The Dark Somnium - "I Wrote a Letter to Myself, I Got a Reply"

Episode Date: October 11, 2023

This Scary Story is from the nosleep subreddit, written by Verastahl, make sure to check out the original post here:"I Wrote a Letter to Myself, I Got a Reply" https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/8lxrvb/i_wrote_a_letter_to_myself_i_got_a_response/ Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

I've been on my knees trying to scrub up all the blood and scraps of paper for the last half hour. I'm making some progress, but it's slow, and I keep having to stop when my hands start shaking too much. I'm out of my apartment for the moment, sitting on the floor in the hallway, and I can feel my nerves settling in. I'm going to write this out so that I have it all recorded, and also so I can wait a bit before having to go back in. It started when I was bored yesterday. The internet was out in my apartment. And after casting about for a couple of hours, trying to read or do some cleaning, I was out of ideas to entertain myself. That's when I saw the box of stationery on my desk.

My Aunt Emma had given me stationary as a birthday gift the week before, and there was nothing inherently wrong with such a gift. It was a box of high-quality paper and envelopes, personalized with my initials at the top of the sheets of paper and on the back fold of the envelopes. As a 70-year-old man, I would have probably thought they were the cats-ped. pajamas, but as a 25-year-old, not so much. But still, I was very bored, so I sat down at my desk and started messing around with it. At first, I tried writing as neatly and fancily as I knew how. My handwriting is horrid, and my best efforts looked like a slow fourth grader as opposed to a slower second grader. But it was something to do. Then I doodled a bit, but my drawing skills are equally lacking. I was feeling myself getting drowsy, but then

a thought occurred to me of what to do with the stationery. I'd write a letter to myself. It was a stupid idea, but I thought it was kind of funny, too. So I took out a clean sheet of paper and set to work. Hey, Scott, how are you today? My day is okay, if kind of boring. Christine is out of town, visiting her parents, and the internet is dead. I have zero ideas of what to do with myself.

Eh, this is lame. Goodbye. Sincerely, Scott. The novelty of the idea had clearly worn off quickly, but I did fold it up and stick in an envelope at least, even going so far as to address the letter to myself. Standing up from the table with a sigh, I laid down, and fairly soon I was fast asleep. When I woke up, it was the early evening, and the room was dimly lit by the fading twilight

outside. I reached over and turned on my bedside lamp, blinking blearily at its brightness. I hated taking naps. I always felt groggy afterwards and had trouble sleeping later in the night. Rubbing my eyes, I rolled discontently onto my side and began getting up. When my eyes lit upon my desk, I sat back down. The envelope with the letter I had written was different now. It was in a different spot for one, but I could tell from the bed that it was also a different

color and looked like it had a small stain in one corner. Standing up and going to my desk, I looked at the envelope closer before picking it up. My name and address was still on the front, but hadn't I written it small? smaller and more centered than that? Regardless, the envelope itself was definitely different, so clearly I hadn't written this at all. My next thought was that someone had come into my apartment to either prank me or try to scare me.

The obvious answer was Christine. It didn't really seem like something she would do, but she was the only other person with a key. After I did a quick sweep of the apartment for intruders, I texted her. She swore that she was still a state away and even sent me a picture. as proof. She also seemed worried and asked if I had called the cops, but I wasn't to that point yet. I needed to look inside the envelope first. I pried it open and carefully peeked inside, seeing a light blue piece of paper that matched the envelope and was wholly different than the

cream-colored paper I had used earlier in the afternoon. When I unfolded it, I was surprised to see it really did look like my handwriting, but it wasn't the same letter. Instead, it seemed to be responding to mine. Good to hear from you. I've been watching you when I can for years, and it seems like the universe has finally given us a way to talk. I'm guessing that you have apartment 3B on Nesbit Street in Baltimore, right? And your Uncle Tom gave you the box of stationery for your birthday.

It's so weird. I guess things have to line up just right. If this actually works and you're reading this, I know it'll probably come as a shock. I don't think your side knows about us like we do you, but that's cool. We can swap stories. I'll keep it short for now, but I hope to hear from you again soon. Glory and Peace, Scott. I read the letter three times. I really couldn't tell I didn't write it other than the content itself, which was decidedly weird. Whoever was doing this was either a very good prankster, or I had a dedicated stalker that had taken time to learn my handwriting.

Either way, I was calling their bluff. Hey man, good to get a response. So are you like me from some other world? That's crazy. Tell me some of the facts about your world and we can compare. And if you have some kind of souvenir you can send next time, that'd be awesome. Looking forward to the next letter. I got the letter in an envelope, addressed it, and set it on my desk.

I then took out my tablet and plugged it in and set the camera to record at an angle where it could see the desk and the door to the bedroom. I thought about just sitting and waiting, but the idea was too tedious, and it would make it less likely anyone would come. That was assuming this wasn't some kind of one-shot joke or harassment, but time would tell. Either way, I decided to go and grab something to eat and see a movie. Four hours later, I returned home to another blue letter. I understand you being skeptical, thinking it's all a joke, right? Well, here's some info like you asked.

And I sent along something that might help convince you. Our world is a lot like yours, though it is different in some ways. About 40 years ago, we had a lot of animals start dying off. Not all of them, of course, but most of the birds, all of the dogs, and a few other species here and there. Still don't know why, but around that same time, we lost our mirrors. What I mean is that our mirrors stopped showing our reflections. A lot of them just went dark, but some of them, where they have twins and your mirrors. your world would show us your reflection instead. We knew it was reflections because all the

writing is backwards, and I can tell from your letters you don't actually write backwards anyhow. But after that, a lot of people started changing, getting weird and violent. It stabilized some now, but it was really bad when I was younger. A lot of people died. Anywho, like I said, things are better now, though. We do have odd stuff pop up and people go missing some. Is your world like that? From what I've seen, and what I know of studies people on your side have done observing active mirrors, it seems like things are a lot better over there. I'm kind of jealous. But in closed, you'll find one of our nickels. It's got President Robert Kennedy on it. He was president from 1969 through 1977. I don't know for sure, but I think I read he's one of the differences between your place and mine. Right back soon. I looked back in the envelope and found a nickel tucked into the corner. On one side it had a man's profile with the name Robber F. Kennedy listed under it. On the other, it had what looked like a large turkey glowering over a shield, bristling with spears and covered with stars and stripes.

What the hell? I remembered my tablet and checked the footage. It had actually stopped recording after two hours, but it was enough. After the 40-minute mark, I watched as my cream envelope gave a shudder and disappeared. Thirty minutes later, the blue envelope had faded into existence a few inches over the desk. I wasn't sure what to do at this point. I thought about asking Christine for advice, but it would be hard to explain over the phone, and I didn't want her to worry.

I could call the police, but what good would that do? Even if I showed them the video, they would think it was fake, and I was a jackass for wasting their time. I didn't know if I believed everything the letters were saying, but I couldn't deny the evidence was compelling, and if this guy really was another me, it could wind up being something really great. I might even become famous for discovering some parallel dimension. First things first, I needed to write another letter. Wow, so this is big news, right?

So you're saying you can see us through mirrors? That's kind of embarrassing. Can you hear us too or just see us? Do your people have any theories on how this all happened? Have other people in your world have this happen where you can talk to people from my world? I'm very curious to know more. This time I watched as my letter disappeared, only to be replaced with another response a short time later. Yeah, you've got a lot of questions.

I understand. No, we can't hear. Just see. And I don't know about anyone actually communicating like this before. No one knows why the world is changing so much. When the other things started appearing last year, people said it was the end of the world, that we were being judged, but people are just going crazy, you know? I don't believe in all that stuff.

