opened, and from it, Sarah Palmer emerged. I knew it was her, despite her corrupted form. and covered in sinewy tumor-like growths. The severely obese woman had merged into her mobility scooter, and she used it to move forward. Slothed flesh made it difficult as it wrapped around the

wheels, but still it inched forward. The center of her abdomen had split open into a gaping hole, and with a quiver and a moan, it erupted with some vile, bile-like fluid as it vomited a small figure out onto the floor before me. The newly-birth child got up at the same time. I did and followed me into my panicked rush down the rest of the hallway and into the stairwell. The childlike thing made of diseased and partially digested sinew was fast. It laughed as it closed the gap between us. It leapt onto me and crawled to my back, biting deep into my shoulder. I attempted to take hold of it and pry it off. The flesh was gelatinous and my fingers sunk into it in a way that made my stomach churn.

The thing said in a voice I thought was vaguely familiar. Disgust drove me to fling it at the wall with all the force I could muster, and its body crunched and splattered on impact with the wall. It let out a small, pained groan as it slid to the floor. As I ran by, it spoke in an agonized whisper that I could not rend from my mind no matter how much I try. It wanted to play. It said, and I had to stifle a heaving gasp as I cleared the flight of stairs into

the first floor lobby. The only child who knew my name here was Naomi's son, and they weren't supposed to be able to to be here, not tonight. They had always left on weeknights to their father's house. Had Naomi called off the attempts of reconciliation tonight of all nights, or had this begun earlier than I had thought? I didn't know and wouldn't ponder it until I was out of this nightmare. The lobby was normal by all means, except for the lack of lights, but now the darkness did nothing

to deter me. The exit was right there, and I ran towards it. The double-glass doors froze me in place. because they were bolted, but because of what lay beyond. A pitch-dark world where nothing could be seen, except for the momentary brilliance brought out by flashes of lightning, which ripped across the sky like whips made out of TV static. In those moments, I saw them, a line of things just waiting for me to step out. One was a smooth, skin, pale humanoid with a hole right through its chest but leaked inky black fluid. It had no face.

Another was a tangle of violent tendrils that appeared to be made out of smaller writhing strands. Then there was one that was a massive, looming, serpentine thing, dotted with eyes the size of human heads, each iris alien in shape. The one end that I assumed to be its head was tusked with mandibles that must have been six feet in length. There were dozens of others, but their forms were too varied, too abstract to ever accurately describe. What drew my attention the most was the many puddles and stains of crimson at their feet and scraps of clothing, one of them obviously being Macy's distinctive denim jacket.

One work boot lay on its side, one I thought might have belonged to a maintenance worker. I would not be leaving, not here. I tried to comfort myself by saying whatever was keeping me here wasn't letting them in, but it wasn't reassuring in any measure. I ended up crawling underneath the shitty lobby desk and curling up into a ball for what felt like hours. It could have been longer for all I know, but nothing mattered in that moment. I was screwed. Only when I heard the sound of a procession shuffling by did I stir.

Peaking out from my hiding place, I saw them, the robed figures, six of them now. Upon their shoulders, they bore the weight of a marble slab, and upon it, a huddled figure. I watched them, backs to me, shuffled down the room and into the hallway that led to the manager's office. I tried sulking out as silently as possible to bear witness to the ritual that was about to unfold. The bearers lowered themselves and the slab, and, as light gleamed across it, I realized who it was. The body was bent back into itself until it formed a circle.

The belly was pointed out to the world, and the back and spine contorted and twisted. the eyes empty, but God damn the mouth. Harold was grinning ear to ear in an expression of pure ecstasy. The chanting began then, as the flung back and twisted glare of Harold's body lay upon me. Strange throaty vocalizations, deep and reverberating and inhuman. The sound of a mountain splitting apart or two worlds coming together. The vibrational forces of the universe melting away a border that kept the background machinations of a reality unseen somehow I knew this that we had been pulled into this nightmare

but by what or who I still didn't know they continued the hum chants until the space in front of them began to ripple like water and when they ceased so too did the distortion half a heartbeat passed before it shattered like glass and beyond it a massive eye I flinched hoping it didn't see me but if it did it must not have cared Since it retreated back into the darkness before something emerged from the portal, a spindly, arachnid leg covered in jagged angles and spines stepped out, followed by another and another, until a towering pinwheeled monstrosity of legs and appendages emerging from a central core stood before the cultus. An eye with concentric pupils was at its center, and the rest of it

radiated out like a sea urchin. Every aspect of it told of the agonies that could informers It looked like pain incarnate, with the sheer amount of sharp corners and serrated spines. Every inch of its being was meant to cause harm, and the longer I looked at it, the more detail came to me, hooks and scyth ends, tendrils latent with hungry, gnashing mouths. The thing that stood out the most was the way it distorted the space around it. Though it was within a confined space as I gazed upon it, it seemed to expand the air around it so that some hidden aspect of itself could be felt. This was a part of a much larger hole, and I got the impression that some massive hands on a cosmic scale held this thing out before us, and yet they were one

in the same. I looked away, not wanting to gaze upon this abomination, this emanation of pain any longer. It spoke in an alien language then, a sound so vile, like a rusty nail being tracked along my eardrums and corneous. But I understood it. Unmistakable gratitude. I slunk back into my hiding spot and waited for it to be over, waited for them to leave, and they did, moving through the hallway, past the stairs and into the basement laundromat and into the community room. It's been hours since, and they've not emerged.

I took the time to try to silently rummage around the manager's office, next to a pile of flesh that still had Mr. Roderick's weeping face, our landlord, an axe. I picked it up, knowing that it would be of no use to me should I face those cultists or the pain entity. What I did know is that Harold had a role to play in this in some way or another, and that his room was just a floor above. If there's any chance of escape or answers, it would be there. If you don't hear back from me, I'm dead.

I'm certain there's no way anyone from outside this hell can help. Even then, I still ask you that you wish me look. I certainly know I'll need it. Rochester Heights had always been a hellhole. I know that now. I mean, I never doubted that some of the people here were assholes, but in the time I've had to reflect, I realized how either indignant or cruel they were to each other.

Maybe when people grouped together like that with no goal beyond inhabitants, unpleasant things arise. I lamented once that to them I was nothing but a sulking shadow, only half remembered. Once my landlord had forgotten that I even lived there and sent Tony to get the place ready for a new tenant. Now, I'm not so sure I mind as much. Being one of the forgotten ones might have saved my life. I was ready for the horrors of the second floor hallway, meeting the grasping hands with an overhead axe swing that nearly severed one hand at the wrist.

Pulling back, I used the butt of it to smash away another grasping hand until I could slip past them. Sarah Palmer was next, swiveling around in her mobility scooter to face me, but it was too late. The heel of the axe sunk into flesh, soft as putty, and as I yanked the axe loose, half her face lot off. I heard her chuckle as I ran past. Something was burning in me. Even if I died here, I had to know the what and how of Rochester's descent into madness. Harold's room door was still ajar, and I made sure to bolt the door the moment. I ran in. Only then did I slowly turn around. I thought it was grapharia at first. I had read about it

one late night, a disorder most often associated with schizophrenics, the incoherent ramblings written and spoken. The living room floor and adjacent floor contained countless sharp-edged sigils and graphs. They looked occultic in their configurations, but the actual characters themselves were completely foreign. Dead center at the circle was free of the scrawl. but stained with brownish red blood. I knew it was where Tony had found Harold's body. There was a journal left on the coffee table, and flipping through it, I confirmed that it was his.

In the few moments I had in the room, I didn't have much time to really understand its contents, and though I still have it and have spent hours since pouring over it, I've only been able to come up with a rudimentary understanding of what Harold was on to. Harold moved back in with his mother after an episode that cost him his job a year prior. They lived off her social security checks, and he deeply resented her for her advanced age. Every day she'd wake up with less of her mind intact. He was also having issues with extreme sexual frustration and began clinging delusional

to Joanne's politeness as a signal that she wanted him. The confrontation with her boyfriend Carter was the breaking point. It wasn't the reason why he did all this, but it was the final straw. But he had reason to resent everyone here, and he detailed all his grievances. big and small. I learned then the difference between being someone pushed to the wayside, but still scrutinized with an eye of assumed threat like Harold and being forgotten altogether, like me. In his pages upon pages of detailed slights never once did my name come up. My existence failed to register to someone who was uncomfortably similar. It made me feel bitter, and I don't

know why. Then there was talk of what he dubbed the background world. I still don't quite understand what it was or its purpose, but that's the thing that ties this all together. I'll let Harold explain in his own words. I first saw it in a dream, then a vision. It started with a tusked worm taking a bite out of the thin air, like a scalloped finger. It peeled back what I thought was real to show me the machinations. that ran behind what could be seen.

Two places within the same space, but never allowed to touch or interact. As above, so below, and from below to above. Everything is mirrored. If it exists here and our layer, it exists below, within the background world. That was the first rule that told me, the most important for creating an interstice

where we can finally meet. The second rule is that for an autark to touch the human domain, something must be offered to it, a life or part of one. Most often the offering is someone else, The greater the offering, the more an autark can manipulate the human domain as long as it's within its sphere of influence. The most powerful offerings are oneself, a year of your life, or the greatest joy you'll ever feel.

The greatest offer one can make to an autark is your own. Life. There's more. He mentions that the autok he is in contact with is one that operates within the sphere of agony. Pain is its domain, and Harold knew pain better than most. The best I can piece together is that somehow he came into contact with this entity. Maybe it prayed on him for being vulnerable, or maybe its influence scrambled his thoughts, or maybe what he learned was too much for any mind to bear without consequence.

I say this because I don't believe that Harold was crazy, ill and in need of help, but there are enough commonalities in the strange runic language and his journaling that I feel as if he was truly uncovering something. He was not a stark, raving madman, at least not until he let himself sink deeper into the influence of what had been encircling him. He spent the week leading up to the faithful night of his death preparing for Rochester's fall into the background world. Sixteen fetishes were placed around the apartment to mark the boundary for where the autark

would lift the veil and let our worlds merge. Six of them were made from parts of his mother, the rest from strays and pets around the apartment. The last of them was Mrs. Laurent's dog, in the laundromat. Mirrored above and below, even if they were removed, they still created something in the background world that sanctioned this hell. Harold lamented that he never placed one in the basement below, and that was my chance. chance. Maybe just the building was only partially within the interstice, and if I could make it to the second basement and emerge, it would be into the outside I'd always known. Or maybe I'd

step right back into the background world. Regardless, I had no choice but to try. I scrounged around the apartment and found that Harold was a heavy drinker with a taste for cheap vodka. I fashioned five molotops with what he had and started the trek back down to the first floor. Stepping Into the hallway, I was greeted by them. I greeted them with a sprinter's launching bolt and an axe wing. The side of Carter's and Joanna's face took the blow, and though the flesh came away with a huge chunk and I heard the clinking teeth scattering across the stone floors, they didn't even flinch. Carter tried lunging at me, arm outstretched, but I flung myself against the wall and was trying to slip behind them. They pivoted around to try to face me, but the strange distribution of their weight made them cumbersome, and the fear I felt was gone. Another ax-swing sunk deep into compromised muscle and bone and cleaved through them far easier than uncorrupted tissue. It was enough to nearly decapitate them, and they let out this horrible, wheezing gasp. Another lunging grasp was met with an axe blow that sent nearly half its fingers

skipping across the ground, and one last swing to their neck finished it. Though their head was on the floor before me, they did not die. What remained of their face was opening and closing its mouth, and I could see the destroyed cheek was starting to restructure and regenerate. This truly was hell, willed into existence by a resentful heart. The body didn't fall and wasn't still either, jerking and twitching about. It eventually started grasping towards its head. I had the Molotov lit by the time it took hold of its neck and threw it the moment it lifted it up. They erupted into a ball of fire and I swore I heard screaming, as if some part of their warped mind registered what it occurred, and I hoped that the fire would be enough to put an end to them.

