The Dark Somnium - "I Clean Crime Scenes and Hoarder Houses, Today I Saw Something TERRIFYING"

Episode Date: December 12, 2023

This Scary story is from the nosleep subreddit, posted by Dopabeane, check out the original story and support the author: "I Clean Crime Scenes and Hoarder Houses, Today I Saw Something Terrifying" https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/8e7z4e/i_clean_crime_scenes_and_hoarder_houses_for_a/Special thanks  @DusklightRadio  and  @RomNex  for joining me in this! Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

I'm a hazmat cleaner in a very specific niche. Basically, I clean hoarder houses, as well as family homes after traumatic deaths. It's a necessary job. First, imagine the worst thing that could possibly happen to you, like being a parent whose teenager just shot herself or the survivor of a murder suicide. Then, imagine going home after the reports are filed and the detectives are done and having to scrub your loved one's dried brains off the wall. That's where I come in.

It's surprisingly easy to acclimate to corpses and gore. Depending on the situation, bloodstains can be hard to deal with, only because they're always in context. The splatter on the children's sponge bob quilt, the smears across the cheerfully rustic kitchen, the violent spray over family portraits. The stark evidence of violence over the normal trappings of a family home can be disturbing, but that gets easier over time. The hardest part is the smell, sweet and almost gooey, with undertones of vomit and fetid

swamp, sweat and unwashed skin. The stench strengthens and weakens seemingly on a whim. Sometimes I swear it moves, drifting across a room or directly overhead, or lunging forward to swallow me. But that really doesn't bug me anymore. Even mattresses dripping with decomposition juice get unremarkable after a while. Now, a couple of days ago, I was assigned to a suicide house. The victim was a middle-aged lady with hoarding issues.

She lived alone. Her much older brother lived in a nursing home. She called him like clockwork once a week. Suddenly she stopped calling. Four weeks passed, and he was frantic. He has dementia and other issues. His sister was his only family, the only one other than the parish priest who came to visit. So he felt her absence keenly.

By the time his caretakers finally called in a welfare check, his sister had been dead for at least three weeks. It was pretty ghastly, as advanced decomposition tends to be. The only good thing I can say is at least it's been a cold spring out here. Low temperatures alleviate the stench somewhat. The house is a neat, narrow-lit two-story, with a slightly overgrown yard and a tiny grove of apple trees out back. Nothing out of the ordinary. Inside was another story. It's hard to describe bad hoarder situations.

Entire rooms are overwhelmed with literal mountains of trash, clothes and stuffed animals, books and papers, cheap gas station figurines, cat litter, dead animals, old electronics, the list is endless. And somehow it all looks the same. Just a morass of garbage and forgotten belongings, steadily claiming the house from its human occupant. This lady was no different. Returous slopes made from old newspapers and books filled every corner.

Christmas trees, stuffed animals, dishes, garbage, pillows, and so much more filled out the rest. Clostrophobic, filthy, and foul-smelling. As cleaners, we typically just throw everything away. The filth and biohazard issues make donation impossible. If we find something valuable, jewelry, antiques, and so on, we set it aside for the estate. For the most part, though, these belongings are worth less than the trash bags we put them in. Again, this lady was no different. It took two days to clear a path to the back of the house, and three days to actually empty

out the rooms. It took a full day to clean the stairs, which for some reason were literally coated with dried vegetation and what looked like a metric ton of table salt. According to real estate information, which we always dredge up before entering a home, the second level had two bedrooms and an office. This is where things suddenly got weird. The bedrooms were immaculately clean, which was impossible. The entire stairway had been packed floor to ceiling with garbage.

There would be no way this lady would have been able to clean up here. Even if she'd been climbing through a window every day, the entire situation defied hoarder behavior. Ignoring a sudden case of the creeps, I inspected each bedroom. While thoroughly permeated with the stench of the lady's recently removed corpse, they were utterly spotless. The paint on the walls even glistened. The office was more like it, stuff from floor to ceiling, with dead plants, specimen cases, and paintings. About a dozen taxidermy animals sat in a neat row facing the wall. It wasn't as filthy as the downstairs by any means, but it was much more in line with my expectations. Due to the smell, most of the stuff,

cool as it was, couldn't be salvaged. There's just no reliable way to do. to get three weeks of steadily worsening corpse stench out of household belongings. Even so, I took a good look at most of it. I'm an amateur zoologist. I thought I was going to be Steve Irwin when I grew up, majored in biology and everything. So this is where it gets awfully strange. First, the specimen cases. These are small glass displays, usually around 12 by 12, that people use to pin dead bugs

and blossoms, you know, like butterflies and beetles. These things were definitely bugs, but they weren't normal. For example, one was a coppery caterpillar with a flat, almost humanoid face, pinkish skin, wrinkles, eyelids sinking down into its empty sockets and everything. Another was this arachnid thing with a bluish, crab-like body and a single desiccated eye peering up from the thorax. Yet another looked undeveloped, almost fetal. I had wrinkled, sage-colored flesh and long ears that reminded me of a basset hound.

At this point, I was pretty sure I'd stumbled on some eccentric ladies' collection of gag gifts. The taxidermy animals made the joke theory a lot harder to believe. The first one I saw was this tiny, slow-eyed thing with beautiful features corrupted by unnatural proportions. The second was basically a giant lacquered anemone, with what must have been a thousand rot-rimmed holes boring through the tentacles. The worst looked like a person with a frozen, open-mouthed smile that spread to its ears and

five glassy eyes arching over the upper lip. By this point, I felt paranoid, even frightened. This wasn't right. None of this was right. A typical hoarder house on the first floor blocked off a pristine, empty second floor? And what were these things? Sophisticated fakes? Somebody's forgotten art installation?

How did these things get up here, and how were they all so clean? Because I was no longer sure these items qualified as garbage, I carefully sorted and stacked everything. Then I started on the walls. Paintings cluttered every inch, literally fitting together like puzzle pieces. Most were more or less unremarkable, if cool looking. Lots of surreal landscapes and stylized creatures, which are catnip to my fantasy-loving self. But one painting in particular trapped my attention and wouldn't let it go. About seven feet tall, maybe three feet wide, it dominated the room.

Rendered in a hundred shades of green and black and gray, it depicted a misty, primeval forest, drenched in moonlight. Lumincent flowers sprouted along upraised tangles of tree roots. A tall forbidding figure peered through the trees, half cloaked in soft darkness. No features, but the suggestion of strength was clear in its broad shoulders and long, sinewy limbs. A curtain of hair reflected the moonlight. I couldn't discern the color. The shadows were too deep, the lines and hues of the figure too indistinct to even begin to guess. After a few minutes, I realized all the hair on my arms was standing on end. With a huge cathartic shudder,

I spun around and pretended to survey the room, or rather pretended I wasn't afraid. As I stood there trying to mentally reset, a draught sweat the room. Wet, cool, almost inviting, and, after the endless odor of human rot, beautifully sweet. Trying to remember when I'd opened the window, I turned. For a long, mesmerizing minute, I couldn't understand what I was seeing. The enormous painting had come to life. Tendrils of strange leaves swayed in that chilly, fresh breeze. The glowing flowers bobbed, flattening slightly against the roots as the wind buffeted them.

Somewhere deep in that unearthly landscape, a high song sounded, wordless and open-throated. I imagined it echoing off icy peaks and down below in low, swampy valleys. It made me think of forests and mountains, wild rivers and endless plains. The only thing I couldn't picture was the creature singing the song. The figure stood silently, only its hair moved, rippling in the wind like a banner. Then it took a long, sure-footed step forward. Moonlight glanced off its face, illuminating an impossible shark-cheatbone and a dark, cavernous eye. I bolted.

I tripped down the stairs, falling flat on my face at the landing, then scrambled up and ran out of the house. I didn't even lock the door. I know I shouldn't go back. I don't know what that thing in the painting is. Honestly, I'm not even convinced it was real. But the thing is, I want to go back. Not because I'm fearless, far from it, but because I want to know more. I'm not the only one, am I?

How do you look at this stuff and not ask why, or how? How do you not want to cross the threshold into that painting and see what's there? I don't know. Part of me wants to call in sick for the next month, but part of me wants to go back, maybe even tonight. Like I said, I don't think I locked the door. I won't necessarily go upstairs or anything. I just like to make sure the place is secure. Before I go, if I go at all, has anyone encountered something like this?