Things are changing, and we just have to change with it. Hey, did you say you have a Christine? Is she a hot blonde girl, too? Is she a girlfriend? I didn't like the tone of the new letter, and I had more questions now, but I wanted to keep him talking, so I tried to respond in a way that would make him happy. Yeah, she's my girlfriend. She's great.

We're planning on getting married next year. Do you have a Christine, too? Tell me more about your world when you can. My letter shuddered away fairly quickly, and I waited for an answer, but none came. It was getting late, so eventually I went to bed, though I would wake up periodically and check the desk. Around six in the morning, I saw the blue envelope, and I jumped out of bed to read the two lines written there. I did have a Christine, but she was a fucking whore. I had to punish her.

I hope yours isn't one too. Yeah, I was done. I didn't know what this was, but I knew it had to be real, and it was feeling more and more like it was dangerous. Throwing the letter down, I started looking around the room. I saw the small mirror I had hanging on my back closet and yanked it down quickly, hearing it crack as it hit the floor. I tried to think of any others,

and the only ones that came to mind were in the bathroom. and one that Christine had hung over the mantle in the living room. Christine? I looked at my phone and saw that it was almost seven. She was going to be back in town this morning, probably coming straight here. I tried calling her, but it went straight to voicemail like it was powered off. I didn't have her parents' number, so I had to resort to leaving her a voicemail and text messages telling her not to come to my apartment that I would meet her at hers when she got back.

I debated what to do until she arrived, but ultimately decided. I couldn't stand being in the apartment myself. So I left a note on the door saying, Christine, don't go to the apartment, call me instead. I'll explain and meet you and left the building. For the next few hours, I basically drove a circuit between our two apartments, occasionally parking outside one place or the other. I was sitting outside her place when I got a call from her phone.

It was her mother. She said Christine had knocked her phone in the toilet getting ready for bed last night and that they had to put it in a bowl of rice to dry it out. When Christine left to come back home a few hours ago, she must have forgotten it. I felt my mouth go dry. Her mother was asking what she should do to get Christine the phone, but I told her I'd call her back and hung up. Based on when she left, she should have been back at least an hour at that point. I knew she wasn't at her apartment, so I sped back over to mine.

I saw her car parked down the street from my place, and my head started pounding. Running up the stairs, I reached my door and saw the note I had left was gone. In its place was a blue sheet of nice stationery, bearing a drawing of a red ink heart and the words, come on in in my handwriting. I started yelling her name as I fumbled to open the door, but as I entered, I could tell she wasn't there. The apartment felt empty and lifeless. I ran to the bedroom, stumbling to a stop at the doorway.

My mind had difficulty making sense of what I was seeing at first. On the wall next to the desk were strips of paper plastered to the wall, and making the outline of a small door about three feet tall, the strips seemed to be some combination of blue and cream paper, speckled here and there with spots of crimson and soggy near the baseboard where there were partial bloody handprints on both sides as though someone had been trying to hold on. Leading away from the paper door, the floor was covered with more blood, and as I looked closer, I saw several thick runnels in the wood that I thought at first were scrapes or cuts of some kind by something heavy being drug.

But then I saw one of Christine's bloody fingernails, torn off at the nail bed and ragged, jutting out of one of the grooves she had raked into the floor in her fight to get away. I collapsed to the floor and began crying. After a few minutes, I pulled myself together enough to look around the room for any clues or some means of helping her, but that's when I saw the blue envelope on the desk. You were right. She's a hot one, better than mine even, but I can't. can tell she has those same slutting ways. It's in the eyes. But don't you worry, she'll find less

tolerance for that over here, and I'll be sure to keep her corrected. Don't bother trying to come across either, bud. I figured out how to do it, but I'm going to have to keep it close to my vest. I have to apologize for not being completely honest before. Things are worse here than I let on. Maybe this Christine can keep me happy and satisfied with my life, but who's to say? Like I told you, Some people are really losing it over here. Might be I have to come visiting again some time, more permanently. Until then, glory and peace. Or, as you would say, sincerely, Scott.

As I'm finishing writing this, I dread going back into that room. I know I have no way of getting her back, and I know I can't have her blood being found in my apartment. Even without hard evidence, there will be questions when she's reported missing. But all of that is in the background at the moment. I can't shake the feeling of being watched. I look around and see no one, but then I noticed the dingy brass door of the elevator across the hall from where I'm sitting. The reflection there is dark and distorted, but I can still see myself in it, or at least

a version of myself. It looks like me, but I can tell that it isn't, because that version of me is laughing. Scott, I know you're a good guy at heart. I know that because, well, you're me. And despite my flaws, I have to think I'm a good guy too. I understand that your world is different than mine, and that has to have affected you a lot. Who's to say what you would be doing, who you would be as a person if you had grown up like

I did? My point is, I don't blame you for anything. I just need you to listen to me. I spent a lot of time with my dad growing up. I don't know if that's true for you or what your version of dad even is, but mine was great. was always there for me, and not just out of some sense of parental duty, but because he really loved me and wanted me to succeed in life. One thing we did a lot was go hunting, sometimes for wild pig or rabbit, but mostly for deer.

I remember the first time I killed a deer. It wasn't a clean shot, and we had to track it over a mile before finding it dead in some underbrush at the edge of an empty field. My father took out his knife to show me how to field dress it, but before he handed it To me, he stopped and put his hand on my shoulder. You never kill things or hurt things unless it is necessary, either for your survival or some greater good. This deer is clean, healthy meat that will feed us and your mom for several weeks.

Us being willing to be able to kill this deer doesn't make its life unimportant. It just means that we have to value ourselves above others while still trying to live a good and virtuous life. You understand? I said that I did. and I was being honest at the time, but of course that was the understanding of a child, and the world has taught me to more fully appreciate the importance of his words now. My father would also tell me stories about his own childhood.

My favorites were always about the dog he had growing up, named Rex. Dad had gotten him when he was eight, and he loved that dog more than anything. They really were best friends, I think. They would play together, explore the forest around the farm where my dad grew up, and were generally inseparable as much as life allowed. When Dad got old enough to drive, Rex would ride everywhere with him. He was big for a dog, apparently, so he could easily sit in his seat and stick his head out the window to catch smells as they drove to town or out to go camping.

My version of our father never went to college, but he was a smart man and a hard worker. He opened up a little hardware store at 19, and within a couple of years, he had bought a house and was saving up ring money for the girl that is our mother. One night he was closing up the shop. He heard Rex start growling. He turned around to see where the dog was and found him at the back door. Hackles raised and teeth bared. At first my father thought it was a raccoon, or another dog maybe. He grabbed Rex by the collar and opened the door to look out. It was dark and he couldn't see much. But suddenly he was knocked down and being attacked. He would never say by what, though I've always suspected that was more to keep from scarring me too much than because. He didn't know. Rex broke free of his grasp and charged the thing, whatever it was. He snapped and snarled, bit and clawed, and after a moment my father was free. It was preoccupied by Rex, who was fighting it for everything he was worth. He was an older dog now, but no one was going to mess with our dad.

Rex drove the thing off into the woods, but he was hurt badly, too badly to make it. In fact, my father held him, crying as he died. The first time dad told me that story, I was fifteen. I was horrified. I had been hearing stories about Rex for years. I loved Rex. Felt like I knew him, even though he died well before I was born. And truth be told, Rex wouldn't have lived much longer anyway.

