The Dark Somnium - "I solved the Fermi Paradox and I regret it, We really are alone" Creepypasta | Scary Stories

Episode Date: May 19, 2021

This creepypasta scary story is from the nosleep subreddit, written by Grand Theft Motto--- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/darksomnium/message Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

The Fermi paradox is, in a nutshell, an expression of how odd it is that there is no proof of alien life when it seems so likely, given the extraordinary size of the universe. With an infinite number of suns, each cradling a ring of planets in their orbit, why haven't we encountered any sign of someone else out there? No radio signals, no transmissions, no visitors. This was too vast for us to be alone. So where was everyone? I wish we'd never answered that question.

The first man to make contact with alien life was Calvin Myers. Born blind, Calvin was the first patient to receive prosthetic eyes developed by a medical miracle, but from the moment his new eyes opened, Calvin started screaming. He was sedated. It was several hours before he was calm enough to tell the doctors what happened. It turns out that Calvin saw the devil, or devils, actually. Demons, monsters, slouching, sharp things infesting the corners of the room.

He watched, warped reflections crossed mirrors, shadows ripple, evil faces stared down from the ceiling. Calvin ripped his plastic eyes from their sockets. Darkness was better, he told his doctors. A full report was made too. There was never any serious consideration of killing the project. Too much money was invested, market goals were set, and management had expectations. So more devices were produced, distributed, tested.

And each time it was the same. The moment the test subject opened their new eyes, they witnessed a world crowded with horrors. I'll never forget what I saw when doctors removed my bandages, eyes staring back at me. They were huge. the size of truck tires, blue and bloodshot, connected directly to my wall. I could tell the eyes noticed me. Worse, they hated me.

There were other abominations in the room as well. A hairy imp with the face of a child. A woman made of spikes and red light, a coiled pile of limbs, each jagged hand opening and closing slowly. I screamed until my throat was raw, until I passed out. When I awoke, the first thing I did was try to take my eyes out, but the doctors had learned their lesson with Calvin. I was restrained, monitored, forced to look. Every day was a parade of nightmares. Shadows melted and ran like Roorshack across the ceiling, dripping down onto my chest.

I couldn't feel them land, but I saw them puddle into violent faces that stared back into my new designer eyes. Everything was worse at night. I begged the doctors to keep the lights. on, if I had to see monsters, I wanted to at least see them clearly, but my requests were ignored. Terrible figures danced down the hall outside my room. Something crawled above my bed, wheezing, then out the window. My doctors recorded all of my rants. They medicated me, tested me, poked and prodded, and disbelieved. Occasionally, I heard shrieking drift down the hallway when my door was open. I knew I wasn't the only one in the hospital with new eyes. others could see. After nearly a month, they finally released me. I'd lied to them last week,

told them I couldn't see the creatures anymore, so I was set free, given meds and a journal. Call us if you observe anything unusual, they told me. They had no idea. On my bus ride home, I saw three named men with goatheads and swollen bellies, each as tall as a sycamore tree sprinting down the highway. A rotting whale floated over us. White guts spilling out like spoiled milk. It ate the clouds as it passed, and when it came into the sunlight I could see through it, every bone and vein. I've thought about removing my eyes, plucking them from my skull like jelly from a jar,

but I'm too afraid. Not just of the pain, but also the creatures will still be out there. Maybe not seeing them, but knowing they are watching me would be worse. You haven't heard about the eyes, I'm sure of it. It won't let the word out until they're ready. I'm breaking every NDA on the planet by posting my story online, but you need to know, because now that some of us have seen the invisible abominations that exist out in the open, they've become bolder.

I feel them now at night. They touch my neck gently or slap me. Some take little bites, testing, poking, prodding. It's only a matter of time before they make themselves known. I'm not sure what we can do to protect our lives. ourselves, or if we even can, but knowing is the first part, believing. So believe me when I tell you, wherever you're hearing this, if you think you're alone, you are not.

You never are. You can't see them, but they are very aware of you. Stay steady, don't rattle, try not to panic. I've spent every night sleeping in my tub with every light on in the house. The fear is crippling. a chain around my throat that keeps me from leaving my house. But I'm so tired of being afraid, of being alone. You might not have my eyes, but I think you can see them if you look carefully.

Focus. Use the corner of your vision. Watch your mirrors carefully from movement. Maybe you'll see something or maybe something will show itself if it thinks you're searching. Like I said, they're getting bolder. Someone is following me whenever I leave my apartment. My new eyes are good at picking up little details, seeing the same car driving around my block each day, slowly, always at my heels, but a few cars back.

I've noticed other things watching me as well. Faces and reflections, massive figures in the clouds. Some days I'll be riding the bus and notice a face on the street where the features are all in the wrong order. I don't go out at night anymore at all. Now, if you're wondering why I mentioned the Fermi paradox, the truth is I was just passing on a theory from a friend. There's a whole group of us online, former lab rats for with shiny new eyes and fresh nightmares.

I don't know any of their real names, only their handles, ribbon and violet, Calico and Cheshire, Dublin and Barrow and Matilda. There are others, but those are the seven I speak with the most, nearly every day. We share updates on what we see, support each other after sleepless nights, and more than anything, we theorize. If you're wondering what my name is, you'll have to keep wondering. You can call me Waltz, if that helps. Cheshire is the one who brought up the Fermi paradox. They're convinced that the whores were able to see are disguised aliens from a galaxy or two over, and that our artificial eyes can somehow see past their camouflage.

Matilda has a different theory. The creatures we're observing are from another dimension, one that is bleeding over into ours. My question is... Borrow posted to our chat one rainy afternoon. Are the entities hostile, friendly, or ambivalent? I was nursing a hangover that day, most days actually, ever since the operation. Rain drizzled against my bedroom window. It had been three months and my life was in limbo.

