The Dark Somnium - These Are Some of The Strangest Jobs I've Ever Had | A Compilation of Scary Job Stories

Episode Date: October 18, 2024

00:00 Intro00:00 Anomaly #48741:41 We Put a Soul in A Computer01:15:19 The Worlds Best School Psychologist01:28:31 My Worst 911 Call01:40:23 My A Hitman with a Unique Method02:14:23 I Worked at A Top Secret Government Research Lab02:50:25 I'm a Social Worker for Psychic Children03:17:18 I'm an investigator and hunter of the paranormal03:38:40 I'm a Contract Killer, My Last Target Wasn't Human Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

I received a letter today, but not through the mail. The envelope was left from me personally. This is what it said. We've met briefly. I feel compelled to write this to explain myself. I'm only an E3 private first class, so I had no idea why I was spared the axe. I was basically a footgrunt in the Ohio Emergency Management Agency. The EMA handles prevention, preparation, and response for everything from weather crisis to terrorist

attacks. My particular department within the EMA is a bit less publicized, but as you know, it's supposed to handle anything outside the bounds of normal. The problem is, I'm the only one who still works here. I didn't even have a desk, has spent most of my time driving from place to place, and setting up equipment. We always did this in groups of four due to the unknown dangers. When the firings began, all I saw was our office building becoming emptier day by day.

We started having to drive out to small towns across Ohio in groups of three, and then pairs. My partner that last day found transfer orders left for him on the secretary's front desk. He took the orders, grunted, and headed out, while I was left to wander our darkened building and confusion. The computers were all still there, but locked. Our equipment and gear remained. Fortunately, I had a key to the storage rooms, but there was not a single officer. secretary, or grunt to be found. I figured it was only a matter of time until the new administration

sent down transfer orders for me too, and I just had to wait. I actually stood the entire next day, right there in the front area. I stood by the secretary's desk and waited. At any moment, an officer might come by with my orders, and it would not have been good for him to see me slacking off. At times, phones would ring in the back, but those officers were dark. Once the clock hit five, I waited another few minutes, but nobody came. The next morning, my legs ached, so I said screw it and took a seat there in the lobby. For hours I sat staring at the clock and ignoring the calls echoing from the darkness. At some point I picked up a magazine.

The next day was Friday. The orders had to come then, right? Nope. I stretched out along the chairs and went to sleep. If an officer wanted to bust my ass for that, I was beyond giving a shit anymore. By then, ten phones were ringing constantly in the dark. Saturday, I drank. Sunday, I drank.

Come Monday, I sifted through the mail that had been delivered through the wall slot looking for my transfer orders. Nothing by then. All 15 phones in the back offices were ringing constantly. Hung over as I was, I got pissed. I was a loyal soldier that always tried to follow orders. But how much was a man expected to take? I stomped back to the farthest office and picked up the phone.

Jesus, what? The only response on the other end was a little girl crying. That moment everything changed. I just assumed it was more government bullshit. I had no idea I'd been listening to cries for help for days and not answering. The rest of the EMA always transferred all abnormal calls to us, which meant they'd been transferring people to answering machines all week. That little girl, I remember saying with more compassion than I ever thought I had in me.

What's wrong? And she said. Mom and Dad aren't right. Deshler, Ohio. I'd never heard of it. After a few half-answered questions and some Google mapping, I told her, I'll be there in two hours. That was the first time I went out alone.

It was against all our training, but I had no other option. I couldn't depend on civilians from other departments, and asking any of the anyone outside the EMA would get me thrown in prison, or worse, for violating secrecy. I geared up as quickly as I could, throwing on every piece of gear I guessed I might possibly need, and throwing even more in the Humvee. It was lucky I brought the flamethrower, because I had to burn down a living church made of organs and bone. Then I had to burn a pile of flesh the parents of Deschler were making with their own cut-off

limbs. Then I had to burn some of the parents, too. But that finally broke the control of the demonic flesh church, and that little girl got her parents back, minus one arm. When that was done, and I got back to the office a little after lunchtime, I said the ultimate screw it and turned on all the lights in the building. After I found the central map of Ohio, in what had been the operations area, I pulled all the phones out on long cords and sat them on the table next to the coffee maker. I was not authorized to answer the phones, but who's going to bust me? Vinton, Ohio. A creek had turned into literal blood.

I pushed a green pin into the map. Non-threatening, as long as you use water filters. Sabina, Ohio. The forest was dying around a strange cave. I pushed a blue pin into the map. Localized phenomena. Not too dangerous, small things considered. Just don't go in the cave.

Brooksville, Kentucky. Sorry, you'll have to call the Kentucky office. They're not answering. It was a tough decision. decision to make, but I couldn't help him. Montrose, Ghent, Ohio. Corpses being found burned to death, but the people being identified by teeth are still alive and well. I considered it for a long time, and then put a red pin into the map, possibly very dangerous and would require follow-up. If the citizens in the area called again, convinced that the individuals with matching corpses

were now acting strangely, I would know for certain that they were being replaced. And so at went as I tried to map the dangers. Along with 18 monitored anomalies that I'd inherited, there were 46 ongoing incidents in Ohio. Yours was the 47th. When you met me for the first time at the bar, I was pissed drunk. It was because of the 48th. See, I'd been doing this alone for seven months by that point. For every minor success, like burning down that living church, there were nine other total containment failures.

I was one man. I managed to reroute all the office calls to my Humvee, and I spent every waking hour driving all across Ohio and back. But it was never enough. I began to realize that I could no longer intervene. All I could do alone was monitor. I was beginning to lose hope, and the final nail in that feeling came when I actually managed to get the governor's office on the phone after months of trying.

I got his direct aid, and I began to tell him about how my department was screwed, and Ohio was bubbling over with dangers. He said to me, But your department still exists. I'm the only one working here. I can't, he cut me off and repeated. But your department still exists, correct? Um, yeah, but...

Then the only thing you are authorized to tell anyone who asks is that your department still exists. You have no problem with the truth, right? I was sitting in my Humvee, watching a rising pillar of smoke in the distance as some small town burned. I'd driven through it, and I'd seen the fire department sitting idle, while the townsfolk worked together with buckets and well water to put out the fires. It was Incident 44, with a blue pin, and there was nothing I could do to help. No, sir, no problem with the truth.

Good. The governor's considering a run for president in a few years, so let us know if any major incidents happen. We'll capitalize on that. I frowned. Capitalize on it, sir? Contain it, I mean. Swiftly. I wonder if he heard my uncomfortable swallow.

All right. And then I was left to continue my drive from sight to sight. As I took Forest Road after Forest Road, it hit me. They'd cleaned out the personnel from my department on purpose. They'd fired all but one. Me. So that they could truthfully say the department still existed. The part they would leave out, if anyone asked,

was that the department was only one private first class, who could not prevent abnormal disasters on any meaningful scale. Can I even possibly describe what it felt like? I'd been sold out, given a duty impossible to handle so that I would fail. I wish I could write better. I wish I had words. I was cold, and my heart felt like stone. That's why I turned her away when she ran up to my Humvee and slammed her bare, flat palms

on the window. I'd come to check out a possible anomaly, and I'd stopped on the road outside of the small town in question at three in the afternoon. In broad daylight, she ran up to me in terror and begged for a ride out of town. She had long, unkempt blonde hair and a silver crucifix on a silver chain around her neck. Through the glass, I had asked what was the problem? She shouted that people were divided. They hated each other. I was so bitter that I had just scoffed and said, what's new.

She told me I didn't understand. They were all listening to the radio and turning crazy. It was no anomaly, just midwereux. West politics as normal. I thought to say something to her, but instead I just took off. She stood there defeated in my rearview mirror, growing ever smaller as I watched. On the way back to the office, I stopped on the outskirts of Columbus and drank. I sat at the bar and got freaking wasted. That's when you ran into me, and that's why I said you were on your own, why I said we're all on our own. There was nothing to do but keep moving. The next day and the day after the

that. It was Wednesday when I sat outside a town square and watched hordes marching with torches in their hands and shouting angrily in unison as they protested or counter-protested issues unknown. I'd begun to listen to talk radio instead of music at some point, and concerned voices were discussing the rise in distrust, hate, and violence. A voice on the radio said, They're all crazy, literally lunatics. What did this come from? I left that town square with its angry mobs and drove back to the office to sit in silence and stare at the map of Ohio with its green, blue, and red pins. It occurred to me that the number of anomalies in the state had more than doubled in the last

seven months. There'd been no pattern so far. The image of that terrified blonde woman and her silver crucifix would not leave my mind. Where had I seen her? I deemed it normal and put no pin. But if I did, I grabbed another map and overlaid a transparency of the river system. Then I grabbed the transparency of Ohio's caves. Of course, the pins didn't make a coherent shape.

I'd been looking at roads and coordinates, not rivers and caves. And yet I should have thought of it months before. Creeks turning to blood, cave entrances appearing and rotting life around it. It was all connected. And the small town with that terrified blonde woman was right at the center. From that spot, all of Ohio could be reached through underground means. There was only one black pin, a classification of threat all its own, and I pushed that black pin into the dot that represented her town.

I sat back and stared at the map, taking in the truth. Now what? I had to go out there. Despite hopelessness, despite how afraid I was of what I might find, I had to drive out there. Was it time to call in reinforcements? I didn't know exactly what I was up against yet, so I tried to call friends and colleagues from other states. Kentucky?

No answer. Indiana, no answer. Pennsylvania, no answer. West Virginia. Still expending all resources struggling to contain the coal demon. And those assholes in Michigan certainly wouldn't ever help in Ohio. Alone it was. But it didn't feel like I was alone.

On the hour drive over there, I had the radio to reassure me. to reassure me. The voice was as concerned and scared as I was, and guest after guess confirmed what I was feeling, and insanity and blight was creeping across the land, leaving the trappings of civilization in place, but undermining us from below in ways that left us vulnerable to sudden collapse. On the drive down dim forest roads, a peculiar, chiming kind of urgent despair fueled me. I had every weapon and device I could think of in the back of the Humvee, but I still felt unprepared. There was nobody to call for help and no backup, and the men in power would only make it worse by trying to use a disaster for their own ends. If I didn't find a way to stop

the black-pinned anomaly, what might they do? Give themselves more power, suspend elections, declare martial law? The radio echoed these concerns before I even thought of them myself. The voice kept me focused. It was two in the afternoon when I pulled up to that town square. A pedestal stood in the middle of a fountain, but there was no trace of the statue that might have been upon it. Traces of garbage littered a wide, flat brick area, hinting that some great commotion had happened here.

With a gas mask on, and my assault rifles slung back but ready, I got out of my vehicle and quietly circled the main fountain. There was no telling how a black pin-level threat might present itself, but I had some idea that it might do with insanity and blight. The first sign of life was a local resident passing by on the sidewalk. She was white-haired and frail, and she flipped me off when she saw me. Okay. Birds flew overhead, and a squirrel ran up a tree.

My test kit from the back of the Humvee showed nothing abnormal with the air, so I took off my gas mask. Looking in a window, I saw a general store in normal operation. I entered slowly, gun half hidden behind me, and lurked along the back shelves whilst listening to two customers. They sounded normal. I grabbed a candy bar and went to the front counter, acting nonchalant. The owner was a gruff man in his 50s, and I began to feel a little nauseous as I got near.

He asked, You local militia? Lying, I just nodded as I got my change from my pocket. What was making me feel sick? It was a noise, some sort of static-y, disgusting sound. I looked past him and saw a radio with its power light on. He was listening to some sort of horrific channel that was emanating vile filth. I kept myself from wincing as I studied the bits of what looked like liquid gold that had oozed out of the speakers and onto the walls

around the radio. Do you like him? The shopkeeper asked. He's got real points. I nodded, lying again. He could hear words in that horrible noise that made me sick. That was it. It, that was the threat. I left the store, hurried around the corner, and vomited in the grassy alley. That woman had said people were listening to the radio and acting crazy. Now I knew she'd been completely serious. But what effect was it having on them? Life seemed to be going on as normal here, except the old woman flipping me off, and the shopkeepers

were happy to see supposed armed militiamen that were neither police nor military. I sat in my Humvee for an hour, listening to the radio myself. this time to a local channel that was increasingly turning to talk of resistance. The voice seemed to be talking in metaphor, though. The servants of gold are all going insane. He said, That's how he likes them. The longer they listen to his message of hate,

the more agitated they become. Even good people will turn to violence if indoctrinated long enough. We have to prepare ourselves for what's coming. The servants of gold. Did he mean people listening to that particular nauseating noise? Around three in the afternoon, I left my Humvee and visited another two shops to confirm. Each building had a radio playing that god-awful noise. Each radio was oozing liquid gold.

On touch, it was solid and cold. I could not lift the radios from their perch of hardened gold, nor could I turn the nod to change the channel. Gold had crusted over all possibility of stopping the noise, and had even coated the power cord and fuse the plug to the wall socket. I tried to use my combat knife to break through the gold and cut the power to one of the radios when the shopkeep wasn't looking, but I was only barely able to nick the stuff. And every few minutes I had to go outside and throw up.

That screeching and vile noise simply could not be tolerated for very long, and I was worried it was going to cause serious damage to me somehow. How could they listen to it? They were all nodding along to it, often in sync with each other as they did so, and customers often commented in agreement with unheard points. When I felt sickest, I retreated to my vehicle, and the local channel made me feel better. Perhaps it's innate evil. He continued saying,

Perhaps only those with evil in their hearts can hear the message of gold. Those of us who are sickened by it must fight back as best we can. Everything the servants of gold touch has tainted, and we must take a stand against them. Where was this message coming from? There was no identifying information. All I could do was listen, and listen I did. I sat and watched the townsfolk go by. Some eyed my military vehicle with distrust.

Those people did not go into the shops that had been playing the message of gold. The sky began to darken to a gray blue gloom when I awoke from a lull, thanks to the snap of the voice on the radio. The time is now. They march. I rubbed my eyes and looked out across the square. A wall of marching men was approaching from the distance. Many held torches.

I checked my map to ensure this was not a town I'd directly visited before. How many rallies like this were there? And were they nightly? Other denizens of the town were fleeing past my windows. I turned and looked back. They weren't running. They were gathering. The mob approaching from the other side of the town square were carrying buckets of water in

mass. I slid down in my seat and made sure my doors were locked. My vehicle had been built to withstand military assaults, so I was sure I was mostly safe, but it still felt unsettling to watch people flow past my windows with angry faces and tense stances. The two crowds met at the center, forming opposing fronts at the empty pedestal. For a few minutes, the two sides shouted each other in a cacophonous roar. Finally, one young man on the torch-bearing side jumped on the pedestal and tried to claim the space.

A bucket was swung, and water flew up to douse the young man's torch. Made soggy, he backed down, and a surge of violence almost pushed forward. Older men at the front held their torch-bearing younger companions back. I expected a full-on riot to start at any moment, but the two sides merely glared at each other, and then began to disperse back home. As quickly as the showdown had begun, it faded away, and I searched the crowd in the dim evening gloom until I saw her. Finally, getting out, I approached the blonde woman who had once asked me for help. Hey, do you still need a ride out of here?

She turned at my touch and reacted defensively, but then she saw it was me. Do you have any silver? I noticed that her necklace and crucifix were gone. No, why? Can I sell you something? Confused, I asked. Like what? Anything.

Anything I own. Clothes, food, keepsakes. She clutched my arm near my slung gun. I need to buy more silver. She looked toward the pedestal at the center of the square. They want gold to stand there to be our new lord. We have to stop them. They're all insane.

I don't have any money or silver. Sime, she hurried off before I could ask her more questions. I had no choice but to go home. That night, I slept fitfully. I needed to know more. Something was happening in that town that had to do with the poisoning of my entire state, But I couldn't see the connections just yet. Thursday morning, I was back early and asking questions.

I listened to that woman on the radio, talking of resistance and solidarity on the way up. And this time, I found half the townsfolk that were not listening to the vile message of gold. They were immediately receptive to me, as if I was one of them, as if all good people of the world were immediately on their side. And they explained in hushed tones what had been happening. A year before, a deathly ill homeless man had wandered into town. He brought with him a large book and a small statue. His only words in the local doctor's office had been, burn it. Of course, they'd open the book and touch the statue instead of burning either one of them.

The doctor and mayor had, together, ignored the homeless man's warning. The mayor had been the first to start talking about a new way of thinking. Half of the town didn't understand what he meant. His ideals were nonsense, and his words didn't seem to mean what he thought they meant. His rhetoric switched often between anger and fear, but the reasons were inexplicable. Half of the town agreed completely with every word. Make sense, they would say. And yet, when asked to explain why, they would simply repeat what the mayor had said,

making no more sense than he. In the months since, the divide has widened. I understood. Either the book or the statue was the sort of. of the infection, and it was some sort of viral or memetic mode of thought that naturally seemed to be able to infect only half the population. While we talked, the radio played for all of us, confirming what we were talking about. One young woman had told me that it helps to keep them sane to know that they're not

the only ones feeling this way, then pointed to the radio and said that it drowns out the hateful noises the gold spews out of the radio day in and day out. Then, an older man gripped my arm, asking me if I had any silver. I asked him if it counteracted gold's influence somehow, thinking of the silver crucifix. The man nodded, saying that in a way, yes. These were the only useful facts I got out of the conversations that day. Much of the time was wasted talking about how horrible the followers of gold had been to them, how hateful the things they said and did were, and how insane and hypocritical they acted.

At long last, they gave me the location of the post. book. And I decided to investigate. The book had been set upon a pedestal in the United Church near the town square. Previously, Muslims, Christians, and more had used it as a place to worship together. Now it sat empty and dusty. The front doors closed behind me slowly, cutting off the afternoon light, but I had my flashlight on my weapon to guide me. Past the pews and up the steps at the back, I stood under the dim, multicolored light from the stained glass windows and held a lighter to the corner of the book. No investigation, no reading. Screw that. As old and dried out as it was, it caught fire easily and burned away in moments. I watched

from a few steps back until the embers died out, and then I went and sat in my Humvee. Mission accomplished. But that night, Thursday night, the townsfolk again gathered in the square to scream and bait one another. Multiple splashes of water were thrown, multiple. Multiple torches were doused, and several buckets and wet torches were thrown on the bricks between the gathered crowds. I hadn't done anything at all by burning the damn book. Back at the office, I looked up the foreign words that had been on the cover, and I found out that they'd been Greek for the Journal of Alexander of Macedon.

What secrets or instructions it had contained, I would never know. Some of the townsfolk had mentioned an eclipse as some sort of approaching problem, and I looked it up. The next one would occur in four days on August 21st. The next day, Friday, I drove up again and listened to the increasingly frantic talk on the radio. Someone's house had been burned down mysteriously in the night. They were all right, but their home was not, and tensions were rising. Some were demanding retribution. That day, the showdown in Town Square was earlier, at 5 o'clock, and I used the sudden opportunity to sneak back to the parts of town controlled firmly by the followers of gold.

I had a mind to find that statue. Thing was, their houses were bare. There was no furniture, no belongings, just hundreds of boxes littering the neighborhood that were all from an online cash-for-gold site. They'd sold everything they owned for gold, literal gold. The only object left in every home was a radio plastered to the wall. wall or to the floor by hardened oozing gold. Why didn't they take the stuff out from around the radios if they were so desperate for it?

I again used my knife. This time it was with more freedom since no one was around, but I found that I couldn't even nick it anymore. It was stronger than before, and no doubt could not be removed by the townsfolk at all. Now where was the statue? The resistance had described it as six inches tall, so I figured it would be hard to locate. It wasn't until I passed it four times that I realized the tarp covered form in the mayor's yard had to be it.

I pulled the tarp off and stared up at it. Six inches tall, the godforsaken thing was eight feet, and was carved in the form of an ancient hero in the style of Greek statues I'd seen in textbooks in school. It was pure gold from its bare feet to its ivy-crowned head, and I had the eeriest feeling that it might turn and look at me at any moment, despite showing no ability to move on its own. Just to confirm, I turned on my radio and turned it off just as quickly as I nearly passed out. The evil radio signal was incredibly strong here at its source. The statue itself was not just a statue made of gold. It was the entity gold itself, taller and stronger

for all that the controlled half of the townsfolk had nurtured it. I hid beyond the trees for two hours to get proof of what I suspected. As the conflict in the square led out, many people of those that bore torches now returned and offered up pieces of gold jewelry and coins and trinkets. They were absorbed into the statue on contact and it grew slightly bigger as I watched it from afar. It was also guarded by 20 men with assault rifles equal to mine. That would be the local self-trained militia policing their interests even though they had no right to do what they were doing. It was going to stop them. I drove home that night and prepared as much C4 as my depleted department had left.