But still, it was so sad. I sat there crying my eyes out, and I remember my father started crying too. It was one of the few times I ever saw him cry. He reached over and hugged me before explaining why he was telling me the story. in the first place. Scott, this world is a hard place, and it's only going to get harder. Rex and me, we loved each other with everything we had, and he sacrificed himself to save me. That's the lesson. If you're going to live a life worth living, you can't be afraid to make sacrifices, whether it's something that is important to you or to someone else. Sometimes a cost has to be

paid, and you have to be willing to pay it. Being too afraid or too weak to do what needs to to be done is a greater sin than trying and failing or making the wrong choice. Always remember that. And I have, Scott. I've tried to make the best decisions in my life. And all things considered, things have turned out well for me. For instance, I remember the first time I saw our Christine. I felt such a surge of excitement and anticipation that I didn't even know what to say to her. And I think it was hard on her too initially, Scott. I thought she was like the old Christine, but I think living in a softer, kinder world kept her from developing some of those rough edges that I was trying to wear down on old Christine. She still reminds me of her at times, so she bears watching, but I think she can be rehabilitated if you are firm with her.

I want to apologize to you, Scott. When I came back and took you by surprise from your bed, well, I'll be honest, I was disappointed. I expected more of a fight, but you were half asleep, and like our Christine, you've had the love. luxury of a softer life than I did. I don't think less of you because you couldn't stop me from forcing you through the door. I also want to say I'm sorry because I know from your perspective I may seem like a bad guy. I took your girl and then you from this cushy life and pushed you into a world that, well, from your point of view, might seem a bit like hell. I want you to know that I didn't do that out of some ill will towards you or even Christine, but I had to get out of there

and sacrifices had to be made. And those sacrifices are valued by me, Scott. It's important that you know that. Don't worry about trying to get back either. I know from the peaks I've managed to get in the last couple of weeks that you were trying, and you had figured out that combining our two papers was part of it, but you won't get the rest, and I made sure not to leave any of your letters or envelopes on my side anyway.

This letter and envelope will be the only paper from your old world you will have, And trust me, it isn't enough. I don't say this to trick or discourage you, but because I don't want you wasting time and energy chasing some impossible goal when you should be focused on getting your feet under you and making a new life. I really hope you two crazy kids make a go of it over there. Who's to say? You might be better at that life than I ever was.

As for me, I just got back from walking in the park across from your, I mean, my apartment. It seems like I could hear birds singing. everywhere. And I saw a woman walking a dog. Can you believe it? A real live dog. I know this world isn't perfect. I can already see a lot of impurity and corruption. Maybe I can help correct some of that in time. But for now, I'm just going to enjoy my new life. I won't be riding you again, I'm afraid, but I'll think of you often. I'm going this afternoon to buy a puppy. I'd name it after you, but well, that'd be weird. Have a good life. Sincerely, Scott.

I awoke to ashes fluttering down onto my face, like sullen snowflakes, covering my skin in a hundred gray kisses of burned down yesterday. I coughed as I sat up, pulling in another spasmodic breath as I wiped at my eyes. The ashes had cake there because I had apparently been crying in my unconsciousness. My hands came away black and running as my eyes began to water again. and blinking through the smut and the tears. I could see the flakes falling down on me through a hole in the roof, or rather the ceiling. I guess Scott's apartment wasn't on the top floor.

Yet looking around, it was Scott's apartment, or a very close approximation of it. It was far more run down and dirty, and some of the decorations were different, but the layout and general appearance was similar. My head was still drifting through a fog so thick I could scarcely tell I was even in a fog, but I was starting to remember myself and Scott and parts of what had happened. I looked up again and remembered that there should be at least three floors above this one, and at the edges of the hole in the ceiling, I could see parts of those ruined rooms hiding in the shadows up there. It seemed that the top part of the building had been destroyed somehow at some point in the past,

and through the hole that was left behind. I could see the ashes. And beyond that, the stars. I came back to myself again as I remembered Scott attacking me. Well, not Scott, but someone that looked like him. A lot. Like some older, crazy twin brother. He dragged me into Scott's bedroom,

and I'd seen that the floor and the wall were covered in blood. He dipped his fingers. in the blood and trace the outline of a rectangle inside the perimeter of a strange collage of of colored paper pasted to the wall. I had felt amazement pushed through my terror as I saw a crack appear on the wall, where his finger had traced, and at his touch, it swung open as a door. I had known then what was coming next. However insane or impossible all of this was, I fought harder to get away, but he was bigger

and stronger, and when he slammed my head against the floor the second time, I couldn't fight the darkness that rose up around me any longer. I felt the back of my head at the memory. It gasped at the pain as my hand found a clotting wound in my sweaty tangle of hair. I started looking around again, and I could see I was in the living room of this place that is like Scott's apartment, but not. My brain had been screaming a thousand things that are wrong since I first woke up. But I could only process a few at a time. Just as I realized that not Scott was coming back from the bedroom, my hand found its way up to my throat, and the dog collar there.

Hello, Christine. His grin was so like Scots, but its familiarity made it all the more ghastly on this man. His face was thin, and his eyes were two bright pieces of glass and sunken pits, glittering with intelligence, an ill will. I could now see that it somehow was Scott, despite the longer hair and the harder, harsher lines of his face. It just wasn't my Scott. I didn't know how it was possible. But once that thought was fixed in my mind, I knew it was true.

Hello? Where did you take me? I tried to sound confident. But it was a weak attempt, given I was sitting hurt and confused in a dog collar in some bizarre place, with some bizarre version of Scott. His smile widened. That's a fair question. This is my world.

I brought you from yours after hearing good things about you from Scott. Well, the other Scott. Look, I know what you're thinking. I kidnapped you, knocked you out, and brought you to this place. Hell, I put a collar on you. I guess this all looks really bad, huh? I brought you here because I missed my old Christine. See, we were together here, too.

but things didn't work out. I'm not saying it wasn't selfish to take you away, but it was with love in my heart. And as for this... He crouched down on his haunches next to me. He pointed to the dog collar. I wanted to make sure you didn't run out if I wasn't awake or paying attention when you came to. My world is pretty different from yours, and it's not safe out there a lot of the time. I wouldn't want you getting hurt on my account.

I stared at him, trying to keep any scorn out of my expression. He was clearly insane, and I didn't want to risk setting him off, especially when I really didn't know what was going on or what this place was like. And that was the key. I needed as much information as possible, and I needed to see how much latitude I could get before trying to escape. So you'll take the collar off now? He chuckled and shook his head.

I can hardly tell I'm going to like you better. Sighing wistfully, he went on. No, no, not yet. It'll take some time for you to acclimate, and until you do, I'm afraid you'll be your own worst enemy. For now, just rest, and I'll bring you some food. Your chain goes far enough for you to reach the bathroom over there. Just remember not to flesh it during nighttime hours, okay?

That's very important. This building is fairly secure, but the neighborhood has gone to shit lately. Lots of home invasions at night, and they target buildings where they hear noise or see lights. The blinds keep the light in pretty well. But the pipes in this old bitch kick up a fuss when you flush. So just save that for the morning, and we should be shiny golden. The next few days were a cycle of sleeping, eating, and trying to figure out the best way to escape, and where exactly I would be escaping too.

The last part was primarily facilitated by Not Scott. He spent hours each day talking to me, seemingly starred for conversation and human contact. He had some kind of job. And depending on something he called... Occurrence reports. He would be gone working for periods of time most days. But whenever he was there, he was usually talking to me. He would tell me stories about himself sometimes.

But a lot of his time was spent asking me questions. What was my childhood like? What did my life been like before he took me? What kinds of things did I like to do, like to eat, etc.? It was all so strange. He had this aura of discord and violence around him, so palpable the air fairly vibrated with menace when he was in the room. But he was never rough or even rude to me, aside from the obvious of holding me against my will. It was made stranger because parts of him did remind me of my scot, the way his face would light up when he was telling a story,

or the way that he would look at me sometimes when he didn't know I was looking. It somehow made it all worse instead of better. Seeing those glimpses of something I loved being choked to death by whatever sickness had taken root in him, I tried to find out more about the world I was in from him, and he told me some, but not much. He said that, years ago, before he was born, things had started changing. A lot of animals had started dying off for no discernible reason, and all at once. This had led to the partial collapse of a number of ecosystems around the world, which led to disease and famine and death, according to not Scott.