I'd quit my job, too afraid of what I might see if I looked too closely at my coworkers, provided me with a stipend for my service. That was enough to live on, but quickly running out. Barrow's question banged around in my head like a bat trapped in an attic. Before I could reply, I saw that Violet was typing. They sure look hostile. A few days before I'd gone out for groceries.

I was nearly at the checkout when I noticed an old woman standing in produce. Her face was gushing blood from her eyes, nose, mouth, maybe even the pores of her skin. I stood, paralyzed, just staring. She noticed me. The thing began making cooing noises like it was trying to entice me to come over. I dropped my groceries and sprinted out of the store. They sure look hostile, but do we know what for? I wondered.

Something knocked on my door. There was a pause, then scratching. I tried to ignore it. Now that I could see the creatures, there was a connection. I heard them all the time, little laughs or sighs. I felt them too on a few occasions. One that appeared to be made entirely from fog and teeth had even taken a nibble out of my shoulder.

I'd call that a little hostile, though maybe it was only hungry or curious. Scratching on my door turned into pounding, followed by silence. Matilda was typing. I think they might be like us. Some are good. Some are bad. Summer. Ugly.

Dublin added. Cheshire, who communicated entirely in emojis, added a laughing face to the chat. There was the usual course of lull and pop culture gifts. The smoker has dull teeth. Ribbon posted. But a razor tongue. Are you okay? Not at all.

I saw the girl in the mirror. Or was the mirror in the girl? Ribbon, are you steady, friend? We did that to each other a lot. you steady, which was the polite way of asking if the little hair-lined fractures we all felt to our sanity were beginning to crack. Ribbon was typing again. They told me you're next after me, Waltz.

I felt my stomach dropped through the floor. My apartment was boiling, but I still began to shiver. Ribbon has left the chat. The others spent ten minutes trying to convince me everything was fine that Ribbon was only worked up. I lied and told them I wasn't worried. You're okay, Waltz. Matilda sent me a private chat.

Stay steady and contact me anytime if you need to talk. Thank you. I signed off and closed my laptop. Outside, the rain was picking up, tapping at my window like a guest asking to come in. My television was humming quietly on the wall. I glanced up and saw that it was a rerun of a show I'd watched a dozen times. Only now I saw that the comic relief character had a second mouth on their throat. Their head flopping up and down every time they told them.

a joke. That was the closest I came to ripping my new eyes from their sockets. My finger stopped when I pushed down my eyelid. I said. With nothing else to do, I turned off the television, got in the shower, then didn't leave my apartment for the next week. I was laying on the couch wearing the same flannel pajamas I'd lived in for the last two days when I got a notification on my phone. My apartment, Never in danger of being confused with a palace, was an absolute disaster of pizza boxes and empty six-packs. I'd set makeshift alarms on my doors and windows by stringing together some of the loudest

looking bottles. The alert was an email from Cheshire. It wasn't the first they'd sent me, but it always made me anxious. I'd asked them before where they found my email address, but didn't get a response. Usually Cheshire would send me odd pictures, a house, a hospital, a tree. surrounded by glowing lights. This message was different. For the first time, Cheshire used words.

Are you there, Waltz? I need your help. They found me. Can you call me? Call me as soon as you can. ASAP. Don't use your own phone. The email ended in a phone number.

I stared at the screen for a long time. It was blindingly bright in my dark living room. The shutters were closed and my sense of time was becoming flexible. I knew it had to be some time after midnight. For a moment, I considered deleting the email, closing my laptop, and hurling it out the window. I didn't want to get involved, but Cheshire sounded desperate, and at the end of the day, our weird little group was the nearest thing to family I had left. A bunch of lab rats with machine eyes who could see monsters.

Maybe we were friends. We were something, even if we were only online. You can't use your own phone. There was a gas station down the block that had one of the last remaining payphones in Baltimore, possibly the world. Realistically, I'm sure there were others, but that was the only one I knew about, and it was only a block away. At night.

Every fiber in my shaky soul wanted to wait until dawn, but Cheshire said they needed my help immediately. A tiny slice of my deepest lizard brain uncoiled for a moment. If it's a trap. That's paranoid. I said out loud, standing up to hunt for some almost clean street clothes. Cheshire was a friend, kinda. And besides, other than the biting fog and a tall shadow that had slapped me, none of

the creatures so far had actually tried to hurt me. Maybe they weren't hostile. I slammed a red bull from my Uber Eats delivery before opening the front door. The hallway outside was dim. No signs of motion or life at all. I made my way to the elevator, hesitated, then took the stairs down to the street instead. Baltimore slept but restless. The city never turned all the way off. There were always lights, traffic, trash. It wasn't pretty, not all of the time, but after spending so many years

in the dark after I got sick, being able to see the most beautiful mess again never failed to give me goosebumps. I drank in the skyline. to memorize the rhythm of tall buildings pressing shadows into the cloudy night. Okay. I said, breathing in air and smog. Okay. Every streetlight shadow made me skittish. Every distant horn honk made me jump.

But I made progress. Sneakers chewing up the sidewalk, bringing me closer to the gas station, to a phone, to a friend. Can you spare a light? I very nearly shit myself. I did yelp and spin to find a man. man leaning against a nearby wall just outside of the yellow haze of a streetlight. His face was covered by a cloud of smoke. There was ash in his voice, the rasp of a lifelong smoker, probably something heavy like

cowboy killers. I don't smoke. I stammered. Pity. The man croaked, stepping into the light. When he did, his limbs and neck stretched and became more thin. His body warped and split and bubbled, then collapsed in on itself. as he walked out of the glow of the lamp.

Now he was close. He smelled like cigarettes and cord-eyed. I couldn't see his face, only the cloud of smoke. It moved with him like a veil. Those eyes don't belong to you. He said. Gimmie. I ran.