Do any of those taxidermy creatures ring a bell? I know it's a shot in the dark, but if you have any ideas, I'd like to hear them. I went back to the house early this morning. The smell of human rot still clung to everything like invisible fungus. But other than that, it was starting to look all right. The carpet still had to come up, but everything else on the first floor was done. I wasn't brave enough to go into the taxidermy room by myself. I did, however, check out the preternaturally clean bedrooms.

The first was as spotless, impersonal, and unremarkable as I remembered, more like a hotel room than a bedroom. The second had a dirty plate on the bed spread and a crusty old coat crumpled on the floor. Someone had broken into the house last night, all because I'd been too chicken shit to go back and lock the door. Heart pounding, I checked the closet and under the bed. Nothing. Then I prodded the coat. It looked big enough to cover a person, a massive pile of brown fur encrusted with dark dirt. Handfuls of tender green shoots sprouted along the shoulders and back. I plucked one, feeling a mixture of curiosity and confusion, and inexplicable paranoia.

Then I looked at the plate, crumples of dirt. and greenery mixed with what looked like sticks, all overlaid with an odd gossamer shimmer. I leaned in and almost immediately reared back, long, dirty spider legs, and tiny translucent bug wings. I swept through the house for intruders. I even peeked into the taxidermy room, but found no one. The isolation and general weirdness got overwhelming really fast, so I went outside and waited. My boss, let's call him Kurt, pulled up around seven.

When he saw the taxidermy animals, his exact words were... Just fake freak show shit. The lady used to work for a circus. Guess you found her mementos. He looked the giant, hold-filled anemone up and down with a grimace. Real nice. Anyway, you're right. We need an appraiser.

What about the other rooms up here? They have beds and... dressers. I hesitated, but didn't mention the sprouted coat or spider legs. I'm not sure why. I know it was dishonest. Gotcha. He stepped toward the door, already set to leave. I'll make some calls. That way we can be sure we aren't throwing away anything her brother is going to want. After that, we... He cut off, frowning, just as a painfully cold breeze knifed through the room. Why is it so cold in here? I glanced at the painting involuntarily. Kurt tracked my gaze and froze. Long, fern-like leaves swayed in the damp wind. Hazy moonlight filtered through thin

ribbons of clouds, reflecting off a pristine scrim of snow that most certainly hadn't been there yesterday. Dead knots of flower vines clustered around icy tree roots. Further testament to the senseless passage of time within. Kurt approached the painting with the same care and stance one might use on a growling pit bull. I wanted to stop him, but didn't quite dare. Not like I could do anything anyway. But I'm built like Frodo Baggins, and he is basically gerald of Rivia, except clean. He tapped the picture frame experimentally, then reached inside. The ambient light from the snow reflected off the hazmat suit, turning it an almost angelic white. It's so cold. Did you know about this?

Yeah. He frowned, studying the feathery leaves on the tree. For future reference, this is not the kind of shit you sit on for 12 hours. He pulled his arm back, briskly rubbing some heat back into it. Then he turned and beeline for the door. A terminal case of the creeps overtook me the second he crossed the threshold, so I hurried after him. To my mingled dismay and excitement, Kurt decided we were going to explore. We pulled ropes, pullies, and harnesses out of the van and got to work. I did tell him about the figure I'd seen yesterday.

Rather than fear or trepidation, a wild, almost feverish excitement lit his face. So there are people in there? We harnessed up and anchored the ropes as if preparing for a descent rather than a simple walk. Of course, he went first. I watched, heart in my throat, as that slivery, wraith-like light washed over him. The tree branches cast spidery shadows but played over his form like living things. Things. Ice crunched under every careful step.

He grew confident quickly and kept moving, growing steadily smaller until he disappeared into the trees. By the time the rope pulled taut, he had been inside the painting at least five minutes. I strained to hear, except for the gentle rustling of the wind, everything was silent. Finally, the rope went slack. A breath I hadn't even realized I'd been holding washed over me. Several minutes later, Kurt's form finally came back into view, jarringly anachronistic and terribly, terribly small against the primeval backdrop.

Towering forests spilled into the field of boulders, almost eclipsing him. The trees and enormous tangled roots in the foreground framed the landscape strangely. Batved in that cold, hazy moonlight, it all looked like something out of a fever dream. Excitement coursed through me, overtaking my fear. I could barely wait for him to get back. I wanted to go in there more than I'd wanted anything in my life. He finally emerged, shivering, and immediately reached for a water bottle. Mud, leaves, and a delicate webbing of moss coated his gloves.

It's cold in here. I can't believe a fucking cold. I can't believe it's fucking real. I clipped my harness in and we switched places. The second I stepped across the frame, I gasped. The chill was so powerfully shocking it felt like I had. I had been punched. I tried catching my breath, but the stunning, alien beauty of the scenery made it impossible.

Everything was so much faster inside. The boulders in the near distance were at least the size of houses. Trees easily ten times my height towered on all sides. Enormous nets of moss hung from the branches, drifting dreamily in the wind. The thought of entering that ancient forest made me shudder, so I veered to the right instead. The snowy landscape extended several hundred yards, terminating in what looked like a ridge. I walked briskly, trying to ignore a highly uncomfortable, unnerving sensation. It felt like my muscles weren't contracting correctly.

It's hard to explain, but you know how whenever you breathe or take a step, everything contracts, then expands? It's like I was stuck in that expanded state, like my body couldn't tighten up again, leaving everything unnaturally loose. Then strengthened dangerously as I tromp toward the ridge. The snow seemed old, possibly refrozen, crunchy thin, and deceptively slippery. I moved carefully, steering clear of the crystalline rocks and the occasional struggling sprig of greenery.

I searched the sky for stars, but the dreamy haze created by the moon reflecting off gauzy clouds obliterated whatever constellations there might have been. steadfastly ignoring the unsettlingly boneless quality of my movements, I made it to the ridge. Straight down a sheer, rocky slope, glittering with ice and deep blue veins of crystal, sat a dark valley. Nestled in the center where labyrinthian ruins dominated by a looming black pyramid, arranged and weathered steps, it looked both inexpressibly ancient and eerily futuristic. The sides facing me reflected the sky, like a hallucinatory collection of enormous

silver mirrors. The rest of it was indistinct shadow. It looked alive somehow, like sentient darkness masking itself in a facade of light. At the very top of the pyramid stood a tall, thin figure, face turned to the sky, long hair whipped wildly in the wind, bright and filmy as the clouds overhead. A heavy gust of wind shrieked past, buffeting me dangerously close to the edge. I turned sharply and hunched down, hurrying back to the sky. the house. Temperatures dropped as the winds grew, and soon enough I was shaking. Ice and moon and bright snow mingled together, creating a glistening, dreamy atmosphere. Tree branches groaned as the wind tore their delicate nets of moss away. Somewhere in the distance opposite the pyramid,

that strange song echoed. My bones and muscles felt looser than ever. The vibrations from that voice coursed painfully through my body, and for a few delirious moments. I was afraid the frequency would rupture my insides. Finally, the warm, mundane glow of the taxidermy room appeared among the trees. I caught a glimpse of Kurt's face peering around the edge, and I rushed inside. After the bitter chill of the painting, the room felt dangerously, oppressively hot. What did you see? I described the pyramid as best I could, as well as the slender, long-haired giant, gazing at the clouds.

What about the thing making that sound? The song continued to echo in the distance. Brimming with emotion, I felt too insignificant to comprehend. Did you see it? No. Kurt started pacing, all the while, staring nervously at the painting. Have you put all these things on the manifest? Yeah.

Redo it. Take it all off. Kurt. What? What's your solution? You really want to put all this shit up for auction? Don't know about you, but I don't want to end up shot by the fucking men in black. He paused.

and took a deep, shaky breath. Okay, tell you what. I'll take care of the manifest. That way nothing's on you. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut. We're done with this house in a couple days. Then you don't have to worry about it anymore. Panic and anger exploded.

No, you don't get to take it? His eyebrows crawled all the way up into his hair. My insides instantly withered, but I held my ground. I found this painting. I could have stolen the damn thing, and he wouldn't have been any of the wiser. He didn't get to steal it from me. Kurt's expression smooth, and to my surprise, I saw a hint of relief.