Things stabilized some eventually, but they were never really right again. Strange things would happen. People would disappear or go on murder sprees. Pots of dolphins started killing off large portions of the shark and whale populations in the Pacific. Then, in 1998, over 200,000 people across the globe committed suicide. within 10 minutes of each other for no apparent reason. People called it the awakening now. But that was when the world governments and media began admitting that there was an ongoing major problem, and they didn't know how to stop it. Not Scott told me with a laugh that it wasn't like the world was ending, but sometimes it sure felt like it. After the awakening, a lot of fanatics

started popping up. Religious zealots, doomsday preppers, militant groups itching for a fight. He said those groups caused disorder. It could be dangerous to be around. But mostly they were just scared people looking for an answer. And for the most part, civilization was still chugging along. Governments existed. People went to work. And as time went on, strange became the new normal. Then people started going insane. Not the normal, scared, I'm going to wear a bulletproof vest to the grocery store, insane. But more the, I'm going to eat the bus driver's face, insane. He said that actually happened to him when he was riding the metro one day.

People turning crazy didn't happen a lot at first. But in the last five years, it was building. There were more random acts of extreme violence. A teacher chopping up her third grade class. a little boy stabbing out his father's eyes while he slept. But there were more subtle versions of it too. People would develop strange obsessions or fetishes. They would become paranoid or have wild mood swings for no apparent reason.

Not Scott said that most days at work, there would be at least one or two people crying or laughing uncontrollably at random times throughout the day. He had tears in his eyes when he told me that last. and I felt my heart-breaking a little at what he said next. I know what's happening to me. It's happened to me already. I've done terrible things, not just what I've done to you and your Scott.

I've done much worse than that. I used to not be like this. I reached forward and took his hand. I can't imagine what you've been through. And I'm not saying you can fix everything, but you can make it better. Let me go back. You come, too. If this world is what is making you do these bad things, maybe you'll be better away from it.

Not Scott pulled his hand away, his face hardening. I should have expected this kind of cozying from you. You're not as different as I'd hoped. Standing up, he wiped his eyes with the palms of his hands as he stared off. His expression hurt and almost embarrassed. You aren't leaving, and there's no real hope for me either beyond embracing this world. as it is, letting it reshape me so I can survive it. You look back down at me.

You best get to accepting your reality, too. It's a hard world, and it's going to get harder. After that, he talked to me a lot less, though some nights he would sit with me for a while, saying very little, but seeming to not want to be alone. Other nights, he would seem different, a dark look on his face more akin to when I first saw him upon waking. Those nights, I had just tried to stay inconspicuous and small. He didn't tell me much more about the world outside. Other than that, there were worse problems now than just people going crazy. But I could hear signs of the chaos outside. Gunshots, screaming, and an orange glow of distant fires were a regular part of life. I asked about what had happened to the building, and he said a television helicopter had crashed

into it a couple of years back, taking out most of the top three floors. It had only put the small hole in not Scott's ceiling and caused minimal structural damage to the rest of the building. So he had stayed. He grinned and said he'd negotiated the rent down and decided to look at it like a skylight. And the days moved on. I need to stress again that after he got me here, he never hurt me. He was generally kind, in fact. He didn't threaten me, he didn't try to force himself on me or even come on to me sexually. And the things we talked about, they seemed harmless. Combined that with the fact that in a lot of ways, not Scott, was Scott, and it made it easier to be taken in.

Looking back on it now, I see that peppered into our conversations were questions that would prompt me to talk about my Scott, to talk about. my world. As I told him stories of my parents or my ninth birthday or my college major, I was giving him information and insight into a place he was desperate to learn more about. He was smart about it, subtle, but over time, I was handing him everything he wanted. I'd let myself forget I wasn't dealing with my scot, but just afflicted with some strange mental illness. I was dealing with a stranger. I remembered that fact when he brought her in, screaming and crying, snot pouring from her nose as he dragged her by the arm across the living room and into the bedroom. He tried to shut the door back when they entered. But in her flailing,

she kicked it and swung back open as he brought the knife down across her stomach. As blood welled out of the wound, she raised her head and her eyes met. She raised her head and her eyes met. had mine. She couldn't have been more than eight years old. Not Scott followed her gaze and saw the door was open. He looked at me, his face pale and stricken. I'm sorry you saw this, Christine. I'm just doing what is necessary to survive. Tell him I left the key to your collar in my closet. With that, he slammed the door shut. It muffled the girl's last gurgling scream, but not nearly enough. I screamed at the door, begging him to stop, but I knew it was no use.

It was more just to make myself feel better and to vent my frustration. For the hundredth time, I strained at my collar and tugged at my chain. But he had secured both well. I finally gave up. My throat hoarse. My body exhausted. Even amid my struggling and thrashing about, I had noticed that the bedroom had fallen silent. As I lay there panting, I strained to hear any sound.

There was nothing for several minutes. Then a series of small scuffling noises, followed by the sound of something being drug. Then silence again. I debated yelling, but I knew it was too late for the girl. So I stayed quiet. When the door suddenly burst open, I let out a scream. Scott was standing there. His face and clothes smeared with blood.

He was squinting and seemed unsteady on his feet. But when he saw me, his eyes widened. Christine? I woke to hands around my throat, choking off my air as I swam out of the black currents of sleep and opened my eyes to see a face eerily similar to mine staring down at me. The other scott was straddling me, bearing down hard as I started trying to flail to get free. His arms prevented me from getting a good hit in on his head, so I tried punching him in the sides. He grunted at each impact, but was unmoved.

I tried to make eye contact, mouth something to him, but he wouldn't meet my eyes, seemed to be avoiding me, in fact. He just stared at his hands around my throat, lips skinned back from his teeth and some kind of snarl or grimace below eyes that looked almost sorrowful. This somehow scared me worse. I started fighting back harder, trying to buck him off while slamming an elbow into his arm, hoping to break his grip, but he was too strong. I could already feel myself slipping back into the icier waters of unconsciousness.

As I faded out, I had time to worry if my shoes were still on and to hear him say he was sorry. When I woke next, I was face down on the floor. The left side of my head wet with some kind of viscous liquid. I wiped at my left eye and then opened both of them experimentally. I was in a version of my bedroom, but I could tell it wasn't mine. I looked around slowly, my throat aching with every breath as I sat up. The room was empty and the door was shut, and I had to fight the urge to rush out and search for Christine. I needed to be smart, take my time and take everything in.

With revulsion, I noticed my hand was wet with blood where I'd wiped my head. My entire side was soaked, in fact, as was the floor. I felt to lurch of fear in my stomach that he had killed Christine before he came back to get me, but I tried to hold it at bay as I studied the rest of the room. Nothing that noteworthy, other than that he had five mirrors hanging in different spots in the room, all of which were dark. I looked to the corner of the ceiling above the bed and breathed the sigh of relief when I saw no mirror there. Turning to the wall, I saw that he stripped away the paper he used to make the doorway on this side.

I guessed he had replicated it on the other side so that it would stay open while he was destroying this side. But aside from the paper, I still had no idea how it was done. Given the fresh blood, it seemed likely that was a part of it. Again, I had a thrill of fear for Christine, and this time I couldn't resist it. Standing up swiftly, I went to the door and yanked it open. A woman screamed, and as I looked across the dimly lit living room, I saw it was Christine. She looked terrified, and she was chained to the wall by some kind of collar, but she was alive. Christine?

She blinked. Her mouth slowly closing as she took me in. After a moment, she started to stand. Her face crumpled as she ran to me, almost knocking me over with the force of her embrace. Thank God. Oh, God! Oh, God! I stayed quiet and hugged her back.