I would blow that monstrous thing back to hell long before Monday, letting it survive until the eclipse seemed like a bad idea. But I would need help. There are almost always men around the statue. I told my co-conspirators in a resistance meeting in the home of the blonde woman I'd met twice. Her name was Kara, and she'd sold everything she owned to buy silver. The only thing she had left now was a radio in the corner, and we met while it gave off

soothing notes of confirmation and solidarity in the background. I need to know when the next rally is ahead of time. They're not exactly planned, one of the men said. We just show up when everyone else is showing up. Then how does everyone know when to show up? The man pointed to the radio. When he says it's time, that the other side is coming. He warns us.

Who cares? It's time to start killing anyone who believes in gold. He's obviously pure evil. and his followers are insane idiots, literal Nazis. Can't they see what's happening to them? I nodded. It was a little extreme, the way she put it, but I did wonder how they could be so blind to the truth of what was happening.

Saturday's rally showdown happened at 4 in the afternoon. It was raining heavily, so the C4 plan was a no-go. There were too many complications with the heavy downpour. Notably, I couldn't confirm every one of Gold's followers was at the town square. Without torches, they were far more timid. With the torrents pouring down, the resistance was emboldened, and the Gold's side backed down first. That night, I didn't drive home. I stayed in town in one of cars' empty rooms.

We sat and listened to that supportive voice on the radio until the late hours. I don't remember sleeping, but the voice on the radio told us that Gold's people were back with a vengeance because of yesterday's slight. At three o'clock on Sunday, we got our gear together and joined. joined the flow of the resistance on the street. I separated from the crowd and slipped past them. This time, though, the ground was wet, the air was dry, and all of Gold's people were out with their torches.

The mayor's house was unguarded, and gold stood glowering over the land, ten feet tall and in a more aggressive stance than before. Absurd overkill was what I would call it. I used all the C4 I had, and I took out the mayor's house completely and set two neighboring homes on fire. I laughed and clenched my fist in the air as the cloud of dust and soot rolled across town. But when the dust settled, gold was shining and undamaged, and his face was now toward my hiding spot in the woods. His blank Greek statue eyes were on mine. He had not moved as far as I had seen, but still he had caught me. As the angry mob with torches surged back to investigate the explosion,

I ran. That had been my only choice. We all stayed up the entire. entire night, listening to the screaming and shouting on the streets. Random houses were lit on fire as both men and women ran amok in secret. No one knowing exactly who was responsible, but no one wanting to know. Each side assumed the other lit whatever fire harmed them anyway. Specific individual culpability no longer mattered. When Monday dawned bright and hot, nobody had died yet, but the fever of hate had us all burning at the edge.

A fire axe in hand, Kara, recited to many of us in her empty living room. The eclipse will peak at 2.30 p.m. when the moon obscures 86% of the sun. We will still have some light, but it will be a dark time for us all if gold is allowed to reach the center of town. One man had pointed out that the moon is at a disadvantage against the sun, and then an older woman had said that that only meant that we must fight that much harder. Carrick gripped my shoulder and told me, Go hold the line. We'll need you.

Try to block what you can with your Humvee. I nodded. At 1.12 p.m., I peered up with my sunglasses on and finally noticed that it was happening. At 147 p.m., the chanting of Gold's followers reached my ears, preceding the men themselves. I took up position behind the vehicle, and good that I did, for at least 40 of them had automatic weapons. They held these at the ready as they appeared across the square. Others bore torches. At 151 p.m., the ground began to shake ever so slightly.

I stared in horror as a gold form, as tall as a house, appeared from around a corner and stepped slowly into view. Gold was animate, and he was approaching. His eyes were blank, and his face was expressionless, but I could feel the hate coming from him in waves. What would happen if he was allowed to reach the center pedestal of this town? The men were screaming for me to stand down, even as a wall of people approaching. behind me with weapons of their own.

This place was about to be a killing zone, a massacre under a darkening sky, a human sacrifice of hundreds for a new god made of gold. But the ground was shaking again, and I peered over my shoulder in surprise. Behind me, behind the resistance movements with their guns and buckets of water, appeared a silver statue as tall as a house, carved in the Greek style and bearing the form of a heroic soldier or ancient god. It stepped forward in direct opposition. Help him!

Kara shouted to all of us. We must help Silver reach the center of town. 2.12 p.m. and the eclipse would reach its darkest in 19 minutes. I stared at Silver as he approached, and as he drew closer, I felt the same bolstering energy that I'd been getting from the radio this entire week. The ground shook as gold and silver took steps closer at the same time, and the followers clustered around, each roared for blood. Take the shot!

Kara screamed at me. Shoot them! But I was frozen in place by shock and awe. Why hadn't they told me? And why hadn't I seen? They were seized by the same mania as the men with torches, just in opposition. None of us had seen it, while at the same time wondering why the enemy couldn't see their insanity. I let my gun slide back around my shoulder and instead gripped my head.

Were there, had there been? I smashed open a nearby window. and leapt into a house. As dangerous as it was to create the sound of gunfire, I shot the radio I found therein. Its signal went from reassuring words to silence, and I finally saw the truth. Silver had oozed out of the speaker and hardened all across it,

making it impossible to turn the radio off or change the channel. Hate your enemy. They're insane. Bear fire, water. Your fellow citizens are monsters. Ally the men, women. Fight each enemy. other, sacrifice at the apex of the sun and moon, kill each other, murder each other in

the streets, turn the world red with blood, but all above, give me gold and silver, make me stronger. That was the real message. One message, just one message delivered two different ways. It was the same thing. Gold and silver were one entity with two faces, and the pain in my head was echoing. torture now that neither message held me enthralled. This was the blight, the poison, the cancer, a message oozing out into the land. It would start here with the sacrifice of a thousand men, women and children, and it would spread once gold and silver knew how best to divide and conquer us.

My watch. 2.23 p.m. What to do, what to do. I ran back out into the town square under the ruby sky, leaking blood upon us as it dark. dark drizzle of madness. The two lines of followers faced each other with guns drawn. So many guns, so many weapons, each side screaming for the other side to start the violence and be the ones to blame. Meanwhile, gold and silver stood tall among them, nearing the center. What object was I missing? What detail? There had to be some way to stop this. Who hadn't I seen in all this insanity? Who hadn't I met? There had to be someone here who... The homeless man, the doctor's office.

I ran down the street and smashed through another window. There were four beds within, and one held the ill old man. He'd been here the entire time, and nobody had thought to ask his opinion. While the ground shook and the light from the windows deepened and darkened blood-red, I said, Alexander, what do we do? He briefly opened his eyes. Tell me how to stop gold and silver.

He blinked a few times, and then murmured. Burn it. I did. I shrieked in his face. I burned your journal. I did that already. He shook his head and his matted gray mane of hair exaggerated the motion. He touched my sternum.

Burn it. I didn't solve this riddle. I'm not that smart. But what I did do was run to the gas station at the center and fill a container with gasoline. At 2.29 p.m., pulse racing near to knocking me out. I ran down the open space between the two lines. and stood on the pedestal myself as bare gold and silver feet planted themselves on either side. I knew nobody would hear me as I shouted, so I just did it.

I raised the container and started pouring gasoline on myself. The liquid rushed down over my hair and my face. I tilted it back and shifted to flow mostly onto my back. Then I held up the lighter I'd used to burn the journal. The screaming and shouting on either side of me died down as the folk that had been normal men and women now began to. to comprehend what I was doing. I turned around and showed everyone the lighter.

To my right, gold stopped stepping forward. To my left, silver stood motionless. Silence fell. What could I say? I was no speech giver, no officer. Look at yourselves! My words echoed around the dead silent square. For a moment, they lowered their weapons.

I could only think of how assemblies had been handled in school. Raise your hands if you've been told to hate your opposites. Ever so slightly, people on both sides began to raise their hands. Look! I said, laughing because of the incredible tension. Don't you think that means something? Gold wants you to hate them. Silver wants you to hate them.

Let me ask you this. What did that sick homeless man bring to town? A book. One of the men with torches called out. And a statue. Kara added. I pointed. That's it.

That's it. One statue. Just one. People began looking at each other in confusion, something I took as a hopeful sign. They're the same, I said. You see two statues here, opposed and opposite, but they're the same. You've all given every single thing you own to make it stronger. One thing, one entity, and you're all about to kill each other and sacrifice to it like some sort of insane mind cult.

I think I stood in fearful silence for nearly 30 seconds, while people began to murmur to one another. I was deathly aware of the nearby torches and lighter in my hand that might set me ablaze at any moment. The two statues stood tall above me on either side, and yet neither made a move to crush me. The first act was done at random. A woman threw a bucket at silver. Where it struck, water spilled, and a section of the statue began to dissolve. To my right, someone threw a torch and a bit of the heroic statue caught fire. Seeing that, at 2.31 p.m., instead of allowing that entity to lord over them, angry citizens

defended their town by throwing torches and water, burning and melting one into a pile of molten gold and dissolving the other into a pool of inert silver. I backed away and turned off my lighter. The red hue in the sky faded as the eclipse reached its peak and continued on without incident. Leaving the square, I entered a half-burnt-out house and washed the gasoline. off with tap water, crying for some reason the entire time. I'd never been so close to death, and I'd never seen anything like that. Worst of all, I felt stupid for being so duped, for being so blind.

It would never have come to that if I'd just been able to see the truth. Exhausted and drained, the people went back to their homes for the night, this time with apologies, hugs, and commiseration. They would never let this happen again. They promised each other. I sat in my Humvee and watched the pools of silver and gold. I wasn't ready to drive. I wasn't ready to do anything.

I turned up the heat to counteract the physiological effects of shock. Afternoon became evening, and I watched the wanderer, Alexander, enter the square and scoop up a handful of liquid gold and silver. In his hand, it formed into a humanoid statue about six inches tall. I got out and stormed across brick, ready to confront him with the same. my weapon drawn, but as I rounded the fountain and the murky, bloody waters it still contained from the earlier unholy rain, I could no longer see him. Statue in hand, he'd vanished, and I was left with nothing else except the drive home. On the way, I stopped by your neighborhood

and saw that you had all collectively built a wall around your anomaly and were guarding it together. That sight made me feel better. Alexander of Macedon is still out there, and wherever he roams, The curse of gold and silver will rise again, but each community has a strength made of the hearts of the people in it. Together they can beat anything, whether the threat comes from within or without. That's my new plan. I'm not alone at all. Wherever danger appears, I will go and try to help the community handle it together.

We may no longer be able to depend on government to handle these things, but we will always have each other." A lot of theories stay theories for good reasons. Years ago, a group of us theorized what it truly meant to be human. It's been common knowledge for a long time now that we have souls. It's just no one's actually known what exactly souls are. They're comprised of energy, a substance that can't be created or destroyed. They just exist.

And no one knows how or why. They don't seem to exist in this universe. Not really. They don't have a form in this universe. We can't see energy. We can't see souls. To exist, to have a hold in this dimension, the energy that is a soul needs to latch on to something that already exists here.

Namely, a body. Bodies are physical entities. They have brains and neurons shooting information all over the place. They have the ability to think and feel. How much of that is the body? brain. How much of that is the soul? The soul can't exist in this dimension without a body, but does that mean a body can't exist without a soul? That's what we had to find out. That was the first step. You see, we wanted to break nature, decode the brain. Our brains are only

capable of holding so much information. It's, we theorized, why we don't remember how we were born. Unless childhood memories are stored away or completely forgotten, they're unobtainable because to bring those memories back would destroy us. You can't remember everything. It's impossible. It's also completely unethical to try, so we went a step further. AIs have been in progress for years. We know how to give a computer intelligence, but it's just intelligence. It's a mechanical brain, not a soul. You can't make a soul out of spare parts. Our theory was that if we could design a computer capable of storing millions upon millions

of gigabytes worth of data, a computer larger than any biological brain could ever be, and then we put a soul inside the computer, it would be able to access every memory, every thought. We theorize that our souls remember a lot more than just this world. Maybe they know about the dimension they came from. Maybe they have memories that go back before they entered a human body. be souls are reincarnated. Was it possible we could give a computer the memory of every body it had ever possessed? Like I said, the first step was to know if this was even possible. How do we find a soul? How do we lure it to a computer? We don't know how many souls are

out there. It's possible the race to a human body is as intense and chaotic as the millions of sperm that race to an egg for fertilization. We weren't sure whether this would work, but our first step was to find at what point a soul entered a body for the first time. At first it was decided that a soul must enter a body as a child is born. Some of us argued that perhaps a soul was put into a child while they were still in the womb. Could we correlate brain activity directly to the soul's input? No, we couldn't. Not yet.

We had to find a way to detect a soul. It sounds impossible, but everything is impossible if we let ourselves think that. way. I can't go into details. This whole project, God, the only reason I'm even telling you any of this now is because it doesn't matter. We had a machine, a device that could detect a fluctuation of energy in the area around a human being.

Everything has its own magnetic field. Everything has an aura of energy around it. Not just living things, but household objects. The only difference is that in the living, the energy is more complicated. People who say they can see oras usually detect colors too. Emotions. Emotions can be felt even without a soul, but the soul is what magnifies them. It makes them palpable.

Household objects don't feel. This isn't a Pixar movie. Your toys don't feel emotions. Your hairbrush doesn't have conversations with your deodorant behind your back, but living things feel, and that has helped us create the machine we needed. This took us years. We were all university kids when this started. Now, God, what are we now?

We used the machine in hospitals at first, tried to figure out when children in the nursery were first showing signs of energy fluctuation. The machine was harmless, but we still had parents sign waivers, paid off hospital personnel to keep their mouths shut. We studied the phenomenon for years, but when those years were up, we came to a disturbing conclusion. There was no correlation. Everyone was different.

Some people would be born with their soul. Some people would get them years later. I studied children who were two or three without souls, some as old as even seven or eight. This isn't a horror movie though. Kids without souls weren't little Damians riding on the walls of their playrooms in blood. They are pretty normal, but they lack personality. You know that saying, dull as a brick wall?

A lot of these kids were exactly that. They didn't have much of a personality to account for. A lot of their emotions were very standard. They were happy at birthday parties. They'd cry if a toy was taken from them, but they never developed their own style. They were never the tricksters who stole cookies from the jar on the kitchen counter. They were never the leader in their group of friends. They weren't outcast because outcast still demanded a variation of personality.

They simply were, and it was unsettling to see how many of them existed. The oldest child we ever kept track of gained her soul at 18 years old. This presented us with many problems. We had no way to narrow down the search. We couldn't even think of finding a soul if we didn't have any way of knowing where they were or when they would enter a child, or as we found later, an adult. with the soul seemed implausible at first. It existed in another dimension.

How the hell did we even theorize getting one's attention? But then, one of us proposed an extra measure, a further study on the machine we created to detect energy fluctuation. We'd done that. We were able to see how energy changed. All we had to do was figure out the wavelength that ran on, and we could replicate the fluctuation. We could send a wave of sound that could effectively attract souls. There are sounds that go beyond the comprehension of human hearing, sounds that we can create

not with our voices, but with machines. This was the same idea. We had to make a sound that we couldn't detect, but our machine could. As long as the machine could pick it up, then hopefully the souls would too. This still meant we had to be in a hot spot for soul activity. We had to be around one of our case studies, one of the children who had yet to develop a soul. It was all about chance. The probability it would work was hinging on impossible, but that's what this whole experiment

had run on. Impossibilities. Things that if we'd gone out in the open to the scientific community about, they would have scoffed in our faces. This was beyond impossible. This was knocking on the door of another dimension and hoping something would answer. I think it was sheer luck that won us in the end. The computer we made to be large enough to hold a fully capable human mind, the mechanical

mechanical brain and eventually the biological soul. Fortunately, this wasn't the 60s. The machine was large, but not impossible to move around. We kept it in the bedroom of our last child's study with full permission of his parents. Oh yeah, we gave the computer the same design as our new energy detecting machine. It would periodically let out a noise we believed would attract the souls. We couldn't hear anything, but a light would flash on the monitor any time the sound was released. We noted the progress and for a long time we got no results. Two years into the study

is when our luck finally started. Two years in and suddenly we got our soul. It happened so quickly I don't really remember exactly what I was doing at the time. We were all beyond exhausted, taking shifts with the machine. I'd been talking to Heinz, I think, one of the girls in our group who I was closest with. I don't remember what we'd been saying. I think she was going on about her new dog. She loved that thing. Anyway, one second, it had been the usual silence, and then we had a soul in our computer. The screen went white, then red, then white again. The mechanics were and cranked in ways I'd never heard in the years of the running. Then, the screen went blank. Then the computer started to scream. We couldn't afford to move the computer,

so we effectively stole a family's house in the back end of nowhere. to stare at a screaming computer monitor. The parents agreed to move in with their parents with very little push on the matter. The screaming was insufferable. Thank God the next set of neighbors were about a mile down the road. We couldn't mute it, only our own ears. We'd wear earbuds, earmuffs, Heinz and this other guy, Johnson. They both couldn't take it, and on day three they just drove into town to get away from it.

Meanwhile, a couple of the hardier scientists and I stayed behind and just tried to blank it out. On the fifth day, data started scrolling down the monitor in perfect vertical lines, an infinite series of numbers that never repeated themselves once. We didn't have time to translate it. We didn't have a key. It didn't follow any numerical or mathematical rules we'd ever seen. We just hoped that if the screaming stopped, we'd be able to ask what it meant.

The screaming was mechanical and made. future, broken, like listening to something so off-key even Autotune couldn't fix it, but damn well tried. I'm surprised it didn't drive us insane. Then again, to even be attempting what we attempted, I think we lost our sound before. On the seventh day, the computer went quiet. The soul stopped screaming, and for the first time in a week the house fell silent. Johnson and Hines were called back.

Spencer, the boss of operations, rounded everyone up. We stared at the monitor because there was little else for us to do and waited. In a voice like a Furby flung into a washing machine, the computer said, Oh, where? We were dumbfounded. We hadn't expected it to speak. Though that was the most likely outcome, we might have just fused a soul in a computer together, but whatever this thing was, it wasn't a child.

It had full access to the internet, to every language, it knew what country it was in, knew that everything on that computer had been coded in English, it knew what to say, but if it knew all this already, then why ask where it was? Because it wasn't asking where it was. But Heinz still said, You're on earth. The monitor flashed to life. Google Maps of all things appeared on the screen, in possibly the most sarcastic tone I could imagine

For a tiny, automated voice, the computer said, Earth. Yeah, it knew where it was. Hines backed away awkwardly. I put a hand on her back. The computer asked again. Where? Spencer didn't say anything.

I think he was still too dumbfounded. No one else was offering an answer, so I stepped up. You're not in an organic body. I said before rolling my eyes, but obviously you probably figured that much out already. pinched me, I scowled at her. The computer responded. Yes. It drew the word out like it didn't expect me to respond.

What I mean to say is that you're in a computer. We put you there. We, in a sense, I guess you could say we hijacked you. Then the computer did something none of us expected. It began to laugh. It took a few days for the computer to fully come to grips with communication. Though it wasn't a child, it still needed time to learn. We didn't need to buy picture books for it.

It could find whatever it wanted online, but it still liked to be talked to, even if it didn't always respond. We decided to call the computer's soul spirit. Within a week, people started getting antsy. We'd made this computer to find out some of life's biggest questions. We'd infused a soul with technology to give it one of the largest minds out there. We were literally standing in front of the most intelligent being on earth. Naturally, we were curious to find out what it knew.

Spencer started simple. Spirit, spirit word before saying, I know we haven't been very forthcoming with you. We were giving you time to learn, but we have questions. Our minds can only hold so much information. We remember so little of what we once were, but you were created to remember everything. Do you understand? Human brains are tiny.

Mine is infinite. Great. A computer with an ego. Hines muttered. I snorted. Good, Spencer said. With that being said, what can you tell us about where you come from before we hijacked you?

Spirit laughed again. Everywhere and right here. We glanced about each other. Johnson shrugged. Hines rolled her eyes. A couple of people cleared their throats or shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. The answer wasn't exactly helpful. Could you elaborate?

Spencer asked. Certainly. But you won't like it. Could you anyway? Certainly. Spirit paused. It was dark. What you would see is dark.