Not like I wanted to do it alone, kiddo. You look scared there for a minute. Thought you didn't want anything to do with it, that's all. Well, I do. Good. He peeled his gloves off and absently scratched his palms. We'll leave it here until we clear out on Thursday. Give ourselves some time to figure out what to do with it.

Sound good? Yeah. I answered, because there wasn't anything. else to say. We spent the rest of the day pulling up the carpets downstairs. He wasn't scheduled to help me today, but he understandably wants the house clear as soon as possible. I'm not complaining. At this point, it looks like I'll be getting paid to explore an alien world. Kurt cut the day short after developing a pretty ugly allergic reaction to the filth under the carpet. Even with the hazmat suit, he ended up with huge hives spreading from his fingers all the way to his elbows. I wanted

to stay and finish it, but he didn't want me alone with that painting. That's fair enough, I think. On the way out, I asked to spread fresh salt along the stairs and sheepishly told him why. He made fun of me for believing in superstitious bullshit, but let me do it. Honestly, I'm glad Kurt knows, and I'm relieved he's taking the lead. Having somebody else in charge makes this less frightening and more exhilarating. I'm scared, don't get me wrong, but for the first time in my life, I can't wait to see what happens tomorrow. Last night I had strange nightmares. Elegant men with decayed faces and beautiful women in jewel-encrusted bull headdresses, towering horn shadows and spidery monstrosities with wet, rotten flesh swinging from their bones.

By 4 a.m., I was trapped in that dreamy, high alert state of paranoia peculiar to exhaustion. Sleep wasn't a possibility, and it's not like I was eager to welcome more nightmares anyway. So, I got ready for work, suited up, and drove to the suicide house just as the sun rose. I ripped up the last of the downstairs carpet and hauled it outside, struggling to ignore a sense of feverish, almost overpowering excitement. Terrified as I was, I couldn't wait to re-enter the portal. The anticipation was almost painful. The only thing keeping me from hurtling in there was my own cowardice. Kurt still hadn't arrived by the time I finished the carpet. So mindful of the squatter issue from yesterday, I checked the upstairs bedrooms.

One was normal, as expected. Heart lurching, I tentatively opened the second room and froze. Tangle of vines draped the walls and clotted the bed. A cool, earthly scent permeated the air, reminding me of wet woods after a winter rainstorm. Morning light filtered through the leaf-covered window, infusing the room with an eerie, green radiance. In the corners and under the bed, clusters of half-open blossoms glowed faintly in the dim. I stepped inside, jumping when something crunched underfoot. A vine had snapped.

I kneeled down to have a look. The dark stem burst with leaves, furled blossoms and long, wicked thorns. Silvery drops of resin seeped from the broken stalk. Carefully avoiding the thorns, lest I tear my suit, I strode to the window. Greenery coated everything, masking all but the faintest hints of furniture. Unbidden, I thought of where the wild things are. That brought to mind the furry, sprout-covered coat I'd seen yesterday. I found it by the bed, covered in a mound of greenery.

I gingerly tore away vines, grimacing as clumps of filth-caked fur came up too. Pretty soon, the coat was in tatters. The vines had warmed through and separated it to the point of ruin. And before long, I found myself holding patches of fur and tanned brittle hide. I pulled up the last few pieces, working at free of the stems and thorns, when something shifted. It rolled under the vines, rustling the leaves and flowers as I went. I reached for it. My fingertips barely grazed the hard, rounded surface.

With a careful, calculated strain, I hooked it with my thumb and pulled it up for inspection. It was a skull, brown, and uncomfortably soft, with a massive snout and no eye sockets. Disgust and panic subsumed me. Before I could think, I tossed it to the corner and stood. It took all my willpower to leave the room slowly. The only thing keeping me in check was the certainty that the thorns would shred my suit if I wasn't careful. Fighting off my shutter, I finally exited and decided to check the taxidermy room. I pushed the door open.

half expecting a pile of thorny plants to tumble out. The window here faced away from the sun, leaving everything shrouded in shadow. Even in the darkness, something felt terribly wrong. I studied the room for several tense moments before it hit me, the taxidermy animals. Yesterday and the day before, they'd been neatly arranged against the north side of the room. Now they all stood around the portal, facing the door. The five-eyed humanoid with a wide mouth, took pride of place, positioned directly before the painting, the long-haired figure had returned

to the frame. It rested on its haunches, poised like a sprinter about to take off. I slammed the door and ran downstairs, struggling not to hyperventilate. Salt crunched unpleasantly under my feet. The way the house trapped the thick, syrupy morning light reminded me of my nightmares, all shades of orange and gold and red. I ran outside. Across the street, a blonde neighbor lady stopped and stared.

I avoided eye contact and pretended to busy myself with the equipment in the van. My hand shook as I struggled to calm myself. It was 7.30, and Kurt would be here any minute. He'd sort shit out, one way or another. Excuse me. I whirled around. The neighbor woman reared back nervously. I'm sorry to bother you.

I just got back into town. Her gaze drifted curiously over my shoulder. then snapped back to me when she noticed me watching. I was wondering, with the suit and whatnot, is everything okay? I shrugged and gave the party line. I'm with the cleaning company, ma'am. I don't know anything about the situation. Oh.

Her tone turned mildly aggressive. It's just that I spoke with my neighbor about a week ago. I just thought he would have mentioned a cleaning company. She looked my hazmat suit up and down with a tight, meaningful smile. Especially a serious one, like yours. A week. Kurt said the occupant had been dead for almost a month before anyone found her. But this lady had spoken to her a week ago?

And what was this about a male neighbor? Ma'am, I'm sorry, I'm just an employee. I can show you my credentials, give you my boss's number, but she backed off immediately. No, no, it's fine. No worries. Just a little concerned. We're tight-knit here. I waited until she crossed the street, then called Kurt.

He didn't answer. Maybe he was driving. And he only lived 15, maybe 20 minutes away. He'd arrive any second. Half an hour passed before I gave up and went to his house. When I got there, both his vehicles were in the driveway. He didn't answer the door. So I tried the knob.

Locked, of course. Kurt? Fighting a surge of panic, I felt around for a spare key. I found one tucked into the crack of the doorframe. It took a minute to pry out, but it fit the lock just fine. Kurt, it's just me. He sat naked and cross-legged in the living room floor. Right in the middle of the light streaming through the window.

He looked at me. Sunlight threw his features into sharp relief and turned the beads of sweat on his face to diamonds. Stay there, he whispered. And shut up. I looked him over. horror building in my chest. Holes. A hideous, tripophobic nightmare spreading from his biceps to fingernails.

Hundreds of them. Small and dark like round termite burrows. All rimmed in red, welted flesh. They don't like the sun. I think it kills them. My stomach heaved. Kill what? Have a look.

Bruzy bags puffed under his eyes, making him look 20 years older and terribly sick. Keep your suit on. I knelt beside him and forced myself to look. Sunlight bounced off the bottom of the holes, revealing soft, glistening white flesh. At first I thought they were deep boils. Then I noticed they were quivering. Finally, I saw the eyes, tiny and fish-like, flitting wildly to and fro. I emitted a low whine that made me want to shoot myself.

Don't. His voice broke. Look. Some are on. He rolled one of his wrists, and sure enough, a few of the holes had bubbled over with jelly. Two of those goldfish eyes were suspended in the murk, glinting like tiny coins. I tried to call 911, but Kurt threatened to attack and infect me.

The thing is, he's four times my size. He'd have no trouble hurting me in the short interval between the phone call and the ambulance's arrival. I'm pretty tough, but the thought of those holes, those quivering jellyworms, but I'm quite tough burrowing in my skin. No. I'd let him die before letting him pass those to me. He asked me to sit with him, and I obliged.

Every once in a while I'd hear a small pop. Then he'd gasp as a geyser of translucent icker bubbled out of those holes. After a while, that vicious gel covered his arms, shining with an iridescence that made my stomach churn. I swam in the gunk, slowly dripping onto the carpet. You caught them inside the painting? I finally asked. He released a shaky breath.

In those woods, there was something like a weird giant skeleton. I tripped and went down under the ribs into a patch of thistles it looked like. Poked a few holes in my gloves. It punctured your gloves and you came back through? What? Was I supposed to fucking stay in there? I heard another low, wet pop. Kurt hissed as a tiny volcano of pale gel oozed over his left wrist, obscuring several holes.