After a minute, she pulled back, her expression serious and more composed. Is he gone? I nodded. I think so. He jumped me when I was asleep and drugged me here. I was unconscious, but I didn't see any sign of him when I woke up. He didn't come back out of the room, did he? She shook her head.

Then he must be in our world. He wanted to take my life, and now he has. I caught myself and smiled sadly at her. But it's okay. We'll figure this out. I reached out to stroke her hair, but she pulled back. I'm sorry, Scott. I'm so happy to see you.

But he looks so much like you, and I've been stuck here for two weeks with him. It's going to take me a bit to readjust, that's all. She took a couple of steps back, her hands holding her elbows as she smiled apologetically at me. But I'm okay. I'll be okay. What about you? Trying to hide the pain and guilt I felt at her words, I turned away to take in the living room. I'm fine. He choked me out, but I'm okay other than a sore throat. I glanced back at her. I'm so sorry for this. I know this is all insane and out of our control, but it's still a version of me that's doing it. I wanted to ask about the details of how he had mistreated her, but I didn't want to make it

any harder on her than it already had been, and we could talk about it more when she was ready. So instead, I added lamely, I know he's crazy, and I hope you know I'm not anything like him. Christine reached out and touched my arm. Hey, I know that. You're not him, and I know you're not like him. And honestly, I almost felt sorry for him at times. I haven't seen it, but from what I can. can tell and what he said about it. This place is really messed up. Dangerous messed up. He said people

were going crazy here, and I think that it was part of his problem, too. She pulled her arm back, her face trembling slightly. Do you know how to get us back? I shook my head as I turned away, ashamed to look at her any longer. I've been trying to figure it out ever since we were taken, but I don't know yet. I communicated him through stationary that my aunt gave me. He did the same with some an uncle of his on this side had given him. The paper, the two combined together, is how he makes the doorway. But no matter what I do, nothing seems to work. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Christine's face fall with despair. I pointed into the bedroom and went on. There's blood in there, a lot of it. And there was blood in my doorway when you were taken, too. I was afraid it

was yours, but it wasn't, was it? She hesitated and then shook her head. Okay, that's what I was thinking, the blood has to be part of it then. Did you see how he did it? Again, the strange pause, and then she gave a quick nod. I saw him draw the shape of a door in blood inside the paper outline like you talked about. Is the paper still there? She looked past me into the bedroom. Did he take it when he left? Finally, I had some good news. He did, but I have more. When I realized I might not figure out how to get access across to you on my own, I started hoping he would come back for me. I took to sleeping with my shoes on every night, and I kept strips of paper I had saved tucked into the bottoms of them.

If we can figure out how to create the doorway, I have the paper to do it. Her expression brightened for the first time, and she grabbed my hand, pulling me into the bedroom. Try it. Maybe it'll work. I took the strips of paper from my shoes, and for the next few minutes we pasted them carefully in an alternating pattern of cream and blue. As far as I could tell, it was close to exactly how he had arranged them when he took

Christine. Then, dipping a pencil eraser in the thickening blood on the floor, I traced the outline as she directed. It did nothing. After a couple of minutes of waiting, I tried again. No change. Suddenly, Christine pushed past me, her fingers dripping with blood. She frantically traced and retraced the outline over and over, but to no avail. Screaming, she punched the wall and fell back into a heap on the floor. I realized that her hand wasn't covered in blood from the floor, but it was bleeding itself. What happened? How did your hand get hurt? I started to reach out to her, but her dark look stopped me. I bid it just now. I thought maybe it needed fresher blood or something other than a fucking eraser wiping it on the wall. I don't know. Not Scott is the one that did this bullshit.

Not, not Christine. She sighed deeply and seemed to regain control. I'm sorry. I know this isn't your fault, but we need to get out of here. Her bloody hand touched her collar. Fuck! This thing is still on. He said the key is in the closet. I can't reach it. I swallowed and nodded, jumping up to check the closet. Inside, I found a small assortment of clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes, but the rest of the closet was devoted to books. They were stacked on a shelf at the top and in neat piles along the closet's walls. Most of them looked to be fantasy or science fiction, many by authors I'd never heard of, a few by authors who had never written those particular books in my world. On top of the closest book stack was a key.

After Christine was free, we searched the apartment over for any clues on how to reopen the door. Thirty minutes later, we were back in the living room, Christine staring at the floor forlornly, while I tried to figure out something comforting to say, Look, it'll work out. We'll figure it out, but it may take some time. Her expression didn't change, and I went on. I need to go out and get us some supplies, and figure out if this place is even anything like he said. Maybe it's not half bad, and he's just a crazy liar. I knew the unspoken subtext of what I was saying was that hopefully it would be nice because we might be stuck here, but I couldn't quite bear to say it. Instead, the idea of being marooned in this place just hung

between us like some kind of noxious cloud, slowly killing what little hope we had. As I was thinking this, I realized Christine was on her feet. You're right. Let's go and see what this place is even I thought about protesting, asking to stay at the apartment in case the outside world was dangerous, but I could tell she was determined to go, and it would be good if there were two of us. Between us, we managed to find a pair of long kitchen knives and a flashlight, along with the light jacket with pockets I could store items in while we traveled. Then we were off. Stepping out of the apartment, the ill repair of the hallway matched the hole in the ceiling of the apartment.

The only thing in sight that looked clean or well-maintained was the elevator, the brass of which carried a mirror-like sheen. I stopped and looked at the reflection there, but saw nothing. At her questioning look, I explained my encounter in the hallway to Christine. She said, not Scott, as she called him, had told her some about the mirrors, but not a lot. She asked how I'd been able to see him back in the reflection on the elevator, and I realized I didn't know. But by then we were pushing out of the downstairs outside door. When we stepped out, the first thing that struck me was how quiet the city was, how still.

It was still early, but in our world, there would already be people out and cars bustling along the narrow lanes of the street that ran in front of the apartment building. There would be sounds of nature mixed in as well, even if it was just because of the occasional bird song or dog bark. Here, there were a handful of cars driving down the street, and the people driving them seemed to be either staring straight ahead as though their gazes were welded to the road in front. of them, or constantly looking in every direction, seemingly terrified of some surprise attack. It was hard to say which was the better idea. We turned to the left and made our way down to what would be a corner grocery store in our world. Along that, we passed only a couple of people, and they were both walking determinedly

on the far sidewalk. They shot us wary glances, but that was all, and my attempt at waving hello to the second person was ignored. At the end of the block, we found that Patterson's grocery store. store was now Patterson's package shop, but when we entered, we found that aside from a large volume of alcohol, the place still sold various food and drinks. Sticking close to each other, we selected a very small variety of items and headed toward the front.

Money didn't seem to be an issue for the moment, as Nottscott had left a small stack of bills in a debit card with the pin taped to it sitting on the kitchen counter. The bills were red and reminded me of monopoly money, but when I handed the cashier a hundred-dollar bill, he took it without complaint and gave me a handful of strange change in return, including another RFK nickel. On the way out, we were almost run over by a large teenage boy barreling into the store past us. As he cleared the threshold, he started yelling about how he needed.