Other figures began to emerge from the shadows. I stayed in the light as much as I could, dashing from street lamp to street lamp. A massive figure with a bloated body and a lot and lots of thin legs. ran up the side of a skyscraper. I passed by a store window and saw a woman's face, pretty and furious, reflected back at me. Her eyes were shining, and I realized that they were mirrors catching and amplifying the light. She screamed and the glass shattered, but I was already halfway down the block. I made it into my apartment at a dead sprint.

Once I was behind a locked door, I slid to the floor, shaking. The adrenaline dump made me nauseous. I threw up what was left of the pizza. and gin in my system. Dawn was burning behind the window shutters before I pulled myself together. I'd left my phone on the table when I had set out for the gas station. Another alert was visible on the screen. Numb, like a moving zombie, I opened my laptop to see a new email from Cheshire.

We regret to inform you that you are being hunted. The sentence was punctuated by a winking face emoji. I was trapped in my apartment. Every night it was the same, knocking and tapping and screaming in silence that was too absolute to ever naturally exist in a city. Some evenings I'd find smoke leaking into my living room from under the front door. There was never any fire I could see. I had to cover all my mirrors since the faces were starting to come in a little too clear.

Is anyone there? I typed, cowering in my empty bathtub with my laptop. It was nearly a week after my failed excursion to the gas station. A week since Cheshire's warning, or threat, that I was being hunted. Each day since one of the members of our chat group, which I had started thinking of as the blind sight blues, had gone offline and not returned. First went Robin, then Borrow, followed by Dublin, Violet, and finally Calico. Now only Matilda and Cheshire and I remained.

Smiley face. Cheshire's reply was not helpful. His response came ten minutes later as a private message. I know you're in Baltimore. Can we meet? Something was scratching at the tub's drain. I leaned over, then scrambled out of the bath when I saw a blue eye with a dozen irises looking up through the hole.

If my bathroom was breached, I didn't have any good options left. I decided I might as well die comfortably, so I curled up in bed with a soft blanket and a mug full of dark rum. How do you know where I am? I wrote back, anxious, but almost comfort. If she was a friend, then I had someone in my corner, and if she wasn't, at least maybe the nightmare would be over quickly. Your IP address.

You really should invest in a VPN. Is that some kind of cable news network? Attilda, are you still there? Yeah. Sorry. I wrote something sarcastic and decided to delete it. Can we meet? I'm in town.

A little chill kick-stepped its way across my neck. I thought for a moment and then sent Matilda the name of a restaurant in a time. to meet in the morning. Friend or enemy, I'd face her soon. But I'd have to make it through the night first. I closed my laptop and prepared to start my new sundown ritual. There are some amazing resources online offering advice for protecting a residence from otherworldly incursion.

Step one was salt. I visited each door and window in my apartment, adding a thin line of salt on the ground to block the entrance. I even salted all of my closed doors just in case. Next came sage and incense. Holy water splashed on the windows, dream catchers, and crosses added to the walls. You can find almost anything in Baltimore if you know where to look. Turns out there were two mysticism supply stores and one apothecary within a short daylight sprint

from where I lived. Feeling about as protected as a pinwheel farm in a hurricane, I retreated to my bedroom to drink myself to sleep. For the last two days I'd been crippled by migraines, an issue of a little. I'd never had before my new eyes. Not long after the headaches began, I also started to notice strange patches of dry skin on my arms and legs. More than just dry, the spots were hard to the touch and cold.

They were somewhere between metallic and crystalline. At one point, I'd thrown up a handful of teeth, but found none missing from my mouth after a frantic check. Something was changing in me. Without any mirrors to check, I couldn't be sure, but even my face felt different. sharper, younger. The night before I met Matilda was the worst I experienced. A vicious odor crept in around 10 p.m.

A mix of cinnamon and dust in the porta-potty section of a summer music festival. My bed began to rock gently around midnight, then not so gently. After less than a minute it stopped, and I pulled myself out of the fetal position. Cracks formed in the ceiling above my head, opening and closing like gill, Gills. Wind blew down from the openings to hot and bitter, followed by a horrible tugging sensation as the air was sucked upwards. The holes narrowed and split into a network of woven red lines.

I saw faces in the lines, including my own frightened one reflected back at me by a pair of mirrored eyes. I jammed my lid shut. Please stop. Please stop. Please stop. Look! A voice shouted in my ear.

Their mouth so close I could feel their cold breath on my cheek. I didn't open my eyes. Eventually I might have slept. It's murky. The next sensation I was aware of was a sound coming from outside my window. Something was whistling. I finally opened my eyes to stare at the spot where the noise was coming from. My bedroom was back to normal.

The window was covered by both blinds and a drawn curtain. The whistling was pleasant, friendly. tune I didn't recognize. I felt an overwhelming curiosity to find out who was making the sound. My hand was already on the curtain before I snapped out of my trance and stopped. For a few minutes, I stood by the window, unable to pull myself away. It wasn't long before the whistling grew fainter, the whistler moving on their way. Once the night was quiet again, well, as quiet as Baltimore ever got, I collapsed on the floor. I was breathing like I'd been practicing practicing wind-sprints in the stairwell. Somehow I managed to drag myself over to the corner

of my room farthest from the window. Then I passed out. Mid-morning light filtered in yellow and hazy through the closed blinds, waking me. The cavalry had arrived. I was safe. A long night had left me cramped and sore. I stood, cracking my back, one hand against the wall as leverage. When I tried to twist the other direction, I found my hand stuck to the door. dry wall, not only stuck but merged. It was hard to see where the wall began and the flesh ended. I struggled, ripping, pulling, trying to escape. I braced my foot against the wall to help, and that became trapped as well.

Everywhere my skin made contact, I bled into the surface. It drew me in until I was fully submerged. The claustrophobia nearly fried my sanity. I was only held for a minute or less before becoming suddenly unstuck and falling back into my bedroom. Stopping only long enough to grab my phone, keys, laptop, and wallet, I left the apartment to wait for Matilda at the restaurant. I was still wearing my pajamas.