They made me sick and panicky, but I could barely look away. Well, there are plants in one of the bedrooms now. I explained everything as quickly as I could, from the flower vines and soft eyeless skull to the ominous rearrangement of the taxidermy animals. He tried to interrupt, but I kept going. What do you know about the lady who lived there? Nothing. He answered calmly, but just for an instant, his face flickered.

Really, because a lady from across the street came over and told me her neighbor is very much alive. I stood up. He followed suit, grimacing only slightly. Where are you going? To my office. My throat was painfully dry. I'm going to find her brother's information. Without thinking, I bolted for the door.

He caught me easily, hand tight as a vice around my elbow. Jelly and glittering eyes smeared my suit. You're not going to tell anyone anything. Then tell me what's going on. Okay. He dragged me to the living room and threw me on the sofa. That house is mine. A thousand horrifying conclusions ran through my head.

But the lady who lived there was my wife. So this is more or less what he said. Kurt's wife Evie had been missing a lot longer than four weeks. Their relationship was fraught, and they'd separated, though not divorced six years ago. He checked in periodically, always hoping for the possibility of reconciliation, but that never happened. He last spoke to her over a year ago. She'd sounded terrified.

Kurt didn't think much of it, as Evie was prone to hysteria and not mentally or emotionally well. After that, she stopped taking his calls. About four months ago, she knocked on his front door. But it couldn't have been her. Evie was 56 years old. The girl on the porch would have been a dead ringer, except she was 30 years too young. She was giggly and excited and uttered endless strings of gibberish.

When he freaked out, she shoved him into a wall with enough force to knock him out. When he came to, she was gone. And he shortly found out, so was Evie's house. Now a house was always on the property, but it was never the right house. Every day Kurt saw a different structure and a different occupant. He saw everything from tacky, tutor-style condos to low-slung sprawlers, to wood cottages, and once a turreted blue monastery. But finally, just a couple weeks ago, the house reverted to the neat little two-story

he'd bought for her after their separation. He broke in and immediately reared back, gagging from the overpowering stench. He found her liquefying corpse sprawled on the liver. room floor, slowly bonding into the carpet. When he checked the house afterward, even going so far as to use a ladder to peer into the upstairs windows, he found nothing strange, certainly no taxidermy monstrosities or trans-dimensional portals. The house hasn't changed since, but the weird specimens and awful painting appeared recently. He's afraid this means the house is about to disappear again. Fine, just fucking dandy.

Why the goddamn hell did you involve me? I couldn't go in there after seeing her like that. He answered quietly. I sensed deception here. Maybe an omission, maybe an outright lie. I couldn't tell. And I didn't have the presence of mine to pin him down on it. Instead, I angrily blurted, why did you tell me she worked for the circus?

She did. The house is the circus. So, I don't know if you know. know this, but circus has a definition other than the clowns and elephants variety. A circus is a sort of open public space where several avenues converge. Circuses had been the crux of his last phone conversation with Evie. She sobbed that she was tired of the circus, that the circus wanted too much, that she no longer knew what to do with the circus.

So what's the goal here? I made my voice deliberately callous. You own the house. Why don't you just burn it all down? Because? He cut me off, hissing. A series of unwholesome pops filled the room. Fluid erupted from a dozen holes in his arms.

He grimaced. Because that girl, whatever she was, wasn't my wife. She was too young. I think Evie might be alive. In the painting. Through the portal. He corrected me. He spread his arms.

A rain of jelly patted the floor. I didn't want to involve. You can't do this alone." Sure you can, I thought bitterly, but I didn't say it. Because you know what? I can't get the idea of the circus out of my head, an untold number of avenues from different dimensions and realities converging on a single, unremarkable spot in the West Coast's grossest midside city.

And that bitterly cold, beautiful world full of luminescent moonflowers and trees draped in breathtaking, intricate nets of moss, and the labyrinth. Of course, that dark labyrinth with a black pyramid at its center. I'll never have a chance like this again. Never in my life. Okay, what do you want me to do? Lay in the yard for a while. In the sun.

Just in case these things are on your suit. Then go home. I'll call you when the infestation's dead. I did as he said, lingering in his yard till sunset. I checked on him one more time, still stretched on his living room carpet. squeezing fluid from those sickening holes and went home. I've been waiting for him to call ever since. I hope his infestation's done.

I know I have a lot of other things to worry about, but I can't stop thinking about those holes in Kurt's skin. It's great that sunlight kills them, but I'm scared of what will happen in the dark. By midnight, I still hadn't heard from Kurt, which was surprising. He'd been doing extremely well for a man whose arms looked like fleshy honeycombs, and I expected him to check in periodically, if only to let me know he was still alive. It occurred to me that I was expecting too much.

Under the circumstances, it had been easy to forget that I'm his employee, not his friend or anything else. My impatience probably seemed ridiculous, but the drive to learn, no, understand, and seek is all consuming. The prospect of exploring a new world is overwhelming. I want an adventure so much. It's what I've wanted my entire life. Then there's Kurt.

He's a good guy, and I care about him probably more than I should. I want to help him. And feelings aside, I have no way to explore this new world if Kurt dies. So around 11.30 on Tuesday night, I decided to go check on him. I opened my door only to find myself face to face with a stranger. It was a woman, copperide, and terribly pale, with a choppy, tangled mess of blood. black hair. Chris?

She whispered. Yes? I said automatically. Kurtz at the circus. He needs your help. I trusted her for a second before every alarm in my body went off. I tried to slam the door, but she struck forward and wrapped cold fingers around my wrist. The second she touched it, her pallor warmed into a heart-breaking peaches and cream complexion.

Dull eyes brightened and dirty hair turned smooth and thick. My own fear and panic evaporated. replaced with a single-minded objective. Help Kurt. I drove to the house with the stranger. The car didn't agree with her. Within moments, she was whimpering and vomiting, but I was so focused on my goal that she barely registered.

When we got there, she grabbed my hand and walked me to the second floor. You're the only one allowed inside. Strings of vomit glistened on her chin. She pointed to the vine-choked bedroom. In there. She retreated as I threw open the door. Even in my mesmerized state, the room shocked me. It was nothing but a lush grove of vines, striated leaves, and soft, luminescent flowers.

I entered. Kurt? Vines crunched under my feet. I winced only slightly as a thorn tore through the sole of my shoe and punched a hole in my heel. Blood gushed, soaking the sock and dripping through the hole. I shook it irritably, vaguely satisfied, as drops pattered against the leaves and petals. Flowers flared where the blood hit. The light swiftly spread from flower to flower, a multicolored chain reaction of bright blossoms.

A shadow shifted in the corner. Relief flooded me as I ran over. Kurt, are you okay? The figure reared up. Glowing flowers illuminated an eyeless head that might have been bovine were it not for the teeth. I thought of the coat, that strange fur coat full of dirt and sprouts. A coat, a skin, but it had been dead. I'd seen and touched its skull.

I'd pulled its hide to pieces. How was it alive? The creature lurched forward. What he vine snapped under massive paws. Long, loop and teeth reflected the eerie light of the flowers. I turned and ran, slamming the door just as the creature pounced. It hit the door with a bone-shaking crack. I darted toward the stairs, stopping when I saw the girl.

No longer whole and healthy, not even human. Leathery skin cascaded from her limbs, lumping and folding over itself. Her head was wide and flat, with three enormous eyes and a suppurating snub nose. I spun around and ran to the other bedroom. It was locked. To my shock, voices and music issued from behind it. I pounded on the door, screaming, but no one responded. If anything, the music, soft, playful piping, got louder.

The eyeless monster tore a hole in the other door and started to squeeze through. Once again, I lunged for the stairwell, but the girl warped, growing into a multi-limbed monstrosity. I screamed and dashed to the taxidermy room, locking the door behind me. The muffled sound of music and laughter permeated the room, punctuated by the frantic snarling of the eyeless monster. The taxidermy animals had changed position yet again, flanking the painting like an honor guard. Somehow, the painting's perspective had changed. Instead of that stunning, sylvan landscape of trees and glowing flower vines, it displayed

a breathtaking vista of the Labyrinth Valley. The pyramid loomed to the left, cubed steps flashing silver in the moonlight. A warm breeze drifted from the painting, carrying strains of that alien song and the wet, green scent, peculiar to lush summers. Summertime. But yesterday that land had been in the throes of winter. What was going on? The monster crashed into the door, breaking my reverie while sending an explosion of splinters across the room.