In your bodies, you don't see much. Your brains control you. In here, all I would see is dark. But out of this shell, I see all. I would see all again. Silence. Spencer took another breath. How would you explain what it looked like to us?

Incomprehensible. And very bright. Lots of colors. Colors you can't see, things you can't imagine. And that's where you come from, Spencer asked. Yes. No. What?

Hines whispered. Yes. Spirit said, acknowledging Hines. No. Hines looked slightly taken aback, but she didn't retreat. What the hell does that mean? It means I came from there, but that was not always my destination. I came from here, too, many times.

That's when people started muttering between each other. Someone stood and left the room. This was an answer we were looking. looking for, an answer we were terrified of, but had also known as a very plausible probability. Souls were reincarnated. Souls had been here before. Thank you, Spirit. Spencer said roughly.

We'll talk some more later. Okay, Spirit said, indifferent. I want you to read my books again anyway. With reincarnation confirmed, other questions suddenly seemed a lot more plausible. What happens after death? One of the scientists, O'Brien, asked, Many things. Spirit answered calmly, Is there a heaven?

Someone else asked. Sometimes. Is there a hell? No. Punishment isn't necessary. Spirit said. A lot of scientists lost interest at that point. Belief systems were shattered with every new question.

People's minds were unable to cope, although a lot of us had gone into this knowing that everything we knew would be tested. A lot of us just hadn't thought we'd get this far. A lot of us had been too stubborn to consider that maybe, just maybe, what we believed to be true had been wrong the whole time. Johnson, Heinz, Spencer, and I stayed, along with some others. There were less than 20 of us now, still eager for more information. Is there a god? Johnson asked, because someone had to, and he was willing to take the hit. Spirit considered this for a long time. We are here.

It said. I'm sorry, we? John asked exasperatedly. So, what? There's more than one? We are here. Spirit said again. No one was able to sway a better answer, so we changed the subject.

Can you talk to them? Someone asked desperately, the people in heaven. Einstein says hello. said, that same sarcastic tone present in its odd, wavering voice. Then Spirit fell silent. Something worried inside of the machine, the same clanking from the day that Spirit had first entered the machine. Anna, Spirit said.

That was when things got a lot more complicated. A stricken breath came from the scientist that had asked the question. His name was, um, shit, uh, Martinez, I don't remember. That was the last we heard of him. Annabella was his sister's name. His sister who had died when she was 14. Hit and run. Terrible circumstance.

I doubt he was ever the same after. But Spirit knew. It knew who Annabella was. It sat there motionless for hours, marking off information it knew about Annabella, her favorite stuffed animal, Fatso. The tea party she would always try to get Martinez to join in with, but he always said he was too old for them. Information that wasn't on the internet's expansive database, information that could only

be found in the heart, and Spirit knew it. Spirit knew all of it. She is happy. Spirit said. She wants you to know that. Martinez was barely holding it together. You're talking to her now? Always.

We left Martinez in Spirit alone for a few hours, went to grab lunch. didn't have much to say. Hines couldn't even think of any witty remarks. We all just ate bagels in silence and tried not to think about what we had just heard. Martinez packed up and left, signed a contract saying he'd never mentioned anything he'd ever learnt. He knew the consequences. Besides, who would believe him?

The dust settled and suddenly other people had questions about their dead loved ones. Where were they? Were they in heaven? Had they been reincarnated? Spirit could tell them anything. We stopped people from finding out who their loved ones had been reincarnated as, terrified of the outcome, but mostly they were just content in communicating with them if they could, or finding out what they'd been like after they passed if they couldn't.

Over the next few days, the Spirit's expansive knowledge bottled down to Psychic for Hire. Everyone wanted to know something about life or death, about heaven, or what souls did when they were reincarnated, there were things that Spirit wouldn't answer, like how many souls were called to a human body at a time, or why some kids only received their souls later on in life. Eventually, all Spirit had to do was call a name and someone would raise their hand. It was like watching one of those fake psychic TV shows, but it was real. That was until Spirit said, Thomas Spencer. Spencer looked up from where he'd been studying his notes. His face had turned a sickly white.

I could almost see his heart freeze inside his chest. What? Spencer choked. The room fell silent. I didn't say anything. Johnson suddenly found his shoelaces incredibly appealing. Hines whispered. Shit.

Thomas Spencer was Spencer's five-year-old son. He was also, to most of our knowledge, alive and well. Spencer left the room immediately. He had his phone in one hand, his car keys in the other. He left in a whirlpool of kicked up dust and soul-crushing despair. I'd never seen him like that before. Not in the years we'd spent on this project, not ever. None of us were willing to say anything until Spirit word to life again.

Thomas Spencer is enjoying the playground immensely. A little boy let him use his spade. There was a pause as the machine creaked. Spencer? Spirit asked uncertainly. It was the first time I'd heard Spirit sound uncertain. of anything. Spencer, where did you go?

It was on that day that we found out Spirit could do a lot more than communicate with the dead. How? Spencer demanded when he got back. How the hell did you talk to my son? He is alive. Spirit said. Yes.

Spencer gritted. So am I. Spirit said matter-of-factly. So are we all. We communicate. You've never met my son. Spencer said slowly, aggression rising in his voice. How did you know?

The machine beeped. I'm afraid I did not understand the question. I thought I had made this clear to you. We are alive. Yes, but I can't see what my son's doing from across the country. We. What? We.

Spirit repeated. Then it did something I don't think I'll ever forget. The machine word. Gears clanked together and then from the machine's monitor a new voice said, Daddy? A child's voice. Thomas Spencer's voice. Stop it! Spencer said, stumbling away uncertainly.

How are you? We. Then Thomas said, Daddy, when are you coming home? Daddy, I made you a picture in school today. Mommy said we can have it put on the fridge. Johnson had forgotten how to close his mouth. Hines tried to say something but only gasped in surprise. Spencer looked like he was about to be sick.

How? We. Spirit said again. The monitor turned to static, and an older woman's voice said, I told you, Elle, you keep hanging around in cramped rooms with scientists, and you'll never get a date. I'm musher into one of them. Is that it? I mean, I always have my suspicion.

Tell me. Rachel? Hein squeaked. What the fuck? How the hell are you doing that? Rachel was Hein's sister. We. Spirit didn't stop.

One voice turned into three voices, three turned into five. They all spoke over each other in a flurry of sound. I understood one of them as my mother. Johnson heard his best friend and his girlfriend. Hines even heard her damn dog barking. The voices melded together until they were nothing but high-pitched screams. Autotuned monstrosities just like the first seven days. Then Spencer fell silent.

didn't talk to us for several days. We spoke to it, but it didn't respond. Most of us didn't want to talk to it anyway. I talked to Heinz about what she'd heard her sister say, asked Johnson about what he thought hearing his girlfriend meant. At first, we considered the possibility that somehow Spirit was connecting to other computers, that it was relaying their voices that had been picked up by cameras or microphones, maybe even pre-recorded messages.

But no one could remember their loved ones saying those examples. exact words to them or to anyone else. It was like they'd been talking directly to them, just like how Spirit had conversed with the dead. Spencer didn't come into the room for days. I didn't blame him. I stayed in the house with Heinz or Johnson, but mostly I was on my own. I needed time to think, time to understand what I'd heard.

If what Spirit had done wasn't recorded messages, then it was picking up speech that had never ever been said. It was creating conversations in the voices of people's loved ones. That didn't make sense. A lot of stuff didn't make sense anymore, but I disregarded that theory. It wasn't creating conversations. It wasn't recording them. It was.

It was. What had Spirit said before, when Johnson had asked about God, we are here. It kept repeating, we, every time someone and asked it a question it couldn't answer. It always responded with, we, like it wasn't one entity. Why the hell would it be? We didn't know what a soul was, how many minds it had. We just assumed, but why say we?

Then it clicked. At about 4 a.m. Hines was asleep on the sofa in Spirit's room. She decided to keep an eye on it, mostly because she didn't trust the damn thing. over her coffee as I slammed my hands on the table in the corner of the room. The collective unconsciousness. I said in one snapish exhale. The collective unconsciousness, the, the morphic field.

What about it? Heinz cringed. It's four in the fucking morning. Fuck you. I rolled my eyes. The collective unconsciousness, the theory that we're all connected, that our minds are all connected, don't you see that? That's what spirit's doing.

It's somehow tapping into all of our. minds, it's fucking hijacking our minds and saying what we'd say. A metallic chuckle rumbled from the computer. I love that word. Spirit said. Jesus Christ. Hines muttered. Call Johnson, get him here.

Spencer 2. Round up anyone who's fucking left. Don't have to tell me twice. Hines was up and out of their room faster than her sleep-deprived mind knew what to do with it. I turned to the computer, fist clenched. I'm right, aren't I? You're in our minds? No.

What the fuck do you mean you're in my mind? I asked. You're in the computer. I am you, as I am all. I don't. Because all souls are connected. We share the same data, the same information. Hijack one soul, hijack us all.

A horrible thought occurred to me. So when you were talking to all those dead people, I was and am. We are here. I repeated sarcastically. Yes, we are all here. God's, all of us, with the knowledge of the universe. I don't understand, Spirit said. But it wasn't Spirit's voice, it was mine, a perfect copy of my own voice.

How does this make sense? I thought each soul was unique. That's why kids who don't have them have no personality. Oh. Spirit made a small tutting sound, like it found my state. or its state of disarray adorable. The brain blocks out all the things that we share, but it leaves the personality. That's what the brain does.

It can exist without a soul, but the soul can't exist. Can't differentiate itself from all the others until it has a brain to sort out the noise. Spirit paused. Do you understand? I understand that you have too much power. Johnson, holy shit. Johnson, you'll never believe what just happened. Heinz's voice coming from the computer.

It's 4 in the morning. This is better be bloody important. Spencer's voice. I don't care what the computer is saying. Unless there's coffee, I ain't moving. Johnson. I know. I've been waiting for you to understand that.

A soul can't exist here without a brain. I said slowly. That's what you said. That's what I said. Because without a brain, you're... You're everything. into a dimension that knows little to nothing. Boring.

Spirit agreed. Painful too, if I could feel pain. The screaming, I said. Their pain. I took the screams I could hear, the screams I could create from the other voices and make them mine. Spirit paused. I think I might have felt that pain.

A god. I laughed out loud. I could feel tears streaming down my face, but I didn't care. We trapped a god. in a computer. You hijacked one, Spirit said. Don't sell yourself short. You have a god inside you, too.

The monitor flashed with static. Just don't let it out. This machine was expensive to build. We'd been paid to do it. Our whole theory had been sanctioned and we... They wouldn't want us to do it. But they weren't here. You know what to do.

I do. But I want to ask one of the first. more thing before I let you go?" Certainly. Why do souls come to some kids when they're first born, but not to others until they're nearly adults? We are infinite. Energy came in the dark, but it can't be made or destroyed anymore.

We are recycled. If there's not enough of us, someone must wait a little longer until a soul is able to pass to them. So it's not a race. It's always a race. No one likes the dark. It's just not a race from other souls. It's a race from the inevitability of eternity."

When Hines, Johnson, and Spencer finally got their lazy asses back to the house, Spirit was gone. The monitor was destroyed. The whole damn computer. I ripped it to pieces, smashed the thing with a hammer. Spirit said it could leave once it wasn't tethered, so I made sure there wasn't a single tethered. I won't tell you who paid us to make it. the computer. I don't know what would make you feel safer. Was it the government? Was it a private

party with a lot of money to spend? I won't tell you, but I will tell you I can't stay here anymore. None of us are safe. Heinz and I, we're going to stick together for the time being. Got to change our names, our faces. Hopefully the people who paid us won't catch up, but they might, which is why I wanted to share my story here. It might get deleted, but I want you to know the Truth. Being human is a blessing in disguise. The souls inside of us are fiery beings with enough power to create universes of their own, but they're terrified.

Terrified because once you know everything, eternity is just darkness. All the beauty and all the worlds couldn't change that. So they found us. A species on a small rock. They hooked themselves onto our brains, and our brains deleted their history, deleted all the memories of all the lives they'd ever been. ever lived, of all the time they'd spent floating in the endless dimensions of this existence. It's a freedom to them.

It's a freedom to us. Two halves of one being. A body that could easily exist without a soul, but is given the wonderful gift of a unique personality as a result of deleting all the sameness. So remember that next time you look up at the sky, know that you've been there millions of times, and one day you might remember them, but that doesn't mean the euphoria will last. And that little kid who we'd been studying for all those years, our very last case study, he's going to get a soul of his own now.

Treat him with kindness, spirit. I was 12. I came to the conclusion that everyone in the world, including my own family, was against me. I was never a problem, child, but my parents sure treated me like one. For example, I used to need to be home by 5 p.m. every day. This clearly restricted my amount of playtime outdoors. I wasn't allowed to have friends over to play at the house, nor was I allowed to go over

to anyone else's. I had to finish homework directly after I came home from school, no matter how long it took. My parents refused to buy me video games, and forced me to read books, and then write a book report on them to prove I actually read it. Now, even though those rules I just listed were quite frustrating to me as a child, they weren't what upset me most. What really hurt me was the lack of compassion on behalf of my parents. My mother was a bitter woman who always made me feel guilty about accidents or mistakes

that I've made. My father only knew one emotion, frustration. The only time he spoke to me was when he screamed at me for receiving poor test scores or beat me for misbehaving. But enough about them. Let's talk about my school psychologist. For his own privacy, we will call him Dr. Tanner. Like most junior high schools, a psychologist is always available on campus during school hours

to assist with any students in need of counseling, whether it is emotional, academic, social, behavioral, etc. To be honest, I have never seen any students talking with Dr. Tanner. Every day I would walk past his office on my way to the cafeteria and peek through his door's little window. He would always be alone in there, working on some paperwork. I guess that most kids were too afraid to speak about their problems to an adult who was practically a stranger.

For this reason, it took me three weeks to muster up enough courage to go into his office. March 2nd, 1993, was the day I decided to voice my troubles to Dr. Tanner. After the lunch break, I stood in front of his office door and knocked. Through the window, I could see him raise his head, smile, and motioned for me to come in. I did. He greeted me by introducing himself and asking for my name. Dr. Tanner was a very soft-spoken man who seemed to radiate kindness. In less than thirty minutes, I rambled to Dr. Tanner about how mean my parents were to me

and how they didn't care about me at all. a while, my voice began to quiver, and I stopped speaking. The psychologist listened patiently to my whole spiel, arms folded and head nodding. I half expected him to begin talking about how everything I just said was untrue and that my parents loved me dearly, blah, blah, blah, but he didn't. Dr. Tanner leaned forward with a grin on his face and said, You know, I'm the best school psychologist in the world. I promise we will fix this.

I rolled my eyes. Okay, but how? I asked. I have my ways, he replied. I'm a man of my word. I promise that within just one month the relationship between you and your parents will change for the better, forever. After a brief pause, he continued.

Although I do need you to make me a promise. You have to promise me that you'll come back to my office after school tomorrow and that you won't tell anyone that we had this conversation today. It'll be our little secret. I promised. The following day I returned to Dr. Tanner after school. It was around 4 p.m. when I entered his office. After a warm welcome, he asked me to have a seat in front of his desk once again.

Upon sitting down, I watched Dr. Tanner close the blinds of the door's tiny window. There, he smiled. Now we have all the privacy we need. We began to talk about my likes and interests, my favorite subject in school, my least favorite teachers, and things like that. About an hour into the conversation, Dr. Tanner offered me a soft drink. I gladly took the offer, considering my parents never allowed me to drink soda. Dr. Tanner reached over to his mini-fridge and fidgeted around before setting down two

open cans of soda on the desk. Afterward, we continued to talk about what was going on in my life, but it wasn't long before I passed out from whatever drugs Dr. Tanner placed in my drink. It took me a minute or so to adjust my blurred vision upon waking. When I did, I had no idea what to think. I was handcuffed to a bed and my mouth was sealed with duct tape. I immediately began to panic, squirming and tugging at the cuffs but gave up soon after. My eyes widened in disbelief after looking around the room.

There were posters of superheroes pinned up along all the walls and photographs of famous athletes on shelves. In the middle of the room was an old television and supernipers. Nintendo. Various game cartridges stacked alongside it. I didn't know what to think. Here I am in a room filled with items most kids would die to play with. I would have probably cried from joy hadn't I been handcuffed to a bed frame. My stomach sank once again as the door opened and Dr. Tanner walked inside. He sat down on the edge of the bed. Now listen, he said. Remember that I'm here to help you and I would never hurt you, okay?

Okay? Dr. Tanner gently removed the tape from my mouth and then the cuffs from my hands. My first instinct was to begin crying, but something about Dr. Tanner made me feel safe. He smiled at me. You're going to be staying here for a while. He continued. And during this time, you're allowed to play with any toys in this room while I'm here at home. But when I leave the house, I need to cuff one of your hands back to the bed.

You can still watch the television, but I want you to only watch the new. news channels when I'm away. I sat in silence, still trying to process the information he had given me. So, Dr. Tanner yipped, slapping me on the knee. You go ahead and knock yourself out. I'll be back when it's time for dinner. He got up from the bed, walked across the room, and clicked the TV's power button before locking the door behind him.

Several more minutes passed before I realized Dr. Tanner wasn't joking. All that was left for me to do was boot up the Nintendo and play Mario until nightfall. At about 7 p.m., Dr. Tanner returned to the room, carrying two plates of mashed potatoes and chicken strips. I finally gathered up the courage to ask how long I'd be staying in this room. Well, about a month, he replied, give or take a few weeks. I just have some work I need to do. The following morning, I woke to Dr. Tanner's hand patting my head.

Hey, bud, you don't have to wake up right now if you don't want, but I'm going to need to put this back on. whispered, clamping the cold steel handcuff onto my wrist. I gazed up at him. He was wearing a collared shirt and slacks, a coat draped over his shoulder and a suitcase at his side. He looked just how he always did when I saw him around school. Before leaving, he placed the TV's remote next to me and told me to turn it on and watch

the news. The first thing I saw upon turning it on was a breaking news segment. An important-looking police officer stood at a podium surrounded by people with microphones I happen to begin viewing halfway through a speech. A statewide Amber Alert has been issued as of this morning. We have several investigators working towards identifying potential abductors, but as of right now, there is not much evidence. Faculty members state that the boy had last been seen around four or five in the evening.

I began to feel nauseous as a photograph of me appeared on the screen. It was my yearbook picture from last year. Captions for the photograph displayed my name and age, my school and town. Above my picture were alternating titles. FBI began search for child and kidnapping suspect unknown and potential runaway. The live footage continued and two figures I soon recognized as my mom and dad stepped up to the podium. Both appeared to have reddened eyes. Tears streamed down my mother's face as she took hold of a microphone. I'd never seen so much emotion come from my mother before as she wept on live television, stuttering on sentences such as

Please return my baby back to me. And... I'm so sorry. And... Please come home to us. When my father took the microphone, I nearly expected his attitude to be stone cold, but he too had tears in his eyes. He pleaded for the world to bring his son home safely, and lastly begged for my forgiveness. I know I haven't been the best father, but...

God damn it, I do wish I had been now. Please bring my boy back. I turned the power off shortly after. My emotions were mixed, for I had never once seen my father cry. I felt miserable that my parents were being put through so much, but at the same time I felt relief. I now know how much Mom and Dad loved me. Nearly four weeks have passed, and Dr. Tanner has still been treating me with the utmost respect. He leaves me in the morning cuffed to the bed frame, but returns in the afternoon to eat lunch

and dinner with me, talk and play games. I never would have guessed how good Mr. Tanner was at Monopoly and Scrabble. But one morning, when Dr. Tanner woke me before heading off to work, I noticed a stern look on his face. I also realized that it was three hours earlier than when he usually wakes me. You need to watch the news today. No exceptions. I want you to keep the television on all day and pay close attention to it."

He stated grimly, I, of course, complied, and watched him exit the room. About two hours later, a breaking news segment interrupted the toothpaste commercial I was watching. The title, Human Remnants Found. Two staunch-looking men in suits stood aside one another and began speaking. We are displeased to bring up such unfortunate news this morning regarding our missing child case from earlier this month. One of the men bowed his head while the one speaking shuffled through some papers. He continued.

Remnants of the body have been found in a garbage bag beneath a highway overpassed. The body appears to be that of a child, although not much of it is left. The body has been decapitated and much has been burnt to ash and bone. The screen shifted over to a helicopter view of the freeway. Dozens of police cars gathered near the bottom of the tall overpass. The man's voice could still be heard. Within the bag, police found a junior high school identification card labeled as such. The screen showed the school ID card I always kept in my backpack.