At that point, I had zero shits left to give. Are you here yet? I glanced around from my booth after reading Tilda's message. The diner was nearly empty, caught in the limbo between breakfast and lunch and not fancy enough for brunch. I'm in the back. The booth in the corner. I wrote back.

I'm in the red flannel. Before I finished typing, a small blonde woman darted into the seat across from me. She was wearing a denim jacket covered in patches and novelty buttons as well as aviator sunglasses. I tried not to look at my reflection in their lenses. I thought it was you. The woman whispered. I just wanted to check before inviting myself over. Uh, hello, Matilda.

I'm Waltz. Well, my real name is... Don't. I don't need to know, and you're sure as hell not going to learn. mine. No offense, but you look like ten pounds of horseshit somebody stuffed into a doggy bag. Uh, some offense taken. It was a hard night. Tilda nodded. Sorry. Yeah, I know the feeling. Have you heard from any of the others recently? No, not recently. The last one before you was really Cheshire. I was a week ago and there

were some issues. Tilda's lips closed in a hard line. Cheshire is up to no goddamn good waltz. They, uh, that's pretty good. What is? Matilda and Waltz. Waltz and Matilda. She began to hum. Don't you get it?

I shrugged. Uh, is this like the VPN thing? Tilda only sighed and stole a sip of my coffee. We sat in silence for a minute while she chewed her lip. Suddenly, Matilda leaned close. Don't freak out. She said, pulling off her sunglasses. I freaked out.

Shh, chill. Matilda said, glancing around with empty eye sockets to make sure no one had noticed my yelp. Your eyes? Yeah. You don't have any. You're very observant. I focused on my breathing until I felt less like a rabbit who just ate a burning cherry bomb. What happened?

I asked. Tilda put her glasses back on. I ripped them out last week. Tried to give them back to whatever the thing was that wanted them. Oh, did it work? They took the eyes, but I can still. still see the creatures. I can still see everything. I think the eyes are like a seed. Does that make sense? They planted those fucking eyes into our skulls and something took root. Other parts of me are

changing. Last night, I started floating for nearly ten seconds. Have you noticed any... Yeah. That bad, eh? I drained the rest of my coffee. I'd rather not talk about it. Whatever's happening, I think you and I are the only ones left. Cheshire is sending me cryptic emails, pictures, weird shit, and all of the others have gone dark. I've got somewhere we can go and I've got a plan, but I'm scared shitless to try on my own. Are you with me?

I looked out the window. There was a wasps nest the size of a Ford Fiesta dangling from a stoplight across the street. The nest was pink and wet, the insects that floated out from the high. were covered in hundreds of wings. The wasps were each as big as a seagull. Sure, I told Matilda. I guess I'm in. Matilda's plan involved an RV, a long drive, and possibly an assassination.

More likely a persuasive interrogation. She assured me, does that mean torture? That sounds like torture. Matilda grinned. More likely a persuasive interrogation. It's only torture of Cheshire doesn't spill their guts. Because if they don't, then, we spill their guts. This was not how I pictured my life going when all of this started, but at least I wasn't

alone in all this mess. I fixed my eyes on the road and made a mental note to never get on Matilda's bad side. We were heading west on the interstate towards California, west towards Cheshire, and maybe some answers. All around us, spring was waking up, trees caught between life in death. Cars zipped by us like fighter jets dodging a blimp. Matilda's RV was an aged, patched-up Winnebago with maroon stripes on the side and a carpeted interior that might have been white once. The old machine rumbled when I pressed on the accelerator. The engines seemed to take the pedals input as more of a suggestion than a command. We struggled to keep up with the highway speed limit. Matilda had her feet on the dash, window down, a perennial cup of coffee in her

hand. She kept her sunglasses on, even after I promised her missing eyes didn't bother me. Do you really think Cheshire's going to be that easy to find? I asked. We've got his IP address, and I'm a natural-born bloodhound, baby! Matilda held one small hand out of the window, running her fingers through the breeze. I really can't believe both of you walnuts forgot to use a VPN or disguise your signal in any way. Sorry, I didn't realize I was living in an episode of Get Smart. Get What? The man from Uncle?

I don't understand the words you're saying in the order you're saying them. Mission Impossible? Okay, that one I got. We drove all day, alternating who had the wheel every two hours. Whenever we needed a rest stop, we would pull over on the shoulder. The RV had its own bathroom, kitchen, and even a shower. Honestly, it was a pretty princey way to travel. Twice that day, Matilda signaled me to make an emergency stop.

She'd sprint from the Winnebago into the two. trees and brush that lined the highway. Then I'd hear the sound of vomiting. Matilda told me she was fine, but she looked pale. Like me, she had strange dry patches of skin that shined like dull nickels. Her neck was also red on both sides of her throat. The sun was setting, washing the sky in a gradient shade of violet when we started looking for a place to park for the night. We passed a massive accident, a dozen cars wrapped around each other, ambulances, fire trucks and cop car swarmed, lighting up the evening with red and blue lights. One truck had crossed into the median and laid flipped over in the grass. There must have been a terrible fire because

the vehicle was barely a shell, blackened, warped. I saw paramedics lifting a covered stretcher into an ambulance. And standing over the entire scene was a shadow covered in stars, nearly as tall as the tree line. Entire galaxies rotated across the absolute darkness of the creature. Constellations drifting like leaves on a pond. The entity turned in my direction and cocked its head. Curious. I felt a deep chill. There was this pull and... Jesus, watch the road! I snapped back and looked at the road. A horn honked. The RV had drifted over halfway into the next lane.

