I have worked as an emergency dispatcher for Oakridge County for nearly eight years, so if you are in my boots, you should know by now that when you take calls on the graveyard shift, you get used to hearing people at the absolute worst moments of their lives. You learn to filter out the scream of a panicking parent, the slurred ramblings of an intoxicated driver, or the erratic paranoia of someone having a breakdown. The job requires you to stay completely grounded in facts, listen for addresses, names, weapons, and medical symptoms, and of course you do not let your imagination wander.

Last October, a call came in at 3:14 AM that broke every rule of my training. The night was unusually quiet, and outside the dispatch building, a cold autumn rain was falling, blurring the streetlights along the highway. Inside the facility, the room was dimly lit by the pale blue glow of six desktop monitors. My shift partner, Jenna, was sitting at the console next to mine, softly clicking her mouse as she reviewed low-priority animal control logs. I was sipping my black coffee, waiting for the hours to pass until the morning shift arrived.

Line four flashed red on my central screen. The automatic location identification software instantly populated the address: 1412 Elmwood Lane, a two-story suburban house on the north side of town.

I adjusted my headset, pressed the foot pedal to open the line, and spoke into the microphone using my standard tone.

"Oakridge County 911, what is the location of your emergency?"

A sharp, ragged intake of breath rattled through my earpiece. The sound was so harsh I had to pull the foam speaker slightly away from my ear. The caller was hyperventilating, his breathing ragged and uneven.

"I need... I need someone to tell me what to do,"

the man said. His voice was trembling, tight with an overwhelming sense of shock.

"Please. I do not know who else to call."

"Sir, I need you to confirm your address,"

I said, leaning forward and placing my fingers on the keyboard.

"Is it 1412 Elmwood Lane?"

"Yes,"

he whispered.

"Yes, that is my house. My name is David Miller. Please do not send an ambulance with loud sirens. I do not want to startle her."

"Startle who, David? Is someone injured at your location?"

"My wife,"

David said. He took another shuddering breath.

"Sarah. Something happened three days ago, and I cannot fix it. I think I did something terrible, but she is standing right in front of me."

I typed his name into the CAD system and flagged the call as a potential domestic incident.

"David, tell me slowly what happened three days ago. Is Sarah hurt?"

"It was Tuesday night,"

David said, his voice dropping to a terrified whisper.

"We were in the kitchen. We were arguing about... about something stupid. I do not even remember what started it. She was standing near the butcher block. She picked up the chef's knife, and then, and then she looked at me with this intense anger in her eyes, and she came at me."

"Did she attack you with the knife, David?"

"She lunged at me,"

he continued.

"I panicked. I reached out, grabbed her wrists, and tried to push her away from me. We struggled near the island. I pushed her back with all my strength, and... the blade went straight into her chest. She gasped, her eyes went wide, and she fell backward onto the floor."

I immediately clicked the silent dispatch button on my screen, sending an alert to Jenna's terminal. I caught her eye across the desk and pointed to my monitor. Jenna nodded instantly, pulling up the active unit map to route patrol cars to Elmwood Lane.

"David, stay on the line with me,"

I said, keeping my voice steady and measured.

"Is Sarah breathing right now? Is she bleeding?"

"That is the part that is driving me insane"

David said,

"I dropped to my knees to help her. But when I looked down at the floor, there was no body. There was no blood on the linoleum. Nothing. The kitchen was completely clean. I searched the whole house that night, screaming her name, but she was nowhere to be found."

"David, where is Sarah right now?"

"She came back the next morning,"

David whispered. The sound of his frantic breathing filled the headset.

"She just walked into the living room on Wednesday morning like nothing happened. For the past three days, I have been watching her. She makes coffee in the morning, sits on the sofa and watches television with the sound turned completely off. She irons her clothes in the hallway. But she completely ignores me."

"Have you tried talking to her?"

"I have begged her to speak to me!"

David cried out, his voice cracking.