Without thinking, I ran into the portal. Humid, sweet-smelling air enveloped me. Soft tangles of grass and wildflowers carpeted the ground. Finally, I noticed the pain radiating from my punctured foot. My entire shoe squelched with every step, making my stomach churn. The pyramid towered nearby, ringed on all sides by a little. maze of massive walls. Awstruck, I started to slow down just as I heard a heavy, thudding gallop.

I looked over my shoulder and saw the eyeless creature tearing through the grass. It ran low to the ground, long snout stretched outward. I sprinted toward the labyrinth and veered wildly to the right. An unbroken expanse of wall curved as far as I could see. Even through my fear, I marveled at it. The walls were smooth and richly dark. Carvings covered every surface, a mixture of unrecognizable characters and hieroglyphs. Finally, I saw a light ahead, soft and soothing green.

It reflected off the walls like a beacon, grimly ignoring the galloping monstrosity behind me. I put on a final burst of speed and ran to the entrance. The eyeless thing caught me just as I crossed the threshold, batting me down. I squirmed away, heedless of the sharp undergrowth pricking my skin. It caught me easily and swiped. Wiped, burning pain subsumed my wrist, followed by a cascade of slick, wet heat. Light erupted all around me. The flowers again blazing to life.

I cradled my injured wrist, shivering as blood streamed over my fingers. The monster thrust its snout against my throat. For a terrible instant, its teeth pressed into the soft skin. Then it pulled away, leaving a cluster of fur and sprouts in the hollow of my throat. I crawled to my knees, sobbing, and scuttled away. The pale light illuminated it fully, a broad, bony chest lay atop its long snout, creating a sharp angle that somehow looked inorganic. Thin brittle skin stretched painfully over its skull, splitting apart in several places to reveal

the bone beneath. It didn't have enough flesh to cover its teeth or gums, resulting in a perpetual snarl. Its head was enormous, far too large for its low, muscular body. It tried to raise its head, but couldn't. The snout lifted several inches before plummeting back into the earth. The monster retreated suddenly, disappearing into the tall grass as a shadow swept across me. I turned around, already knowing what I would see. Sleak long hair shone like glass, inhumanly sharp planes created an angular, hypnotic face

that was equal parts breathtaking and horrifying. He knelt in front of me. I kicked away, feet tangling in the lower. long grass, but grabbed my hands and pulled me close. His skin glimmered strangely, moon-white and iridescent, composed of a delicate, overlapping pattern that reminded me of scales. He inspected my wound, iron grip pressing down to the bone. Then he pressed my wrist to his forehead, smearing my blood all over his face. Somewhere in the labyrinth, a throaty song began to echo. Finally, he brought the gash to his mouth and sucked. Agony immediately.

exploded. I thought of poison, of venom, acid eating me down to the bone. This was it. This was fucking it. I was dying outside of an alien pyramid in a shitty painting while a half-starved reptilian dissolved me with his tongue. I passed out. Sometime later, I woke, propped against the labyrinth. I shot up and scanned my surroundings. Nothing. No light, no monsters, just brambly flower fields and the endless curve of the wall. I retraced my path and soon found the portal to the taxidermy room. I entered anxiously. Everything was still and silent, with no music or laughter to be heard.

I hurried into the hallway. No eyeless monsters or warped multi-limbed girls waited on the stairs. I sobbed with relief and ran downstairs, but stopped when I saw the front door. The five-eyed taxidermy monstrosity sat just to the side. Glass irises glittered over its unsettling wraparound smile. It looked for all the world like I'd caught it in the act of blocking the door. Those relieved sobs morphed into frightening crying. But what was I supposed to do?

Go to the backyard? Taking my eyes off this thing in the process? No. Fighting a surge of panic, I tiptoed to the door, staying as far away from the creature as I could. It towered over me. The top of its head crazed the doorframe. Had it been that big before? I couldn't remember.

With a choked gasp, I opened the door and ran out into the night. I expected it to follow, but reached my car safely. I thought immediately of Kurt. The warped girl had used him to lure me away. Maybe this meant he was dead. Maybe it meant something even worse. I had to know either way, so I drove to his house, struggling to suppress visions of limbs so full of holes they split apart.

When I pulled up, I saw all his lights were on. I got out of the car, almost laughing in relief. That relief soured when Kurt opened the door. I stopped in my tracks. He looked unwell. His hair lay slick against his scalp, and his skin glistened under the porch light. My stomach clenched, but I approached anyway. Kurt, sorry for stopping by this late.

I just... He shushed me and beckoned. His movements were slow, almost clumsy. Where have you been? He whispered. I've been trying to call you all fucking day. My skin prickled. Why?

Are you okay? Just come inside. Now. An imaginary itch, dirty and pervasive, dreamed its way across my skin. But it wasn't enough to stop me. None of it was. Not the portal or the pyramid, not the eyeless monster or the long-haired man. Certainly not Kurt or the deep burrowing holes in his arms.

So I went in. Close up, Kurt's wet skin looked painfully weird, far too smooth and almost slimy, like he'd coated himself in a thin layer of Vaseline. And his arms, the holes were gone. Whole unblemished flesh, not only healed, but completely regenerated. I slowed to a halt, unwilling to march up those steps. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Instead of the usual brown, his eyes looked coppery and somehow multifacely. They weren't Kurt's eyes.

With horror, I realized they weren't even human eyes. A hundred tiny, shimmering discs composed each iris, the eyes of the parasite that had burrowed into his skin. Parasite Kurt smiled. Are you scared? My knees felt watery and terribly weak. My car was close, but would I be able to outrun him? Would I be able to run at all?

Kurt's shoulders heaved and he started to chuckle. Then a voice, his voice, came both from inside the house and from the body in front of me. I'm scared too, but holy shit. Kurt, pale, sick, exhausted Kurt, appeared behind his shiny doppelganger. They laughed in tandem, then waved me inside. Shiny Kurt's movements were clumsier and lagged slightly, but there was no doubt about it. They were moving together. I tried to run, but my knees gave out.

and I fell instead. Shiny Kurt helped me up in the process, leaving a glistening handprint of film on my arm. Come inside. One Kurt was scary enough. With two, I had no chance of getting away. So I followed his parasite doppelganger into the house. What is this? I asked.

Kurt grinned. With a surge of nausea, I noticed that his arms remained parked with dark and flamed holes. The sunlight didn't kill them. It made them grow. An unsettling mixture of fear, disbelief, and irritation rattled my already shot nerves. Your parasites grew anew you and you're happy? I can control him. Kurt threw his arms into the air.

A fraction of a second later, shiny Kurt followed suit. I could speak through him. I could see through his eyes. He ran his hand through his hair, laughing triumphantly as his doppelganger did the same. He's me. Another part of me. Okay, Kurt, this isn't... What if there are more inside you?

His certainty gave me a chill. For the first time since this started, I wanted no part of it. There aren't anymore. They're all him now. Somehow, I talked both Kurtz into sleeping. It's been several hours now. I'm worried about Kurt. The holes in his arms look infected.

Even worse, I lost a lot of time. I last spoke to Kurt Tuesday afternoon. It's now Thursday evening. An entire day passed while I was in the portal. That doesn't make sense at all. According to the way the seasons changed in the painting, time passes more quickly than it does here. As for the injury inflicted by the eyeless thing, it looks all right.

The edges are too pale, with an iridescent sheen I can't think about for too long. I can't think about Kurt either, really. I've tried to sleep a few times. But whenever I drift off, I hear the faint sound of that singing I heard in the labyrinth. Every time I wake up, I have to fight the urge to return to the house, to that portal. I'm finally afraid, finally seeing this entire situation for the horror show it is, rather than the adventure I wanted it to be. I don't know what I'm doing, though.

They know my name and have my blood. I don't think I have a way out anymore. Kurt has a closet full of sprouts and human bones. I found it by accident the other night after he and his parasite doppelganger fell asleep. It looked like a shrine. Tangle of vines coated the walls, competing for space with glossy, striated leaves and those luminescent night blossoms. The bones were suspended from the ceiling. Vines snake through sockets and ribs, hoisting them up effectively as a harness.

Sprouts cover everything like confetti. Unlike the flowers, they're dead. whole but dry, fragile and crumbling from root to crown. I reached out to touch them. I don't know why. I didn't want to. It was a numb, thoughtless compulsion, almost like a spell. The greenery enveloped my arm, gentle and cool like mist.