Sorry, sorry, sorry. I said, correcting our course. The heck, dude! I thought I saw... I snuck a glance back toward the accident, fading in the rearview mirror. There was no star-filled shabler. No, no shadow leaning over the wreckage anymore. Never mind. A few hours after sunset, we pulled into a rest stop. Matilda navigated the RV into an empty space in the gravel parking lot under one of the sparse

light poles. There was a cluster of trees around us and a picnic table. Across the lot was a bathroom and some vending machines. We raided the ladder for a quick dinner, then went to bed, Matilda in the back room, me on the pull-out couch. I stared at the ceiling for a long time. Shadows from the light outside crept in through the blinds, painting streaks across the kitchen. There was a tiny TV, but I didn't want to wake Matilda.

I was just beginning to drift off when I heard something whistling outside the Winnebago. My heart made a nearly successful escape attempt from my chest. The sound grew louder and louder, peaked at the window directly above my bed, then faded as the whistler moved past us. I lay in bed and held my breath until it was gone. I didn't sleep that night. On day two of our road trip, Matilda told me more of her plan. When we get there, you'll hold Cheshire down while I'll slug them a few times, just to let them know we're serious.

Then we'll ask Chessire about the cryptic emails and make them tell us everything they know about the eyes and the creatures. What if they don't know any more than we do? I asked, swallowing a yawn. Or what if trying to beat the answers out of Cheshire doesn't work? Matilda cracked delicate knuckles. Oh, the beating will work. The beating always works. She looked at me with a blank face, then stuck out her tongue.

I winked and turned on the radio. It was a gorgeous day, perfect for a drive. The road sun-soaked. We had the heater running to counter the dawn chill, but there was a warm edge on the wind that suggested the cold was only temporary. I tried to focus on that over the alarming condition. of Matilda's skin. Sometime during the night, the red patches on her neck had turned yellowish, purple. Thin scars and parallel lines stretched across each blemish. I also noticed that

Tilda was hiding her right hand from me, keeping it tucked in the pocket of her denim jacket, or hanging out the window. Her condition was troubling. Not that I was doing much better. I caught side of my face in the mirror. The metallic spots I'd seen earlier were fading, but now the veins in my neck and cheeks had darkened to the point where they were clearly visible. Little scratches had appeared in clusters around my eyes, giving me the appearance of someone who had gone through a briar patch face first. I felt dizzy, and my joints were sore. As we pulled into a fast food place to grab breakfast, I prayed that we'd find Cheshire and that they'd have some kind of answers. Clouds began to spill into the sky around midday, puffy white at first, the clouds quickly darkened,

And the nice day I'd predicted became dreary. Rain lashed at the windshield faster than the old RV's wipers could keep up. We rocked and rattled with every gust. After an hour it became clear we were pushing our luck, so Tilda found an exit to a half-empt mall. We parked the RV and spent the rest of the day sitting on the cramped couch together watching horror movies. I woke up after dark. The gentle hum of rain on the window and the warmth of the Winnebago must have put me to sleep.

I felt something pressing against my shoulder. Apparently, Matilda had nodded off as well. Outside, the world was bright white, lit by the parking lot's infinite rows of fluorescent lamps. Beyond the glow of the lights, the sky was dark, clouds obscuring any stars. Matilda's glasses had slipped off as she slept. Eyes or no, she was fox-featured, stunning and lovely. I tried to wake her up, but she grumbled and held her arms out. It took me a moment to realize she wanted a lift.

When I did, I felt a little rush and smiled. I carried her to the bedroom, took off her shoes, tucked her in, and then slipped out to return to the couch, closing the door between us. I was still grinning as I fell back to sleep. The smell of smoke caused me to snap awake. My first thought was fire. Then I saw the figure sitting on the edge of the couch, so close he was almost touching my feet.

You're not looking so good. The smoker croaked. In the dim light, I could see he was wearing a wrinkled and stained gray suit with the shirt untucked and no tie. The same cloud of smoke hung over his face, hiding his features, though I thought I could see the outline of a tribly hat through the haze. Am I dreaming? I asked.

The smoker grabbed my leg. I yelped. He pulled my foot towards my face. I heard the crunch, a click of my jaw unhinging and started to struggle. The smoker dropped my foot and I jumped to my feet. Did you feel that? He asked. I was shaking, standing with my fists raised.

Yeah? Then you're not dreaming. Sit down. An invisible force slammed into my shoulders. I fell to the floor, then dragged myself into a sitting position. The smoker sighed, causing a puff of smoke to blow out. I warned you about the eyes. Offered to take him from you, but now it's too late.

The seed is planted and you're nearly ready to. to bloom. Do you feel it? My face was tight. I reached up and touched my cheek. The veins there were as hard and cold as stone, stretching against the skin. What's happening? I whispered. The usual change. The smoker replied. Matilda screamed from the bedroom. I tried to stand up, but the same unseen pressure knocked me down. The smoker stood over me. Then he was gone, and I could move. I ran to the bedroom door. It was locked. Tilda screamed. again and I heard whispering. I kicked the door.

Twice was enough to snap the cheap lock. The room was dark and looked empty, except for Matilda. She was curled up near the top of the bed. One arm raised to protect her face. Tilda, where is it? She slowly lowered her arm. Gone. I think.

It was. There was a girl. Her eyes were. Waltz, they were awful. She bit me. She bit me. I could see a bloody ring just under Tilda's wrist. Small teeth marks were clearly visible.

Why? What did we do to them? All I could do was shake my head. Will you stay in here tonight? Hey, pick your jaw up off the floor, waltz. No funny business. Just, I'd feel better if you slept in here, okay? Okay.

I got into bed, then immediately out when Tilda asked me to switch on a light. Finally settling in, Matilda lifted my arm and moved close to me. We stayed like that until the pigeons outside announced the break of dawn. Matilda was sick. She tried to hide it, but the farther we drove, the more clear it became that she was falling apart. Little cracks kept appearing in her skin. They were thin, almost scratches, and under them, something caught the light.