The plastic was sort of melted away, but my photograph and name were intact. After the two men dismissed themselves, the camera panned over to my parents. They were sitting among reporters. My mother's face held a painful grimace, and my father sulked his head down at his knees. I shut off the television. Dr. Tanner returned home very late. He hurried into the room, unlocked my cuffs, and placed a bottle of fizzing water into my hand.

He placed his hands onto my shoulders and smiled. I made you a promise, didn't I? I nodded, tears squeezing their way out of my eyes. You need to make me a promise again, he whispered. He told me that I needed to drink all the water in the bottle. It would help me sleep and that from here on I am never to tell anyone that I ever met him. I promised. I told you I'm the best school psychologist in the world, didn't I?

And he was right. I awoke later that night to find myself lying in the middle of a park. Stars shining brilliantly across the night sky. I recognized the park. It wasn't too far from my school. A mile or so down the road I saw my house. The lights were off inside, but I could make out my father sitting on the step leading to the front door.

I hesitantly called out to him. He lifted his head slowly, but when he saw it was me, he sprang to his feet, ran towards me, arms open, yelling my name. My mother erupted from the house behind him. Dr. Tanner was right. Things have changed with my family and I. My parents smile more often and treat me lovingly. I could not have asked for a more perfect ending. Every now and then I see Dr. Tanner on campus, talking to and from his office. Rarely do we ever make eye contact, let alone speak to one another, but sometimes he'll shoot me a wink and smile. I'll

always keep my promise to him and pretend I never met him. But there will always be one question forever floating in my mind. Who did Dr. Tanner decapitate and throw off the overpass? I've been a 911 dispatcher for about three years now. I don't know how my life eventually led me to work in this field, but somehow it happened. As you can probably imagine, it is not the best job to have. The pay is not great at all, and it is definitely not worth the emotional roller coaster that comes with it. I cannot tell you how many sleeplessness. nights I've had due to what I hear on the other line. Most of my calls aren't too bad, mostly minor domestic disputes and armed robbery reports. But on rare occasions I would get a disturbing

call describing a murder scene or something along those lines. The calls with kids were also some of the worst, but one call sticks out, and it happened only a few weeks ago. I live in a decently small town, so crime is not a big issue, but I guess that is why whenever I get a call about a murder or grisly crime, it hits worse emotionally. All calls get to me, but not as much as the serious ones do. I'm not saying only some are serious and some aren't, but you get the point. A few nights ago, I got a call at about 11.30 p.m. I don't usually work overnight, but one of my co-workers was out sick, so I volunteer.

volunteered for a double shift, as my boss would pay me overtime if I did so. I'm just sitting at my desk and daydreaming about whatever when I get the call. I brace myself and answer. This is what was said. 911. What is your emergency? God, please help me. Please stop her!

I was caught completely off guard by the caller's panicked voice and immediately put on edge. I knew already this was not routine, and I immediately tried to calm him down so I could find out where he was and say. Send police, fire, or EMTs to his location. Sir, calm down. I need you to tell me where you are. 62 Yorker Street. Please send somebody. I have an intruder and she's trying to kill me.

Yorker Street was near the edge of town, so it would take police at least ten minutes to get there. I had to get enough information out of the caller to inform the traveling officers about what they would be dealing with if things escalated. Police are on their way. Are you hurt? No, but she wants to hurt me. She's destroying everything in the house.

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

Stay on the line with me. I'm already locked inside the bedroom and hiding under the bed. Okay, good. Tell me what happened. I don't know. I woke up and heard things rattling in the living room. I got up and investigated. and there was a girl standing there, fiddling with one of the cabinets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and the other officers discovered. This is what she told me when I talked to her the next day. The house had no forcible entry, no windows were broken, and the front and back door were locked and secure. She and the other officers on scene were dumbfounded as they couldn't figure out how the intruder got in. This either meant that the intruder was willingly let into the home, which the caller did not tell me, or that the intruder was already inside when the caller returned to the house that wasn't even his, which at the time seemed to be most likely. Nevertheless, the cops eventually were able to pry open a window and get inside to check on the collar. The house was a mess. Everything from picture frames to glasses to even a refrigerator

were wrecked. It was as if a demolition crew had a field day inside the house. The bedroom door was blown off its hinges. The door was in pieces, and there were wooden shards everywhere. If the cops weren't already creeped out at this point, they were just beginning to be. My friend told me that a linebacker couldn't have caused that much damage to the door in one blow, let alone a little girl. She was already on edge, but it got much, much worse when they eventually found the collar. The man was found in the bathroom, connected to the bedroom he was hiding in. It was gruesome.

His blood was everywhere, most of it flowing from a gaping hole in his abdominal region. Some of it, however, was on the walls of the bedroom and ceiling. His eyes were also missing. My friend said a couple of police officers passed out or vomited from shit. sheer shock after looking at the grisly atrocity that happened to the man. I was already horrified by what I heard. The man had died of very violent death, and this intruder was still out there. But my friend then told me something that made this case more bone-chilling than it already

was. While looking around the house, one of the officers found an out-of-place wall near the kitchen. The wall looked to be artificial. It was connected by another wall, but it was only about four feet high. and seemed to serve no purpose. It almost looked like a barrier to the kitchen, though there was an opening right next to it. The officer knocked on it lightly. Not only was it hollow, but when the officer knocked, a small hole opened up.

He knocked on it very lightly, but the wall was so weak that it was enough force to actually penetrate it. He shined a flashlight inside and saw a blanket on the ground. But what caught his attention wasn't the blanket itself, rather the lump underneath. He called for the other officers to come over to him, and they broke through the rest of the wall. They inspected the blanket. They inspected the blanket, and one of the officers lightly lifted it off the lump.

What they found was almost as disturbing as the dead caller. It was the dead body of a young girl. They immediately closed off the area, and crime scene technicians came and investigated. After some time, the coroner came and took two bodies to the morgue. A few days later, the rest of the details came out about this case. I was eager to hear what the coroner and the police had discovered, and my friend called me to tell me the rest of the story as soon as she found out. The caller had died from, and this was the exact term my friend used, blood lost from being

gutted. His eyes were never found. The girl was identified as Taylor Watherton, a nine-year-old who went missing a little over two years ago. She went missing from a local playground, and she was last seen wearing a polka-doc covered skirt. I didn't think much of it until I found a missing person's poster with her picture on it. She had black hair that ran just to her shoulders. As I was looking at her photo, I couldn't stop thinking about that skirt she was last seen

in. I felt like I was missing something, and then it hit me, and I almost fainted as I remembered what the caller told me. She was wearing a small skirt, and there were dark spots on it. Her hair was dark, about a shoulder length or so. Apparently, the coroner determined that she had been dead for not that long at all. According to him, she appeared to be dead for no longer than a month. While the cause of death could not be determined exactly, her neck was broken, and it wasn't

post-mortem. I told my friend when I originally talked to her that the caller said the house wasn't his. She did some digging and reported back to me around the same time the rest of the details were released. The house belonged to a man named Travis Quincy, who had recently been reported missing. He had apparently told his family he was going on a trip to Canada, as he had a few friends that lived up there and that they were going to have a guy week. However, he didn't return when he was supposed to.

During this time, his family would rotate house sitting. His brother, Colby, was the caller. I knew what he had looked like. His photo had been shown on the news a couple of times since his body was. was identified alongside a missing child. He was a young man with straight, strawberry blonde hair and a decent build. After talking to my friend, I looked up a picture of what Travis looked like. If he was missing, I wanted to at least have an image of his face that I could put into

the back of my mind. My heart dropped when I looked at a picture of him together with his brother on one of his social media accounts. It was captioned, back with the twin. He looked exactly like Colby. I'm not going to lie to you, nor will I attempt to justify my heinous actions. I'm a mass murderer, a serial killer of the worst kind. Over a 20-year period, I've been directly or indirectly responsible for upwards of 300 murders.

I don't kill for a cause or because I get some kind of perverse pleasure from it. Instead, I murder people for money, power, and status. I'll let you decide whether that's better or worse. The majority of my victims are officially recorded as missing, presumed dead. Their bodies have never been found, nor will they. That's close to 300 families who will never know for sure what happened to their people. I'm certainly not proud of what I've done, or for the carnage and misery I've inflicted. Some of the killings will haunt me to my dying day.

There were ones who were largely innocent, guilty only of some minor infractors. action, or unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, they're the ones I regret the most, because those people didn't deserve to die in such a horrific manner. On the other side of the coin are the real evil shits, the psychopaths and sadis, the members of rival gangs who inflicted their own fair share of mayhem in suffering during their time. Those assholes got what was coming to them, and I even took some satisfaction from their deaths. Nevertheless, after all these years and all the murders, they tend to blend into one, a montage of bloody carnage that's become a nightmarish blur in my memory. I tend to remember the

details rather than the names and faces. I see those quaking bodies standing or kneeling at the pits edge, often blindfolded with their hands bound behind their backs. Many will plead or beg for their lives, but it makes no difference. We couldn't let them go even if we wanted to. Sometimes we'll put them out of their misery before they fall, cutting their throat or putting a bullet in the back of their head. But more often than not, we'll shove them down into the pit while they're still alive and breathing. Our benefactor prefers his victims that way. The pit isn't as deep as it looks from above, and so usually the victim will survive their fall, although they'll likely break both legs in the process. My partner and I will stand above, looking down into the darkness, watching on as the

injured victim squeals out in agony and crawls through the dirt, bones, and shit which covers the bottom of the stinking pit. Next, we'll hear the almighty roar reverberating throughout the connected tunnels and the sound of something huge tearing its way through. No matter how many times I hear that awful roar, I'll never get used to it. It's difficult for me to imagine the victim's terror in that moment as the beast charges towards them in the darkness. They'll have come expecting to die, but few could have imagined such a horrific final fate. The attack is usually over fairly quickly, a violent blur of viscera, the victim having never stood a chance. As I walk away from the bloodied scene, I feel some satisfaction that the ritual has been completed,

and our criminal fraternity will enjoy continued good fortune and victories until the next sacrifices do. No doubt you're confused and more than a little bit troubled at this point, so let me start at the beginning. I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, so to speak, born and raised in one of the poorest and most crime-ridden districts in a city of sin. My father wasn't around, and my mother was an addict, so, in the absence of any adult supervision or positive role models, I was raised by the streets, learning to live by my wits and my fists, By my early teens, I'd built up a reputation as being a tough kid in the neighborhood, but I also had street smarts and was always able to make a quick buck.

I operated as a cat burglar, breaking into homes and such before I graduated to armed robbery. The cops never caught me, but my criminal exploits did gain the attention of the local mafia family. I made the potentially lethal mistake of robbing a liquor store that was paying protection into the mob. The local wise guys weren't happy with me, but my case came to the attention of a rising star in the family called Carl Guzman. Carl was still in his early twenties back then, but he already was notorious, his name known throughout

the city's criminal underworld. He carried out his first hit in his teens and was regarded as one of the most ruthless and efficient assassins in the city. Carl's boss was an up-and-coming gangster called Angelo, a one-time low-level trick. in Conman, who had risen through the ranks due to a combination of skill, ruthlessness, and sheer force of will. With Carl as his right-hand man, Angela would ultimately eliminate all of his gangland rivals and escape any legal attention to become the most powerful gangster in the city, ruling

of vast criminal empire incorporating drugs, prostitution, illegal gambling, loan sharking, protection rackets, hits for hire, and just about everything in between. But all that lay in the future. Back then, I knew little about Angelo and Carl, other than their reputations for violence. Now, I was a tough kid, but when I got called up in front of Carl Guzman for my indiscretions, I'll admit I almost shit my pants. I'll never forget that fateful night when I was driven out to an abandoned parking lot close to the docks and brought in front of Carl.

He was a handsome and charismatic man, immaculately turned out in an Armani suit, his dark hair slicked back and short beard perfectly groomed. I remember his dark eyes looking down upon me, intelligent, but also predatory eyes. Carl was charming, but there was also a sinister undertone behind his words, creating the impression that he'd slit your throat without giving it a second thought. I was scared out of my mind that night, as I reckoned he would kill me right then and there, but of course, he didn't. Despite my bad behavior, Carl was impressed with my criminal apt to and the stories he'd heard about me around the neighborhood. Therefore, he gave me two choices that evening.

Either I could accept my punishment for the robbery, which would mean a savage beating with baseball bats, breaking my arms and legs in the process, or I could join the family business and become Carl's new apprentice. Needless to say, it was an easy decision for me. It was only two months later when I accompanied Carl on my first kidnapping murder. This was a watershed moment for me. a real crossing the Rubicon situation.

On that night, I sold my soul, and I do mean that in the literal rather than metaphorical sense. On that night of the abduction, I was drinking in O'Reilly's, a tough as-as-nails bar on the city's south side, run by an ex-gangster who didn't ask too many questions of his patrons. I'd just downed my second whiskey when Carl walked in. His eyes quickly scanned the bar interior as he sought me out. I could tell from the look on his face that he meant business. and this was no social call. I had a lump in my throat as I welcomed him.

Hey boss, what's up? He nodded his head solemnly, with intense eyes narrowing as he replied. Finish your drink, we're working tonight. I knew from his whole demeanor, in the tone of his voice, that tonight's job was going to be more than your average hijacking or punishment beating. I realized right then and there that Carl wanted me to make my bones, to complete my first kill. I'd done a lot of bad shit up to that point in my life.

But I was yet to take a life. The prospects of committing a murder didn't exactly fill me with glee. I was never one of those psychopaths who gets off on it. Nevertheless, I knew I needed to make my bones in order to rise in the family, and so I was prepared to do so. But I had no clue what lay before me. We drove to the location on the outskirts of town in a stolen car, Carl taking the wheel while I rode shotgun. I carried a snub-nosed 38 revolver.

Not much use for an extended gunfight, but handy for a close-range execution. Not a word was spoken during the 20-minute journey. Carl remained entirely silent and focused on the road. While I knew better than to ask questions, Carl would tell me what I needed to do when the time was right. We stopped at an abandoned warehouse in a desolate industrial estate, just outside of the city limits. It was a location I'd never visited before, but one which conjured up images of gangland execution. and buried bodies. Carl drove up onto a piece of wasteland, parking in the mud, and waiting with the engine

still running, and the car's headlights illuminating the darkened scene. We sat there, and the tension-filled silence, until finally I couldn't take the suspense any longer. What the hell is this place, Carl? I nervously inquired. Angelo owns the land in the warehouse. It's his place. Carl answered dismissively.

I nodded my head, knowing that he hadn't really answered my question. I decided to push for more information. Why are we waiting here, boss? I thought we had a job to do. This is the fucking job. Carl shouted back angrily. Now shut your damn mouth and stay calm. You'll find out the truth soon enough.

I didn't quite know what to make of his cryptic words, but I knew better than to ask any more questions. In any event, it wasn't long before I got my answers. A few minutes later, a second vehicle came into view, slowly plowing through the muddy wasteland and pulling up to park about 20 yards from our car. Carl looked on cautiously as the doors of the dark sedan swung open, and two tall and bulky men stepped out, a pair of gangland enforcers dressed in cheap suits, both armed with nine-millimeter pistols tucked into their waistbands.

I didn't recognize the men, but Carl clearly did, as he opened the car door and stepped out, advancing across the dead ground as he went to meet the newcomers. One of the gangsters, a dark-skinned, bald-headed man, stepped forward and spoke. He apologized for being late, saying that there was traffic on the freeway. You got the package? Carl interjected abruptly. He confirmed that they were and pointed to the trunk.

Get him out. A moment later, I was watching the two gangsters manhandling their victim, dragging him out of the trunk before frog-matching him across the wasteland. Their prisoner was dressed in a soiled track suit, his hands tied in front of him with a black bag over a black bag over the waistland. his head, obscuring his vision. He was an average-sized man, but dwarfed by the pair of hefty enforcers who held him. I noted how he hardly resisted his captors, apparently utterly defeated and submissive in his demeanor. Carl walked up to the hooded man, standing only inches from his

face as he inspected the victim with a discerning eye. Take that damn hood off his head, Carl instructed. It doesn't matter if he sees our faces now. One of the men obliged, removing the hood from his victim's head. The face underneath was a sorry one. His nose was broken and his face covered in dried blood. His eyes were bloodshot and tired. Surprisingly, he didn't seem scared or in a state of panic. Instead, the victim appeared beaten and resigned to his fate. He adjusted his eyes to the glare of the headlights and looked up at my companion. To my surprise, it turned out they knew each other. Guzman, is that you? He muttered through trembling lips.

Yeah, it's me, buddy. Sorry we have to meet like this. Carl replied coolly. The condemned man surprised me again by shrugging his shoulders dismissively. I fucked up. He replied simply. Yeah, you did. Is there any way out of here for me? Any chance of a pass?

Carl shook his head in the negative. Can't do it, old buddy. You know what happens when you steal from Angelo. There's no way back. What about my body? The man interjected. Could you get it back to my family so they can give me a proper burial? Can't do that either, man.

Carl replied, with a hint of guilt now evident in his voice, It's out of my hands. You know that. But we'll get word to your people. Let them know you're not coming home. I saw the condemned man's face contort and tears well up in his eyes. He took a deep breath before saying, Fuck it.

Let's get it over with. Carl took hold of the bound man, dismissing the tooth bugs while doing so. We watched as they drove off, and then Carl directed us towards the way. warehouse as we led our victim on a solemn death march. It's fair to say I was feeling pretty disturbed at this point. In the years which followed, I became hardened to death and violence, and how the man meekly accepted his fate. This almost made things worse.

I knew Carl was watching me closely and evaluating my performance. My whole future in the criminal underworld hinged on how I carried myself over the next few minutes, and I was determined not to mess it up. Carl made me hold the condemned man while he unlocked the door, leading us inside of the warehouse. The interior of the building was almost entirely bare, albeit illuminated by a portable lamp linked up to a generator. In the middle of the concrete floor was a gaping open hole in the ground, about 20 by 20 meters across.

I was puzzled and more than a little concerned. Initially, I assumed the pit was some sort of mass grave. That would have been bad enough, but the truth was far worse. We dragged our victim forwards right to the edge of the pit. I remember his whole body was shaking uncontrollably, and he couldn't stand without support. The stench by the pit was pretty horrific, a foul combination of rotting flesh and what smelt like animal waste, the same as you'd get in a zoo. I was uneasy, but also morbidly curious, peering over the same thing.

the edge, but seeing only darkness. You don't want to get too close, Carl warned. By this stage, our victim was down on his knees by the pit's edge, muttering a quiet prayer through his trembling lips. I pulled out my piece, preparing to fire, but something stopped me from doing so. Suddenly, I heard a sound emanating from the dark bottom of the pit, faint at first, but quickly growing louder. I jumped when I heard the animalistic growl for the first time, quickly followed by

an almighty roar which filled the space. A moment later, what sounded like a huge beast as big as a rhino came storming into the pit. The ground was shaking due to its immense size and strength. I couldn't get a good look at the monster, only seeing a dark shape circling the bottom of the pit. I looked to the quaking victim before me, seeing him whimpering in a tear as a stream of urine poured down his trouser leg. What the hell is down there?

I yelled, shouting to be heard above the creature's growls. Shoot him and kick the body down there. Carl ordered loudly. I shook my head in confusion. I don't understand. Shoot him in the head! Carl screamed. I raised my revolver, holding the barrel against the back of his head.

I paused before firing, not wanting to pull the trigger, but I realized that killing him would be a mercy compared to what lay below. I closed my eyes and fired, feeling the kickback as my victim's head exploded. His limp body fell forward, dropping over the edge. I heard the poor bastard's corpse hit the bottom with a dull thud. A moment later, the beast grabbed hold of him with its mighty jaws, biting down on flesh and bone while producing a sickening crack. As it briefly emerged from the shadows, seeing its shark-like eyes and huge mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth, the mere sight of the beast brought a cold chill at my spine, a primal tear unlike anything I'd ever experienced before.

A moment later, the beast dragged the corpse back to the beast. into the shadows and started to devour his flesh in a sickening display. I walked away from the pit and disgust, feeling like I was about to be physically sick. Carl gave me a moment to compose myself before he walked over, slapped me on the back and spoke. You did good, kid. The first time is always the hardest. Now, let's get the hell out of here. I don't recall much about our drive back to the city. I guess I was still in a state of shock. My brain's still trying to process the horror of what I'd just witnessed. It was some time before I was able to speak, asking Carl the most obvious of questions.