Fresh siggy's for me, ma'am. Get them up for your cousin and fucker. I propelled Christine out onto the sidewalk, but not before I heard the cashier scream back that the boy's mother had been dead for three years. We exchanged a look, and I debated suggesting that we just... head back to the apartment, but Christine was already opening a bottle of water and cutting across the street. There was starting to be more traffic now, but the flow of people was still anemic. I made the comment that this is what the world would be like after some plague in a movie,

or half the people had been wiped out. Christine had shot me a glance, her face hard. I don't know that it's that far from the truth. She pointed ahead to Bristol Park, which was actually called the same thing here as well. Let's go in there and see if there are any people out. Our version of Bristow Park was always bustling with people in the morning. On the weekends, it would be families and casual games of football and frisbee, but even the weekends saw a steady stream of joggers, dog walkers, and miscellaneous others. At first, we thought this version of the park was largely empty, but then Christine heard singing. The outer paths of the park follow cultivated hedges and trees, curving and winding along the park perimeter with inlets into the more

central areas every hundred yards or so. Even when you start down one of those inner paths, it takes more than a few steps before the large open spaces at the center of the park are revealed. As we were walking along the outer path, Christine suddenly cut into one of the inner paths, murmuring that she heard music. I followed, but at first I heard nothing. It was only as we were stepping on to the dying grass of the central field that I heard the faint singing or chanting that was coming from the throng of people clustered around the

enormous bonfire in the distance. Christine was walking toward the group quickly, and after a few more paces, I grabbed her arm and stopped her. She turned to me, her eyes fierce and her voice low, trembling when she spoke. What are they doing? Do you see that? I may have been more focused on Christine as we had drawn near, but as I looked again, I saw exactly what they were doing. The bonfire wasn't really a bonfire. It was a 20-foot metal frame in the shape of an X, the lower half squatter and much thicker than the top. Inside the frame, wood had been carefully inserted throughout and set ablaze. This was all very strange, but I only noted it in a perfunctory way.

As I was watching the man catch fire, the man had been stripped naked and chained at the wrist, the lengthy metal bindings trailing off into the crowd on each side of the burning X. The man was in the middle between the burning effigy's legs. The top of the white-hot metal only inches from his head, head. The air around him shimmered with the heat. His skin blackening and peeling off as he jerked back and forth from one side of the X to the other at the whims of the crowds pulling the chains. We were still 50 yards away, but when a breeze shifted direction, I could smell the pungeney

sweet smell of his flesh cooking, even as I heard him scream. I was about to start pulling Christine away when I stopped. My skin growing cold. The man wasn't screaming. He was laughing. I tugged weakly at Christine as she glanced at me. Her eyes wet and wide. We began to back away slowly, and I was terrified at any moment we would be noticed, but the crowd was transfixed, and even when the man stopped laughing and slumped forward, they kept him aloft and dancing like some kind of macabre tug-of-war. We edged our way back to the perimeter of the field.

In my last look before we headed back to the path and out of the park, I saw the cooked meat of the man began to pull apart as the mob ripped him in, too. I swear I could hear the wet gasping of his skin as it ruptured, the greasy crackle of his weaker bones as they flexed and snapped. But it seemed impossible at such a distance, real or imagined. I had to stop and vomit on the path, Christine patting my back and telling me to please hurry. We exited the park and wasted no time returning to the apartment. I could feel Christine's tear and knew my own matched it, But I felt no closer to an answer than I had before. We didn't talk about what we had seen, but Christine did take my hand and sit silently with me for a while.

I could tell we were both starting to slip into shock or some kind of despondent form of madness. We had to do something. Getting up, I started searching the apartment again for anything we might have missed. That's when I found a cream-colored envelope on the bedroom desk. I opened it and read it. Then read it again. My heart pounding. When I gave it to Christine, she studied it for a long time before looking up at me.

She was about to speak, but I couldn't hold it in any longer and blurted out. Did he hurt you? Scott's face was worried, hurt and scared all at the same time as he asked, and I could feel myself loving him and hating him for asking the question. I knew he was concerned for my well-being, that he loved me, and I knew that he felt guilty because of who had taken me. but there was still something so selfish in him asking, so childish in him needing to be comforted if I had been assaulted,

or even better, him hoping I could reassure him that whatever brutalities I had endured at Not Scott's hands weren't as bad as all that, so he could start pretending this wasn't his fault, because it was his fault. I saw that now, not necessarily because it was an alternate version of him, but because he had talked to Not Scott, responded to him, told him about me.

I was trying not to be angry with him. But I was so hurt and scared, and we had to get out of this place. I had already been toying with the idea of lying to Scott after reading Not Scott's letter. I had no idea why Not Scott had lied about assaulting me, whether it was due to his insanity, natural cruelty, or just to make Scott hate him more. It didn't matter. If it could drive Scott's guilt and his anger long enough to force him to do what had to be done,

it was a blessing. And if Scott's sad face and worried tone made it easier to tell the lie, so be it. I could ask for forgiveness when we weren't in hell anymore. Yes, he did. He started the second day, and it got worse as the days went on. More extreme. I was going to try and fake tears.

but I found there was no need. After everything, after what we had just witnessed, tears were going to come easily for some time. I saw Scott's face darken and his fists bawled at his sides. That's the response I was hoping for. I waited a moment for him to stew, and then I went on. And I lied before. I do know a bit more about how to make the door work.

Not Scott killed a little girl. He used her blood to open the door. door. Some of that was guesswork on my part, but I had seen enough to make it an educated guess. Scott's eyes widened some, but he still looked hard and determined. Then that's what we'll do. I'll find someone and take blood from them. I winced and he stopped. What is it? What's wrong? I licked my lips. Ask for forgiveness when you aren't in hell.

Scott, I mean, not Scott, told me that it had to be from a child. child, and the blood only worked as they were dying. I didn't want to tell you because it's so horrible, but I don't think there's any other way to get us home. This too was a lie, of course, as Not Scott had never told me any such thing, but it made sense. The leftover blood of the girl hadn't worked, and neither had my own fresh blood. So we needed to replicate what Not Scott had done as closely as possible, as soon as possible. I didn't... We didn't have time for Scott to moralize. Try to think up humane alternatives. Let the edge his emotions we're giving him now grow dull with time and equivocation.

No, we... We have to get out of here. I have to make this right and to get you out of here. If I have to do something horrible to do that, that'll be on me. His eyes were glimmering, but his voice didn't falter. I'll go find someone right now, and we can be done with it. I reached out and squeezed his hand. I'll help. I woke to something licking my face.

I reached out in my sleep fog, feeling short, soft fur. I realized that Trixie had somehow made it onto the bed. Opening my eyes, I saw this happy, smushed face as he gave me another lick. Clearly proud as having gotten up on the bed somehow. The girl at the pet store had said he was called a pug, and from the moment I saw him, I knew he was the weirdest and cutest thing I'd ever seen. I'd always been fascinated by dogs growing up, only in part because of dad's stories about Rex. But I had never seen a dog like this in any of the old pictures.

An hour later, I had him home, getting his bed and food ready while he explored the apartment with a manic, bouncy determination. Ruffling his fur, I pondered trying to go back to sleep, but I knew it was a lost cause. In the five days since I wrote the last letter to the other Scott, I've been having more and more trouble sleeping. I had a lot of guilt about what I had done to him and Christine, and the longer I was out of that place, the more I felt it. Living in that world, my old world, I had come to feel like I was trapped inside myself. When I had started noticing the change in myself a couple of years back, I was worried, but also strangely intrigued. It was like I was standing at the edge of some newly formed cave.

And each day I went into it a little deeper and a little more frequently. But over time, the light from outside didn't penetrate the darkness nearly as well, and I would get lost in the black. I would blindly traverse jagged rocks as unseen things crept around me, and when I finally found my way back out, I would swear it was the last time I would go near the thing, but then I would go back in. That's the funny thing about madness. It makes you feel like you have a choice. Like the options you pick are reasonable or justified, and then you look back in horror at what you've done. You feel completely responsible for everything.

And I am. I'm not trying to make excuses or pawn off all of the things that I've done on whatever corruption is slowly eating at the other world. I earned this guilt, this taint, honestly, and through my own works, and I'll carry it with me always. But that's the part of why I love Trixie so much. Aside from him being sweet and cute and generally awesome, he also doesn't know what a despicable piece of shit I am. For the hundredth time in the last few days I looked at the wall next to the desk, I both fear and hope to see a doorway open there most of the time.