The fingers on her right hand were fusing together, and the lines on her throat had widened and turned a reddish purple. than a few times a week, I saw Tilda sit down, looking either short of breath or dizzy. I wasn't faring much better. The dark veins had spread throughout my body, hard enough that I could feel them when I pressed down on my arm or leg. They were like thick wires, threading over my muscle and bone. Rough gray patches were also popping up all over my body, and my limbs were so stiff in the morning that Tilda sometimes had to pull me out of bed. We'd started sharing the RV single bedroom after the night we ran into the smoker and the girl with the mirror eyes.

So all things considered, it wasn't an entirely bad trip. This is not how I pictured my life going when all this started, but at least now, Matilda and I were, hopefully, close to some answers. Would you like to stop and see the world's third largest ball of yarn? Tilda asked. She was riding shotgun, feet up on the dash, and the window down as usual. We were somewhere in the Midwest, more than halfway to California, to Cheshire. Fields stretched out around us, flat and green and endless. The sky looked like it could spit out a tornado at any second, but there was no rain.

I was driving, thumping along on the steering wheel to the song on the radio. At that moment, monsters seemed so far away, in Tilda with her sunglasses and quick grin, very close. I opened my mouth to reply when I felt my stomach curl in on itself like an alarmed armadillo. Gotta stop. I mumbled, swerving to a halt on the shoulder. Thankfully, we were the only vehicle in sight on the two-lane highway.

I barely made it into the bathroom before a geyser of neon blue fluid came bursting out of my mouth. Are you okay? Tilda asked, knocking on the door. Yeah, I'm fine. I lied. But maybe we save the yarn for the return trip. We drove on for most the afternoon.

Matilda and I didn't talk about the weird things we saw along the way, but I could sense things were getting worse for her. I know they were for me. Some nights I would look out at the sky and see unfamiliar stars in impossible configurations. Once I'd woken up to see something like the northern lights outside, only the ribbons of color were all shades of red. Something massive swam through the lights, a black shape the size of an aircraft carrier, covered in dangling tentacles. One of them brushed the top of the RV and the

vehicle shuddered. I pressed myself into the bed, holding my breath. Matilda stirred next to me, but didn't wake up. Most of our encounters with the creatures were like that. Bumps and close passings. Oddities observed at a distance. The majority of entities ignored us. Maybe they didn't notice us at all. A few came near, or at least followed our path, usually with way too many fucking eyes. I always sensed curiosity from those run-ins, but I only ever felt in danger once. The day after we missed the yarn, Matilda and I were having a picnic lunch at a rest stop and discussing our plan of attack for when we finally found Cheshire.

If you hold him, I can hit him until he tells us how to reverse whatever the fuck is going on with us. Tilda said, I nibbled at a sandwich that I could no longer taste. I just, I don't know. I feel like we should have a more nuanced approach. You want me to hold him while you hit him? We don't even know if Cheshire is a he. We don't know anything about them.

They might not even be human. Tilda cut into an apple, paused. What if Cheshire is a cat, or like a group of cats all working together? I fucking hope not. I... The picnic area was surrounded by more fields. A moat of green bordered on one side by the highway and the other by a thick forest. Standing just outside of the tree line was a tall figure with a long, thin neck.

It was hard to tell at that distance, at least 200 yards, but it looked like the creature was at least 12 feet tall. The thing was standing still facing us. Its head drooped down, turning the top of its body into a question mark. Maybe it couldn't support the weight of its own skull. Something about the creature reminded me of the time I'd walked into my garage and heard a hissing sound. This was only a few months after I'd originally lost my sight.

The world had gone dark and every noise stood out. I wasn't sure what kind of animal made that hissing, but I had backed out of my garage and slammed the door. There was danger in the sound, the sense of violence coiling. I got the same vibe when I looked at that tall thing on the edge of the field. Get in the RV! I whispered to Matilda. She turned to where I was looking and froze when she noticed the creature.

Tilda even took off her sunglasses to get a better lock with empty eye sockets. What do you think? She began. Floppy head, the clever name I mentally assigned to the monster, began to stumble towards us through the tall grass. R.V! I shouted, jumping in. Matilda was right on my heels, diving in on the passenger side.

For a panic second, I couldn't find the keys. Floppy was moving faster now, sprinting towards us from across the field, head bouncing like a ball on a string. was clumsy, but quick, way too quick for a creature that gangly. My brain suddenly decided to work, and I pulled down the sun visor. The keys fell into my lap. Floppy had covered almost half the distance between the trees and the RV before I finally turned the ignition.

We peeled out of the rest areas parking lot so fast I worried we might roll over, but then we were on the highway, gaining speed, and I felt every single muscle in my body unclench. Floppy burst out behind us onto the road. Fuck, the sitting, fuck! I said, slamming on the gas, the creature looked ridiculous when it ran, all windmilling arms and wobbly neck, but God damn it was fast. We didn't start to put it firmly into our rearview mirror until the Winnebago was wheezing along at 50 miles an hour. We drove in silence for a while. I think we should limit our stops.

Yeah. We made it to the state line that night. We were searching for an exit to another rest stop or parking lot when Tilda bolted uprored. in her seat. Look. She said, pointing around a bend in the hill ahead. Do you see it? I turned where she was gesturing.

I did see it. A tree taller than any building I'd ever seen towered over the horizon. The setting sun lit the shape from below and cast a shadow across the forest. Blue lights floated around the tree trunks, moving back and forth in wide, sweeping circles. It was breathtaking and beautiful and seemed so intentional like we were being signaled. Head that way. Tilda whispered. Let's see it up close. I wanted to. I really wanted to. Something about the dancing lights and the scale of the tree pulled

at me. I felt drawn toward them. A honking horn snapped me out of the lock. We drifted across the lanes and cut off a car. I put us back on course and stepped on the accelerator. Maybe we can check it out on the way back, like the yarn. I said. But Waltz. No, no, no, we can't. Something isn't right. Oh. Are you sure? Yes. Okay.