My fingertips quivered a fraction of an inch from the sprouts, and one of them twitched. Dark matter plumped and darkened, growing into a rich green chute with lush leaves. The root snaked upwards. At the bottom, I saw an eye, small and round and metallic, like that of a goldfish. I reared back and slammed the door, then obsessively scanned my skin for sprouts and eyes. I heard footsteps from the living room. Kurt's shadow preceded him, stretching over the wall. What's in there?

I said. Evie. He halted in the mouth of the hall. Bruisy shadows and painful hollows marred his face, making him a little. look horrifically sick. The real one. What do you mean, the real one? The body I found in the house wasn't her.

It was the younger copy, the one I told you about. He motioned vaguely to the living room, to his parasite twin. More like him than anything, but not quite. He rubbed his neck fretfully. I'll tell you what I know. Come into the kitchen. I did as he said and sat at the table while he cluttered around, trembling. He threw on a pair of yellow dishwashing gloves, then brewed tea and put together a plate of cold leftovers.

He sat both in front of me and took a seat at the opposite end of the table. Only when I started to eat and drink did he speak. Evie had a lot of problems. Actually, from what Kurt described, Evie was insane. She claimed to be the victim of an adoption gone wrong, a kid who'd spilled through the cracks and been sold to a new parent. That parent was a rich woman who supposedly ran a network of private schools for disadvantaged youth. Evie told Kurt the schools were just a front for a breeding program and training a regime to create what she called obedient sociopaths. According to Evie, the babies were invariably used in rituals.

Rituals for what? To create circuses, among other things. Evie told Kurt all about circuses basically from day one. A circus is a locus, a place where several planes of reality converge. Circuses do not occur naturally, they have to be built, and building a circus is a horrifically violent process. Even worse, the builders have no say over which planes converge. More often than not, you end up with a circus you cannot control, filled with beings and

artifacts that actually use you, entities that possess the ability to manipulate or rewrite reality on a whim. We can't comprehend these beings because we exist on the most mundane of planes, not due to chance, but because we, as a species, expect and require the mundane. We influence and shape our own reality to suit our comfort zone. Our collective will functions as a creator force, but that collective will isn't enough to control these entities. Circuses help with that. A proper circus acts as a cage, but like all cages, the bars rust and the locks break if you aren't careful. That's why Evie left him. Her guardian, old now, on her deathbed, ordered her to take care of the circus.

Kurt was flabbergasted. What kind of horror story, fairy tale, M.K. Ultra shit was this? Evie claimed they'd kill him if she didn't do it, that his life was in danger as well as the world itself. When he tried to stop her, she assaulted him, and he got her temporarily committed on a 72-hour psychiatric hold. But when he went to see her the next day, she wasn't there. No one even confirmed that she'd been there at all. She disappeared. Two years later, he found her by accident.

She looked awful and was desperately lonely. A bad guardian, she kept saying, I'm a bad guardian. Then she asked him to stay with her. He was happy to do it. He worried about her. He missed her. He loved her. The next day, he zipped back to his place to gather some belongings.

When he returned to Evie's house, it was gone. In place of her charming little two-story sat a sprawling ranch house occupied by a couple with a kindergarten-aged daughter and a newborn son. Kurt came back every day, and each time he saw a different house occupied by different people, no one noticed but him. After a couple more years of this, the young version of Evie came to his house, just like he'd said before. He followed her back to the circus house and made it inside, where he found the real Evie. The wrong one got violent and knocked him out.

When he came two, both were gone. The wrong version returned to him several times after that. Even though he was afraid, he always followed it every time, because that was the only way to reliably find Evie's house. Evie herself was never there. He saw her in the painting once, at the side of the pale, long-haired entity. He couldn't get inside it, though. It was like staring through an unbreakable window. He saw them, and they saw him, but they were trapped on opposite sides of the portal.

Sometimes, though, there would be dry bundles of sprouts and vegetation on his side. Over time, the taxidermy animals and specimen cases appeared too. He assumed this meant he wasn't the only. one using the circus, but as of now, he's never seen the other user. At some point, he claims he doesn't remember, but I call bullshit, he found out the sprouts are regenerative. All the plants from the paintings are, in some form or another. They bring dead things back to life. Sometimes they create life from nothing. Sometimes they transfer life between creatures. On this very last visit with wrong Evie, he once again saw the real Evie in the painting.

dismembered and flayed just beyond the threshold. The barrier was gone. He ran in and cradled her. She was still warm. Wrong Evie followed him in and laughed. In a rage, he killed her and left her in the house. Then he packed up the remains of real Evie and took her home. He coated her with the sprouts and vines. He's been waiting ever since. Then why the hell do you think she's still in the painting? I demanded. Because she is. When he went into the painting with me, he followed the song, that wordless, eerie, open-throated song all the way into the woods. Even though the bones were in his closet, Evie was there, under a giant ribcage in the grove of thistles.

He couldn't touch her, though she could touch him. In fact, she gave him the parasites. To show him what must be done, she said. She told him the secret of the god in the pyramid that no dead thing resurrected unless it willed resurrection. It didn't want to resurrect her. It wanted to keep her. The only way to trick it was with the help of its guard, the pale, long-haired man with scales. He alone can override the will of the God, but he needs a worthy bribe.

The bribe is freedom. Why didn't you bring the painting here? Because if it isn't at the circus, the thing in the pyramid escapes. I stared down into my cup, trying to hide my anger from him. The dendrils of steam curled upward, warm and strangely soothing. I stirred the tea, taking savage pleasure in the obnoxious clink of silverware against ceramic. Crumpled leaves surfaced and sprung in a vortex. Why me?

Why am I involved at all? The bribe is an escape. The guard can only leave if someone else takes his place. I need a body. Within the whirlpool of tea grit came a flash of gold. spun around and floated to the surface, resolving into a metallic eye. I couldn't inhale or exhale. The guard needs a replacement and the god needs an offering.

Then I'll get Evie back. I don't want to kill you. That's why Evie did this to show me it's safe. You have to let them grow for a little bit. Then you pop them in the sun. When it's grown, we give one to the jailer and one to the god. You don't even have to go through the portal. We can control them.

We can make them do what we want. It's completely safe. Yours were only in your skin. You made me drink them. He stared at me with a sort of pained, guilty shock. The room was silent and deafening at once, and the air felt heavy. Terribly, terribly heavy. I bolted.

He caught me before I reached the living room and lifted me off the ground. I flailed and kicked, driving. him into the wall. His grip loosened and I squirmed away, only to slam into his parasite double. Together they dragged me to the hall. Up close, Kurt's arms were a horror show. The inflamed flesh inside the holes bubbled up and spilled over his skin like burn scars. Parasite Kurt looked almost translucent, like a thin scrim of water was trapped between layers of flesh. In a panic, I bit down on Parasite Kurt's hand. A gush of thin, sweet liquid erupted from the puncture. I accidentally aspirated it, and my entire mouth and throat went numb. While I

struggled to breathe, they forced me into the closet and locked the door. I fell onto the pile of bones, tangling in the vines and tearing blossoms apart. When I finally straightened up, the skull dangled inches from my face. Bright flowers glowed from each socket, equal parts horrifying and dreamily lovely. All around me, the dead sprouts came to life. Bolden eyes opening along the roots one by one. I tried to move but couldn't. The numbness had spread, overtaking my shoulders and chest. Sleepiness came with it.