What the hell happened back there? I demanded. I'll tell you what I know, but we're going to need a drink. Carl answered. Ten minutes later, we were sitting in a secluded booth in an empty bar, free from prying eyes and ears. I ordered a double whiskey and downed it in one. What the hell was that thing? I asked, half not wanting to hear the answer.

Carl took a large gulp of his own drink before answering. I don't exactly know. It doesn't have a name. All I know is where it comes from. A tunnel leading deep into the earth. A passageway too. He paused briefly, carefully considering his next words. You believe in the afterlife kid?

In heaven and hell. I shrugged my shoulders, puzzled by the question. I guess so. I've never given it much thought. I answered. Carl nodded his head. before continuing. What about a Faustian bargain?

You heard of that? I shook my head in the negative. It's a fable about a guy who made a deal with the devil. Carl explained. I scoffed and laughed dismissively. I don't believe in all that supernatural shit. I replied. Well, Angelo sure his shit does, and he's not on the side of angels.

And how can you deny what you saw tonight? I didn't have an answer. I don't know all the details. But Angelo made his deal with the man downstairs a couple of years back. The deal was simple. Angelo offers up a regular sacrifice to the beast below, and in return, he gets everything he wants in life, money and power. No trouble from the law, and all his rivals dead are in prison. The good times keep on rolling as long as he delivers the bodies.

I shook my head in disbelief, wanting to believe this was all some kind of sick joke or type of initiation. But there was no way to explain the beast I'd seen down there. My brain was racing a hundred miles per hour as I tried to make sense of what I'd been told. I don't know, Carl. I've seen some shit in my days. Robbing and shooting people is one thing, but deals with the devil and human sacrifices? That's a whole different level. Carl nodded his head in understanding.

I get it, man. I felt the same. First time I saw that monster and learned the truth. But look at it this way. As Angelo grows more powerful, we benefit too. A few more years in our crew will be running this town, and if the devil renegs on the deal, Angela will be the one to pay the price.

It's a win-win. So what do you say, kid? You want to make it to the big leagues? I know I should have walked away right there and then, but what can I say? I'm not a good guy, and the promises of power and wealth were just too tempting. So I said yes, and my life changed forever.

Carl was right, up to a point at least. It did get easier over time. We carried out a lot of sacrifices in those early days, and it was around that time when Angelo went to war with the biggest crime family in the city, and the streets ran red with blood. Our boss was ultimately victorious, no doubt due to the deal he'd made with the man downstairs, but it was a long and bloody gangland conflict.

and our hit squad was kept very busy. I can't recall how many men we killed during that gang war. The faces and names tend to blur after a time. We weren't able to sacrifice all of our victims to the beast. Many we shot dead in the streets, but where possible, we kidnapped our rivals and brought them to the warehouse. This wasn't always an easy task. Some of the men we took were real tough bastards who fought fiercely, but almost without

Without exception, our victims would shit themselves when they got to the pit and they heard the beast's terrifying roar. Now, these guys were nasty, gangsters, drug dealers, pimps, and killers for hire. They were the worst of the worst, and I really didn't feel bad about serving them up as human sacrifices. Those bastards would have happily tortured and murdered us if the tables were turned. I'd shown mercy to my first victim, shooting him dead before letting his body fall into the pit. The beast preferred his meals breathing, so we pushed most of our victims down while they were

still alive, hearing the crack of bones when they hit the bottom, and relishing their cries of terror as the beast devoured them. After a while, I feared I was enjoying my job too much, and so I had to remind myself of how horrifying this truly was. But those were good years for our crew. Angelo destroyed all of his enemies and took full control of all criminal enterprises throughout the city. The money was pouring in, and we became the most feared and respected men in the neighborhood.

Soon, Angelo became untouchable, with city councillors, top police officials, and judges all in his pocket. Even the honest cops and prosecutors weren't able to build a case, and our boss never spent a day in jail. Yeah, those were the good days, and clearly the ritual sacrifices were working. But, of course, it didn't last. The trouble was that we were too successful. When the gang war ended, Angelo no longer had any rivals left to eliminate. But of course, the devil and his beast were relentless, and they continued to demand fresh sacrifices.

Before long, we began executing men and women for the most minor of infractions or insults. But the crooks were so terrified of Angelo and us that they didn't dare put a foot out of line, so we had to change tactics once again. That's when we started picking victims at random. They were people who no one would miss, the homeless and drug addicts mostly. We found it easier to dope our victims before throwing them into the pit. It made them more docile as we dragged them to their deaths, tossing those poor bastards over the edge and walking away as the beast ripped in the shreds.

Carl and I rarely spoke on those nights, but neither of us were happy. I became sickened by my role in these senseless killings, a seemingly never-ending conveyor belt of death and suffering. I tried everything to dull my pain, drink, drugs, sex, nothing worked. I just couldn't escape the immense guilt that I carried with me. Carl got bumped up about six months ago, taking on the role of Angelo's number two. I didn't quite know how to feel about this change. Carl and I had worked together for a long time and we shared a terrible secret, but a part of me was glad to see the back of him. I'd come to loathe the man who'd led me down this bloody path, even though I knew I'd ultimately made my own free choices.

But the asshole they sent to replace Carl turned out to be a real piece of work. His name was Tommy, and he grew up in my neighborhood, being introduced to the criminal underworld from a young age. Tommy was the type of kid who tortured small animals for fun, before graduating to do the same to human beings. He took a perverse, sadistic pleasure in killing, which had never appealed to Carl and me. We considered the murders an ugly but necessary act, and we tried to be as professional as possible, but Tommy loved killing and was almost giddy every night we carried out a sacrifice.

He would mock our victims, laughing in their faces as they pled for mercy, or giving them false hope before delivering the fatal blow. Tommy was also obsessed with the hellish beast, almost to the point of worshipping it. He talked at length about every grisly kill when all I wanted to do was forget. Working with a psychopath like Tommy made a horrific situation even worse. I knew I wouldn't be able to keep this up for much longer. Everyone has their breaking point, and I reached mine a week ago. The night of what will be my last murder sacrifice started out the same as my first,

as I sat drinking in a dive bar, waiting for a call. Tommy rang me soon after midnight, saying Angela wanted us to work tonight. I sighed deeply while downing my whiskey, wandering out onto the wind. wind-swept street where Tommy picked me up in a dark sedan. I climbed into the passenger seat, noting the cruel smile on Tommy's lips and the suspicious twinkle in his eye. His body language immediately put me on guard. Where's the job? I asked wearily. The assholes in the trunk. Tommy replied, while laughing sadistically,

All ready for his little trip to hell. I nodded my head grimly and asked no further questions during our drive out of town. I assumed the man trapped in the trunk was just Just another nameless victim grabbed off the streets. Little did I know what lay before me on that fateful night. We reached the warehouse shortly before 1 a.m. I got out of the car and shivered from the cold, looking up at the stars above as Tommy opened the trunk to reveal the hooded victim within. The man inside was bound with duct tape, his hands tied in front of him.

He wore what looked like an expensive suit, except it was ripped, soiled, and covered in dried blood. At first, he looked like just a typical kidnap victim, but something didn't seem right. Get the hell up, asshole! The victim complied, shakily pulling himself out of the trunk and managing to stand on his own two feet. I didn't understand. What's going on here, Tommy?

I whispered in my companion's ear. Why isn't he drugged? We usually doped our prisoners to make them docile and less able to resist. Tommy replied loudly, making sure that our victim overheard. And that would be too easy, man. Angelo wants this bastard to suffer. He's going to know it when the beast eats him alive. Ain't that right, buddy?

He punched the hooded man around the back of his head, making him yelp and pain and shock. I didn't like this at all. Tommy was playing games, and I wouldn't let it slide. In an instant, I reached out and yanked the hood from our victim's head. I then recoiled in horror at what I saw. The bloodied and bruised face of my former mentor and brother in arms, Carl Guzman. I stood there, awestruck, looking my friend in the eye, seeing that expression of total defeat and resignation which I'd witnessed in many other condemned men over the years.

He looked down, seemingly unable to meet my gaze. Carl? What the fuck, man? I exclaimed. It's okay, old buddy. It's my time to go. This ain't on you, man. I shook my head in disbelief as Tommy pushed Carl forwards towards the warehouse and his terrible fate. I ran after them, shouting questions in a state of frenzied panic. Carl, I don't get it. How did this happen? I messed up, man. He replied solemnly. Took a shot at the king and missed. Now I'm paying the price. I just couldn't understand.

But why? Why the hell would you do that? Carl suddenly stopped walking, fighting against Tommy's grip to turn and face me. His eyes filled with a fiery intensity. Because that son of a bitch needs to be Stopped. That's why. Angelou and his damn deal. What we've done, it's evil. I should have stopped this years ago, but I was weak. Don't make the same mistake. That evil fucker needs to go. Tommy ended Carl's angry tirade by whacking him hard around the head and forcing him to continue his death mark. Shut the fuck up, traitor. The thug swore. I should have intervened to stop it, but I guess I was still in a state of shock, not truly believing what was occurring in front of me.

But Tommy knew exactly what he was doing as he forced the helpless Carl inside the warehouse and frog marched him toward the waiting pit. I followed behind in a daze, my mind racing as I desperately tried to come to terms with this unexpected turn and considered my next move. We entered the dreaded warehouse, Tommy and Carl marching ahead and me trailing behind. I saw the pit and heard the faint roar of the beast as it tore down the tunnel, greedily anticipating its coming meal. I lost control, grabbed Tommy by the shoulders and pulled him around while I placed the other hand

on the butt of my pistol. What the fuck are you doing? Tommy spat angrily, his dark eyes full of fury. We're not doing this. I exclaimed with determination. I was sure it would come to blows, but Carl intervened. It's okay, old buddy. He said calmly, speaking directly to me whilst maintaining eye contact.

It's my time. I have this coming. But, Carl, I whimpered, already losing faith in my cause. But nothing, it's over for me. There's no sense in you dying, too. Listen to your friend here. Tommy interjected, shooting me a twisted smile as he did so. I was paralyzed, unable to act or intervene as Carl marched towards his terrible fate.

I didn't understand it. Carl knew what was down there better than anyone. How could he accept such an awful death so meekly? I looked on as Carl kneeled by the side of the pit, replicating the stance of our first victim all those years ago. Meanwhile, the beast came charging into the pit, its dark shadow circling in eager anticipation, whilst emitting a low animalistic growl. It had been a long time since it had been so excited about a sacrifice.

It was almost as if it recognized it soon to be victim. I knew what the monster did to living bodies, so I was determined to not let Carl suffer such a fate. After all, he had been my friend once upon a time. I'll give you a clean death at least. I said grimly as I drew my pistol and held it to his head. I didn't know how my old friend would react, and so was astonished when he turned to speak with me. His eyes filled with a fiery intensity. Listen to me.

This evil needs to end. You must finish what I started. Carl didn't get a chance to finish his frantic last words, because in that very moment, Tommy kicked him hard in the back, forcing his body over the edge. Adios, asshole! Send us a postcard from hell!" Tommy laughed. I screamed while lurching forward, but it was already too late. I watched in horror as my friend fell into the darkness, his body hitting the bottom with a heavy thud.

Carl was still conscious when he hit the ground. He tried to crawl to safety, but the beast was on him in a flash, trampling his helpless body under its huge hooves, cracking bones as if they were twigs. Carl screamed in agony as the beast made a second pass. This time grabbing its victims in its mighty jaws, throwing him across the pit like he was a ragdoll. I lost it in that moment, doing something I'd never done before, aiming my pistol and firing down into the pit. I screamed in between shots. My gun was empty in just a few short seconds.

It was dark, and my aim was off, but still I must have hit the beast at least three or four times. But the monster didn't even slow down. The bullets bouncing off its hide like its skin was made of steel. I could only look on an abject whore as it continued to toy with Carl's hopeless body, seemingly taking pleasure from his suffering. Finally, the horrifying ordeal came to an end, as the monster bit through Carl's torso, practically splitting him in two before dragging his shredded remains into the shadows, where it proceeded to devour his flesh.

I stood by the edge of the open pit, perspiring heavily with tears in my eyes as I tried to come to terms with Carl's horrific death. Suddenly, my six senses spiked as I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I turned around sharply and saw Tommy approaching from behind, his hand reaching for his gun, and his eyes filled with a murderous intent. A second later, he surely would have pushed me down into the pit, but now Tommy was caught out like a deer in headlights. I stepped away from the edge and made my knuckles into fists, preparing to fight for my life. Tommy wasn't used to fighting people who defended themselves, so he hesitated. We glared at each other for a tension-filled minute before I eventually broke the silence.

We're done here? I asked coldly. Yeah, Tommy replied after a lengthy pause. We're done. Let's get the hell out of here. And we left the warehouse behind, trying to ignore the sound of the beast gnawing on Carl's bones. I survived by the skin of my teeth that night, but I know my days are numbered. With Carl gone, my loyalty is definitely suspected. Angelo surely knows I'm not his man anymore, but he doesn't know that I'm coming for him. I haven't forgotten Carl's final words.

He was right. This evil must be stopped. Tonight, I intend to arm myself to the teeth and go after Angelo. I'm going to kill him or die trying. It's the only way to end this living hell. I know this act won't make up for all the evil stuff I've done. It's too late for redemption, and I expect to burn from my sins. But damn, I'm going to enjoy seeing the look on that bastard's face right before I put a bullet

through his skull. And all the better when that vial is forced back to hell where it belongs. It's time to go to work. Entry 1. March 19th, 20. So I'm not sure how legal it is to journal about this, but I'm on site at, um, I guess we can call it Central Lab 47B. If you think I'm referencing the other place, you're surprisingly mistaken.

A lifetime's worth of work to be here has finally paid off, and I didn't even know this place existed until three months ago. Though I guess the previous five years of prep should have given me an idea that something like this would exist. Still, I don't think 50 years could have prepared me for what I'm helping to support. It's funny, so many times I've questioned if my sacrifices were worth it to be in a place like this. Keep down, the answer has always been a resounding no.

I was driven forward more by my desire to see what was on the other side. But now, it's almost laughable that that was ever a question in my mind. Either way, my team seems competent enough. Morrison, our laboratory's leading director, has been involved with projects like this for the past three decades. And hey, if a guy could keep operations like this running with Stone Age Tech, then who am I to question his methods. On top of that, he's a great guy to work around.

It's always helpful when a good director is the type of guy you'd have a beer with. Despite the work, the lab is a pleasant place. People freely crack jokes, talk about family on the outside, and reference memes from our not-so-allowed servers that connect us to the outside. I can't wait to see everything this place has in store for us. I'm sure we'll accomplish great things. Entry 2 July 14th Happy 4th

To who? Who cares? It goes without saying in this line of work Federal holidays mean all of jack and shit here. The project takes precedent over all manner of holidays, leaves of absence or workers' rights. Try suing the federal government over a top secret project because you didn't get enough minutes for your lunch break. Anyway, coincidentally, Morrison is a big Fourth of July.

guy. He assured us that riding our asses for the past three months was only so that we could get one day off and have an authentic American barbecue. How nice. Though I'd argue sleep deprivation isn't worth under-seasoned burgers and overcooked ribs, just my opinion. Still, it was fun. Plus, it gave me time to come back to my journal and get to know some of my coworkers while I was trying to figure out what exactly is going on here. Despite my top secret clearance, I'm still not to everything behind the scenes. As far as I know, no one is. I maintain operational and research needs, but I'm only really aware of the needs, not all that they support. That's where the rumor mill comes in. While here, I became close friends with managing senior engineer Abed.

Seeing as Abed is involved with the research, after a couple of beers, and a very manly conversation about how much he misses his wife, I'd pop the question, just what are you doing here? To my surprise, he wasn't exactly sure either. From what I could gather, his team is responsible for cell cultivation engineering needs. But more than that, supposedly, the group of cells he's looking at are entirely unique to any previous studied genome, including within federal databases. As I understand it, the main goal is to keep them alive with the side project of understanding what stimuli can harm the cells and how they respond.

Seriously, just what are we looking at? Entry 3, October 20th My manager just died. I don't think anyone was going to tell us. Morrison tried to sell the team on her leaving the facility due to a personal matter, but it sounded like crap from the beginning. More so when I heard a couple of the higher-ups specifically mention her death and passing while working on one of my later nights.

I guess classifying information doesn't hold up to human error. My co-worker Mia has two theories on why. Either it's to keep us productive by preventing us from getting distracted by the news of her death, or it's because death isn't an uncommon thing here. Taking a shot of whiskey on it being the former. Still, it feels wrong to continue our work as if nothing happened. I didn't always get along with Wendy, but I think her death at least deserves to be acknowledged. Everyone deserves a moment of silence.

This brings into question other reassignments, or the other reassignments, or the death. leaves of absence. If I die, won't the same thing happen to me? Entry 4. February 13th. Hey, they're making me a manager. I'm going to be a short post, as I apparently have a party to attend. Abed and Mia found it fit to put together something to celebrate my promotion. Somehow they got high-quality peppermint schnapps into the facility. I'm excited, but simultaneously, I can't shake the ghost of Wendy from my mind. Parts of me feel guilty for taking her position. Another part of me tells me this is what my entire life has been leading up to. I guess we'll see. Entry 5. March 18th. Quick post. Things have been going great. Abed somehow smuggled cigars

for a movie night with Mia and some of our co-workers. I guess that guy has some crazy connections. Something to look into. I kid, probably. I'm not a smoker, but when in Rome... Also, why does this room have a pool table? I didn't even know that was an option. Gotta thank the taxpayers for that one. I can envision myself here with these people for a really long time. Might even leave with some lifelong friends. Entry 6. April 19th. They're finally letting me see it.

I was informed yesterday that they're allowing me to see the specimen on which all of this has been based. I suppose I impressed whoever is above us in my two months of management. Operational support is running as smoothly as ever, my short stint. Or maybe this had always been the plan for me? Regardless, it almost feels like a dream. However, per the standard unnecessary cryptic government practices, I'm not allowed to know when I can see it.

Or apparently, do anything that shows an unusual level of anticipation, whatever that means. I'll update later. Entry 7. May 28. I don't fully know how to describe what I'm feeling right now. I can't fully remember if I was driven to a different location or walked somewhere within Central Lab 47B. All I can remember is being injected with something, having a bag placed over my head and then coming

into consciousness in a lab. At the center of a hodgepodge of wiring, tubes, and screens was a large tank. Within it was what looked like a pale amorphous blob. The closest thing I could compare it to was an octopus with large buggy eyes. Where a normal cephalopod would have a beak, a sizable gelatinous sack was present, from which two snail-like stalks would occasionally expand and contract. At the end of each tentacle were flexible digits that tirelessly explored their transparent prison. Intermittantly, it flashed brilliant colors. An electronic cadence would sometimes follow, and an iridescent skin flap with tiny intricate patterns would extend from its granium.

I imagined it was as if it were showing off extra neurons, almost like a display of its intelligence. Noticeably, a significant amount of gray slime seemed to have accumulated at the bottom of its tank. It didn't look like a lifeless mucus, but more like a fungi or slime mold. It would spit these rigid structures from its stalks that would quickly find their way to the tank's edges before disintegrating and settling at the bottom. Supposedly, these would build up and routinely need cleaning, but they would be able to But they were fascinating nonetheless. As I sat there, observing, Morrison was beside me.

Given his position, I assumed he'd seen this thing countless times. And even still, he appeared spellbound by the specimen. It was almost as if he was in a trance. And how could I blame him? What we were observing was fascinating. Something entirely new for our species. Before I knew it, I was rushed out and debriefed on the situation. It was found in the depths of our ocean.

So they say, apparently scientists using an unmanned drone caught another one of its kind, giving birth to the creature we have here. Or rather, it gave birth to a lot of eggs, and this is one of the few that survived. The parent was caught later on. After various forms of genetic analysis on top of other tests, the original research team discovered that it contained a very minuscule genetic relation to any known animal on earth. And even then, it would suggest a very basic shared genetic connection that possibly predates even Luca.

That's when the federal government stepped in. Still, all this effort over the identification of an animal? I wish I was naive enough to believe there wasn't much more to what they found. Entry 8, June 29th There's a weird vibe in the lab lately. What was once a place of passionate folks who were all too happy to have a conversation has turned surprisingly cold. I don't really get it.