I'm terrified of going back, and if they ever made it through, I'm sure the other Scott and Christine would either try to kill me or send me back through. At first, my response was that I would kill them if they came back. Now, I'm not so sure. Maybe we can all survive in this world. I can take Trixie and move away somewhere, and in time they can forget that I even exist. I know I'm still crazy, but at least now I can recognize it. I do feel like I'm out of a cave and in the sunlight more every day, and I love this world

so much. I figured out how to work Scott's cell phone after an hour or so on the second day I was here. Most people don't have cell phones where I come from because they're so unreliable. One of the side effects when things started changing for the worse a few years back was that most of the wireless transmissions stopped working with any regularity. It's like sunspots or a solar flare, but all of the time. But I did have a cell phone years ago. Just not one of these fancy touch screen things.

I poked around in it until I figured out where the other Scott worked, and then I called in sick. I needed time to get acclimated, but I also needed money. So the following day, I gave a sad Trixie a hug and headed in. The job was at a company that made greeting cards, oddly enough. Greeting cards weren't much of a thing anymore where I was from, but apparently other Scott wrote them for a living. The first couple of days were rough.

I could tell by the odd looks I got from some of my coworkers that I wasn't producing the kind of material they were expecting from Scott, so I went through all of his old work to get a feel for it. Most of it was sacrene and idiotic, but there was some good ideas in there too. Some of them I felt like I could see the other Scott in, and it made me know him more, see him more as a person rather than an obstacle. Or maybe that was just my crazy starting to wear off and my guilt starting to kick in. Either way, it didn't stop me from loving going to work. Living in that old world, even when I was deep in the cave, it felt like everyone you met was a high-voltage power line,

just humming with dark impulses and brimming with potential for violence. Not everyone was, of course, and I certainly fell into that camp myself, but none of that made the constant tension of daily life any easier to bear. Here, people aren't always nice, but they are normal, the way I remember being when I was younger. Yesterday, I just sat at my desk, trying to think up a way to say happy birthday that wasn't overly off-putting or strange, and I marveled at the sounds around me, people gossiping, eating donuts, talking about what they were doing for their vacation in two weeks or about their daughter's wedding last month. Even the work-related stuff was done in such a mundane and civil manner that it felt surreal. Much as I enjoy it, though, by the end of the day, I have to get home and be alone. Being around people too long, even normal people that probably won't suddenly start screaming

or trying to kill you is hard for me. I'm not used to that anymore. I may never be again. I don't know. But I already have more in this world than I ever thought I'd have again. New movies. I've been spending a lot of time at home watching movies. They made movies out of Tolkien's The Red Book of Westmarch trilogy over here.

They call it The Lord of the Rings, which is a dumb name, but the movies are great. My favorite has to be Golem. I read they did him with computer graphics, which is amazing and more advanced than anything I've seen in my world. I even named Trixie after him, albeit indirectly. He looks a bit like a bug-eyed Golem anyway. She's asleep on my lap as I write this, and as stupid as it sounds, I think he's part of the reason I'm having so much trouble with what I did.

I love the little guy, and it's the first time I've loved something since my Christine. Just thinking about her, what we did to each other as it got bad. I'll always hate myself for that. The question is, how much sin do I want to add on top? How much more do I want to hate myself? I decided to write this all out as a way of working through all these thoughts and feelings. almost as though I was writing to the other Scott, but with no intention of actually sending it. I'm coming to realize I should send it to him.

Not just this either, but instructions on how to get back or a message on setting up a time when I can open the door on this side if he's not up to doing it on his. I had better wait to send the extra paper until I know what he wants to do, and I hope I'm not too late for either of them. And yet, I still hear a voice calling from that deep, dark cave. The voice says I have to look out for myself, that they will kill me and force me back if I help them. I know that I can't trust that voice, but I also can't shake the feeling that it is part of what has kept me alive as my own world turned into some kind of hell. I need to think about this. I don't want to lose this life, but I'm not sure it won't be poisoned if I leave them condemned to that terrible place. And Trixie just woke up and wants to go outside.

I think I'm going to take him for a walk and then see about sending a letter. Abducting a child isn't as easy as you might think, especially in this place. There are fewer people for one thing, and everyone is much more guarded, especially with their children. The first few days me and Christine went out, we only saw a couple of children at all. We had a plan of only going out for two hours at a time in different directions. We wanted to make sure that if we saw something like what happened in the park, we could get back to the apartment relatively quickly.

And this way we were exploring different potential places every time we went. We saw a number of things in those days. Much of it was relatively mild, people talking to themselves or arguing loudly, acting erratic or strangely twitching and emotional. We saw a couple of fights, and one guy ran into the street and started stabbing a woman who was just quietly making a way along the sidewalk. The most troubling thing was very brief, and I don't think Christine saw it. We were walking south that day, debating if we should push out further than normal,

in hopes we could reach a school that was supposed to be a few blocks. away. It was a big risk to take a child from a school, particularly when we had to go back all that way on foot with them in tow. But every day we were getting more desperate, and the more time we spent here seeing this place, the more the question of should we do it faded away, as the question of how we do it became more and more pressing. As we walked, I happened to glance in an alley we were passing. I saw a woman and a child of about ten hunched over a man who lay slumped against a dumpster. At first, I thought. They thought they were leaning down, checking on him.

But then the little boy turned and looked at me with deep-set green eyes that twinkled with madness. His mouth was covered with blood and bits of flesh where they were eating the man. And as my mouth fell open, he smiled and licked his lips. I tried not to lose my stride so as to not alert Christine, and the last glimpse I saw was the woman's hand on the boy's shoulder. It may have been my fear or the trick of the shadows, but I swear I saw her hand going into him as though they were running together like pink candle wax. I told Christine we should keep going, deciding in the back of my mind that we would be taking

a different route back to the apartment. I kept looking over my shoulder, but to my relief, I saw no sign we were being followed. That was the day our luck changed. A mile down the road we found at elementary school, it had already let out for the day, but the next day we were back bright and early, and after watching most of the morning we had a plan. Most of the children came in by school bus or were dropped off by parents, but there were a handful that just walked there in the morning. Assuming that was true in the afternoon as well, we would just wait for a small child who was walking

alone, preferably a girl, since that's what not Scott had used. And that would be that. It was terrible, and I still hated the idea of doing it, but it had to be done. I had to try to make all this right, even if I had to do something wrong to do it. I told myself that these children had no real future here other than a short life filled with pain and fear. I couldn't quite convince myself that killing them was a mercy, but it did take the edge off of my guilt at least.

School let out, and it soon became clear who we were following. While many of the children who were walking had left in pairs of groups, there was one little girl who had headed off on her own immediately, as though she couldn't wait to be away from all the laughing and shoving and joking around the rest of the kids were doing as they got picked up were struck out on foot. She was overweight, with long black hair that was stringy and unkempt. Her clothes were clearly old and dirty in spots, and as she walked, I could see that the soul was starting to separate on the back of her red sneakers. She looked sad and unsheveled, and I had to fight the urge to tell Christine that this was a mistake, but when I looked at her,

all I saw was the grim, almost manic determination I had seen since we had started this days before. She was past any mercy or equivocation at this point, and how could I blame her, given all she had been through? So we followed the child until she started down a route different than what would lead in the apartment's direction, at which point we approached her and told her she needed to come with us. She asked why, and we gave her our pre-planned generic response. A member of your family has been hurt, and we were told to get you. We don't have all the details yet. It was vague and lame, but we hoped it would be enough to at least get her down the road a mile or two before she started asking more questions. She seemed to weigh our words, considering,

and I could tell she didn't really believe us for any of a dozen good reasons. Still, to my surprise, she just shrugged your shoulders with a resigned look on her face and agreed to come with us. It occurred to me that the children were likely crazy in this place just like the adults, and given what I thought I had seen in the alley, my appreciation for how potentially dangerous this little girl might be was exponentially greater. As we walked, she didn't try to attack us or even complained. She moved along calmly, and after a couple of miles, I began to wonder what her life must be like that she was okay with being abducted.