The thing I saw were the eyes. A hundred, then a thousand, sparkling like miniature searchlights in the dim glow of the flowers. As I drifted off, I became dimly aware of the maddening itch in my heel. I woke to the sensation of uncomfortable pressure and painful tugging, like something was pulling muscle out through my skin, slowly turning inside out. My throat hurt, my arms hurt, and my foot radiated a deep, maddening itch. Everything flooded back, and I opened my eyes. Long, glistening larvae towered from dozens of holes in my right arm, thick as tentacles

covered in round, glittering eyes. They stretched painfully, straining toward the wall. Little pockets of my swollen tissue stretched with them, tenting of my swollen tissue. along the base of each larva. I threw up, brackish fluid choked with plant matter and metallic eyes flooded my lap. I kicked away, then shrieked as something shifted inside my heel. It felt like a snake, coiling and sliding through itself. My shoe shifted as something pushed it off, tickling my arch as it fell away. The parasite snaked out of my foot, rough edges scraping the skin of my heel. A sparkling serpent reared up like a

Cobra, rippling fins propelled its narrow body upward, bright blue eyes glittered from its sides, glinting like crystals in the dimness. After regarding me curiously, it darted upward and wove itself into the ribcage. All of its eyes were fixed on my left arm. Quivering, I looked down at my arm, expecting the worst. Roots and sprouts dusted my skin, but the flesh was whole and unblemished. Even the injury inflicted by the sprout beast, the wound guard had sucked clean, was gone. All that remained was a patch of strange white flesh that glimmered with an iridescent sheen. I looked up at the larva. They too were focused on that patch of skin. That was why they were straining. They were trying to get away from it. On impulse, I thrust my arm

toward them. With a volley of pain, unlike anything I've ever experienced, they plunged down onto my arm. They were big, much bigger than Kurtz, and my skin bulged with the strong. strain. Electric bursts of pain shot through my body, subsuming all my senses in a white nova of agony. I screamed helplessly, which quickly devolved into wet, painful coughing. Another torrent of flood came up. To my horror, tiny larva wriggled weakly in the puddle. I sobbed and reached for the doorknob. To my shock, it turned, spilling me out into Kurt's hallway. Soft midday shadows cloaked the wall, but I saw clear, clean sunlight streaming into the living room straight ahead.

I tried to stand, but my legs weren't strong enough. Sobbing weakly, I crawled to the living room and collapsed in the light. Both Kurt and his double were gone. The house was quiet. I writhed miserably, weeping and screaming as my larva erupted. They were easily five times the size of Kurtz, thick and rope-like and several inches tall. Even worse, they made noises, keening, high-pitched screeches that seemed to slice through my head. I coughed helplessly the entire time, stomach and lungs expelling incredible amounts of dark fluid.

Roots, sprouts, and weak parasites came with every expulsion. It smelled sweet, almost tropical, with hints of citrus and flowers and warm rain. The larva were too large to simply explode. Instead, they ruptured, swelling and spliced. Like overcooked sausage and splattering everything with thick, translucent bicker. Had I been physically capable, I'd have crawled out of the light just to escape the pain, but between the endless coughing and weakness, I was as good as paralyzed. Eventually I faded out.

A sensation of warm heat and softness woke me up after sunset. I turned over, something squelched under me, thick and damp like jelly. I sat up and found myself wallowing in a pool of exploded larva. Strings of their tattered skin trailed from the inflamed holes in my arm, reminding me absurdly of seaweed. Their eyes lay everywhere, glinting dully in the dying light. My foot twitched, whimpering. I looked up as the serpentine thing snaked out of my heel. The skin around it was baggy and pale like a blister.

The serpent darted over the mass of jelly, picking out the eyes and eating them eagerly. Stomaching, I glanced at the holes in my arms, puss rimmed the edges, paleness contrasting with the furious, swollen red. Each pit bore downward like a honeycomb cell. At the bottom of one, I saw a quivering mass of tissue studded with small eyes. Altogether, I counted ten. Ten ruined pits in my skin glittering with fresh larva. They're growing back.

I tried to pull the rippling snake from my foot, but before I could touch it, I could touch it burrowed deep. I swear I can feel it curling around my bone. Maybe that's why I'm weak. It's damaged my tendons and muscles. Breathing isn't easy. Each inhale is ragged and thick. Soreness radiates from my ribs and down to my stomach. It's more larva. They're inside me. I know it. I have to go back to the house because my only hope is the guard. Kurt said he needs a body as a bribe. That's fine. my own slippery doppelganger growing. The larva jelly is bubbling up before my eyes, slowly resolving into a copy of me.

If it doesn't want a doppelganger, I can always give it curt. Even now, after all the lives, I feel for him. I really do. But if he wants his wife back, he has to pay the price himself. I've always preferred pain to itching. Not that I enjoy either, but pain is straightforward, even at its worst. Pain is somehow clean. Pain always has the decency to kill you once it reaches a certain threshold.

Itching, on the other hand, is filthy and compulsive. Itching can't kill you. It'll just drive you insane. In fact, if you could transform the essence of madness into sensation, that sensation would be itching. Itching was the only thing on my mind as the larvae infestation worsened. Every breath produced a deep, explosive itch that wrapped over my ribs and organs. I saw vines in my mind's eye, thin and wet, and tipped with golden eyes, winding their way through

my body. By the time my parasitic doppelganger blinked awake, night had fallen, and my larva had regrown. The new batch was small and stringy, ill-looking. They peaked out anxiously from the holes in my skin, quivering. My doppelganger was easy to control. Actually there was nothing to it. When I moved, it moved. I was glad for this, because I didn't have the energy left for conscious control.

With a great deal of effort, I dressed it, and together we hobbled out to my car. There was a moment of confusion when it tried to climb into the driver's seat with me. I repositioned it in the passenger seat, struggling as it mirrored my movements. The larvae surfaced to watch, straining the tender flesh at the bottom of the holes. The drive to the suicide house, to the circus, was a hallucinatory nightmare. Things crept around inside me, prodding and squeezing tissues. The winged snake in my heel thrashing angrily, nipping my skin as it attempted to chew through my shoe. Worst of all, I couldn't stop coughing.

Every fit inevitably ended in a torrent of vomit choked with leaves and tiny golden eyes. My doppelganger gagged with me, identical except for its eyes, flat and golden, comprised of a hundred parasite irises. After what felt like eternity, I reached the circus and led my doppelganger inside. The living room had transformed into a grove. Vines and glowing flowers covered every surface. In the corner, dimly illuminated by the blossoms, sat the enormous anemone. Tentacles drifted dreamily, seemingly oblivious to the holes scoring its flesh. The five-eyed monstrosity lay before it, half buried in vines. I shuddered and hobbled upstairs.

My doppelganger followed hesitantly. Through my haze, I heard voices, men's laughter, and a woman's playful, sarcastic bite. One of the bedrooms was closed off. A bar of golden light flickered along the bottom of the floor. The door to the other room was torn to pieces, drooping on a single hinge. My larva peeked out and pulled toward the open room. A mindless, blissfully calm compulsion overtook me. I followed their lead and ducked inside.

A blanket of dead vines, curled leaves, and dry blossoms covered everything except a twisted figure on the bed. The larva strained forward, eyes glittering in the moonlight. It was the warped girl, unnaturally stretched across the blood-soaked quilt. Strangely, slates lay atop each of her hands. They were piled with hairy spider legs and bloated tentacles, garnished with sprouts and dead flowers. Horrific details resolved as I came close. From throat to thigh, she was a bloody ruin. Glistening guts cascaded from her butchered abdomen.

Buried in the morass was a multi-limbed fetus with several eyes. Translucent hands clutched the gory remnants of a twin. The spell suddenly broke, the larvae retracted, causing a nauseating explosion of itching that radiated my shoulder. I turned, retching, and found myself face to face with the five-eyed, hexadermy monster. It loped past me and lunged, plunging long, thick fingers into my parasites' doppelganger's throat. Thick, Iker spurreded the blood from an artery, and it collapsed. The serpent in my heel quivered. My knees gave out, and I slid helplessly to the floor. The five-eyed monstrosity approached and knelt before me. To my shock, it spoke.

In all their forms, the parasites overtake and ruin your mind. Its voice was low and liquid. Lips rolled above its vast mouth, the way grass ripples in the wind. Ruined minds make our doors. It touched my intact arm, the one the long-haired guardian had sucked clean. The unusually pale skin glimmered faintly. But he chose the one in you. It wrapped, cold puffy fingers circled my head. The face was sharp and oddly refreshing. My mind suddenly felt clear. The larva in my arm shuddered.

The caretaker will clean you again. Find him. You just want me to trade places with it. Painful hysteria built in my chest. Something like pity crossed his face. The caretaker captures and releases charges. at will. You were released war. The vines will otherwise. Its eyes skated over my honeycombed arm. Your friend, the madman, wants you to take the caretaker's place so that you will release his wife.

He will confront you. He surrendered to the vines. It looked meaningfully at the warped woman. She did not. Hysteria and horror continued to build, twinging together like the vines. Go, or I will make a door from you. I tore into the hall, past the room where men laughed and pipes echoed, into the taxidermy room. The specimen cases were broken and empty. No taxidermy creatures remained, and the painting showed only empty backdrops.