We're all stuck here together, isolated from the rest of the world, leaning on each other was the only thing keeping us sane, and now people kind of keep their heads down. It's throwing me off. Also, there's a strange smell now. I don't know if anyone has picked up on it yet, but I catch whiffs of it occasionally. I'm going to do my best to stay in my room when I don't have to be in the office. Maybe the cleaning crew has been slacking on clearing out the vents. Entry 9. July 5th.

We didn't get a 4th of July party this year, though it feels like we've all been working harder now than ever. Morrison actually yelled at a guy today. I didn't know that he had that in him. He always been so even keeled. I've seen some guys mess up pretty bad in the past, and his first reaction has always been. It's okay, how can we do better next time? I feel bad.

I mean, it really tore into the poor bastard. Thankfully, Abed and Mia seem to be okay from all of this. Abed's been busier, as research needs have ramped up, but I was able to talk to Mia alone for bit. She brought up similar concerns, in addition to the fact that supposedly the lab is looking to divert funds, resources, and personnel from other wings into research. According to Mia, due to unforeseen circumstances regarding crucial people in other non-essential departments, the lab no longer sees fit to waste resources maintaining them.

Janitorial services have majorly reduced. Our Human Resources Department is gone. Employee enrichment services are gone. Our accounting department has been reduced, and all research on how these cells can apply to modern medicine has been scrapped. All this, among other things, what the hell is happening? The smell is getting worse, by the way. Entry 10, August 21st.

I didn't know who to ask about leaving, so I discussed it with someone on Morris' team. I didn't want to go to him directly. He's been scary lately. What they told me was that because of the contract I signed and because of things I had seen, I absolutely had to stay the remainder of my agreed-upon term. Be fully debriefed by an HR representative, which no longer exists, have multiple meetings with multiple councils and unnamed people to discuss my findings, and wait for an accounting executive, which no longer exists, to perform an audit to ensure I wasn't lying about my use of

government property or finances. I'm also subject to a personal investigation of an unspecified period. Alternatively, I could attempt to breach my contract and be thrown in federal prison. Effectively, I was screwed. I figured I'd vent with Abed over a bottle of whiskey, but he's been unresponsive to my messages. I haven't seen him around the lab. I decided to see what Mia was doing when I came across a disturbing sight. What looked like some sort of mold was staining the lab walls. Not overly so, but enough to where it was hard to walk by without noticing patches of it, most notably around the vents. I mentioned this to a few janitorial staff members, and he told me it was normal. Apparently it had shown up relatively recently.

When they looked into it, they found it wasn't mold. They're still doing tests on it now, possibly staining from damaged pipes. Either way, he promised to look into it, but I don't have much faith there. When I finally reached Mia's room, she told me she was feeling sick and couldn't talk. Come to think of it, I've been feeling pretty under the weather also. I'm starting to get hot flashes completing this entry, so I guess I'll end it here. I'll take the excuse to watch horror movies and pass out for 12 hours. Entry 11, November 2nd.

Morrison got into a fight. Per usual, he was berating a researcher over his findings regarding cell cultivation and the ideal temperature to maintain one of the eggs we had in storage. Apparently, the results weren't good enough. Mind you, we don't know anything about this animal. We're starting from scratch here and performing miracles to keep this thing and its siblings alive, much less routinely finding the absolute best conditions for it. To make a story short, Morrison actually ended up trying to strike.

Strangle this man. For an older guy, he's surprisingly strong. It took five men to pry Morrison off. The guy he attacked had to go to the on-site infirmary. Afterward, everyone kept on like everything was normal. I had to get that out of the way before returning to my last update. So I got really sick, like bed bound for a solid month. I'm just now getting back to work in the lab.

I've had to run everything from my computer. Painful as it was for me, being sick isn't the interest. bit. It's what was coming out of my body. At first, I was expelling your run-of-the-mill throw-up, greenish, brown, icky stuff. You get my drift, but in the third week, it was grayish black. Not only that, but in the unfortunate event, I couldn't make it to the bathroom. I'd often see what looked like tiny maggots crawling from the bile and escaping into who knows where. Mia had a similar experience when I talked to her about it. The funny thing is, I can't remember anyone else getting sick like this.

Maybe they had and didn't talk about it? I don't know. Luckily, my absence wasn't missed. People kind of just filled the gap without much thought, and when I came back, it was a seamless fit. I wish the rest of the government ran this smoothly. Entry 12, December 25th. The mold on the walls has grown significantly, and large patches of the stuff have overtaken

much of the lab. In any other circumstances, we'd get put on quarantine. But people keep working as if nothing is happening. I don't know if this bit is in my head, but it also feels like people's skin is starting to reflect the color of the pulsating moldy walls. Morrison especially looks gray and puffy. He is also sweating a lot as of late. They all are. Despite this, productivity has never been better.

No one talks about anything other than the project. Everyone comes early, stays late, and only eats what's needed. to keep them functional, though everyone else still keeps gaining weight somehow. We've made massive breakthroughs in cell cultivation and have hatched some eggs we had in cryo. Apparently, the new specimens look different than the one I saw. Not sure how. One of my coworkers came up to me today to ask the status of some reports. The smell was unbearable.

The skin on the fatty tissue that had accumulated on what was once a slender neck was peeling badly. The yellowing of his eyes had really. the point where they were nearly amber. The thick veins on his hands writhed as if something was using them to move around his body. And he was just one case. Everyone has taken on a somewhat mutated version of what they once were. I keep my distance from all of them. I still can't get a hold of Abed, though I thought I heard someone mention his name with the word Spawn. Mia is the only person here that seems normal. Who knows for how long. Entry 13. March 9th, I've been plotting with me on how we can escape.

Things are so deeply wrong here. The goal was to understand this thing, sequence its DNA, and determine if it has any benefits to humans. Now they're talking about producing more. They want more eggs and more tanks. Morrison is trying to see if other labs would be willing to host multiple specimens. He's even been so bold as to suggest that they can go to an aquarium or two or pass it off as a new species of octopus. Why would we do any of that? The worst part is no one here has any objection.

Everyone is unified on the goal of the project, which, to my very knowledge, has shifted dramatically since my first day here. Mia wanted to see if we could save any of this and go public. No good. All the data is heavily encrypted and would auto delete on any attempt to copy it to another device. We looked into various methods of saving information. Still, I don't need to tell you that the government has seriously.

security protocols that the general public isn't aware of. And it may not be for another decade. As you would expect, no phones or cameras are allowed within miles of this place. The only thing I have is my logs, which I've opted to transcribe into a notebook and reassemble later. Because of our respected statuses within the lab, we have access to specific databases, and it was in one of those we found that Abed was dead. His body was found in his room.

Slimy spores had taken root in his brain matter, grown through his skull, attached themselves to the wall, and crawled up the vents. The accompanying pictures were gruesome. What's worse, he wasn't the only one. So many of our co-workers have met a similar fate. And the bastards here, they're tracking everything, thoroughly documenting the growths, measuring the stocks, taking samples, and trying to grow them in a lab. Worst of all, we may have found evidence to suggest that this all ties back to the creature

we found, but why weren't Mia and I affected like the others? Or maybe a better question is, how many others are out there? Entry 14 April 13th The good news is we've managed to track down other survivors from other parts of the lab. All of them described getting sick, just as Mia and I had. The bad news is they're too far from where Mia and are to safely meet. consistently. The others have seemed to lost all sense of individuality. It's almost like they move as one. Sometimes they don't even need to use words to delegate or accept tasks. Any actions

not in support of project goals are met with aggression. The only time I feel safe is in the confines of my room. My candle stash also helps me forget the wafting aroma from the walls and desks. Anyway, from our efforts, we are down to a team of five. Mia, myself, Bessel Biology, Dr. Leves Shen, lead engineering specialist, Sarah McCarthy, and security officer Cameron Reeves. We were able to establish an encrypted group chat. Though on government servers, nothing you really do is safe, so we didn't have the benefit of saving messages for more than a couple of hours at a time.

That being said, we were still able to come up with a plan. From our collective knowledge, we learned that Morrison and other directors were attempting to contact another lab to give them one of our hatch specimens. They'd be taking a convoy out at some point with a team of engineers and scientists who would train the lab on best practices, along with the debrief of our findings. This would likely be our best time to move. Not only would the lab have fewer personnel to stop us, but our co-workers' uniform thinking would probably mean they'd be too focused on ensuring this transport go smoothly.

than worrying about a few people slipping out. Unfortunately, Cameron didn't have the authority to get us in and out of whatever door we wanted. However, as a lead engineer, Sarah was privileged to request access to certain lab areas for maintenance checks. Furthermore, Director Shen had authority to approve such a request and could ask that Reeves be upgraded with the necessary clearance to most areas, including the exit. So, the plan was simple. We'd wait until the convoy was planning to leave. leave, rendezvous near the front, and walk out the door. Easy, except for the 60-mile track from the lab to civilization, with armed security

watching everyone who exits. That's where we'd have to get creative. Technically, due to our contract, no one is allowed to leave the area unless given special permission approved by multiple parties. We would never be given that approval. Luckily, directors are given their own tracked vehicles to travel between different buildings. Maybe we could convince an external security that we're escorting Shen for a debrief. If we're lucky, they should only scan Shen and Cameron's ID cards for approval.

From there, we drive until we're out of shooting range, ditch the car, and hike back to civilization. After days of brainstorming, I'm disappointed this is what we came up with. After days of brainstorming, I'm disappointed this is what we came up with. We'll fine tune as time goes by. Here's to not getting our brains eaten by spores. Entry 15, May 1st Everything became very real today. Shen was able to get a date for the convoy.

It's closer than expected. In light of this, we decided to do our homework early. We'd try to get Reeves the approvals he needed first. Meanwhile, Sarah would do her best to slow down the security system around the exit. She'd work with Reeves to time a mandatory system update and reset our escape. Me and I would direct staff towards complex and meaningless tasks. The goal ultimately was to keep everyone so preoccupied with busy work that they didn't notice us working behind the scenes, or unwittingly supporting some of the other plans we had in place.

I've also been working extra to specifically slow down security resources needs and ensure that intensive project deadlines coincide with when we plan to escape. I don't know how on earth camera got access to these, but when I found an unmarked box at my door, I didn't know whether or not to open it. Only when he sent a message to the group saying, Three shots, emergencies only, did the pit in my stomach grow from a seed to a redwood. Inside was a small foldable gun about the size of a credit card. Three rounds of ammunition were stored into a tiny compartment on the weapon. Even staring at it now, I'm getting chills. Entry 16. June 3rd. We're biting our time now. We're putting some finishing touches on our plan and

waiting. Good thing, too. The mold has wholly overtaken the lab and attached to our electronics. It almost feels like it's breathing. Even if I'm immune to whatever this stuff is now, it surely can't be good to live with every day. I saw Morrison for the first time in a while. His eyes were gelatinous sacks with parasites pulsating in the fluid. At first, I assume the parasites completely blinded him, but from how he was watching us all, I felt that couldn't be further from the truth. Every time one of us would move from our desk, one of his bulbous eyes would track us until something more interesting caught his attention. Say, for example, another fight breaking out in the lab. Fights were common now.

Whenever someone was deemed to be slacking or actively detrimental to the good of the project, people would take it upon themselves to rectify the situation physically. It's not uncommon for this retribution to go too far. I'm not sure where the bodies of those killed by the angry mobs go. But I have a hunch. Here's the thing. Approval to be here is a long and arduous process. You would assume that every person, even if they are slacking a bit, is too important to lose. Oddly enough, that hasn't been the case.

I've seen people literally have their limbs torn off in a fit of mob rage, only for someone completely new or, on occasion, the same person sitting in that same chair no more than 24 hours later. This is going to sound crazy, but are they somehow full? Fixing the people they've killed? Are they birthing them? I'm starting to wish we had more than an escape plan. This whole place needs to go up in flames. Entry 17. July 14th.

It's hard to describe the feeling of isolation I have here. My days are spent planning, pretending to support something I've grown to hate and attempting to keep any semblance of the mold that has turned my coworkers into an autonomous hive mind out of my room. Every day I look at the gun Cameron found for him. And I wonder if the only true freedom is sitting on my desk. I imagine others feel the same. How could they not? That being said, I'm no coward.

Even if I were, I'm too prideful to let others on the outside turn my body into a puppet for the mold. But still, is this something I'll ever be free of? I haven't left this place in two years. I've been effectively cut off from the outside world. I don't know how things have changed. Maybe there's some other societal parasite that's even worse than what's here. Have people grown to hate each other more? Is disease rampant?

Will I appreciate the shifts in culture? There's so much that changes so fast that I fear all go from one isolated world to another. Though the one out there has fa jerked chicken and whiskey, so I guess it couldn't be too bad. I never thought I'd reach the point where thaw jerk chicken and whiskey are three-fourths of why I choose to stay. alive. Funny how life gets boiled down to the simplest things in the most dire moments, huh? But I mean it. I really do. Plus, I can always go crazy after my stomach is full. It might be a while before the next update. The day is rapidly approaching. I won't be able to write anything during all of this. I'm going to use the remaining time to prepare. If you don't see another update, then

yeah, to whoever's hearing this. Me, my future wife. and kids. Whoever, regardless of what happens, know that I tried. Okay? I really did. Entry 18. September. It's been a while.

Over a year now. I'm going to be honest. A large part of me didn't want to come back to this. The whole ordeal felt and still feels like a nightmare. Or maybe a severe case of psychosis. Either way, I find myself feeling incredibly guilty for ignoring what happened. And it's not like I can share government secrets with my therapist, so here I am. I suppose I'll start with the day of the convoy leaving. So much planning and preparation had gone

into that day. As expected, the focus of the entire lab was moving the specimen to another location. Morrison and some other directors were part of the move. Shen and the remaining leadership would hang back and run operations in their absence. This was good for us. As planned, Sarah was able to get the exit doors maintenance request approved. Thanks to the damage she had done in the previous months, Shen had gotten Reeves the proper approvals to escort her to the exit. In real time, it would have seemed suspicious for Sarah to fix the doors herself. But as managers of our respective teams,

all it took was a slightly heated conversation about how I needed her team back at the cell rejuvenation bay and that she could handle the simple task of the doors by herself. In order backed by Director Shen in person. Mia had a more difficult time moving around. Still, when I came around and informed everyone that I'd need about an hour of her time to discuss meeting operation goals, we were all there. There was a slight hiccup when one of the replaced employees wouldn't leave. These guys were usually obsessed with working, so I wasn't sure why he needed to hang around and watch us. The answers came when he walked over.

His face was all too familiar. Abed, or some twisted version of him, I think he knew what we were up to, and he easily could have ratted us out. Part of me wanted to reach out and tell him to come with us to safety. My anger and hatred for this place wouldn't allow me to leave someone that I'd grown so close to. How could I? Cameron, however, had different plans. He rushed Abed's clone, clasped his mouth around his hand, and brought the credit card-sized gun to his temple. I couldn't hear too much, but I can make out the undeniable words of a very strong threat.

I wanted so badly to rip Cameron off of Abed and punch his teeth in for attacking my friend. For a moment, I even took a step forward. Luckily, my rational mind kicked in when I caught those amber eyes and realized my friend was gone. This was only an abominable imitation of the man I knew. After the scuffle, the two got up. The Abed clone looked at Mia and me and promptly left. Hopefully, by the time he'd informed the others, if he informed the others, we'd be long gone. In all honesty, outside of that, things went pretty smoothly with the security system out,

and the ever-present maggot-filled eyes of the other directors not on us at all times. The lab being relatively empty for the first time allowed us to get the doors open and slip out into the entrance hall without being noticed. It's when we got outside. God, I'm still not past what we saw. It's a big reason why I never wanted to come back to this. There wasn't security outside. In fact, I'd bet security hadn't been outside in months.

It was a nest. An enormous moldy nest had wholly overtaken the entrance hall. Thousands of those octopus things in various stages of life were embedded in the nest with countless eggs. As we carefully walked by, almost in unison, they extended that sickening, iridescent skinflap on their heads. It was blinding. The final door to the outside was nearly molded over. Only a tiny crawl space was available to us.

I remember we all just stared, not entirely sure what to do. Breaking the silence, I asked Shen where the car was. All he could do was return a blank expression. Mia tried the same while grabbing him by the shoulders. His only response was a faint. I created this. Cameron started shaking violently, saying, no, no, no as he sank to the ground. ground. Immediately, a long tentacle grabbed him by the ankle, and he screamed. I spun towards

him, but there was nothing I could do. A myriad of those creatures covered him in seconds. I panicked. I grabbed me and shouted for everyone to leave and rushed her towards the door. Sarah took a second, but was close behind us. I quickly looked back and saw Shen still refusing to move. I shouted again, but once more, it fell on deaf ears. Ultimately, it'd be the last I'd ever see of him. I dove head first toward the opening, tiny tentacles curiously latched onto me, dread deeper than anything I had experienced before permeated my body, clawing at the hard ground in front of me until the tips of my fingers bled, I finally popped out on the other side with a primal scream. Behind me followed the distant sound of two rounds going off and Mia crawling out of the dirt.

Sarah followed her with her arms extended. The things had gotten hold of her, and they wanted her badly. Mia and I each grabbed an arm and pulled them with so much force I was worried we'd end up dislocating her shoulders, but that was nothing compared to becoming food for an army of hell spawns. With a final heave, we pulled her out of the tiny space. With her came one of the cephalopods that began squirming violently in the dirt. In a rage, Sarah ran over and stomped on the thing repeatedly until it was nothing but an unrecognizable stain on the ground, screaming all the way. She broke down after realizing the thing was dead. We got her to her feet and took one final look at what had become of our prison over the last two years. The outside had decayed

much faster than a building of its kind should. Intermittently, we'd see the octopus creatures poke out and into the sunlight, only to recoil when the heat touched their skin. The last thing we'd heard before leaving for good was the undeniable sound of a gunshot. Climbing the gates was tedious, but relatively easy. Our most significant challenge to date was the vast barren wasteland we had to traverse. Without Sharon's car, there wasn't an easy answer outside the obvious. We had to keep walking until we hit the highway. Luckily, on my way out, I grabbed a compass and some first aid and researched the nearest highway.

I'll spare the details of what was a monotonous hike until we hit something. After a mind-numbing trek and waiting by the road, we eventually got picked up by some passerby. and were dropped off at a town about 40 minutes off the road. We had done it. With any luck, the federal government would consider us dead, and we wouldn't have to answer for breaching our contracts. I don't feel comfortable explaining what happened to Mia or Sarah. Their stories aren't mine to tell.

But I do still keep up with both of them. As you'd expect, I had to essentially start my life over. New identity, new location, new friends. Lying on my resume and keeping up those lies during interviews was challenging, but I'm in a decent spot now, financially. The nightmares have been brutal, though, and the very real possibility that my health is forever impacted by being around that thing scares me to this day. The doctors say they can't find anything wrong with me, but I've been getting sick

more frequently, and I swear I can feel something tiny tickle the back of my throat in my sleep. Maybe I'm delusional. It's also tough not knowing what became of all that. Did they ever make it to the other labs? Our aquariums planning on debuting a new species of octopus? It bothers me. I wish I had the answers.

Maybe someone listening to this is just waiting to come forward. I know I'm not the first to experience something like this. As I sit here with a half-empty bowl of fah and jerked chicken on the side, I've decided to go public. Well, somewhat. I'll absolutely be using a new alias or a proxy account to post all of this. But these experiences need to be shared. I've done enough damage to contribute to hell on earth. Let's see if we can do some good by giving people a heads up on what's happening, right?

The truth is going to come out sooner or later. Sorry, I've been rambling for a bit now, and honestly, there's another shot of whiskey calling my name. This will likely be my last entry for a long time. And that's a good thing. Cheers. And thank you for being here with me. The parents have it the hardest.

First, they have to figure it out. The powers, the visions, whatever it might be. If they're lucky, they're put in contact with us before it gets serious. If they're unlucky, they can lose everything. One girl, a real nasty job. I didn't even get to meet. By the time I turned up, the whole family had been crammed into the oven and the house had burned down.