Tilda stared out the window at the tree until the sun was fully down. Darkness and distance hid the shape, but the blue lights were still visible for the better part of an hour. Drifting. Calling. We crossed into California just before midnight and decided to keep driving until we reached the coast. That's where Tilda expected to find Cheshire.

She was tracking their online activity sitting at the RV's tiny kitchen table with my laptop. Is this really going to take us right to Cheshire? I called back. Like, at their front door? Probably not. The IP should give us a basic idea, but we might have to stake out the neighborhood for any signs. Could be at least a few days. I saw Tilda through the rearview mirror scratching at her neck.

The strange scars on her throat had started to bleed. She saw me looking, sunglasses lingering on the mirror for a moment. She then picked up the laptop and went to the bedroom. We didn't have to search long for Cheshire's house. Tilda directed me down a series of turns until we were in a sparsely populated neighborhood. The area was caught between suburbia and the sticks. Houses spread out with large yards populated by rusting cars on cinder blocks and stray cats. There was no doubt which was Cheshire's property.

A thunderstorm whirled over a single home at the end of the street. I inched the RV closer, then parked a few houses back. The storm was off somehow. Gray clouds jerked and twisted against an otherwise blue sky. When I looked closely, I saw that the rain wasn't actually falling. It was rising up from the ground like iron shavings lifted by a magnet. An indigo whip of lightning also started from the yard and crawled toward the sky. It moved in slow motion like a snake striking in a flipbook.

The house was hard to see through the ascending curtain of rain, but it looked old and huge and hungry. Tilda and I sat in the RV, surrounded by a beautiful spring day, watching a pocket storm pressed down on a house. Do we knock? I asked. Just go say hello, or should we be sneaky and have like a stakeout? Matilda didn't reply.

I turned to see her staring at me, glasses off, empty eyes fixed on mine. Her throat was bleeding again, gentle drips of red staining her collar. She was wheezing slightly with each breath. I'm scared. She said. I reached out and squeezed her hand. Yeah, same. It's such a strange feeling, walking through rain that's rising from the ground.

Matilda and I debated driving away and waiting until morning to confront Cheshire, but after an hour, Tilda just stood up and walked out of the RV. I followed. We passed through the yard with its little upside-down storm quickly. The water was cold and had the consistency. of motor oil. Tilda hesitated once we reached the porch. This isn't how I pictured things ending when this all started. At least we'd finally found Cheshire. Do we knock? She asked, leaning against the wall to catch her breath. The lines on her throat

were bleeding again. I could kick the door down. I lied. My legs were stiff. My muscles felt like jello with cement crawling through my veins. Thunder broke gently above us, ramping up until it was a roar. Another jag of lightning rose in slow motion from the ground towards the clouds. Matilda reached for the doorknob. It was unlocked. Fuck it. She said, entering the house. It was like walking into a bad acid trip. Nothing in the house was level. The floors were crooked, the walls uneven. What little furniture I could see was mismatched, broken, almost hostile. The entry room was dominated by twin staircases that twisted off into the ceiling. There was a bear-skin rug covering the wooden floorboards.

Only someone had replaced the bear's head with a dirty blonde wig. I reached down toward the hair and recoiled. It wasn't a wig. We shouldn't be here. I said, turning for the door, it was gone. There was nothing but a blank, grimy wall. Matilda made a sound that was either a cough or a laugh. Guess we got to keep going. We pressed on. The halls were now. The halls were narrow and seemed to stretch on far longer than they should. They were full of blind corners, abrupt turns, and occasional dead ends. Some halls were dim. Others were so bright I had to squint and shade my eyes with my hand.

On and on they rolled. We must have walked for more than an hour. Tilda was struggling to breathe the entire time, rasping and stopping every few minutes. I wasn't faring much better. Each step felt like I had cinder blocks chained to my feet. One of the hallways was lined with pictures. I tried not to look at them too closely. There were portraits with blurred faces, a landscape under a night sky where a single red star made the paint look like it was bleeding. Halfway down the hall, Tilda stopped.

What is? I started to ask, then I saw the picture. It was an oil painting of Tilda and me crucified to the side of the RV, limbs nailed into the metal. Our faces were both warped with absolute pleasure. We were laughing so hard that our jaws stretched down to our chest. Let's try to go a little faster. I took a breath to calm myself, made the mistake of glancing at the picture again, and I felt my stomach heave.

Matilda waited while I got myself together. Finally, we came to a door. The knob was brass and warmed to the touch. I noticed a hum coming from the other side, almost a buzzing. What do we do if Cheshire is in there? I asked. I don't know, Waltz. I don't know what to do anymore.

Tilda reached for the knob. All we can do is roll with it. The room was gigantic, cavernous, and uncomfortably humid. Thick, hot air slammed into Tilda in me as we entered. The space was dark with only enough light to pick out silhouettes and shapes. I fumbled for a light switch. Light flooded the room. Hello!

A cheerful voice called out. I think I screamed, or Matilda did, maybe both of us. We found Cheshire. He was the size of a bear, a never-ending tumble of wet skin. Cheshire reminded me of a partially deflated balloon, somehow both bloated and saggy at the same time. His body appeared stuck to the wall, flesh merging with wood in a bloody whirl. Found me, found me!

He shouted, bouncing up and down, causing his skin to ripple. Cheshire? The creature bounced again. Yes, hello friends, hello waltz, hello. Oh, Matilda, Walton, Matilda, Watson, what the fuck took you to so long? His shout sent me scrambling for the door, but of course it was fucking gone. I hated that house deeply. You were the last two.

Cheshire said. Why don't you have a seat? I glanced around. The giant room was entirely empty except for a bed the size of a swimming pool in the corner. The stained sheets were dripping with something that looked terribly similar to Cheshire's skin. I sat on the floor, Tilda sat next to me. Come closer? Cheshire asked, we did not.

Oh, fine then. Well, you found me. I made it as easy as I could, but the wall still took so very long. The others have already gone. Even Calvin and Violent. I thought you might leave before them, but no, no, no, no, no, no. Calvin went off in his cloud of smoke, and Little Violet fell into a looking-glass. She always liked you.