Forests and beaches, rocky canyons, and golden fields, luxury. bedchambers and blood-stained dungeons. In the center hung the familiar moonlit landscape. I ran through, gasping as deep cold settled over me like a blanket. That familiar, wordless song, beautiful yet so very close, echoed over the plains. I veered toward the slope. The pyramid came into view, a cubist masterpiece of blinding silver and unfathomable darkness. Low veils of clouds clung to the top like a gathering stone.

storm. Itching ran along my bones as larvae shifted. I hurtled towards the labyrinth, dodging thorny vines and treacherous burrows half hidden in the brittle grass. My intact arm glimmered strangely on my periphery, milky and too smooth. It frightened me in a way even the larva could not. I sped up, grimly ignoring the serpent writhing in my foot. Pale light guided me to the labyrinth's entrance. As I approached, I heard a low, resounding thrum. The ground vibrated, and a chorus of horns echoed through the night. To my shock, glittering beetles erupted near my feet and flooded across the grass. Other creatures followed, antlered hogs and primordial cats, giant toads, tiny foxes with billowing clusters of tails and more, so much more,

all running away from the pyramid. I reached the entrance just as a pack of long, Long, low wolves with tusks and bulbous eyes bolted past. Six winding paths flanked a marbled promenade that led directly to the pyramid. Corns and wordless wailing echoed off the black walls. The larvae and my arm peaked out of their burrows. I fought the urge to rip them out. The pain I knew would make me black out and marched forward. More paths sprung off the promenade, narrow and impenetrably dark.

I hurried past, refusing to look. look lest I find something staring back at me. A tall, perfectly rectangular opening loomed ahead. Glimbering steps led to the entrance. I slowed to a halt at the base of the stairs. For a paralyzing moment, I thought about turning back. This was, I thought, the very last thing I wanted to do. At that moment, the serpent in my heel convulsed, sending bright electric pain coursing

through my leg. It was an apt, perfectly time reminder that actually, Dying of an alien parasite infestation was the last thing I wanted to do. So I went inside. Soft, smoky incense enveloped me, along with almost debilitating heat. Vines and flowers crawled up the walls alongside veins of polished ore. Blossom and mineral glowed dimly, illuminating a septet of enormous images on the antechamber wall.

Five, I recognized. A bull, a locust, a mouth-formed wolf. a breathtakingly beautiful person that could have been man or woman, and a golden dragon. Two I had trouble with, a hideously proportioned human with wings, no eyes and three mouths, and a creature with a shape I couldn't quite comprehend, whose flesh glimmered with mad arrays of stars. A sharp chorus of laughter echoed through the chamber, indulgent and somehow cruel, followed by a bone-rattling roar. I spun around anxiously, looking for a door, but only saw another set of seven images behind me. The laughter grew abruptly, both in volume and glee.

My arm itched, my feet ached, and a terrible pulsating pressure built in my chest. Breathing suddenly became impossible. A moment later, I felt it, long and wet, slithering up my throat. I gagged, tongue rolling back and touching the tip of a vine, those strange cowlid. Spowering images swam before my eyes. Dreamily, I realized it wasn't laughter I was hearing, but screaming, punctuated with a chilling, inhuman bellow. I collapsed, painfully aware of the serpent shifting in my flesh.

Everything blurred together, soft and almost beautiful, as vines and larva erupted from my throat. Tiny eyes and wet leaves glittered on my periphery. It scared me, so I closed them just as halting footsteps echoed through the chamber. I felt hands on mine, strong and cool. I looked up and saw the caretaker's strange, sharp face staring into mine. One of its eyes had ruptured, red, swollen, and unwholesomely bloated. Horror and hope suffocated me with the vines as the guardian lowered its mouth to mine. Cold lips closed over my chin and cheeks.

The itching abruptly disappeared, and I felt a bare, blissful instant of relief before an overwhelming nova of agony scorched me into unconsciousness. I surfaced a silence. Gasping, I shot up. I was naked, but could breathe just fine. No plant matter or worms choked my throat. I immediately looked at my arm. Pale, plumped flesh peppered with half-heeled holes. I touched one experimentally. No itching, no larva, just a dull, unremarkable ache. My heel was strangely horrifying, deflated and colorless, like an enormous, drained blister. The sunken hole reminded me of rotting pumpkins, but at least it was empty. No serpent, no larva, no vines. I climbed to my haunches. My hand fell into a pile of vegetation, and I almost screamed. It was the caretaker, shriveled and glimmering

in the moonlight, covered in tall, luminescent flowers that looked like Lupin's. Fighting back tears, I inspected my skin for any scratch or puncture. There was none. The flowers had been soft, after all, softer than anything I'd ever touched. But was that any guarantee? Just as I'd begun to calm down, something rumbled through the antechamber. I jumped up and saw a door where there hadn't been one earlier. Under the foot of the bowl, low and glowing with rich golden light.

A hideous, incomprehensible shadow filled that beautiful doorway and lo. lumbered into the antechamber. Seven enormous sinewy limbs exploded from a twisted torso. Four were vaguely human. Three were thick vines studded with glittering eyes. Sprouts and humming tangles of bright-eye larva laced every inch of its raw flesh.

A human head crowned the monstrosity, warped and lumpy with clusters of subcutaneous vines. A feathery anemone extended from its mouth, straining the skin to such a degree that the flesh had split up to the eyes and ears. Blood sheeded past its cheekbones, choked with vines and squirming with small worms. Dangling from a broken jaw was half an eerie, translucent fetus. The twin, I realized, to the one at

the suicide house. The anemoneys snaked forward and spun open, bearing a tangled spiral of teeth that made me think of sharks. In the center of that spiral, set into the throat like a gem, lay a massive cluster of golden eyes. The anemone shifted sharply, straining upward to offer full side of the human head from which it sprouted. Kurt. Kurt's head. Kurt's body. Kurt's mind warped and erupted and overtaken by the vines.

His right eye found a dead caretaker buried in his car and flowers, then spun towards me, radiating madness and triumph. I knew somehow what he was thinking. He had won. I was the new guardian, and I would now release his wife. Sadness and profound rage swept through me just as the caretaker shifted under his glowing lupins. A deafening roar shook the pyramid. The anemone stood at attention, and Kurt looked back at the small door, panic flickering

across his ruined face. Then he lunged at me. The caretaker exploded from his funeral grove in a tornado of stems and glittering petals, launching himself a Kurt. He reached into that nightmare's gullet, ignoring the spiraled teeth and plucked out the golden cluster of eyes. The roar sounded again. Dust rained from the ceiling, leaves and flower vines rattled as if in the wind.

The guardian ignored it and continued his methodical dismemberment of Kurt. A chorus of shrill screaming issued from Kurt as larvae squirmed and shot out of his flesh, swaying several feet in the air before diving down at the guardian. body swarmed over the guardian's snowy arms. I turned and ran, hurtling down the promenade, oblivious to the numbing cold. I don't know how I made it back to the suicide house, but I did. I stumbled past empty paintings and taxidermy monsters who now breathe, past the warped woman's corpse and the laughing men. Salt crunched under my feet as I tore down the stairs and out into the yard. It was dark, and I was panicked, and so my nakedness didn't matter to me.

me. I slid into the front seat of my car and sped home, where I inspected every inch of flesh. My hands are smooth and unmarked, my feet are not. Small scratches and punctures litter the skin, but I think I'm all right. They're already healing, and the skin is smooth and unusually pale. But just in case, I drenched my feet in hydrogen peroxide, washed them and sprayed them with a cheap herbicide. It hurt like hell, and I can barely stand, and I'll have to be able to have scars, but it's worth it. Then I showered in the hottest water I could stand and stumbled to bed. I woke this afternoon to a very familiar painting propped against my bedroom wall. It's just a painting for now, rich oils and silver tones depict the scene as I first saw

it, a crisp spring night with a tall, inhuman figure framed by luminescent flowers and strange trees. I left it there and went to the suicide house. Instead of Evie's two-story, house, I saw a neat little bungalow with a breathtaking rose garden. I drove by three times before going back home. I haven't done anything with the painting, but I need to soon. I had a really good look at it just now, and there's a problem. In the distance, behind the caretaker is another figure, malformed and multi-limbed, coated in vague suggestions of vines and worms. I don't know what happens to doorways when you burn them. But I'm about to find out.