The second Molotov was thrown into the corner, where Sarah and the hands tried and failed once more to apprehend me. I was going to burn this place down if I could. Maybe then I would be able to separate them. The third was thrown atop the lobby desk. The last two were for the laundromat. I didn't know if the building would actually burn, but I wanted to cause some harm, to do anything. The mad dash to the laundromat was the fastest I had ever run.

I'm sure of it. I was certain that the commotion and the fires would have caused the Otark and its cultist to emerge from management's office, but nothing ever impeded my flight down the stairs and into the laundry room. I landed on soft floors, and the lights were dim and blood red, but even then I saw the horror that lay before me. A pulsating mass, a conglomerate of flesh formed at the center of the room, and it stretched out across the floors, walls, and machines.

In every inch was living tissue, and sinew, nerves, blood vessels, all of it. A dozen limbs raked and reached out at open air weekly, and I swore that they had some identifying features. A watch that could have belonged to Jose from the seventh floor. A sleeve from a distinctive neon green sweater from Keana, a college student. I didn't need another reason. The fourth Molotov was thrown on the fleshy floor behind me, and the final directly at the tumor. The dark was eclipsed by the burning sun that stood before me.

The threshold of the sub-basement and my hopeful exit was before me now, but I hesitated for a moment. The heat licked at my spine, and my eyes watered at the rising smoke. If I was wrong, I would be screwed. But I'd be screwed, fire or not. I move forward, and the moment my foot touched the first step, the world behind me plunged back into darkness as the fire extinguished. In an instant it all ceased. The heat, the smoke, a curtain of silence fell, and a wave of dread rose.

I knew I shouldn't have looked back, but I couldn't help myself. With a thundering heart, I threw my gaze back and saw it. The autark of agony that had caused all of this, goaded and tempted Harold with its promise of pain to all he hated. The center of its eye blossomed before me and grew to encompass all before it in its vision. Yes, it was a vision that it showed me. Screams around me rose to a crescendo as the tumor grew to the size of the apartment itself, a living edifice, and yet it still paled in size compared to the otok who looked down on it.

The countless tendrils and their instruments of torture reached down to the Tower of Flesh and tore and ate it. And it all grew back. It would continue so for eternity. That was the dark wish of Harold. The thing began to bulge and split apart, a perfect copy of its spherical form, mitosis. This thing could split itself, and that's how it planned to fulfill its promise and continue to operate without being bound to it.

I screamed, or I think I did, because when I was able to pry my eyes away from it to look around, I saw the shadow of my exit, the descent into the sub-basement. I ran, refusing to look back. I wouldn't, couldn't look back. So into the murky depths I went. I had been in the sub-basement once before. Small and damp, it had only a few fold-up tables and chairs. There were no entries or exits except a small, narrow staircase, and a seldom-used door,

leftovers from a bygone era. It was barred and locked at all times, but the door was old, wooden, and I was certain it would only take a good kick to break it down. But what lay before me was not the basement. No, it was some dark plane of reality that could not have been the background world. I had seen brief glimpses of it just outside my window, and this was different. Narrow and claustrophobic, but at the same time impossibly expansive. Light did not exist here.

Even when I tried my lighter, the air around me wicked away illumination. I reached out to touch concrete walls and found that I was. was in a tunnel. With no other option, I walked and walked until time ceased and had no meaning. I know I must have only been there for hours. Such hunger and exhaustion forced me to rest, but comfort was impossible, so after a few minutes, I got back up and pushed forward. When I at at last came upon an exit dimly illuminated, it hurt my eyes that had been bathed in darkness for so long. A shallow staircase that led down to the sub-basement I had always known. The door was there, and with a frenzied kick, it fell away, and I burst out to the world above

with a half scream of joy and a half-maddened sob. It was midday, and Rochester Heights did not exist anymore. I had emerged from a sub-basement into an empty, overgrown lot. A homeless man nearby turned to glare at me momentarily, before returning to whatever he was doing. Nothing exists of my ordeal, and no one even remembers Rochester Heights. I've done searches on the residence, and it's like they don't exist. Everyone and everyone there have ceased to exist meaningfully, or have been rewritten out of history. I found Macy's mother and called to ask about her daughter, and she swore to me she never had children.

The company that owns a lot told me that it'd been unoccupied and on the market for half a year. I've not been the same since my escape from Rochester Heights. There's so much left in this damn journal. But every time I look at it, I get this sense of overwhelming doom. There's so many questions. If what exists below is reflected above and vice versa, how is the world changed? Now, as I speak, there's a tower of flesh that rises high above the world below, and it casts its long shadow into the world above, and I shudder to think at how it will manifest.

I know Rochester Heights has cast its shadow over me, darkened my heart one way or a The people there didn't deserve what happened to them, and Harold deserved better, but in hatred or love, their gaze eluded me. Once I resented that, but now I find solace in it. The nightmares will never end, and I will never be okay, but at least anything that casts hateful gaze upon our world will see nothing but a shadow in my place. Every night, no matter the weather, something walks down our street, whistling. softly. You can only hear it if you're in the living room or the kitchen when they walk by,

and it always starts at exactly 303. The sound is faint at first, somewhere near the beginning of the lane near the Carson Place. We're towards the middle of the street, so the whistling moves past us before fading away in the direction of the cul-de-sac. When I was younger, my sister and I would sneak into the kitchen some nights to listen. Mom and dad, didn't like that, and we'd catch hell if they found us out there, but they were never too hard on us, since we always stuck to the one big rule. Don't try to look at whatever was whistling. My neighborhood is a funny place.

I've lived here since I was six, and I love it. The houses are small, but well kept. Good size yards, plenty of places to roam. There are a lot of other kids here my age. I turned 13 back in October. We grew up together and would always play four square in the cul-de-sac or roam around from back porch to back porch in the summer. This was a good place to grow up. I'm old enough to see it.

And there's only two strange things here. The night whistling and the good luck. The whistling never bothered me much. Like I said, I couldn't even hear it from my bedroom, but mom and dad don't like talking about it, so I've stopped asking questions. My dad is a strong guy, tall and calm. He has an accent since he moved to the U.S. as a kid. His family, my grandparents, they're from the islands.

That's what they call it. My dad, the only time he isn't calm is if the whistler comes up. He talks a little quicker then. Eyes move faster, and he tells us not to think about it too much and to always remember the one rule. The big rule. Don't try to look outside when the whistler goes past. Not that we could look even if we wanted.

See, there are shutters on the inside of every window, thick pieces of heavy canvas that pull down from the top and latch to the bottom of the window frame. Each latch even has a small lock about the size of what you'd find on a diary. My dad locks those shutters every night before we all go to bed and keeps the key in his room. My mom... I don't know what she thinks about the whistling. I've seen her out in the living room before after 3.03.

When the sound starts, I could see her if I cracked my door open just an inch to peak. She's not out there often. At least I haven't caught her much. But once or twice a month, I think she sits out there on the big red couch just listening. The Whistler has the same tune every night. Remember how I said there are two odd things about where I live? Well, besides our night, Whistler, everyone in my neighborhood is really lucky. It's hard to explain, and Dad doesn't like us talking about this part much either, but good

things just seem to happen to the people around here a lot. Usually it's small things, winning a radio contest, or getting an unexpected promotion at work, or finding some arrowheads buried in the yard, you know, the authentic kind. The weather is pretty good, and there's no crime, and everybody's gardens bloom extra bright in the fall. A million little blessings I've heard Mom say about living here. But the main reason we stay here, why we moved back here in the first place, is my sister Nola. She was born very sick, something with her lungs.

We couldn't even bring her home when she was born, only visit her in the hospital. She was so small, I remember. Small even compared to the other babies. A machine had to breathe for her. We moved into our house here to be closer to the hospital. As soon as we moved here, Nola started getting better. The doctors couldn't figure it out. They chalked it up to whatever they were doing, but we all could tell they were confused.

But my parents knew. Even I knew, Nola getting better was just another of the million little blessings we got for living in our neighborhood. So that's why we stayed, even after we found out that for every small miracle that happens here every day, now and then, some bad things happen. But they only happen if you look for the Whistler. See, our neighborhood has a welcoming committee. They show up with macaroni casserole and a gift basket and a manila folder whenever someone

new moves in. They're very friendly. Four people showed up when we moved in seven years ago. The committee made small talk, gave me a Snickers bar, and took turns holding Nola. It was her first week out of the hospital, so they were extra careful. Then the committee asked to speak to my parents in private, so I was sent to my room, where I still managed to hear nearly every word. The welcoming committee told my parents about how nice the neighborhood was.

Really exceptionally, hard to explain kind of nice. And then they told my parents about the even harder to explain whistling that happened every morning at 303 and ended at the tick of 305. The group, our new neighbors, warned my parents that the whistling was quiet, would never harm or hurt us as long as we didn't look for what was making the sound. This part they stressed, and I pushed my ear into the door straining to hear them. People who went looking for the whistler had their luck change. Sometimes tragically.

A black cloud would hang over anyone that looked. Anything that could go wrong would. The Manila envelope the committee brought over contained newspaper clippings, stories about car crashes and ruined lives, public deaths and freak accidents. Not everyone dies. I heard the head of the committee tell my dad, but the life goes out of them. Even if they live, there's no light in them ever again. No presence.

My mom, I could tell she wasn't taking it seriously. She kept asking if this was some kind of prank they play on new neighbors. At one point my mom got angry, accused the committee of trying to scare us out of our new home, asked them if they were racist on the account of my dad being from the islands. My dad calmed her down, told her he could tell our new neighbors were sincere and that they were just trying to help us. He explained that he grew up hearing these kinds of stories from his mom, and that he knew there were strange things that walked among us.

Some of these strange things were good, and some were bad, but most were just different. After the committee left, my dad went out to the hardware store, bought the canvas blinds, the latches, and the locks, and installed them on every window in the house after dinner. That first night in our new house, I crept out of my room at 3 a.m. only to find my own My dad awake sitting on the living room couch, holding my baby sister. My dad held up his finger in a shush motion, but patted the couch next to him. I sat and we waited. At exactly 303, we heard the whistling.

It came and it went just like our neighbors said. The whistling returns each night and we never look and we enjoy our million little blessings every day. Nola breathes on her own and she grows into a strong, clever girl. My dad even joined the welcoming committee. We don't get new neighbors often. Why would anyone want to leave? But when a new family moves in, my dad in the committee bring the macaroni casserole, the gift

basket, and the manila folder. I can always tell by the look on my dad's face when he comes back if the family took the committee seriously or if we'd be getting new neighbors again very soon. Not long ago, the family moved in directly next to us. The previous owner, Miss Maddie, passed away at the age of 105. She lived a good, long life. Our neighbors seemed like they'd fit in just fine. They believed the welcoming committee took my dad's advice about the locking shutters since

they had a young child of their own. Whatever newspaper clippings were in the manila envelope, whatever evidence, my dad never let us see, but I imagine it must have been awfully convincing since our neighbors got along with no issue for the first month. One night, when our new neighbors had to leave town, they sent their son, Holden, to stay with us. He was 12, a year under me in school. I didn't know him well before that night, but as soon as his parents dropped him off after dinner, I could tell it was going to be a bad time.