I pushed the thought away. The less I thought of her as a person, as a sad little girl, the better. The trip back was taking longer than expected, not because of any problems with her, but because we had gotten lost. As Twilight came on, the semi-familiar landmarks became less familiar, and somehow, in my rerouting, we took a wrong turn. We made it to the apartment without incident, but well after nightfall, and the resolutely stoic little girl had started to murmur about being hungry and knitting the bathroom.

When we got upstairs, I shared a look with Christine as I told the girl we'd fix her some dinner, after we showed her something in the other room. The paper and knife were already set up in the bedroom, so it should go quickly enough. But when the girl asked again about going to the bathroom, I relented, telling her to go on, but to make it quick. She nodded and went with a dutiful haste into the hallway bathroom, closing the door behind her. Christine was giving me a hard look to which I just shrugged. It's five minutes. I think it's the least we can do.

She's just a little girl. Her expression softened a little, her voice mimicking my hushed tone. I know. I just want it over with. We have to get back. I nodded, and I thought about reaching out. out to comfort her, but now wasn't the time. We had to stay focused and get past this. Then we could work on helping each other get back to normal. After another minute, the toilet flushed.

Immediately, the pipes began to squeal and rattle with a level of noise that still amazes me after nearly a week of using them. Christine had warned me about them, about not using them at It's after dark. Christine's eyes were wide with panic. He said never flush it after dark. I felt fear fluttering in my chest and I tried to ignore it. I'm sure it'll be okay. What are the odds some roaming band is patrolling outside right now, just waiting for a sign of life to break in. Still, I could feel my heart racing, and I was about to hammer on the bathroom door when the girl came out, looking confused at our excitement. I grabbed her arm and pulled her across into the bedroom. She was still quiet, but she was

starting to physically resist now. Fortunately, Christine was there and grabbed her from behind, wrapping her arms around the girl's chest. I've got her. Do it. Hurry! I let go of the girl's arm and looked into Christine's face. She looked ten years older and like a different person than the woman I knew and loved. Her easy smile and bright, intelligent eyes had been replaced with a grim slash and dull stones that bored into me as she waited for me to grab the knife. I picked it up and had time to think about how heavy it was, how wrong it felt in my hand. The next moment there was a crash that sounded like it was coming from the front door of the apartment as someone tried to bash their way in. Christine's eyes widened, has her grip on the child tightened.

Fucking do it now before they're on top of us! Being careful to avoid the child's face, I moved my gaze down to the knife. Taking a deep breath, I shoved it into the girl's stomach. Even though she didn't complain other than make a slight sound like she was being punched in the gut, I started to cry, but the splintering sound of the front door finally giving way spurred me on. I put my fingers in the blood, pouring from the knife wound and turned to trace the rectangle inside the paper door. Immediately, a crack appeared, and at my touch, the door swung open. I shifted

away and told Christine to go through, seeing two men and one woman coming into the living room, looking at me across the distance. I jumped and slammed the bedroom door shut, twisting the lock, but knowing the door would only hold for seconds. Turning back, I saw the last of Christine disappeared through the door, and I dove behind her, scrabbling through and back into my world. The first thing I noticed when I passed through was barking. I looked up to see Christine standing nearby, the knife we had used on the girl in her hand. Standing a few feet away at the doorway to the room was Not Scott, and bizarrely, it looked like he was holding a small pug puppy that was furiously barking at us. Get back, motherfucker!

Christine growled at him. Not Scott was about to say something in response, but then I was getting pulled back through the door, and rough hands had me, pulling my clothes and yanking me away. away from my home. I looked up and saw strange faces with small symbols tattooed between the eyebrows on all three of them. They didn't seem angry or even upset as they began to punch and kick me. Instead, they were placidly calm, almost bored-looking, as though what they were doing was just part of their daily routine. Most likely it was. I tried to ball up, but I was hurting badly already, and protecting my stomach only exposed my back more. I closed my right eye.

I knew I was going to die here, beaten to death by strangers in a strange world, but one of them started screaming, and when I opened my eyes, I saw a knot-scot pulling the knife Christine had been holding out of one of the men's eyes. As that man began to fall, the woman left off kicking me to jump on Scott's back with a furious howl. He pushed backwards, slamming her into the wall and jamming the knife back and into her side. Her howl turned into a yell of pain, and as he yanked the knife free, he twisted around and drove at home in her neck with a wet, popping sound that made me wince.

I realized that the other man had run out during this, and I was going to say so to not Scott, but he was busy looking at the tattoo on that woman's face. Shit, okay, you have to get out of here. Get back through the door. I'm going to destroy it as soon as you go, and then try to go catch that guy and his buddies. I was confused, but suddenly I felt sure I shouldn't be leaving not Scott here, despite everything he had done. Why don't you come back with us?

You can pay for your crimes there. He stared at me for a moment and then shook his head. I can't. These aren't regular criminals. They're part of one of the big cults that has sprung up over the last few years. They call themselves the House of the Claw. And if they figure out how to make a door, then there's nothing stopping them and God knows what from pouring out into your world.

They've always run in packs of four or five, so I have to try to get the rest of them now. He paused. But thank you for offering. And please take care of my puppy. His name is Trixie, and he's a very good boy. I could see he was crying, but I knew we didn't like it when people commented on us crying, so I left it alone. I promised, Scott, if you get them and—

I almost said survive, but I couldn't make myself say the word. You want to come over? Use one of these scraps and send me a note. I'll send you more paper to make a door. I left out the unspoken step of having to kill another child, but I saw in his eyes he was thinking it. He shook his head. Don't worry about that. We have to be willing to make sacrifices for what matters.

I understand that better now. Just go. Have a good life, both of you. And I'm sorry. I nodded and rolled back over my stomach, crawling as quickly as my pain would allow. As soon as my feet had cleared the other side, the door was gone. I looked back to see Christine holding the shaking puppy, who looked at me for a moment before starting back to barking furiously and squirming.

It's been six hours since then. I found and read what the other Scott had written and have included it above. To her credit, Christine was honest about reading his letter. She told me she had lied about him abusing her, and told me what she says is the truthful account of her time there with him and with me. I plan to include portions of that in this, more earlier postings as well. She left a couple of hours ago to go home and clean up and get some rest. We hugged when we parted at my door,

but I can tell everything is different now. Everything is broken between us. It was too fragile or too rigid to bear the weight of all we have seen and said and done. And the saddest part is that I'm okay with that. The last month has given me a real deal of insight into what I can survive. Right now, I'm trying to make friends with a small puppy named Trixie. He's a cute little guy, but he rolls his eyes with a mistrust whenever I try to get near him. I'm not the right Scott for him.

I'm starting to think I'm not the right Scott for a lot of things. I've been checking the desk for a sign all night, but there's been nothing. So finally, after taking a second long shower and giving Trixie some more water, I tumbled into bed and a deep slumber. I start awake, and I can tell it's either early morning or early evening, but I have no idea which. Trixie is what woke me up, barking at something. I roll over and see he's jumping and barking at the desk. On it is a single scrap of blue paper

Leaping out of bed I wiped sleep from my eyes and read it Got them Fortunately for me The house isn't afraid to recruit young I'll be over shortly Tell Trixie he's my precious Laughing and feeling stupid

I read the note to Trixie Who was bouncing excitedly against my leg As though he knew what was coming Just then I saw it The door was opening one last time