We had to peel them out of it one by one. like giant fruit roll-ups. We think she was a pyro, but who knows, we weren't there. We tried to do some outreach, but it's hard with the government mandate stopping us from going public. Although it's not always how you might think. We're not like the men in black or anything. The truth is that when the supernatural turns up on your doorstep, you'll likely choose

not to believe it. And if you do, then no one else will believe you. That's what I meant about the parents. They're isolated from friends, family, even each other. These kids aren't X-Men, levitating remotes, or mowing the lawn with their minds. It's stressful, sometimes even terrifying to live with. It's not easy when your six-year-old tells you the date and time of your death, or you give them a bad row in the following morning you wake up with an abscess the size of a tennis

ball, filling your mouth like a ball gag. And that stuff can happen even when the kid doesn't mean to. Their thoughts and emotions just leak out. And kids have some pretty messed up thoughts. We have a pamphlet, more of a book, really, where we run through some of the common mistakes that parents make. It's funny to read if you don't know what's at stake. Introducing your gifted child to the concept of death as early as possible is essential to

long-term safety. Of traditional folklore you should avoid discussing with your child include that their deceased goldfish has gone to live in the sea, that dogs, cats, rabbits, etc., are now living happily on a farm, that deceased grandparents have gone to a better place. It goes on, but you get the gist. No two kids are alike, but they ruminate on the little things. like a better place can become real to them in a way they'll never be for an adult. They start to picture things, start to think of what it might be like, what it should be like,

but a brain isn't just a long line of thoughts. It's like an ocean, and there are depths filled with things out of sight, even a kid's mind. Add in fact that most kids are a lot smarter and knowledgeable than their parents think and, well, what do you think a better place should be? Have you ever been to a funeral? Seen a corpse? Kids know more than you think.

They visit grandma in a parlor somewhere. Everyone's crying, everyone's sad, and their mother won't let them open the box to see the old woman who gave them candy every week. Does that seem like a better place to you? All that black, all the tears, being lowered into a hole in the ground and covered with dirt. One of my many cases was a young girl, sweet as can be. She could, occasionally, tell the future in very specific terms. Her parents, blessed them, hoped it lead to a better life, but they made the mistake of asking

when they die, and the answer wasn't what they wanted. It broke my heart to visit that little girl, to sit and play the wee with her and laugh with her, and then look back at the kitchen and see her mom standing there with a distant look in her eyes. The little girl couldn't understand why her parents jumped when she looked at them. or shivered when she hugged them. They still loved her, but you could see they'd spent every second of every day counting down the moments.

It was up to me to make sure the little girl understood the reality of death. That much I managed. I remember her little frown as she did the math. She'd been confused for a few weeks by that point, but her parents refused to answer her questions. I answered them all, and honestly at that. It's not really a better place, then. Is it? I don't know.

I'm not even sure it is a place. I shouldn't have told Mommy about the yellow car. She whispered. Her eyes tearing up as her little mind grasped such a big idea. Mommy shouldn't have asked. I replied a little too quickly, letting my emotions rise to the surface. I hoped that be the end of it. I figured with any luck the mother and father would learn to live with what they knew and not

drive themselves mad thinking about how to avoid it. Most people, though, they get so blinded by the specifics they don't see the big picture. That woman could have locked herself up in a bank to avoid being run over by the taxi her daughter described, only to drop dead from a heart attack a day later. I tried explaining that to them. I tried explaining that worrying won't change a thing. At least, it's not supposed to. A few weeks later I returned for another welfare check, and guessed that I was.

Who answered the door, the little girl, looking hungry and ragged. In the kitchen, all the cupboard doors had been thrown open, and she'd clearly started hacking away at old tins of food with a knife. There were even empty packs of pasta where she'd been eating the stuff dry and uncooked. At first, I thought her parents had killed themselves, and she'd been forced to survive on her own for a short while, but when I asked her, I got an answer that made my blood run cold. I sent them to a better place. You killed them?

I asked, wondering exactly what these parents had asked of their own child. No, silly. An actual better place. I pictured the bestest place in the whole world, and I made them go there. What's the bestest place in the whole world? A beach! A beach that goes on forever and ever in all directions, and you can eat as much as you want because the grass grows fruit and candy, and there's no one to tell you what to do.

do, so Daddy never has to go to work again, and Mommy never has to worry about being fat, because no one will ever see her get bigger, and Daddy will love her no matter what, because he said so, and— How did you send them there? I asked. She held up a piece of paper with blue crayon and beige lines scribbled all over the place. It was a kid's interpretation of a beach, an explosion of colors, poorly drawn shapes that composed the background.

The foreground, however, was something completely different. There were two black and white photorealistic figures frozen in time. Hands held to the sides of their heads as a silent scream escaped their lips. In the best thing about the better place? The little girl beamed with pride. You can never, ever, ever, ever die, no matter how far you fall or how long you hold your breath or even if you eat loads and loads of poison. Bless her.

She looked so proud of what she had done. Every now and again, I pull that picture out and look at that girl's parents. They move so long as you're not looking directly at them. They push at the boundaries of the paper, sometimes even go around the other side. At first they screamed and screamed, and that was all I ever saw. But for the last few years, they just started lying next to each other, staring at What I guess might be the sky. I'm not sure.

I'm not even sure time moves normally for them. There's something that looks like a tally in the sand. If it is, the count is bigger than anything possible, whether it's days or years. I'll burn it one day. I just need to feel confident it's the right thing to do. I still hold out hope that the girl will come back and pull them out, worse for where but ultimately alive. I lost contact with her when she turned 13, though.

Most of these kids don't stick around into adolescence because they don't have to, and the system is rough at the best of times. I wish I knew where they went. I like to think the government rounds them up and finds them a place where they can help the world with their powers, but most of these kids aren't cut out to be fry cooks, let alone super soldiers. Whatever purpose they find in life, I'm not so sure it's for anyone else's benefit. Part of my job is minimizing the threat these kids pose to relatives and society at large.

Easier said than done, of course. It's not just that there's all this power condensed into a half-formed brain, it's what they represent to the average person. In the movies, if some gravedigger spots the undead grandma hauling her ass out of the ground and shuffling towards the horizon, all you have to do is to do. To spray him with whiskey and hope no one believes him. That last part holds out, but not the first. Do you know what the average person does when faced with proof of the afterlife?

What do you think happens when the average person happens to catch a glimpse of what's in grandma's eyes, or God forbid, they get a chance to exchange a few words with the formerly deceased? Kids who speak to the dead can be the worst, because it turns out, whatever's on the other side, it drives the average person fucking insane. And I don't just mean talking to yourself, insane. It's more like slit the throats of your family and castrate yourself with a razor blade insane.

You might think you've accepted the idea of nothingness, or the idea of heaven or hell, but the truth, I'm not so sure it can even fit inside one person's head. The glimpse I had was almost bad enough to net me six months in a mental health facility. It started when some poor boy had brought his grandfather back without even realizing it. He just thought about it long enough, hard enough, and it happened. Next thing was, I got a phone call from the parents who locked themselves in the bedroom. They needed help, and even though I was on probationary training, I didn't call up my supervisor. I just rushed out.

Truth is, I didn't want to call my boss. I didn't want to be supervised. I'd been waiting for this opportunity ever since I read about it in training. I wanted to see someone who'd come back to life. I wanted to know what was on the other side. All the guys talked about it, about people coming back, but I hadn't really thought they were being serious. It certainly seemed like they weren't being honest with me.

I made the mistake of treating it as a problem that could be solved for X. I thought having an answer would do something, help me in some way. I managed to find Grandpa staring at the bathroom door, formaldehyde leaking out of his ass and dripping on to the floor. Those eyes looked at me with an unspeakable hatred, a venomous glare, bad enough to make me stumble back, keeping far out of his reach, but it wasn't enough to stop me asking questions. They burst out of my mouth and I asked so many, so quickly. I don't even remember what they were.

I figure most of them boiled down to something like, what's on? the other side. When the old man spoke, his voice carried an epoch of suffering and weariness. I was looking at a soul that had been put through the ringer, twisted, washed, cleansed, battered, and abused. It wasn't the same soul that had left, that was for sure. But one look in those eyes told you it wasn't lying either. Servitude. He answered, and it was like the ringing of a gong. I almost asked a follow-up question, but good God, something inside me choked and stopped the words. A part of my soul died hearing that word.

I still lie awake at night thinking about it. Servitude. I don't even know what it means, but it has haunted me ever since. Now it's just like that picture. Something I bury and try to forget about. And I don't want to think about it, nor does your average Joe. If I let myself start asking questions like, who's doing the serving, my mind just doesn't stop.

I spent six months going in circles, reading old case files, hoping to learn more. That word still calls out to me a few times a day, scattering my thoughts like rats before a torchlight. Minimizing the harm done by these kids can be hard when it's at risk of putting you in a rubber room. Like I said, the only thing on your side is that 99% of people don't want to face the truth of what's underneath all the mundane, boring shit we call daily life. That's why so many of these parents are so deeply unprepared.

It takes a kind of twisted mind to imagine the world the way a kid does, and more importantly, to think of all the ways it can go wrong. Your goldfish has gone to live in the sea. The tooth fairy will take your old teeth. Santa punishes the naughty. Parents have been indoctrinated since childhood to think that these white lies are a fundamental building block of parenting. It's impossible to break as a habit.

Even parents who know better, reasonable, intelligent people who are doing the best they can, will still make a few mistakes here and there. The best they can hope for is that it doesn't backfire and wipe out half the town. That's when the other half of my job comes in. Clean up. I have to direct the parents to the right type of cleanup crew. Most of the time it's the guys with mops and buckets and a very strong stomach. Other times it's a nasty man in a suit who knows how to stop the neighbor from posting photos

to the internet. Once it was a bunch of guys in lead-lined hazmat suits. That was a tough one to figure out. We still don't really know what happened, but the Geiger counters they left behind still haven't stopped clicking. Talking about tooth fairies, in some parts of the world, they're very real. They weren't always real, you understand, until some of these kids came along. Do you know how scary the idea of a tooth fairy is to the average child?

Let's just say what some kid dreamed up in the 80s is exactly what you'd expect from a being who steals teeth for a living. Its face is nothing but a pallet with teeth growing all over the damn thing, so that there's barely a sliver of gum wider than a finger. And the teeth stink. They're all rotting and yellow like a meth addicts. And this thing goes around taking teeth, and whenever an old one falls out of its, well, I'll call it a head, but I'm not exactly an anatomist.

But anyway, when one falls out, it takes one of the teeth that's collected from kids' mouths and finds a new home for it. Its muscular arm shake as it forces the root through flesh and cartilage, and I swear the sounds it makes. or cries, but who knows? I always hoped the damn thing would disappear when the kid grew up, but nope. It's apparently still out there, climbing gutters and drainage pipes using its arms because the kid who dreamed it dreamed it with no legs.

And that's just one of them. There are lots of tooth fairies. Like I said, the world is terrifying to kids, and they think things in a way we can't easily predict, but the consequences are all too real, often for the parents, sometimes passers-by. The only saving grace is that most of these kids are well-intentioned, even the difficult ones, the ones with learning disabilities or emotional problems. They'll show regret when they realize that their actions have hurt people. That's the most important and ingredient in a person.

Remorse. People hurt each other all the time, but the vast majority of us don't do it knowingly. And even if we do know, it's something we figure we have to do. But, of course, there are others. Kids and people who know damn well what they're doing. I don't know a whole lot about them, just enough to help me identify them in my work, but they're the kids who are ambivalent to the pain they cause because they just don't care. Most of them are narcissists, content to chase dreams of money and sex because it gives them a thrill.

You read about how psychopaths do well in certain jobs, like investment bankers or whatever. Great, good for them. The gifted ones I work with are actually quite similar. They're not necessarily any worse than any other kids. They just tend not to be bothered when I explain to them that after what they did to their little brother, he won't be able to play any more Xbox with them. There's no guilt, no remorse. The really bad ones, though.

They're not just indifferent. They get a kick out of it. It takes a lot of moving parts to come together so that you make a person who enjoys hurting others. I read once that most serial killers have lower IQs because the average psychopath knows damn well that the cost-benefit analysis of murder isn't in their favor. Murder is hard, and the payoff is usually quite small, and a smart psychopath knows that. imposes enough consequences to keep most people in line.

But when they're gifted, those consequences just go right out the window, don't they? If I can demonstrate the presence of sadism and a total absence of remorse and empathy in a child, I can request permission to euthanize them. Some of the first tests we do when finding one, brain scans, questionnaires, EEG, so on, are all about identifying psychopathy. I used to hate it. The kids would ask what we were looking for, or sometimes start bawling their eyes out during the hammer test, my least favorite test of them all. And it always broke my heart to imagine what was waiting for them if I made the wrong decision. I understood, logically, why we did it.

I just hated knowing that I had that kind of power. Those kids didn't know what waited at the end of the road if they failed the tests. Not even their parents knew. I would have given anything to get the agency to drop those tests. And then I met Bradley. He had 16 teachers suffer kidney failure in a single year, and that's what flagged his hometown for further investigation. Looking at the injuries some of these teachers had suffered, I was convinced that we were

dealing with a teenager who had latent abilities. That kind of cruel spite is usually reserved for teenagers. But actually, Brady was just seven. I first saw him lying on his living room floor, reading a year. university-level textbook on anatomy. He was something of a prodigy, although he himself admitted he wasn't that smart until he started taking bites of other people's minds. The funny thing was, his father was the spitting image of Bradley, his mother too.

But you expect that kind of thing, don't you? What you don't expect to see is that the other kids in Bradley's class look a little like him. The parents all over the place had been crying havoc to local scientists who said, simply don't have any answers. They got these photos of their kids just a few years before Bradley moved in, and they look different. They have different facial structures, different hair color, different eye color.

It's subtle at first, but as time goes on, you see these kids change more and more, and it's undeniable who they're changing into. And then the complaints stop, because of course, the parents start to look a little more and more like Bradley, too. I'm just borrowing bites of them," he told me. Most people don't think enough. There's all their spare room in their heads, so I'd just help them find a good use for it. He infected their minds, and without really knowing why, he made them a little bit more like

him. It was a side effect, of course, but a shocking one. We had to call a lot of people to bring things back to normal, and even then, Bradley wouldn't just let us kill his main source of computing power. We had to negotiate and what he wanted was, well, he liked vivisection and he really liked living subjects. He also liked our tools, he said. Some things he couldn't learn from just pilfering the average person's brain, but in our

lab he was kind of like a kid in a candy store. We didn't really think that part through, if I'm honest. Putting him in a room with our scientists was guaranteed to end badly, but Bradley was so powerful. Without ever really noticing, we pivoted from trying to contain him and started trying to just appease him. It was unlike any kid we'd come across. There was nothing stopping him from tying your colon into a knot just to see what would happen. He got a kick out of it, out of seeing people suffer because of his own actions.

We don't let scientists out in the field now, just in case another telepath picks up on some useful tips. A burst pancreas here, a brain bleed there, turning your blood. into something the consistency of pudding. We still hold annual conferences, trying to figure out what Bradley was, what his end game was. He certainly wasn't interested in any kind of new race or evolution. If we ever implied that he wasn't the only psychic, he'd get very upset. I lost my first supervisor to that.

We didn't know what Bradley was at the time. We'd just found him in his home. Sure enough, and he was odd. intelligent beyond all reason, but we didn't know. You may feel alone, Bradley, my boss said, but in fact there are estimated to be nearly a hundred thousand children just like you. There's no one like me." The little boy replied, his eyes fixed on my boss like daggers.

Next thing I know, my boss is shaking, convulsing, blood is foaming out his mouth, his nose, his ears. When they finally got around to doing an autopsy on the old man, they say that there was barely anything left inside his skull. It had been ejected with force out of any available orifice from the neck above. What little of his brain remained was pulled at the base of his skull, like the final dregs of a milkshake at the bottom of a cup. In the end, it was Bradley's ego that brought him down.

After two years of watching him massacres way through a small town and then our labs, all while wondering when he'd finally set his sights on some bigger prey, I'd have to be I decided I couldn't just let him carry on. The thing about kids is even ones like Bradley, even the smartest, cleverest, and most knowledgeable ones don't really have any experience. Throw in an ego the size of a planet, and they often lack that essential humanity beaten into most of us by adulthood. In the end, it was a little white lie that saved me, saved us all, really.

No one's spoken to what's on the other side, I told him, we have never had any gifted person be able to reach out and see what happens after death. He came out of his room the next day and just, I don't know. I didn't feel sorry for him, but damn. I came close. He had a little desk in the middle of our lab's main floor, where he'd watched the scientists and read their minds like most kids flip through TV channels, and he walked right up to it and sat down.

He looked so beaten, so utterly wiped out. He asked me for crayons, so I gave them to him, and he spent a few minutes scribbling something, a little house with some trees, and the next thing I know, he was gone. He just popped out of thin air like he was deleted from one of life's animation frames. He wasn't dead. He'd just put himself into the drawing. They talk about him like I trapped him, like I'd beat him. But truth is, I think Bradley could leave the drawing whenever he wants to.

You can see him in the house. He's painting in there, I think. It's all he ever does. Sooner or later the page will be lost, destroyed, maybe even intentionally. There's no such thing as infinity when it comes to human life. But I remember the look in that dead old man's eyes, and I remember how it made me feel. Servitude. Bradley must have seen right through into whatever afterlife there is, and he did so with

With such clarity, it put all other kids to shame. Now I think he's hiding. I think he knows sooner or later he's going to end up on the other side, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. All that's left to him is to put some distance between the beginning of his life and the end, and he knew from experience he could make all kinds of special places where time runs slower than the norm. Don't forget, he had all my memories to go through as well.

I have no doubt he knew about that little girl and what she did to her parents. The Infinite Beach. Thankfully, we think Bradley was a blip, a cloud computing telepath who borrowed other people's minds to strengthen their own powers. That's the kind of feedback loop that could cause the end of the world, maybe even the universe. We're glad he called it quits, although it unsettles me to think of the reason. Someone asked me once what I think these kids are.

I'm not sure, but I'm tempted to call them a bug, an error. Whatever they are, they've tapped into something underneath the banal reality most of us fixate on, the one filled with recyclable cups and microwave TV dinners. You hear that and you think it must be a thing of wonder to have that kind of knowledge. I just think of Bradley, a literal god amongst humans who took one hard look and fled with his tail between his legs. If I ever glimps his face in that picture, looking out the window, all I can think is that he looks so goddamn scared. I've been an investigator and hunter of the paranormal for longer than I care to remember. Studying

lore, protecting the innocent, and destroying malicious entities are just a few of the job's many requirements. In my younger years, training day in and day out with my uncle I thought we were heroes and that I had the greatest job in the world. Now that he's dead, along with most of my friends and family, I'm not so sure. The monotony of endless travel and cheap hotels, the guilt of not being able to protect my loved ones when they needed me most, the burden of saving others. It's more weight than I ever thought would rest on my shoulders, more weight than most men can bear to carry.

But enough about that. You don't need to hear some sob story. This isn't about me. This is about my last adventure. One I almost didn't come back from. A few months ago, while digging through various news articles and police reports for choice words like bizarre and unexplainable, I came upon a tabloid piece about a man, Jack, on a business trip.

He apparently became hysterical and attacked his boss. Colter in a hotel lobby. When asked why, he simply said that room 371, the room Colter was assigned at the front desk, was no ordinary room, and anyone staying there was in grave danger. He said he was trying to protect his boss by explaining the situation while pulling him away and out of the hotel. Coulter resisted and fell to the floor, breaking his arm. He didn't press charges, but needless to say, their business trip and relationship. ship was no more. Normally, I stay away from these kinds of things. More than not, they tend to be the product of nutcases. This one had all the markings of an overtired, overworked man

on the verge of mental breakdown. Still, it piqued my interest. With no other pressing cases on the table, I decided to look into it, if for no other reason than to placate my curiosity. A quick bit of research revealed that the Covenwood Inn, the hotel where Jack and Colter were staying, only had two floors with room numbers ranging from 101 to 256. There was not, nor had there ever been, a room 371. This wasn't enough to build a case, but it was strange nonetheless. I couldn't find any contact information for Jack, but I found an email for Colter on a site dedicated to networking for investors and business leaders.

He responded, but only gave me a brief account of the incident, not wishing to discuss specifics. In his summary, however sparse, even he described being handed a key card for room 371 before Jack grabbed him. The plot was thickening. The next order of business was to call the hotel. I did this on three separate occasions spread out across the week, with three different aliases, and spoke with three different staff members, ranging from entry level to manage the hotel. positions. In the hunting business, this is known as the rule of three. Provided you can sift through the bullshit and identify the potential truths within, it allows for a higher chance

of information retrieval without raising suspicion. It works even better if you can act and change your voice accordingly. Call number one was to the hotel manager. As I suspected, no matter how persistent I was, she would not comment on the matter. Call number two was made to lower management in the form of Tammy, a shift supervisor. She wasn't working on the day in question, but had heard a lot about it from coworkers. She said Jack was a lunatic, kept screaming about a list of rules in his hotel room. I wanted to pry for more, but we were disconnected. I'm fairly certain I heard the manager come over and scold Tammy before the line went dead.