Do you know who was always out there whistling every night? Holden asked me the moment the adults left the room. The three of us were sitting in the den, some Disney movie playing idly on the TV. My sister and I exchanged a glance. We don't talk about it," I said. I think it's that weir-o that lives in the big yellow house in the corner. Holden said. Mr. Tolls?

My sister asked. No way. He's really nice. Holden shrugged. Eh, must be a psycho killer then. Nola tensed. We don't talk about it. I repeated.

Let's go in my room and play Nintendo. We spent the next few hours playing games, eating popcorn and then watching movies. A typical sleepover, but I could see it. Holden was getting antsy. After my parents had wished us a good night, locked the blinds, and gone to bed, Holden stood up from his beanback and walked over to where Nola and I were sitting on my bed. Have you ever even tried looking? He asked.

It's nearly time. Like most sleepovers, we'd conveniently ignored any suggestion of a bedtime. I was shocked to see he was right. It was almost 3 a.m. I sighed. We don't. See, I can't. I can't even try to look because my dad. locks the blinds every night and hides the key."

He continued ignoring me. So does our dad. Nola said. No? Replied Holden. No, he doesn't. You saw him do it, I said, a little sharper than I meant to sound. Holden grinned.

Your dad locks the blinds, yeah, but he doesn't hide the key. He keeps it right on his key chain. So? I asked, worried I already knew what he would say next, because I had noticed that my dad didn't bother hiding the key anymore after all these years. Because he knew we took it seriously. So, after your dad locked up, but before your parents went to bed, I went to the bathroom, and on my way I may have peeked into their room, and I may have seen your dad's keychain on his nightstand.

And I maybe went and borrowed the key to the blinds. Nolan, I stared, and his grin only grew wider. You're lying, I said. Holden shrugged. You can check if you want. Just open your parents' door and look. You'll see his keychain right there on the nightstand. Stay here, I told both of them.

Don't move a muscle. I hurried over to my parents' room, but hesitated at the door. If Holden wasn't lying, my dad would be angry, beyond angry. I was scared thinking about it, but more scared of an open window with the whistler right outside. I opened the door, barely an inch, and looked in, but it was too dark to see. Taking a deep breath, I walked into the room. Two steps into the dark and I froze. The whistling started, and I could hear it clearly, from my parents' room.

I never realized, but they must have heard the sound every night since we moved into the house. They never told us. I don't think I could have slept through it. I stood there, listening to the whistling, come closer. Unsure whether I should turn on the lights or call out for my dad, soft sounds from the living room brought me back to reality. Noah! I yelled, running out of my parents' room.

Holden and Nola were standing near the front door next to the window. Holden wasn't lying. I could see him fumbling with the lock on one of the blinds. I heard a click. He did have the key. Holden let out a quick laugh. Nola stood next to him, hunched up, afraid, but maybe curious. The whistling was right outside of our house now.

I think I made a sound, called out. I can't remember. Fruzen, the clock hands nailed to the face, but I found myself moving. I'm not fast, I've never been athletic. Somehow though, I covered the space between myself and Nola in a moment. My eyes were locked on her, but I heard Holden pulled the blind all the way down so it could release. I heard the snap of it start to raise, and I heard the whistling just on the other side

of the window, but I had my arms around Nola, and I turned so she was facing away from the window. At the same time I jammed my eyes shut, and the blinds were. whipped open. The whistling stopped. I felt Nola shaking in my arms. Don't look, okay? I told her, don't turn around.

We were positioned so that she was facing back towards the hallway, and I was facing the window. My eyes were still closed, and I felt her nod into my shoulder. I reached out with the arm not holding Nola to try to touch Holden. My hand brushed against his arm. He was shaking worse than Nola. Holden? I asked. Silence.

I reached past him and gingerly felt for the window. Eyes still sealed shut. The glass was cold against my fingertips, colder than it should have been for the time of the year. I moved my hand up the window, searching for the string to the blind. The glass began to get warmer, and the further I reached there was a gentle hum feeding back into my fingertips. I tried not to think about what might be on the other side of the window.

Finally I touched the string and yanked the blind shut. I opened my eyes. In the dim light leaking out from the kitchen, I could make out Holden, pale and small, staring at the now-closed window. Holden? I asked again. He turned towards me, and he screamed. Everything became a flurry of emotion.

Light sparked to life in the hallway, then the living room. My parents' footsteps thuddered across the hardwood floor. I didn't turn to look back at them. My eyes were glued to Holden. He was pale, had bit his lips so hard that there was a thin red line of blood. He started running down his chin, and he'd wet himself. What happened? My dad asked from behind me.

I managed to swivel away from Holden and look back. He looked. I'd never seen my dad scared before, but I saw it that night. In that moment, an old, ugly terror stitched on his face, a parent's fear. Just Holden? He mouthed to me. I nodded, yes. My dad let out a sigh.

He looked so relieved, I nearly expected him to cheer. But then he turned to Holden and my dad's face changed. I wondered if he felt bad for feeling good that Holden was the only one that looked. There was a knock at the door. We all froze. Holden whimpered. Don't answer it. My mom said.

She stood at the threshold of the hall. I always thought she was a skeptic and just humored my dad about the window and the whistler, but that night we were all believers. I noticed that both my parents held baseball bats they must have taken from their bedroom. The knock him again, a little louder this time. Please don't open the door. Holden whispered. My dad walked over to him, hugged him close.

We won't. My dad promised, so holding his bat, nothing is coming in here tonight. This time the knocking was loud enough to rattle the door. Holden screamed again, and Nola clutched her arms around my neck. My mom came over and knelt down next to us, wrapping my sister and me close. Call the police. My mom whispered to my dad. The knocking instantly stopped.

My dad looked over his shoulder at us. Do you think he was cut off by frantic knocking but trailed off to a polite? Something said from the other side of the door. The voice from outside sounded exactly like my mom, like a parrot repeating the words back to her. Call the police. My mom pulled us closer. Call the police.

I heard her whisper to herself. I don't think calling them will help. My dad said. How will we know when they're the police? the ones at the door. The knocking came back harder than before. The door shook, then it stopped. After a long moment, I heard the knocking again, but it was coming from our back door.

We all turned around towards the back door, but the knocking immediately returned to the front door. Front to back. The front, loud then quiet, then loud again. Suddenly the sound was coming from both doors at once, big and heavy blows like a sledgehammer. Then something started wrapping against all the windows in the house, and then the walls. It was like we were living inside a drum with a dozen people trying to play it at once, or we were a turtle and something was attempting to pause out of a shell.

Stop! Holden yelled. The knocking died. I won't tell. Holden said, staring at the door. I promise, I won't tell anyone what I saw. Just please go away. We waited for nearly a minute, and then we heard it.

A soft tap coming from the window Holden had looked through earlier. I started to cry, sobbing like a prisoner watching gallows being built outside their cell. My dad held him, brushing his hair, but never lied to him. Never told him things would be okay. The tapping at the window went on for the rest of the night. We huddled together in the living room for I don't know how long. Eventually my mom tried to take us kids into my room while my dad stayed to watch the door. But the second we moved into my bedroom, the knocking came back.

So loud it was impossible to ignore. I was afraid the door couldn't take it. We went back into the living room and the knocking stopped. Only the tap on the window remained. None of us slept that night. The tapping stopped at around 7 a.m. That's about the time the sun comes up. We waited for another two hours before my dad opened the blinds from one window.

He made us all go back to my parents' bedroom. I heard him open the door and then come back in. Okay, he told us. It's done. parents came back around lunchtime. My mom and dad walked Holden over to his house and they all went inside for quite a while. Nola and I watched from the window. She stuck to me the whole day, right at my side, sometimes holding my hand. When my parents came back, they looked grim, but wouldn't tell us what they said to Holden's family. It was a Sunday, so we all spent

the day together, ordered pizza and watched movies. That night everyone slept in my room. Nola and my mom in the bed with me, my dad in the chair he'd pulled over. There was no knocking that night, or any night since. We didn't see much of Holdeners' parents for the rest of that week, but by Tuesday there was a moving truck in their driveway. Nola and I watched them packing up the whole afternoon after school. What sticks with me most is how tired Holden and his parents looked. All three had the same pallor, grim mouths, and lightless eyes.

From across the street, I could tell something was very wrong. Holden and his family were gone before sunset. I remember what the original welcoming committee said to my parents when we moved in. Not everyone who looks at the Whistler dies, but even those that live have the light go out of them and the rest of their lives are full of misfortune. A million little tragedies. I think Holden's parents must have looked, either to comfort him if they didn't believe or share the burden if they did.

I watched Nola some days, happy and young and alive, and I wonder if I'd been slower, if she'd looked out the window that night. Would I have looked too, to comfort her, to share that burden? I'm glad I don't have to find out. It's been two months since the night Holden stayed here. We still live in that house, in that neighborhood. We still hear our whistler walking past every night. The blessings, the luck, the good things here are too good to leave, but we're careful.

We don't have friends over to spend the night anymore, and my dad hides the key to the blinds very, very well. Not that I've gone looking. Some things you just don't need to look for. Every house in my town has a weather vein. All of the stores and buildings and the library too. We learned to watch the veins carefully when we were out if the arrows started to point to the west, you went inside. It didn't matter if you were at home or the park or walking

down Main Street. If a west wind blew, you went inside as fast as you could. I was working a shift after school at Burger Burger when an early dinner rush started. It quickly turned into a full-on crowd migration. I shared a look with Tony, the cook. We only saw traffic like that when the wind was up and people were ducking inside wherever they could. Tony and I both turned to Rosanna. She was already wiping the chalkboard over the counter clean. In big, clean letters, she wrote, West Wind Happy Hour, everything 50% off. The orders came rolling in, so I stopped wiping down tables and went to help Rosanna with customers. Everybody was chatty, energized. It had been more than three months since the last real West

Wind. We'd seen little breezes that sent people scurrying for a few minutes, but nothing like the gale that was building up outside. A coax of pines that lined one side of the parking lot were all bending in supplication to the wind, branches bowing and trembling. The sky was beginning to darken, cloud cover rolling in like a gray tarp. Swings were even whipping back and forth at the park across the street. It looks like a big one today, Tony said, laying another line of burgers on the grill. I could hear the meat sizzle above the rumble of conversation. There were at least These two dozen people packed into the small restaurant. The booths and tables were filled and several customers were just standing in front of the

Big Bay windows, sipping milkshakes and watching the storm. Rosanna scooted past me to get change from the register. Our arms touched and I felt a little electric rush connect my throat and stomach. Rosanna with her black hair and blue eyes. Rosanna with that smirk that could destroy a rude customer in a second. Are you okay, Ross? She asked. You're staring.

Just had a mental checkout for a second. Sorry. Rosanna rolled her eyes. Get it in gear, cowboy. Others are waiting, and I can hear Tony cursing at the milkshake mixer. Maybe you should... She stopped talking. The whole room stopped.

Two dozen voices all collectively muted at once. We all saw the same thing. There was a car on the road driving slowly past the diner. They were outside, and the west wind was only getting nastier. Christ, Tony whispered. I don't think they know. The car, a sapphire blue sedan, was moving at a crawl. I saw two people inside, the one behind the wheel gesturing towards the park.

They had out-of-state license plates, tourists probably just passing through town. They wouldn't know. Of course they wouldn't know. Our town's little quirk wasn't a secret exactly, but we were isolated, didn't see too many visitors, and the winds were rare enough that usually everyone was inside and safe by the time it really got blowing. Usually. Being out in a car while the west wind was roaring wasn't a death sentence. My dad had a long talk with me when I had gotten my license.