Cheshire turned towards Matilda. You've seen them, haven't you? Gotten some visits, yes, but now they're gone and you're all of its left. What's going to happen to us? Tilda asked. You'll change. You'll become. What?

I asked. What are we going to become? Cheshire shrugged. At least I think he shrugged. The slabs of flesh where his shoulders should be rolled like waves. against the shore. It's not for me to know what you'll become, only that you will. The eyes are seeds, you see.

And once the seeds are planted, there's no way to know what will grow, grow, grow, and once you've changed, you'll need to leave. Why? And leave for where? I don't know that either. The change will make this world unsuitable. The air will become poison, and the sunlight will become heavy enough to break the bone, but you're in luck. There are so many other worlds and so many, many holes between this world

and the others. Cheshire smiled, tongue dropping so low that it nearly touched the ground. There's a house with a hundred doors that you could travel forever and never explore at all. There's a night with a starless sky where the forgotten crawl back home and a clearing in the woods where the devil's dance and lost children decorate the trees. There's a dying place where A coward king waits on a throne of glass, and in the middle of it all, a neighborhood sitting on a slow hill, wedged in between a crack in reality. Oh, the places you could go. And in time, you might even learn how to visit here, how to travel back and forth, and how to find hopeless things, how to feel. You don't make any sense.

Why me? Why are you doing this to me? Because you were there. Because you needed something from us, because you accepted a gift, and now we're giving you more. Have you felt the call yet? The doors all have a certain pull for those who can see them. I thought of the tall tree with the blue lights drifting in the sky, the way it tugged at us, and how much Tilda wanted to see it. If we passed something like that, would we be able to stay away?

Tilda stood up. Enough. I'm tired of listening to you, rambled bullshit. You're going to tell me how to stop whatever's happening to me. I'll hurt you until you tell me. I'll hurt you permanent. I promise I will. Cheshire smiled and smiled and smiled,

mouth stretching until his face split in half. Something fuzzy crawled out of the hole. It was a skull with a spine attached, all of the bone covered in thick black hair. See you on the other side. The skull said in Cheshire's voice, It slithered down the mountain of sagging flesh that used to be its body, then shot across the floor too fast to follow.

Tilda dove at the creature, trying to grab hold. Cheshire slipped through a seam between the wall and floor. He was gone. Jesus, I said. There wasn't much else to say. Tilda slammed her fists on the ground. Fuck, fucking prick! Cheshire's flesh was slowly dripping onto the floor, sliding off the wall like yogurt.

It already reeked of spoiled meat and for some reason, strawberries. Behind the skin was a door. With nowhere else to go, we went through and found ourselves standing outside of Cheshire's house on the porch. The storm had stopped, and the sky was a perfect April blue. What now? I asked. Maybe we can track him down.

Maybe we can... Tilda silently crossed the yard and headed towards the RV. After a moment, I followed. By the time I got inside, she had already gone into the bedroom and shut the door. It was locked. Matilda? I asked. She didn't answer.

I heard her crying. I wonder what it was like for her, crying without eyes. Were there still tears? I sat on the small couch in the RV's kitchen and waited. Twenty minutes later, Tilda emerged, calm and pale, sunglasses on. How about we go see that ball of yarn? She asked. Sure.

I said, getting up to start the RV. That sounds like a good trip. We didn't hurry. We took our time driving, exploring random exits, stopping often to get out and just walk around. Both of us were dissolving slowly. Tilda's fingers and toes were growing into each other. I found lumps of her hair in the shower each day as well as teeth. She stayed bundled up, shivering even in the heat, always struggling to get enough air.

My veins continued to blacken, to become hard, pressing against skin that had become as rough as bark. But it wasn't so bad. We had good times, even then, sleeping in until noon, staying up until dawn, always together. We saw more and more strange creatures each day, buzzards with antlers and human eyes, clouds that dragged tails across the ground as they drifted, and we saw doors, or usually, I guess we felt them. Cheshire was right.

They called to us, pulled to us. Tilda felt them stronger than I did. One night when we were driving past a hospital and Matilda grabbed the wheel, tried to turn us into the parking lot. I wrestled control back and slammed on the accelerator. Once the building was out of sight, Tilda settled down. I hurt so much. She told me, curled in the passenger seat.

I don't think we can stay here, but I'm afraid to go. We'll be okay. I lied. We'll find a way to fix things. Last night we slept at a rest area near a forest. When I woke up in the morning, Matilda was gone. I found her trail easy enough, bloody footprints leading off into the woods. Soon I started coming across her clothes, the rest of her hair, all of her fingers and toenails.

The grizzly procession led to the edge of a small, still lake. The water was chilly and threatened me with my own deteriorating reflection. I felt the pool then. The lake was a door, a thin spot where the fabric of reality was worn and frayed, a hole into another world. I doubted the lake was deep, but I sensed that I was standing on the cusp of a terrible drop. If I went into the water, I knew I would sink until all light was gone, then further still. I wondered what was on the other side, what things might live in all of that darkness and pressure.

Most of all, I wondered if I'd ever see Matilda again. There was another pull, overwhelming, a riptide trying to drag me out. I panicked and slipped, stumbling away from the lake as fast as I could. That door was not my door. I put some miles between myself and the rest area. Even during that short drive, I felt other doors calling to me. If I stay here too long, I know I'll die, but if I leave, I might never be able to able to come back, and who knows what I might be walking into if I cross over.

The doors whisper to me, promise and beg and threaten. There are infinite fields, unfamiliar stars, pits, eyes, and hungry things all waiting. I won't be able to resist much longer, and I'm so scared at how inevitable it feels, but I'm going to see that fucking giant ball of yarn if it's the last thing I do. I just wish I didn't have to do it alone. I'm so tired. I miss Matilda.