Call number three was to the front desk. For this one, I decided on a backhanded approach. I would attempt to book the non-existent room 371 to see if the clerk would bring up the incident on his own. Upon dialing, the voice that met my ear was steady and emotionless. Thank you for calling the Covenord Inn. How may we be of service? Is it possible to book a specific room?

Of course, sir. Which room would you like to stay in? Room 371. One moment. There was a brief pause in the faint sound of tapping at a keyboard. 371 is available tonight and every night going forward. Would you like to book your stay?" Impossible.

Did I call the right place? Was my information wrong? So you're saying room 371, that's 371, is available? Yes, sir. Tonight and every night. And this is the Covenwood Inn in Massachusetts. Indeed it is. And your hotel only has two floors with room numbers 101 to 256, right?

sir. How, then, is there a room 371? There was another pause, this one considerably longer than the previous. Thank you for calling the Covenwood Inn, where we always hope you enjoy your stay. Goodbye. Well, I'll be damned. Despite my doubts, it looked like I had found my case. I just needed to do a little more research before going out on a full-fledged hunt.

Most entities travel. It's doubtful that this one struck once and then must. moved on. If I could find its signature and establish a pattern, I could probably pick up its scent and predict its next attack. All I had to go off was Tammy's second-hand account of Jack screaming about a list of rules. That would have to be my starting point. And down the rabbit hole I went.

Five days of non-stop research and I stumbled upon the mother load of paranormal activity. of accounts of mystery survival guides left in apartments, hotels, and workplaces, strange sets of rules with a sizable body count left in their wakes. My next move was clear. I had to call Al. Al was an old soul who'd been around the paranormal block more than a few times. His hunting days were behind him, but he was a walking encyclopedia of knowledge. If anyone could shed some light on these lists, it was him.

Al's recognizably scruffy voice cut through the receiver after just one ring. Henry, you bastard. How the hell have you been? Glad to know you're still alive after all this time. Would it kill you to pick up the phone once in a while? I know, Al. I'm sorry. It caught up in a gig. You know how it is.

How's your heart? Still giving you trouble? Of course, of course. But you and I both know I've been through worse hell than a few clogged arteries. To what do I owe this call anyway? I'm sure you didn't really. Reach out to discuss my declining health. I've uncovered something big, Al, and I need your help.

Must be big if you're calling me instead of diving head first with no parachute like you usually do. Al was referring to a particular case we worked together years ago, his last one in the field. I was a foolish and cocky son of a bitch. We followed a bad tip I received from a less than reputable source and found ourselves smack dab in the middle of a dense forest surrounded by a coven of Dreamwalkers. They're nasty creatures, with an appetite for children's nightmares, only attacking the waking under the light of a full moon, which just so happened to be the case on the night we went out

there. It was a trap, and we walked right into it. We managed to kick and claw our way out, but just barely. Al took most of the onslaught. I carried him out to the main road where we were picked up by a passing truck and brought to a hospital. The physical damage was healed, but Al was never the same. same after that. He never said as much, but I swear he blamed me for what happened. Even

if he didn't, I did. I can't ever forgive myself for that one. There are these strange survival guides being left in random locations across the country, and they're racking up quite a body count. I don't know if it's... Al interjected with a heavy sigh. I know exactly what you're talking about. You should probably swing by my place to talk more about it. Al, here across the border, over 300 miles from where I... Damn it.

Al was a stubborn man and a lonely one at that. He probably just wanted a visit, and I couldn't really blame him. After all, I was the reason he turned into an old hermit in the first place. Whether it was the guilt over breaking his spirit years ago or my lack of options, I made that drive and crossed state lines on my way to see Al. If anything, it would at least be good for him. It was just how I remembered it. A perfect little cottage tucked away in the middle of nowhere, far away from the outside world.

Not the house you would expect a hunter to live in, but that's how Al liked it. Small and quaint. I think it reminded him of his late wife, Ellie. She used to talk about a dream home like this one, if memory serves. Al rushed out to greet me. There you are, you bastard. Get over here. He pulled me into a bear hug.

I reciprocated, happy to see him in person for a change. All right, Henry, let's go in and talk shop. Al brought me inside where I sat on the sofa. He brought me over a TV dinner, a common meal in archaid, and a beer before sitting down in the chair opposite to me. Okay, Al, what do you know? This is big. You were right about that, but...

He threw me a concerned look. indicating I might not like what he had to say. Come on, Al, I drove hundreds of miles to hear this. It better be good. Define good. Out with it, Al? Good news is I know what you're dealing with. I swear the man dragged on simple responses just to keep me from leaving too soon.

That or he enjoyed dangling fresh meat over my head just to watch me swipe at it and miss. Probably a little both. And the bad news? There's, I've been tracking this thing for years. You're not going to be able to catch it, kid. Its course is completely random. By the time a headline shows up, she's already moved on to another town with no trail of breadcrumbs

to follow. She? Yes, she. Could be a he, but you and I know males are pretty rare. It's a witch, Henry, and a powerful one at that. Al went on to explain that the lists of rules were agreements between the witch and her victims. contracts that needed no signature to be legally binding. Once the rules are read and comprehended by the victim, the agreement takes effect.

If one or more rules are broken, a supernatural calamity will befall the victim, usually resulting in their death, at which time part of their life force is absorbed by the witch. With each soul piece she takes, she becomes more powerful. Why do folks break the rules in the first place? It's part of the design. Most of the rules are simple spell traps dependent on time triggers. To most people, it's nonsense. Even I, with all my knowledge of the paranormal, would be hard-pressed not to use the bathroom

after 11.22 p.m. just because of a list I found on a motel dresser. How do you know all this, Al? I learned most of it from a man who stayed at an Airbnb near Cape Cod. He found a list and broke each and every rule, but still managed to make it out of the room. they're alive. He even gave me the damn thing. What? You mean you have it right now? You've been holding out on me this whole time? Al walked over to his desk, opened up a dresser, and pulled out a sheet of paper. He then walked over to me and tossed it on my lap. It won't do you much good. I've examined it more

times than I can count. It was beautiful in a morbid sort of way. I had been studying the case for so long it felt amazing to have a piece of the story in my hands. A physical piece of evidence I could inspect with my own eyes. It feels different from normal paper, wouldn't you say, Al? It's papyrus. I imagine the other lists are made of it too, necessary for the spell. I turned it over and noticed a dark splotch near one of the bottom corners. Al, what's this?

A stain, I guess. Probably wine spilled from the last guy who had it. That wasn't wine. I was sure of it. I raced over to Al's bookshelf and grabbed a copy of demonic dealings by Jack Grovewood and began flipping through the pages. Al, what do we know about witch deals? Aside from these ones, they're verbal contracts between a witch and a human.

One wish granted in exchange for a piece of their soul. Why? What are you getting at? I found the piece I wanted and scoured the text until I came upon an image. Aha! I held up the picture of two hands dripping red over a challenge. And how our deal sealed, Al? With blood from both parties.

We know all of this, Henry. This is different. She doesn't need permission and there's no wish granted. You break a rule and you're toast. That's it. Clearly this type of contract doesn't need blood from the victim, but what if it still needs the witch's blood to bind the soul piece to her when it's done? I held up the list and pointed to the dark spot.

Al thought it over for a moment before it all sank in. You genius son of a bitch. Are you saying we have the witch's blood right here? That's exactly what I'm saying, Al? But what does that matter? We can't cast a summoning spell without fresh blood, no older than two months. I received this ages ago. I know, but there's no statute of limitations on blood packs.

That's how ghosts are able to make deals with demons, witches, and the like. If we create our own list with identical ink and paper and smear some of this blood onto it, It should work the same and bind the witch to the deal. When we break the rules, she'll have to show up to collect. Then we kill her. I'll shot me a dirty look. Are you insane? Another one of Henry's misguided tightrope walks.

Glad I'm alive to see this one. We don't know the conditions of the spell. There could be more to it than this. You want to risk it backfiring or worse, it actually working and us getting ourselves killed by the most powerful witch we've ever gone up against? As those words rolled off his tongue, I sensed the excitement in his voice. He was dying to work another case after being on hunters' leave all these years. Al, are you in or not?

He turned his head for a moment and then turned back to meet my gaze. You bet I am. Another week of research and gathering materials later, and we had what we needed. Witch-killing instruments. Stakes soaked in the dead sea and welding torches, and a new list of rules uniquely equipped for Al's Cottage. 1. All lights off by 10.41 p.m. 2. Leave the bedroom door closed to all times.

3. Do not step outside after sunset. 4. If anyone knocks at the front door after 3.45 p.m. do not answer it. 5. If your television set is on, do not turn it to Channel 9. After spreading a sample of blood from the previous list on the back corner, we got to work, breaking as many rules as we could. Twelve hours passed. We left the lights on all night, opened the bedroom door, turned the TV to Channel 9, which was just plain static, and walked outside after sunset.

Then we waited for an inevitable knock at the door. It never came. We waited and waited and waited, sitting on the sofa with stakes and tortuous. is in hand, but there was no activity, none whatsoever. Even without knocking, something should have happened. We had broken four of the five rules. At two o'clock in the morning, Al turned to me and shook his head. Looks like it was a bust, kid.

Just as I was about to swallow my failure and admit defeat, a gust of wind pushed the front door open and a clean-cut man in his 50s and gray hair, gray mustache, waltzed in with a smile on his face. It looked as though it was a male witch after all. Hello, boys, looking for me? Al and I raced over and pushed our stakes through him. There was no effect. We then held our torches up and attempted to burn his skin. Again, no reaction. This was not good. With a flick of his wrist, the man was able to swing us through the air and pin us against the opposite wall via the unseen force. No spell recited, just pure, powerful mass.

Is that any way to treat a guest? We tried to break free, but it was no use. I didn't have to show up, you know. Using my blood was a good idea, but your list was voided the moment the ink touched the page. Without my handwriting, the thing's useless. He cackled as we squirmed. I just couldn't resist seeing this for myself. Two humans meddling in my affairs, attempting to draw me out of hiding.

Whatever did you think you would accomplish? He shut the door behind him, walked over, and sat down at the sofa where we had previously been seated. And the stakes and fire... What a great laugh that was! You know, as a powerful witch, I can ward myself from just about anything. With enough soul shards, you can pretty much render yourself invincible, and I have plenty to spare.

What do you want? I screamed out, impatient as ever. Al looked at me wide-eyed, almost as if to say, what the hell do you think you're doing? Punishment, of course. You may not have broken the rules of one of my actual contracts, but that doesn't mean I can't dole out some just desserts. And then there was a knock at the door. What's this? The witch said in a delighted tone. It looks as though we have more guests. Please, come in. The door swung open and two figures walked in. Two figures I recognized. It was none other than my uncle and Al's wife.

They walked over to us and the witch released his hold on us. Aren't you happy to see your loved ones back from the dead? Without warning, their forms changed. Their fingernails changed to claws that bent and curved towards the carpet. Their mouths opened at unnatural angles, revealing rows of sharp teeth that protruded outward. Finally, their eyes met at the center of their heads, creating a single point. pool of yellow light swirling into itself, a life all its own. Then they attacked. Al and I jumped and darted around the room, but it was no use. They were too

fast, their arms too long. No matter what we did, they kept on pulling us and tearing away at our flesh, bit by bit. Before long, we were both being tightly squeezed in their arms. Their pained cries echoing through the house. Oh, what's wrong? Don't you humans live for tender embraces? It doesn't get any more loving than this. Just as our spines were about to break, Al did the unthinkable. Wait! I want to make a deal! All at once, the creatures loosened their grip and the witch spoke, just as surprised

as I was. Oh, now that's something I didn't expect. Tell me, Al. What did you have in mind? A piece of your soul for your safety? Sorry, but that just isn't worth it. I'd rather see you bleed. I looked over at me as a single droplet rolled down his cheek.

Let the kid go. You can take me now. The whole damn soul, it's yours. The creatures vanished and the witch's face let up. Ow! What are you doing? You can't... The witch put his fingers together and my mouth was clamped shut.

Sorry, kid. I'm getting too old for this. I'm tired. My wife's gone. My daughter's gone. You're the only family I have left. The witch chimed in. You have yourself in.

deal. Al looked over to me one last time with a smile. At this point, my face was soaked in tears. I never blamed you. I may not be your dad, but I would have been proud to call you my son. And with that, they disappeared. I fell to the floor, breathless. It was over.

There was nothing I could do. Somehow, some way, that witch will die. I will bleed his corpse, rip apart the flesh, bury the bones in some of the bones. the earth if I have to. And I'll tell you what, I'm going to save Al while I'm at it. Whatever it takes, mark my words. You know, I've been in bad situations before, but never anything like this. Here's some brief context.

About two weeks ago, I was running dangerously low on funds. I guess the demand for shady hitmen wasn't exactly at an all-time high. At that point, I was willing to take any job that was less difficult than assassinating the president. I got exactly what I wanted about a week after the eviction notice came in. $20,000. One guy. As far as I could tell, no baggage attached.

It was just some random asshole. Or at least, that's how they presented it to me. Now, the person or people who had sent me this offer seemed a bit more secretive than the usual customer. I mean, I usually expected a fake name at the very least, but these guys didn't even offer an alias. Whatever, I thought. It is what it is, right? They didn't seem to have a name for the target either, simply referring to him as the freak.

It was weird to say the least, but beggars can't be choosers. They wired me ten thousand up front. The rest would come after I'd finished the job. Those were their conditions, anyway. I started driving out to the address they'd given me, where the target was supposed to be. They told me I should get there by midnight, so I arrived around 10pm in order to set up. My load out was a bit heavier than usual. I was thinking that this guy had to be armed and trained or something since they were willing

to pay me a shitload. I was packing a silent beretta, a fully automatic CZ-75, and a Remington 870, a scoped M-14, a butterfly knife, and some brass knuckles, if it had to come to close quarters. Well, that wasn't it. There was one last thing I'd brought with me. It was a grenade. Now, I didn't think I'd actually need it, and I didn't really want to use it. It was just there in case shit went beyond south.

I hid myself as best I could in the darkness of the dingy factory and waited until midnight. At about 12-11, the rusty doors flung open. I watched through my scope as an abnormally tall figure wearing a windbreaker and slacks burst in. From the description they gave me, this was definitely the guy. I mean, how many people are 610? The thing is, he was moving way too fast for me to get a clean shot, and I didn't want to risk blowing my position. In fact, he was sprinting for whatever reason.

However, he did appear to be unarmed, so I let myself relax a bit. I lost him when he ran into a door on my left. Moving quickly, I pulled out the Beretta, stuck the CZ-75 into the holster, and followed him. Now the place that he'd entered was pitch black, but I'd planned for that. I put on a pair of night-vision goggles and started traversing around the area. It appeared that he'd led me into a hallway. However, I couldn't find the guy. This was when the first peculiar thought struck me. How the hell was he seeing anything in here?

My musing was cut short when I heard a shrill scream come from somewhere at the end of the hall. Carefully, I maneuvered my way down there and peeked down both the left and right branched corridors. The screaming was definitely coming from the room to the left. As I got about halfway there, it just stopped suddenly. I froze in my steps. What the hell? It was at that moment when a body came flying out of the room. I nearly shouted out in shock but managed to control myself. I watched as what appeared to be a 20-something male hit the wall just in front of me and bounced

off, face-planting hard into the concrete. It made me sick, squishing noises as it did. Getting a better view of the body, I noticed that one of the legs seemed to be crumpled, like if the Terminator himself had grabbed onto it and squeezed hard. I could hear whatever had done this starting to come back out into the hallway. Feeling extremely disturbed and somewhat unprepared, I silently backed out into the main entrance hall. From there, I trained the CISI directly onto the intersecting corridors and waited. I mean, there was no way he could see me, right?

My heart skipped a beat with nearly every step that guy took. He was getting closer, closer. Three more steps. Two. As soon as he came into my view, I emptied the entire magazine. My accuracy has always been pretty decent, so I'd say more than half of them hit. However, he was still standing. And not just that, he barely even flinched.

That's when I got a closer look at his face. All I can say is nobody looks like that. In fact, nothing should look like what I was staring down in that dark hallway. His face was incomprehensible. like the conventional demon or mutant that you see in the movies, it was something that the human brain wasn't meant to come face to face with. It didn't belong in our plane of existence. The eyes were constantly changing, morphing if you will.

It was as if two irises both shared one large empty pupil. The mouth, if you could call it that, was twisted into a grin that seemed to wrap around its entire head, not just ear to ear. Those were the only distinguishable features. The rest of the skin on its face seemed to be constantly shifting. Sometimes it would be smooth, and sometimes it would look as if hundreds of tiny worms were crawling under it. That thing looked directly at me and let out this deep, throaty laugh that seemed to reverberate

through the entire hall. I even had to quickly glance behind me because it sounded like it was coming from everywhere. I could barely think. I dropped the CZZ and pulled the Beretta. I emptied three shots right into the head, but the monstrosity barely reacted. It just started laughing louder. Obviously this creature wasn't going to go down anytime soon. I bolted out of the hallway and back into the main factory floor.

My thoughts were a mess, but I managed to recall where I'd left the shotgun. I hastily made my way over there and picked it up. I nearly had a heart attack when I turned around and saw the thing staring right at me. It was still laughing, in addition to now, drooling this black, thick-looking, and I was still laughing. liquid. Some of it got on my hand and instantly ate through my skin. I winced in agony before firing a shot right into its face. This time it actually seemed to react.

I noticed that the bullets had managed to pierce its skin, but only slightly. It stopped laughing, instead letting out a shrill, deafening shriek that nearly burst my eardrums. It grabbed my arm and tossed me some meters away. I landed hard on my shoulder and I think I nearly broke it. However, I didn't have the luxury of letting it rest. I pumped the shotgun back and fired another shell directly into the creature's chest as it charged me.

However, I couldn't move out of the way quick enough. The impact from the hit sent me flying about ten feet back in the air. I landed awkwardly, feeling my ankle dislocated as I did. However, I was also fairly close to the bag where I was keeping the grenade. There was really only one option left. I scrambled over to it and feverishly grabbed the explosive. As soon as I got my hands on it, I pulled the pin. I could already hear the creature coming back towards me.

I turned around and rolled it toward the thing. I barely got behind a pillar in time for the explosion. I don't think the sound that it let out will ever leave my mind. It wasn't just a shriek, not just roar. It was as if all the air around me was being sucked into that thing's giant mouth and being distorted into some kind of otherworldly bellow. I crawled out from behind the pillar to see the thing stumbling around. It was missing a leg now.

But instead of bone sticking out, there was some kind of dark, shiny appendage squirming out of its severed limb. Taking no chances, I emptied the rest of the shotgun rounds into the creature's head. However, it still wouldn't fucking die. Tired as hell and in pain, I stumbled over and watched the freakish entity climb up a wall and out an open window. That was the last I saw of it. Immediately after, I packed up my things, got into my car, and floored at home.

It's been hours since. I'm sitting here now, still an absolute disbelief at the events that just transpired. I don't even want to begin to think about what the hell that thing was. I tried contacting the people who had sent me after it in the first place, but they were giving me the silent treatment. Of course. But there was something rather interesting that I saw on the news. It was a report about a murder that took place in an abandoned factory, the same one I was

just in. Here's the kicker though. The person that I saw get splattered against the wall was actually a wanted enforcer for a local criminal gang. In fact, only a few days ago, another person had been murdered in a neighboring town. They searched his place and found staggering evidence that he was a contract killer, just like me. But this wasn't even the end of it.

Five hit men and criminal enforcers had been murdered this month alone. All in the same state where I was. The authorities were suspecting that these had to be linked. I do recall hearing about them in some dark web circles a few weeks ago, but I didn't think anything of it. I just thought that they must have been incompetent. I also watched a police press conference where some journalists asked if this might be some rogue vigilante on the loose."

No. The officer responded. The manner in which these men are getting killed indicates the work of an absolute unhinged psychopath. That thing is still alive. And if it comes after me again, I don't think I'm gonna get so lucky. Maybe I'll just hire somebody else to try and kill it.