If the wind is just starting, pull over and go inside anywhere you can. He told me, the two of us sitting in my brand new, 15-year-old Chevy pickup. If the wind is coming in hard and you're not in town, drive east. You'll be fine if you can make it five miles. miles or so in that direction. You'll notice the wind doesn't blow the same once you're that far out of town limits. Go past the Wainwright Farm a good way, and you're safe. Now, if you're ever caught out driving for whatever reason, when it's getting ugly and the sky is black, and you start seeing shadows out there where they shouldn't be, you park the car, roll up the windows,

lock the doors, and you hunker down. Keep the car running, play the radio as loud as you can, and try not to even look outside. Then you wait until the wind dies. But the blue ford inching down the street didn't look like it was going to park at the diner, and it wasn't driving away from the wind. It was heading west, towards the valley, towards the source of the storm. The clouds above looked like a wool blanket that had been ripped to pieces and stuck back together.

We could hear the wind now whistling past the windows, plucking leaves from trees. Turn around. I heard Rosanna whisper. Get the fuck out of town. The Ford continued its slow motion roll. Lights began to flicker inside of the restaurant. Then they went out. That usually happened when the wind was up, but rarely this soon.

This is going to be a bad one, Tony said. The crowd of customers was restless, nearly everyone standing at a window watching the car. I was trying to mentally tell them to turn around, to hit the gas, to head east like the devil was licking at their heels. Or if they at least parked and bunkered down, they might be able to wait out the wind. The Ford slowed to a stop next to the park, and for a brief moment, I wondered if telepathy was real. Then the driver's door opened.

Someone in the diner gasped, and a few started to murmur. Close the door, close the door, close the fucking door. Tony whispered coming out of the kitchen to stand with Rosanna and me behind the counter. Can we signal them? Zana asked. Someone could open the door and— Fuck that! One of the customers said, I recognized him as John, something or other who delivered

our mail. The Ford's driver got out, one arm raised to shield his face from the wind. He was short, gray-haired, and the woman who stepped out of the passenger side of the car was much the same. They stood together, looking out into the park. The sky was a dark bruise of clouds, and the wind was somewhere between howl and roar. There was no rain. Still, shitty conditions for a day at the park. I turned to Rosanna.

What do you think they're doing? Why do you think they got out of the car? She bit her lip. I think they seem like they're looking for something. The couple began to walk away from the car towards the park. Rosanna was practically vibrating next to me, knuckles white, as she clenched the countertop. She glanced up at me with those blue eyes again, and I knew whatever she asked, I'd agree. We have to help them. There's still time.

A gust of wind made the building creek. I wasn't so sure. Please. We can't just watch. She didn't wait for my answer. Rosanna cut through the crowd. They were all watching her. By the time she reached the door, there was a wide, empty space around her.

Empty, except for me. I was a little surprised at how quickly I followed her. Rosanna's hand was shaking, and it took her a moment to touch the push bar. You've got my back. She whispered without looking. Always. I said, barely fighting off the urge to wet my pants and run. Rosanna took a breath and opened the door.

The sound of the wind instantly went from a whistle to a shriek. I hardly noticed due to the smell, though. It was vicious, a wet animal odor that made my eyes water and throat tighten. Someone behind me threw up. The scent was part fungal rot, part waste, thick and invasive. I'd smelled it before when I'd gotten caught out in an early west wind, but the odor was never as strong as it was then. Bent over, almost in half, gagging, I reached out to close the door. I stopped.

Rosanna was already two steps outside. She pulled her apron up to cover her nose and mouth. The wind whipped the bottom of it, her hair, and tried to knock her over as she crossed the parking lot. But Rosanna kept moving. Okay, shit. Okay? Hey, I said, following her out into the storm. The wind was so much colder than I'd expected.

God damn near Arctic. It bit and tore away any body heat. By the time I caught up to Rosanna, I was shivering and numb. The old couple was still standing next to their car, looking out towards the park. Nearby trees were bending so far in the gale I thought some might snap. Leaves blew away in green bursts. Hey! Rosanna shouted towards the strangers.

It's not safe out here! You need to come with us! We were halfway across the parking lot, maybe a hundred feet from the couple. They didn't hear Rosanna, or they ignored her. A vein of purple lightning shot through the cloud cover. There was a croak of thunder, but it sounded warped, like someone had recorded it and played it in reverse. Still no rain. Rosanna and I kept moving forward, hunched over and taking slow steps.

Both of us were breathing hard by the time we crossed the parking lot. The wind had a way of ripping the air right out of your lungs. The rancid odor made it impossible for me to inhale through my nose, making everything even more miserable. Another bolt of violet lightning lit up the parking lot. Rosanna and I both stopped. Shadows cast by the flash lingered on the ground long after the light faded. They looked like they were cast from about a dozen people gathered in a circle around us.

Rosie? I whispered. I see them. The shadows were still. Rosanna and I shared a glance. I don't think either of us was eager to try to walk around them. Lightning went off again and the shadows evaporated for a moment, then returned much closer. Instead of a dozen shapes, there were now too many to count.

Fuck this! Rosanna said. She ran. I followed. We went over the shadows at the same time. It was like running through a mix of sand and oil. The cold from the wind was drowned out by a terrible heat. heat for a few seconds. So intense, I gasped. Once I was past the shadows, the temperature dropped

like a bird with a broken wing. I was shaking again, not just from the cold. More of the strange thunder, more lightning. The west wind was nearly knocking me off my feet. We have to go back! I yelled to Rosanna. She shook her head, dark hair flying in the wind. We're close. They're coming back with us. The couple hadn't moved from their position on either side of the car. They were both staring out for something in the park exactly as they'd been for several minutes now. In fact, neither seemed to have shifted at all. Same body language, same everything. Something's wrong. I said, stopping. Rosanna was pressing forward. What? We need to. The rest of my words were lost in the rush of water. It was finally raining.

We were out of time. Come on! I yelled, reaching out for Rosanna. She was too far away, and still moving towards the couple. I had never been caught in the rain during a west wind storm before. It's not an experience I ever want to repeat. The drops came down cold and oily. There was a tingle, nearly a burn when the water touched any skin, and the rotting smell got so much worse. I could barely see through the downpour, and I bumped into Rosanna's back. She was shaking. Are you cold? I asked. She shook her head. I looked past her, and I looked past her, and I was shaking. understood. The couple had moved. Now they were standing at the edge of the parking lot between the diner and the park facing us. Everything about their features was off. No lines on

their faces at all. All smooth, artificial. Even in the rain, I could see that their eyes, nose, and lips were all horribly perfect and so similar, like dolls. It was a trick. Rosanna whispered. Something tugged on my leg. I looked down. Nothing. Not just nothing, but an absence, an empty pocket of air in the shape of a crawling human outlined in the rain. Rosanna made a sound like a whimper. There were dozens of invisible shapes all around us, dragging, limping, closing in slowly.

Rosie! I said, reaching for her hand. We have to go! I pulled, but she didn't move. Rosanna began making a choking sound. Rose? I stepped forward and saw it. One of the outlines had her by the throat and was forcing her jaw open.

Another invisible thing was wrapping around her leg. I tried to kick at it and felt no resistance. My foot passed through the rain into a dry spot, then back into the water. The same effect happened when I attempted to push the entity choking Rosanna back. It was like the creatures were only physically present when they wanted to be. Not having any other options, I picked Rosanna up. She was small, light, and still choking. I ran all of about eight feet before a grip clamped down on my leg.

My calf lit up with electric agony as something bit into the meat. I screamed and the wind stole the sound. More invisible teeth punctured my arms, my back, even my eye. Rosanna was convulsing and it was all I could do to keep standing. Then a horrible pressure took my jaw and I felt my mouth being forced open. I knew I was going to die. I hoped it would be just death. in me was ripping, breaking, screaming, and some outside force was making its way in.

Thoughts that weren't my own started to drip down behind my eyes. Violent thoughts, hungry dreams. Strong hands on me again. Not hurting, though. Lifting. Through blurry eyes and rain, I turned and saw a man next to Rosanna and me. Tony. Fucking run!

He said, picking up Rosie over one shoulder, using his free arm to support me. The biting got worse and the rain. Rain pushed me back, but I ran, tripping and shaking loose from invisible fingers. I moved as fast as I could. It seemed like it took a year to cross the parking lot, and then all three of us were back inside the diner. The moment the door closed behind me, all of the pain and pressure was gone. The wind roared outside, but couldn't get in.

Tony was pale and wheezing, but otherwise fine. He'd put Rosanna in one of the booths. She was curled up small. I staggered over to her and touched her arm. Rosie? She looked up at me with the brightest green eyes. The storm should be over soon. Rosanna said.

Her voice buzzed for a moment, like a room speaking all at once. By the time Rosie said her last word, she sounded normal again. It might have just been my imagination. I moved to a new town about a year ago. I was offered a job and was at a point in my life where I felt restless and eager all at once. A new job in a new town was exactly what I'd been waiting for. In two weeks' time, after saying goodbye to my friends and family, I packed up and made the four-hour drive to my new apartment.

It turns out, it's tough to make new friends once you're out of college. I settled into my job just fine, my coworkers and daily routine both to my liking. Meeting new people was difficult, though. I didn't go to church. I didn't really go out much. I wasn't part of any club. For a couple of weeks of maddening isolation, I forced myself to go to a bar, determined not to leave until I met a few locals.

I'm glad I went, because that's where I met Lydia. I happened to sit down next to her, and after I ordered my drink, she noticed me and smiled, commenting on my shirt. That sparked our conversation, and eventually, after a few drinks, I summoned the courage to ask her out to dinner. She said yes, and my life was suddenly exciting again. I couldn't stop thinking about her, couldn't spend enough time with her. She was amazing, and our date turned into two, then three, until finally, she came over

to my place for the night. In the morning, there was no question about how we felt about each other. As the weeks turned into months, our relationship only got better. We never fought, we never argued. Hell, we hardly frowned at one another. I knew that we hadn't been dating that long, but even so, everything was so perfect that I was convinced we would stay like this forever. One thing that did strike me as odd, though, was that she never wanted to spend the night

of her place. She always ended up at my apartment, which was fine, but it still struck me as kind of strange. I had seen her place only once, and it seemed perfectly fine. Her apartment consisted of an entire top floor of a three-story house, fairly old, but well kept. I asked her about this once or twice, suggesting we end the evening in her bed, but she always wriggled out of it. I didn't press her too much.

Her excuses always mildly valid. Well, all of that changed. You see, we did end up at her place for the night. And Christ, I wish I had listened to her. We were fairly drunk, the energy in the bar slowly winding to a dull murmur. I heard the bartender make last call, and I grogly looked at Lydia on her barstool next to me. She gave me a tired, tipsy grin, and I asked if she was ready to go.

She said yes, and we made our way outside. I realized that I was in no condition to drive. My car was parked behind the bar, and as we clung to each other for warmth, my voice to my concern. She told me she was too drunk to drive as well, and suggested we call an Uber. As I thought this over, I realized we were in correlation to her apartment. I told Lydia that we were only a couple blocks from her apartment, why don't we just crash there? She seemed to be waiting for this, knowing full well how close we were.

I had only been there once, so my slogged mind had taken some time for the fact to catch up with my brain. After a long pause, she agreed, wearily. It wasn't a long walk. The streets around us empty, except for a few late-night stragglers. She lived pretty close to the center of town, and as we walked the brick sidewalk, I asked her how long she lived at her place. She said three years, but she was looking to move.

She wanted to get a place a little quieter, a little more out in the country. I expected her to casually bring up moving in together, but she never did. a few blocks we arrived at her place. It was a large three-story house with each floor rented out individually. She keyed her way into the front door, and I followed her up the flight of creaky stairs. At the very top was her door. This was only the second time that I'd been here, and as I looked around, I wondered why. She kept it very clean and organized. In fact, it was way cleaner than my place. The furnishings were elegant and crisp, modern in style, contrasting with the older building. I commented on how nice it was.

and that we should spend more time here. She shrugged off my comment with a, maybe, and we began to settle in for the night. It was already late, so we cleaned up in the bathroom and retired to her bedroom. As we stripped and climbed into her queen-sized bed, I noticed that she left the door open a crack. I thought that a little funny, seeing as how deliberate the action had been. I said nothing, though, and gratefully pulled the soft sheets over me. Lydia curled up next to me, casting a glance at her door.

Then she settled her head on my chest. I pulled her tight against me and let out a long, happy sigh. I kissed her on the head and I could feel her body relaxing against mine. It didn't take long before the two of us were fast asleep. It didn't last long. I was jolted awake as someone pounded on the front door for apartment. I blinked and opened my eyes in the darkness. What time was it?

Who the hell was that? I reached over to the nightstand and checked my phone. It was 3.30 a.m. Way too late for someone to be stopping by unannounced. I went to sit up, but Lydia clutched my body, her hands trembling against my shoulders. I looked down at her, confused as to why she wasn't letting me up. I asked her who was at the door. She didn't answer.

Just held me. Another trio of knocks, this time louder. I went to sit up again, asking her what was going on, but she looked at me with fear in her eyes. Don't get up. She begged. I was thoroughly confused now. Her reaction puzzling to me.

Who was at the door? Was she keeping someone from me? Was she hiding something? I wondered if this was some ex-boyfriend, drunk and trying his luck. Just the thought of that made me want to get up and see who it was, size up this piece of shit. Who the hell did he think he was? Lydia was mine, and I wanted everyone to know that.

I tried to pry Lydia off me, expressing my thoughts, but she shook her head, telling me it wasn't an ex. I wasn't sure I believed her, but I could tell that regardless, she was terrified. She put her hands over her ears as another pounding on the front door echoed into her apartment. I took her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me. I told her that I needed to go see who it was. Maybe someone was in trouble, maybe something had happened. In truth, I just wanted to make sure it wasn't some asshole X of hers.

Tears began forming in her eyes, and she looked directly at me, bottom lip quivering. Please do not open that door. Another loud knock, as furious as the others. As I lay there, I noticed there was no yelling from the other side of the door. Typically, this late at night the visitor would announce themselves. Mercifully, it stopped. I waited, unaware that I was holding my breath, waiting for the pounding to continue. But it didn't.

Exhaling loudly, Lydia softened against me. I could tell that whatever had just happened had been a semi-traumatic experience for her. I tried to question her, but she begged me just to let her sleep. Stuttering. I forced myself to eat the questions crawled. up my throat, and instead put a comforting arm around her. Soon I heard her breathing steady into the deep rhythm of sleep. I stared at the ceiling and wondered what the hell had just transpired.

The next day was Saturday, so neither of us had to work. We woke up late, and I felt Lydia get up and go into the kitchen. As I enjoyed the warm bed, I began to smell coffee brewing. I smiled and forced myself up. It was a pleasant morning, both of us lounging on the couch, idly chatting about what we wanted to do that day. I didn't bring up last night's incident, waiting to see if she would. It was obvious she was avoiding the subject, refusing to even acknowledge it. She seemed to be in a good mood, though, so I decided to keep my mouth shut. When she wanted to talk about it, she would.

Until then, I just needed to be a good boyfriend and not press her on it. I would be lying, though, if I didn't say every part of me was bursting with irritated curiosity. I just wanted to make sure that it wasn't some lover from the past, returned for some late-night action. As we finished our coffee, it began to rain outside and I suggested we spend the day here, catching up on our TV shows and maybe cooking dinner together tonight. She seemed excited and agreed immediately, much to my surprise. I went and put on another pot of coffee as she queued up our show on Netflix that we were watching together.

Glancing out at the gloomy day, I smiled and snuggled up next to Lydia, ready for our lazy day together. The hours slowly went on, both of us in full binge-watch mode, as episode after episode was played. The day peaked into a cloudy climax, and the dark gray outside began to fade into night. Both of us hadn't moved much, perfectly content on the couch from listening to the rain in television. After one of the episodes ended, she suggested we start making dinner. I agreed, feeling my stomach rumbling, and asked her what she wanted to make. After some discussion, we decided to try her hand at Homemade Chinese. I turned on some music on my phone as she

went to the kitchen and began pulling out ingredients. She tossed me in the kitchen. She tossed me in apron with a wink, and I laughed as I tied it around my waist. I went to her and took her in my arms, dancing her around the kitchen, lip-syncing the song that was playing. She giggled and told me I was ridiculous, but then kissed me, slowing my dance. We pulled away from each other and she began assembling the food. I wasn't much help, but I kept her entertained as she worked her culinary magic. We laughed and cycled through songs, our conversation light and flirtatious.

After a lot of work, the food was finally done. We took our place on the couch again, piling the delicious smelling feast in front of us on the coffee table. I queued up another episode, and she shot me a smile, telling me that today had been amazing. I wholeheartedly agreed, and kissed her. We dug in with a vengeance. Lydia had outdone herself, everything coming out perfect. I glabbed down a couple of batter-fried pieces of chicken and told her we should do this again tomorrow. She agreed, but said she'd like to sleep at my place tonight.

I cocked an eyebrow at her, swallowing my food, and asked why we wouldn't stay here tonight. She looked at me over her bowl of Lomaine and said, we had been here all day, why not mix things up? I put the food down and threw an arm over the back of the couch, expressing to her how great it was here today, that we should just put a bow on it and stay here for the night. I was still in my undershirt and boxers, for Christ's sake. She looked at me a little unsteadily, wanting to argue with me, but knowing that she didn't have a good reason.

At least, that's what I thought. I could see her struggling to come up with something, anything, to get us out of here tonight. Eventually, she just sighed and nodded silently. I smiled and rubbed her shoulder, telling her it was going to be great. As I turned back to my food, I wondered if her reservations about staying here had anything to do with the person at the door last night. But what did she have to be afraid of? I was here, and I sure as hell wasn't going to let anything happen to her. We finished our food and stretched out on the couch, pushing deeper into our show.

Lydia laid down on top of me, and after a couple of hours in that position, I felt myself begin to drift off. I could feel Lydia doing the same, both of us surrendering to the food and steady rain. Together, they gently lulled us to sleep. I startled awake as someone pounded on the front door. Lydia sprang up on top of me, her knees thudding into my ribs. I let out an oomph as my side spiked in pain, but she slammed her open palm down over my mouth, silencing me.

Her eyes were wide and terrified, all traces of sleep gone from her face. I looked up at her, waiting for her to say something. Instead, she cowered down into me as another series of loud knocks came from her door. This is insane, I thought. Someone is clearly terrorizing my girlfriend and she's been too embarrassed or ashamed to tell me about it. I forced both of us up into a sitting position, despite her frantic efforts to keep me in place. I whispered to her that I was going to answer the door and put a stop to this. I told her that someone was stalking her and after I confronted the person I was going

to call the police and put an end to it. She shook her head wildly, tears budding in her eyes. She told me that it wouldn't do any good. The police couldn't help. She tried to pull me back down on the couch, but I shook her off. Another round of pounding on the door. I told her I was going to answer it unless she told me what was going on. She bit her lip, huddled on the couch, hoar, stretching her face.

She said I couldn't answer the door, begged me and hushed whispers to just wait until they went away. Who is it? You have to tell me. I said in a soft growl, leaning close to her. She looked up into my eyes, tears draining her cheeks, and whispered, It's the devil. The way she said it sent a chill down my spine.

What? What did she mean by that? Three long knocks shook the frame of the door. I looked at my phone and saw it was a little after three in the morning. For a moment, I was completely frozen with indecision. I wanted to protect my girlfriend and confront this head on, but the way she was looking at me, begging to just leave it alone, tore my mind in the other direction. Finally I made an impulse move, taking three long strides to the door as more pounding

erupted from the other side. Seeing me, realizing what I was doing, Lydia leapt from the couch, screaming not to open the door, her eyes bulging from their sockets. As my hand found the door knob, Lydia sprang towards me, still screaming, grab my arm, jerking me back from the door. It was too late. I had turned the handle and the door popped open a crack, letting in an empty darkness. But there was something in that darkness.

Lydia shrieked and tightened her grip on me, dragging me backwards into the bedroom. Her face swelling with absolute tear. She shoved me into the bedroom, screaming at me, her voice cracking. Just before she slammed the door shut, I saw something walk into the apartment, dragging shadows behind it. Lydia locked the bedroom door and leaned against it, sweating and breathing heavily. She looked at me, and I saw fear in her eyes that I didn't know existed. She met my gaze and slowly shook her head, unable to bowl. believe what I had done, panic dripping from every pore.

I didn't know what to say. Dunded by her reaction and tear, I stood by the bed, slightly shaken and confused. Something knocked, hard, on the bedroom door. Lydia let out a little shriek and then quickly covered her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut and I heard her praying quietly. I didn't know what to do. I stood there stupidly, mouth agape. Someone was in the apartment.

I had seen him come in. was slowly sinking in, pushing aside the confusion and filling me with the icy cold of fear. Someone had walked into her apartment and was now pounding on the bedroom door. I swallowed hard, that icy fear tickling my stomach. We could be in serious danger. I needed to call the police, but both of our cell phones were by the couch, discarded where we'd fallen asleep. I had to do something.

I needed to try to take control of this. I took a deep breath and stepped forward, taking Lydia by the shoulders and moving her away. from the door. She fought me for a second until I reassured her I wasn't going to open it. Another sharp rasp on the door. Heart racing. I pressed my ear against the wood. I didn't hear a sound between the knocks, not even breathing.

Summoning my courage, I cleared my throat and asked who they were and what they wanted. A pause. I jerked back as another assault on the door rattled the hinges. I stared at Lydia, looking for guidance, hoping she had an answer to this madness. Every second to the past, I felt increasingly scared. the gravity of our positions sinking deeper and deeper into my mind. It's the devil. I shook my head, disregarding the thought.

That was ridiculous. An impossibility that I wasn't going to humor. And yet, I felt something on the other side of the door. I couldn't explain it, but it was this feeling, this weight. Like there was a black hole sucking me through the wood. I suddenly heard movement from the other side, and I pressed my ear against the door once again. I didn't hear anything, and I wondered if maybe, just maybe, the person had left. Quietly, I got down on my hands and knees and looked under the door.

A large yellow eye and black face was staring at me from the other side. I screamed as soon as I saw it, pain rocketing through my eye socket. I fell back, clawing at my face as my vision swam and stars exploded in my skull. Lydia screamed and dropped to her knees next to me, asking what was wrong. For a few seconds the pain receded and I blinked back tears. Lydia just held me, terrified, and I looked at her, rubbing my eye. Her lip was quivering and I could tell as she believed what she had said, that whatever was on the other side of the door she thought was the devil.

I realized my own heart was racing and I took a few steady breaths. That eye, I shivered, not even wanting to think about it. I had never seen anything like it, the way it dilated when it saw me. The sick yellow color. What the fuck was in here with us? Lydia curled into me, tears freely falling from her eyes. I was so confused and scared. I just put an arm around her and stared at the bottom of the door in the darkness.

What was I supposed to do? Help me. What was I supposed to do? He's come for me. Lydia wept, sobbing openly now. I told him I was his if he would just give me happiness. I was a little girl. Parents were so mean.

Her big wet eyes looked up into mine. I didn't know what I was doing. I'm so sorry. She covered her face now. God never answered my prayers and was so sad. I just wanted to be happy, so I thought... She cried. Big hoarse sobs, wracking her slender body.

I took her face in my hands, forcing her to look up at me. Voice shaking. I asked what the hell she was talking about. A deep seed of tear rooting in my gut. Another bone-shaking series of knocking. She told me that when she was a little girl, her parents abused her. She cried herself to sleep night after night, begging God to send an angel to save her. God didn't seem to be listening, and so, finally, she turned to the other side.

She promised the devil he could have her if he would only bring her happiness. Three days later, her parents died in a car accident, and she moved in with her grandparents who loved her deeply. the blackness of the bedroom, trapped and afraid. I listened to her story and felt nausea churned in my stomach like rotten butter. As the words poured out of her mouth, I couldn't shake the image of the eye, staring back at me from under the door. I jumped as the wood splintered and whatever was behind the door shifted again, a new sound

entering the darkness. It sounded like something was dragging nails across the wall just outside the bedroom. Over and over again, the muted scraping sound pierced the pocket. of silence. I pulled Lydia up onto the bed and sat her at the foot of it. I stood in front of him, sweat trickling down my spine and asked her what she was talking about, asked her if it was true. She started to cry again, hands reaching out from me, but I grabbed them and pulled them to her sides, asking her again, trying to block out the scraping sound against the wall. She nodded and said it was. She told me that for the past six months, if she was home, the knocking would start around 3 a.m. At first, I was at first, at first, First she thought it was an intruder and called the police, but when they didn't find

any traces of anyone after four separate visits, they stopped taking her seriously. Eventually, about two weeks in, she said that she remembered the deal she had made when she was a little girl. She remembered who she had made it with. I didn't know it would be this soon. She croaked, looking up at me, her face stained with tears. I shot a nervous glance at the door as the scraping sound was followed by more pounding. I forced myself to breathe.

If what she was saying was true, why doesn't it just come in? What's stopping it from kicking the door in and snatching my girlfriend? I couldn't make sense of it and turn these questions on Lydia, still sobbing. She said she didn't know either. She said that whenever the knocking started, she would just wait until it stopped. Sometimes it would be a few minutes, other times it would last till morning. She said that she felt that it was powerless unless she opened the door and let it in. about the doors, the separation of victim and prey, stopped it.

I didn't know if it was some supernatural reason or maybe spiritual, but either way, I was thankful for it. But now we were trapped with no way out. We were on the top floor, in the bedroom, with only one window looking out onto the street below. Our cell phones were out there with the thing, and we had no way of communicating with anyone from in here. Again, I didn't know what to do.

My mouth was dry and hot, and my breath sore on my tongue. Shooting another glance at the door, I went to the window and looked out. Despite being in town, the streets were empty and the sky dark. I tried to open the window, but couldn't. My muscles strained as I pulled all my might into it, but it was no use. Lydia saw what I was trying to do and came over to help, mumbling that it should open. It always opened. Even with the two of us, we couldn't get it to budge.

Frustrated, I slammed my fist into the pain as the bedroom door shook, accompanied by more scraping against the walls. It was useless. We were trapped in here. Lydia collapsed to the floor, backing herself against the wall, covering her ears against the barrage against the door. Exhausted and terrified. I slumped down next to her.

We would have to wait it out. It's still knocking. Lydia is crying in my lap. We haven't moved. It has to leave us alone. She said it always does eventually. The sun will come up soon. The clock says it's 5 a.m.

It's almost there. Please let it stop. Why hasn't the sun come up yet? Something is wrong with my clock. It says it's 3 a.m. again. That can't be right. There's no one outside. There should be cars on the road, but I haven't seen a soul.

And it's knocking again. I'm so tired. Screaming and pounding on the floor hasn't done any good. No one seems to hear us up here. I still haven't seen anyone outside. I tried breaking the window, but I can't even get it to crack. Something is going on. None of this is making any sense.

It's still dark outside. Where is the sun? I haven't heard anything from the door in a little while. I'm praying it's over. I'm getting hungry. I don't know how long we've been in here. Lydia's asleep on the bed and cried herself to sleep. Knocking his backs louder than ever.

I can feel it just beyond the door. I'm so goddamn scared. I don't know what to do. Where is everyone? Why hasn't someone come to see what's going on? I can't take this fucking knocking anymore. Lydia's crying. She said she's thirsty.

I am too. I feel like we've been in here for days. I feel like I haven't seen the sun in ages. I'm starting to wonder if anyone is going to come for us. Whatever is outside the door, I think it's bent reality around us. I think we might be stuck here. There has to be a way out, though. I fell asleep.

When I woke up, Lydia had her hand on the doorknob. I yanked her away, screaming at her. I can't lose her. We're going to get out of this. When I pulled Lydia away, the thing behind the door, the demon, the devil, or whatever it was, screamed at me. I've never heard such a terrifying fury in all of my life. God, please help us. Please.

Lydia is getting sick. Whenever getting out of this room unless I do something. We're both dehydrated and Lydia isn't going to make it much longer without some water. It's knocking, each blow crushing into my skull like a drill. Where is everyone? The clock still says 3 a.m. If there is a god, he can't see us in here. Fuck this.

We're dying. I need to do something. Lydia has been lying on the bed for hours. I don't remember the last time I saw her move. I should check on her, but I'm so tired. The knocking is constant now. It hasn't stopped in hours. I think I'm going insane.

This is it. Lydia needs medical attention. She's going to die within the day. It's still dark out. The clock still says 3 a.m. I feel like I'm going deaf. The constant thundering against the door. A relentless assault on my senses.

I'm going to open the door. I have to. Or we're going to die. Whatever awaits us on the other side of it, it can't be much worse than this. I have to try something. I can't just let her die. I can't. I'm going to open the door.

I can hear it in screaming again. It sounds like someone quickly flipping through radio stations. I don't know what it means. It can't be good. God, if you're out there, I could really use some help. Please, save us. I'm going to open the door now. The strangest roommate in my freshman year of college.

Despite being otherwise normal and even a bit of shy, Eddie would, every so often, become frantically possessed by a sudden overwhelming need to lock the door. It didn't matter which door either. Wherever he was when the fit came upon him, he would leap up, run to the closest entrance, and lock it. People who stood in his way were screamed at. Anyone who tried to stop him would get attacked.

He became a ranting, sweating madman until his mysterious sense of vulnerability passed. The moment it was gone, he would apologize profusely, sink timidly into himself, and scurry away embarrassed. For that reason, it was hard to hate him. But it became a little easier to despise him each time I returned home to find myself locked out. Similarly, each time I brought him to a party and he had one of his episodes, I inevitably lost potential romantic interests and friends because I was roommates with that Eddie guy.

Halfway through the year, after the third almost girlfriend ghosted me because he scared the shit out of her, I put in for a dorm room transfer and washed my hands of the poor guy. That was almost seven years ago now. So when Eddie messaged me on social media and said he was in town and had run into some travel issues, I decided to give him another shot. I'd always felt sort of bad about how I treated him in the end. So I drove half an hour out to his broken down car and picked him up around one in the morning. on a normal Wednesday night three weeks ago.

I remember pulling up to the edge of a high cliffside road to see a skinny silhouette waving at me. He was leaner than I remembered and somewhat more in shape. My headlights illuminated him fully. I saw his face glisten and I laughed. That was Eddie all right. Sweat was sort of his hallmark. He hefted a duffel bag and ran up to my passenger side before fiddling with the door handle

repeatedly. Don't pull it when I'm unlocking. I told him. He waited a tick. I pushed the button and he tried the handle at the same time. Oops. Wait! I said again, hitting on lock as I did so.

Okay now. He finally got the door open and clamored in with a nervous laugh. Sorry, man. His long legs folded up a bit as he got situated and I could see his exposed ankles. Thanks for picking me up. I shrugged. No problem at all. Do you know what's wrong with it?

Yeah. been having trouble, I think the cold weather finally did her in. Cool. I gave a slight cough to clear my throat, and we drove in awkward silence until he brought up a joke from the past. Just like that, we slipped into that first semester seven years before, with all its new experiences, hilarious misadventures, and surprise pressures. By the time we reached my place, I'd remembered the good things about him, and I was glad

I decided to help him out. the way, I pointed to the couch. That's probably the best spot in the apartment. I'm trying to save money these days, so the place is pretty small. Rent these days, eh? He asked before placing his duffel bag down and sitting carefully on the couch to evaluate his softness. This'll do fine.

I can't think you enough. I'll get out of your hair in the morning as soon as the repair shops open. No problem at all, Eddie. Well, actually, I go by Ed now. Good for him. He'd definitely grown as a person from the socially-feited-finding. fearful outcast I remembered. I grinned.

No problem at all, Ed. I went to bed back in my room without a single worry. It seemed like his issued had been resolved by maturity or medication, and who was I to judge someone for troubles beyond their control? That was in the past. Of course, I was completely wrong. Around four in the morning, I awoke to get up to get a glass of water from the kitchen. I knew my own apartment, so my footsteps were pretty much silent.

But Eddie still sighed and stirred on the couch as if something was bothering him. I stood by the fridge, glass in hand, as he whimpered, struggled, and then leapt up. In a mad dash, he ran to my front door and slammed the deadbolt. He gave out a deep breath of relief and remained there with his head down while I tried to figure out the best way to let him know I was present. Well, if he was having a fit, there was no good way to do this. Ed? He seized up mightily, gasped in as much air.

as his lungs could hold and then slowly turned around. His face was obscured in dimness since the only light came from the various red or green pinpoints on the television in microwave, but I could tell he was sweating profusely. After a long moment, he managed to breathe again. Finally he said, Oh, hey, I didn't see you there. Yeah. I put my glass down on the counter.

You all right, dude? He meant his laugh to sound nonchalant, but it just came to him. I came out nervous and high-strung. It's the same old, same old. You know how it is. I went around the counter and approached him. He moved back a few steps, and I touched the door. This is a safe neighborhood.

There's nothing to worry about. He nodded awkwardly. Unsure, I believed his calmness. I moved my hand to the deadbolt. I wanted to make sure he wasn't going to get weird while I was asleep if I went back to bed. He made a sudden, half-hulted leap toward me, hand out. Don't! At that moment, I was starting to remember the times I'd seen him attack people during an episode.

There's nothing out there. I gripped the deadbolt and turned it back toward me, but a very slight shadow moved somewhere in my vision. The hell? No, it couldn't be. Reacting rapidly, I put my eye to the people. My brain made sense of the curved panorama just in time to see a sliver of silhouette disappear along the sidewalk to the left.

He moved closer, bringing the smell of his panicked sweat with him. Did you see something? No. I lied. I kept staring out through the people, watching the quiet night in my otherwise unremarkable neighborhood. The asphalt glimmered darkly under the stars, while distant lamp-posts cast long shadows across the grass.

Remind me again, what suddenly makes you want to lock the door? Now that I wasn't actively trying to unlock it, he seemed slightly less manic. I never told you because I thought you were starting to hate me, but when I was eight years old, I had a sudden feeling that I should lock the door. I didn't, and... He shivered. Some men broke in a moment later and robbed us. I frowned his glistening shadowed face.

Jesus, was anyone hurt? He nodded between audible breaths. My mom... Another three breaths passed in the other wide. silent darkness. She didn't make it. Damn. I didn't know what else to say. Just, damn, no wonder. No wonder? Before I could elaborate the sound of something skittering outside reached us. He turned and listened in one rapid motion like a startled animal, and I had to admit I was none too calm either. Still, I couldn't risk amping up his anxiety. I did want to sleep again

at some point. He whispered. Where was that? It sounded like it came from the back. I whispered too. I'm sure it's nothing. Let's go. I led the way and crept through my apartment.

He made sure to mimic my steps, but he was still louder than me, and I nearly winced at every creek. By the time we entered my bedroom and reached a rear window, my nerves were raw. The window was fitted with stops that prevented it from opening all the way. I usually left it open for the breeze. the breeze, even in the winter. We sat in total darkness in front of that thin rectangle of cool air, looking and listening. Have you ever actually listened to the sound of the city at night?

What I'd gotten used to as silence was actually anything but. Soft wind stirred or rustling in the nearby trees. A train blew a horn in the unknown distance. A dog barked twice, and briefly an ambulance siren trekked across the horizon. it all, a constant low haunting whale emanated from across the world, from the nearby highway. I'd always hated that sound whenever I'd accidentally become aware of it, because I thought it sounded like a thousand ghosts screaming from very far away. But I wasn't about to tell Eddie that.

It was about that time that my gaze landed upon something among the trees. When I'd first seen the closely bunched collection of white pinpoints, I'd just assumed they were reflections from somewhere. Now, though, as I watched them carefully, I was nearly certain I was seeing them rotate upward. It was as if someone was spinning a wheel of lights whose narrow side was facing us. From the size of the distance, the wheel must have been two or three feet in diameter. I whispered. What is that?

After finding it with help from my pointing finger, Eddie's stare deepened. I've never seen anything like that. What could it possibly be? I couldn't make sense of it. While I watched, it grew slightly dimmer, then slightly brighter. It's definitely casting light around it. I think I saw some leaves above it. Is it changing?

Eddie clutched my wrist as he stared at those strange, upwheeling lights. Is it getting bigger? I couldn't be sure, but how could it be getting bigger unless... Jumping up. I placed my fingers on either side of the window and brought it down swiftly and quietly. Then I turned the latch and locked it before pulling the next. nearby cord and sliding the blinds down. Whatever it is, we're secure in here.

We'll be fine. It's probably just some kids playing with light toys or something." He sighed and opened his mouth to speak, but a visible change came over the silhouetted contours of his head. An instant later, he leapt over and slammed my bedroom door shut. The boom echoed loudly in my ears. I demanded to know what he was doing as he locked my door. Eddie turned around and put his back to it.

I could tell he was wild-eyed from the way he whispered. Be quiet. It's in your apartment. The adrenaline spike from the slam door made me a little angrier than I wanted to be. What? What's in my apartment? His frantic whisper was nearly a hiss. I don't know.

I just know that we have to keep this door locked. I was fuming, but if I spoke, I would have said something I regretted. So we stood there in the dark for a solid few minutes. I began to calm down as those minutes passed, and once I was in control again, I opened my mouth to whisper. Hey, I'm sorry. I... The floor creaked outside my bedroom door.

I froze. Eddie backed away from the door and faced it alongside me. It was nothing but a dark rectangle in front of us, but I stared at it for any hint of motion or change. The crazy thing was, I had no idea what I was even looking or listening for. What could possibly have been out there? Not only had we left the front door locked, there had been no sound of entry, forced or otherwise.

If there was something or someone out there, how had they gotten in? Dim light began to move across the walls of my room. I waited for the sound of a passing car, but none came. As we watched the door, bright light began to roll upwards around us, again as if someone was spinning some sort of lit wheel. It didn't take long for us to realize that whatever we'd seen in the distance outside was growing closer to the window. the blinds, something was coming nearer, but neither of us dared look away from my bedroom

door for even an instant. Then I saw it. Between moving lines of shadow and light, I could have sworn my door handle had changed angles. I backed away. A look at the blind showed definite light spinning closer, as if they were right outside the window and about to come up against it. Grabbing Eddie by the shoulder, I pulled him with him into the tiny one-person bathroom. He closed and locked the door the instant we were in.

inside. My heart was hammering in my chest to the point of actual pain. Grunting my whisper, I asked, What the hell is happening? He shook his head. I have no idea. Are you sure? I asked him, squeezing his wrists. This all started with that robbery and attack on your mom, right?

No. He whispered back. My bathroom door was flushed to the outside carpet, but hints of rotating light began to appear beneath, as if that insane, impossible wheel had somehow entered the door. room without opening or breaking the window. None of this made sense. It has to be you somehow. No, it has to be.

I shook him violently. Is your fear of making it real? Is something after you? You don't understand. He whimpered. I didn't finish the story. It didn't start with that incident. I'd been getting the urge to lock the doors for years before that.

The first time I didn't, that's when they came. I couldn't understand exactly what he meant. meant? The robbers? He shook his head. God. They weren't robbers, were they? He shook his head again.

My voice dropped to a razor hiss. What's out there, Eddie? All he could say was, they want in. Something about the way he said it finally made me understand. It's not about the bathroom door, is it? I looked out through it, thinking of my bedroom door and my apartment door beyond that. It's not about the literal. entrance to the room you're in.

The rotating light below began intensifying as whatever was out there approached our hiding spot. His panicked grip on my hands told me I was right. Then why do you walk real doors, Eddie? I shook him until he looked at me despite his fear. Is it a metaphor? Does it make you feel better? Does it close them off somehow?

Why isn't it working this time? He began to cry, sending mixed drops of tears and sweat onto my forearms. I couldn't take it anymore. I'm tired of the constant struggle!" The high cliffside curb where I'd picked him up flashed through my mind, clear as crystal, and the fear that had been building since the moment I saw him suddenly left me. He'd gone to that cliff for a reason, and he'd probably had second thoughts as he stood there alone in the dark.

Completely calm, I asked him. Your car didn't break down, did it? He shook his head. You messaged everyone, didn't you? He nodded, and I was the only one that responded. He rocked back and forth in front of me. I just couldn't take it anymore. They want in.

They're always out there. They want in. I locked them out, but they never stop. I'm tired of being terrified every minute of every day. Air began moving under the door as the light reached peak intensity outside. Whatever it was, it was almost upon us. There's nowhere to go, Eddie. Let's open the door.

Maybe you're constantly terrified because they want you. you that way. Let's face them. Let's be unafraid. It might just work. He didn't respond, but I dragged him to his feet. I had never wanted to do anything less in my entire life, but there was nowhere else to go. With a firm grip on his wrist, I reached forward with my free hand, unlocked the door and flung it open. I don't care if you believe me. That's not the point, but I'll tell you what I saw. The lights were eyes. They were bright enough to observe. Here are the grotesque moving body beneath. I still can't understand how it was spinning like that.

Snake-like curves connected things in shadow. Every blazing pinpoint swung up, flashed us with images of hatred and fear and paranoia, and then continued past, moving on too fast a process. That was the thing. The images were lies. My girlfriend was cheating on me. My teachers at school had fought with me as a failure. My boss hated me and only put up with me because he hadn't found a replacement yet.

But each individual lie raced past too quickly to pick apart and resist. I knew they weren't true, but they just kept coming. At the heart of this creature, I sensed hunger for fear. I kicked a wide, grasping mouth away and jerked Eddie out with me, getting a few feet past whatever the hell that thing was. It turned toward us as I flung the bedroom door open. I'd been right about the door handle turning, that much I knew in that instant. The madly spinning shadows and light failed to illuminate the beast that lay beyond the door.

Immediately, I knew the thing behind us was just a servant of this, because it was so, so much worse. The only thing I truly registered was a melted face. Its misshapen gaze seized the beating heart muscles in my chest and filled me with absolute terror, as if it had the power to reach inside me and dredge out all the blackness and animal fear in the corners of my human soul. I knew these things didn't want into my apartment or bedroom. It wasn't so simple as that.

They wanted into our world. And Eddie was some sort of conduit for that nightmarish goal. He always has been. I had the knife keen, vicious sense that I needed to kill him immediately. But maybe that urge came from the emotion these creatures were giving off. As the sludge specter with the melted face began a rising scream that threatened to defend me, I did what I had to do. I grabbed the heavy lamp from my nightstand and smashed the window clean through.

I threw Eddie out a moment after, and then pulled my arms from a burning grip of caustic acid to escape. I could only lay on the ground screaming as Eddie did the rest by dragging me away from that place. That was three weeks ago. The burn from the grasping hand of the sludge creature refused to heal. The doctors at the emergency room couldn't make heads or tails of it. had burned the shape of a melted hand around my forearm and continued to burn as they studied it.

They could find no acid, no catalyst, no heat. Eventually they had to release me. Of course, their lack of understanding didn't lessen the hefty medical bill any. I departed from Eddie the next day, telling him to stay strong and remain unafraid. We'd beaten the forces of hatred and paranoia personified and escaped with our lives by charging through rather than hiding. He seemed unconvinced and repeatedly said that we hadn't done anything, that I dragged him out of there, and that without me he didn't know if he could do it.

But I have a life to live. I told him. Gotta pay off that ER bill and find a new place. He understood, or at least, he said that he did. Today I saw Eddie again. He didn't know I was there, because it was just a chance encounter on a city street. He was in a bar, watching a television above and drinking a beer. I stood outside and watched him through the window for a moment, awed at the change.

He was sitting with new friends. He was wry, confident, and completely ignoring the door of the bar instead of nervously looking at the entrance every so often. It was such a positive change that I actually went inside with a smile. But I stopped about ten feet behind him, as over the noise of the bar television above, I I began to hear what he was talking about. His words floated in the air with a nearly perceptible stench. Sludge dripped from the back of his sentences, burning the ears of those near his group.

His new friends greed happily and replied noxiously in kind. A disgruntled customer nudged me as he passed. Ignore those assholes. I turned away with misting eyes and walked out into the chill night. I hadn't saved Eddie at all. We'd found refuge not in standing up to those creatures, but by going down a path I hadn't even considered. I looked through the window of that bar one last time.

The misshapen creature that had burned me with its touch grinned back from the shadowed corner behind the television. It had found the entry into our world that it had craved for so long. I had unlocked the door, but it was Eddie that let them in. January 3rd. The sun's not coming up. I can't deal with this. School's starting Monday.

How am I supposed to get to class when it's so dark you can't see your hand three inches in front of your face? When I got up, I figured it was just because it was winter. You know, sun goes down, it stays down longer, but I knew something was up by noon. The sun should have been up by now. It's starting to freak me out. Neighbors have come by asking for some things they don't want to run to the store for, ignoring the elephant in the room that there's no sun.

Apparently, the darkness gets even worse when he tried to get out of the neighborhood. It's best just to stay here until this all blows over, while pretending it's not happening at all. Dad was sleeping on the couch this morning. I think he and mom got into another fight. They're not talking, and mom's been crying, even though she does her best to hide it. God, it's bad enough that the world might be ending. I don't have time to worry about my parents' failing marriage.

January 4th. The street lights went out and haven't come back on. Now outside looks like Satan's Winter Wonderland. I can see other houses across the street, the light shining through the window like beacons in the night. The only reason I can make out anything in my yard is from the light shining from my living room window. Mom and Dad aren't talking.

Jesus Christ, you could cut the tension with the knife. I really wish I could go outside to smoke, but I swear Dad had a stroke when he saw me open the back door. I don't know how he expects me to go to school if I can't even go out on the back porch to get some air, but whatever. For now, I'm just cracking the window in my bedroom and doing what I can to waft the smoke out there. I'm 16.

I can make my own decisions. January 7th. Okay, so I guess I'm not going to school. Sun's still not up. Weekend's just been boring as shit with just sitting around and watching the outside get darker. If that was even possible. I even started getting ready before I realized, what the hell am I doing? And went downstairs to ask if I can stay home.

My dad gave me his approval and said I can stay home for as long as it stays dark. The first time we really acknowledged how absolutely bizarre that is, and it's the only acknowledgement. I tried turning on the TV to see if there's anything on the news about this, but all I got was static. I couldn't even connect to any local channel. It's all snow. Phone's dead, too.

I tried calling Isla and Lydia and got nothing, not even a busy signal. It worked last night when I called to talk with Lydia. She lives just a few blocks away and it's dark there too. Isla lives in the city though, not Bartonville. And apparently, sun's fine there. She said she'd come over today to see if I'm still making up bullshit. It's not bullshit. The sun's gone and it's showing no sign of coming back.

January 8th. It's not just the sun disappearing. Lights are going out. It started with the kitchen. I went down and tried flickering the light, got nothing. I yelled for Dad and said the kitchen ball burned out, and he went pale. He switched it and I heard him swear for the first time in my life when it still didn't work. I tried to tell him to check the breaker, but he was clearly losing his shit.

By the time Mom came back in, he was babbling nonsense about the lights being taken away, And mom had to help him lie down. I wonder if there says anything to do with why he was at work late for the last few weeks. I don't know what he works on, but I'm starting to go a little stir crazy and it's making me paranoid. Isla never showed up yesterday. Stayed up until midnight and she never showed. Maybe she got turned around or maybe she forgot. She's like that.

I bet she just forgot. January 9th, half the house is stuck in the dark now, including my bed. bedroom, but that's not the worst of it. Watching the street is the only form of entertainment I have other than reading, and I'm getting too antsy to focus on that. I cracked the window while I street watched, and then I heard it. For the last few days, all I've heard while I've cracked the window is wind. Today I heard whispers.

Yes, I thought maybe I'd cracked and was hearing things, but I pressed my head against the screen to listen better. It was then that I heard the clack or something like claws climbing up the side of the house. I yanked my head back just in time to see those claws land on the sill. I was frozen when I saw that thing haul itself up to my eye level. It was probably my height, maybe a little bigger, pure black with tufts of hair or fur coming from the top of its head and its shoulders. It didn't have any facial features other than these large pointed ears and bright red eyes.

bigger than my bald-up fist. It blinked a few times, like he was just as surprised to see me as well. His claws sliced through the screen as I stared at it. I had to be going crazy, right? Its enormous hand groped around my desk before landing on my last pack of cigarettes. It yanked them back, waved them in my face, and then it dropped out of sight with the chattering madman's sound. I screamed as loud as I could before slamming the window down.

My dad came in, and when I told him what I saw, he became. I began to cry, just crumpled into a ball on the floor and began sobbing. I asked Mom what was wrong with him, but she couldn't answer me. All she knew for sure was that on the second he came back late, looking paranoid as hell and smelling like someone else's perfume. I don't know what's worse, the fact that my dad apparently is having an affair or how calmly my mom said that. Apparently she'd been on to him for months and it'd been likely going on for years.

It was only that night she caught him. God, I wish I could just go back in my tree house and hide for a bit, but I can't imagine leaving this house right now. Not with those things out there that laugh and whisper, even though they don't have mouths. January 10th. The darkness took a house last night. The chittering from those freaks was so loud it woke me up. We crowded in front of the living room window and watched as dozens, maybe even hundreds of

those monsters surrounded the house across the street. windows were busted in, the door was ripped off the hinges, and they flooded inside. The canays started screaming seconds after they got in. They screamed for what felt like ages and all we could do was stand there and watch. Dad bolted around the house after that, extinguishing every candle, turning off any light we still had that worked. He's sure they were attracted to the light. I don't get it, but honestly, I'm not going to argue with a guy who's two steps away

from a mental breakdown. The canays did have most of the lights on. My thighs are going to be covered in bruises with how I keep bumping into everything every few steps. I can only use my flashlight to write in my diary. I have to leave it dark the rest of the time. All I can do is just watch the darkness outside the window. January 11th.

Two more houses were ripped to pieces during the night. Maybe the night, I can't tell anymore. I count days by sleep now. And now there's not much else to do but sleep. I'm getting better at seeing in the dark, though, although all there is to see isn't great. The monsters just took the Knais' house down. There's nothing left but a pile of wood. The Lott's and Jarvis' house is also destroyed.

In the wreckage, I can sometimes see dark shapes moving around them. More monsters, probably. I wish I could see Lydia's house, but it's too far away. I hope she's okay. It's clear my dad prepped for being here for a long time, though. We have enough canned food to last until the end of the century. Something on that last normal night spooked him, and although he and my mom are clearly going to split the moment they can, he still cares about us.

Even if he did betray us. I'm just too tired to be angry and too scared. Maybe turning the lights off was the right choice, but who knows? January 12th. Rise Gill. That's the name of Dad's Other Woman, or in this case, maybe. Man. Boy, this just couldn't be easy, could it.

I was in the living room watching the snow when I saw a dark shaped dart across the lawn. I almost screamed for my dad when I heard someone run into the door, but then I heard a voice. God, please let me in! I don't know what made me turn the knob, but the guy nearly flattened me in his panic to get inside. The side of his face is all raked up from something's claws, and right after I closed the door I heard something else slam against it, followed by an angered scream. That thing was right on his heels and I didn't even see it.

My dad admitted it all to my mom in the other room when RISE practically fell into my dad's arms sobbing about how they weren't just seeing things. Mom came out after a few minutes alone, dry-eyed and holding a first aid kit. She patched up Rize's face while Rize explained what had been happening all over the block. The monsters, or shadows, as he called them, are in fact attracted to the light. Dad was right, but they also like heat. Rye saw a few of them curled up around a burning house, like a bunch of dogs in front of a fireplace. They didn't bring the dark, though.

The other thing did. Dad and Rives refused to explain further, but apparently that night they saw something unknown. I'm praying for the sun's return soon. Dad turned the heat off and we're all bundling up. January 13th. I like Rise. That sounds so bad, I know. He's the guy that's ruining everything for my parents, but he's super nice.

He's helping board up the windows so as little light and he escapes, but leaves peepholes for me to keep an eye out. He's trying to keep the mood up by bringing up his travel stories. Apparently he went all over Europe for summer vacation after he graduated. If I'm ever interested, he can recommend the best spots, apparently. I'll take going anywhere to get out of this damn darkness. I think even Mom likes RISE, or at least is playing nice. There's no room to be a dick while the world's potentially ending.

And Dad, he looks happy when he's with RISE. Happier than he ever looked with Mom. January 14th. The monster that stole my cigarettes came back. I know it was him because he's made them into a creepy necklace. Dickhole. I could use a smoke. He was just peering in through the slats of my window's barricade, tapping on the glass

with his claws and making more weird, warbling sounds. RISE showed me his gun. He says if the monster tries busting through, he'll make sure to put it down. I've never felt so relieved. In the meantime, I'm calling it Nick, short for nicotine, and I'm sleeping in my parents' room. Well, my mom's room. Dad and Rize are now occupying a room in the basement. I wish they'd just tell us what they saw that night.

January 15th. Nick got in. Nick got in. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I don't even know how. I just heard Rize and Dad scream and came down to the basement to find Dad bleeding everywhere and Rye's trying to put a bullet in Nick's head. He missed twice and ended up pegging it in the arm once, bolted back long enough for Rize and

drag Dad to the main floor and shut the door. Nick is stuck in the basement and he can't get up here, but I do hear him pacing up and down the stairs. Dad's really fucked up. Mom started praying when she was patching up his neck. He looks super pale still, and he's going in and out of consciousness. Rize is holding on to his hand, and he's bawling his eyes out. I think my dad's dying.

January 16th. Dad's dead. He passed sometime, well, I don't really know when. Clocks have all stopped and haven't been going for days. It's like time's not even real anymore. It's just an eternal night until we all die. I peered out of the window to see the front yards got a few more bodies in it. All pretty badly shredded, but I would recognize Lydia's pink coat anywhere.

I think the rest of the bodies are her family, but I can't tell. Won't be able to either, probably. Not even if I could get up close to them. We're all going to die. Mom's just laying in bed and rise is counting his bullets in between his sniffles. All I need to know is that he has more than three. January 17th. After we stashed Dad's body in the office, RISE sat both Mom and I down and told us what happened.

They'd met by the old state hospital, planning on going for a drive in Dad's car while leaving Rises stashed around there. Dad never once worked late in his life, which for some reason that of all things ticks me off. He always got on my case whenever I skipped a class or two, and all this time he was practically gunning it from work. to go meet his boyfriend. At sunset they saw the monsters, two of them, not counting the shadows that surrounded the one that almost looked human, except he was too tall and too pale, and had eyes black as night.

The other one was hunched over and some sort of drooling creature with a ma not big enough for all of its teeth, but it was clear these two creatures were not friends. The king, and that's what RISE is calling the one with the shadows, apparently a tally-and-and-lawed Act first, but the beast fought back. It was then that the sky began to grow dark, despite the sun still sitting on the horizon. Despite the sun still sitting on the horizon. They watched the sky grow black while the creatures continued to fight. They got the hell out of there before it became too dark, both going home and telling

each other they'd been drugged. That was the only explanation for what unexplainable shit they'd seen. But they both still found themselves preparing. picking up all of the canned food, Rye's digging that gun out of storage and making sure he had ammo. This has nothing to do with us. The king and the beast just put us in the middle of their shit fest, and we're all going to die because of it.

January 18th. Mom's going to kill herself. Rize and I aren't going to stop her. There's not going to be an end to this night. Mom knows it. The sun's never coming back. Nick is still in the basement, pacing up and down those. steps.

It's waiting for its friends to show up so they can kill us all, rip us limb from limb. Rise is going to make a last stand when that happens, but Mom can't bring herself to wait for the sun anymore. She sat me down and told me how much I mean to her, that she still loves Dad even if he really, really hurt her. That she won't think badly of me if I'm not ready to end it. I'm not, but I'm just glad she's going to take the pills and peacefully go to sleep instead of taking Rize's offer to use his gun.

I'm not sure I could take it if I heard the gun go off. I'm such a coward. I should be joining her right now, but I'm too scared to die. I'm only 16. I don't want to die. January 19th. This will be my last entry. Nick and the others broke through last night, right through the basement door.

Rise took out a lot of them, but I'm not sure if he's still alive since I'm not hearing any gunshots anymore. I'm barred up in my room. I keep getting whiffs of my parents, rotting bodies, and it makes me want to puke. Why, why, why didn't I go with my mom yesterday? I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I can hear them in the hall, and they're looking for me.

We can feel my warmth, even if my fingers feel numb and my teeth can't stop shattering. I can hear them whispering my name. I'm going to make a break for it out my window. I don't have a doubt that I'll freeze to death, but I'll take it. Take that over being ripped to pieces. I hear it's quite nice, freezing to death. You just sort of go to sleep. I found this in the attic of a home I'm restoring.

There was a horrible blizzard a few decades back that destroyed a bunch of homes, but nothing like this. Maybe it's a joke. Maybe it's some creative writing homework or the beginning of a novel. All I can say is that last night the sun went down, but it hasn't come back up yet this morning.