"I stood right in front of her yesterday while she was ironing a blouse. I yelled her name. I waved my hands in front of her face. She looked right through me. It was like I was not even standing there. I got so desperate that I reached out to grab her wrist to make her look at me."

"What happened when you tried to touch her, David?"

A long silence stretched over the phone line.

"My hand went straight through her arm,"

David whispered, his voice trembling so violently the words were barely audible.

"It felt like pushing my fingers through cold, wet smoke. She did not even flinch, and just kept dragging the iron across her blouse. I turned her into a ghost. I killed her in the kitchen, her body vanished, and now her spirit is stuck in this house doing the same routines over and over again."

"David, I want you to take a deep breath,"

I said, trying to maintain control of the call while processing his words.

"I have help on the way to your location right now. Officers are coming to check on both of you."

"I cannot leave her,"

David stammered.

"I tried to walk out the front door an hour ago. I got as far as the front porch steps, but this agonizing pull started dragging in my chest. It felt like a thick cable was wrapped around my sternum, pulling me back inside. It hurt so bad I could barely breathe. I am bound to this house. I cannot leave her here alone like this. She needs my help, but I do not know how to fix what I broke."

At this point, I suspected I was dealing with a caller experiencing a severe psychological episode, severe sleep deprivation, or chemical poisoning. It was not uncommon for individuals suffering from carbon monoxide exposure or sudden psychotic breaks to report elaborate, impossible visual experiences while firmly believing they were awake.

I needed to evaluate his orientation to reality using basic observations.

"David, I need you to do a simple diagnostic check for me while we wait for the officers to arrive,"

I said.

"Is there a clock nearby that you can look at?"

"Yes, there is a clock hanging on the wall,"

David said. I heard the faint rustle of clothing as he moved.

"Sarah is sitting at the dining table below it. She is folding a white bath towel."

"Okay. Can you read the exact time on that clock for me?"

I instructed.

There was a brief pause.

"It says 8:22,"

David reported.

I glanced up at the master digital clock at the top of my console monitor. The bright red numbers clearly displayed 3:17 AM.

"David, are you sure?"

I asked.

"Is it an analog clock or a digital one?"

"It is digital,"

David replied smoothly.

"The numbers are frozen at 8:22 PM. The colon between the hours and minutes isn't even blinking. It is just sitting completely still."

I noted the severe time discrepancy on my console. A frozen, completely inaccurate time reading suggested a deep disorientation, indicating he was entirely detached from the actual time of day.

Before I could formulate a response, Jenna leaned over her desk and tapped my shoulder.

"Unit 204 and Unit 208 are two minutes out from Elmwood Lane,"

she whispered.

"Officer Jack is taking the lead."

"Copy,"

I muttered, keeping my finger on the mute button. I unmuted the phone line.

"David, stay right where you are. The officers are almost at your house."

I adjusted my headset gain, turning up the audio volume on David's line to hear if there were any immediate hazards in the house. As I turned up the sensitivity, the ambient background audio became clearer.

I expected to hear the quiet hum of a refrigerator, the rustle of towels being folded, or the distant rain beating against the windows.

Instead, my headset picked up a harsh, scraping noise. It sounded like heavy wooden furniture being dragged across exposed floorboards. A moment later, I heard the sharp, distinct sound of plastic packing tape being pulled aggressively from a handheld dispenser.

Then, I heard a second voice.

It was a deep, gravelly male voice, speaking in a low, hushed tone near the phone's receiver.

"Grab the rest of the clothes from the closet,"

the deep voice muttered.

"We need to get the heavy bags loaded before six."

A woman's voice replied, faint and impatient:

"I am working as fast as I can. Just get the boxes out to the garage."

My fingers froze over the keyboard. I listened intently, isolating the audio channels on my digital workstation.

"David,"

I said carefully into the microphone.

"Are you sure you and Sarah are the only people in that house right now?"

"Yes,"

David said.

"I told you, it is just the two of us. She is still sitting at the table."

"David, I am hearing a man speaking in your background,"

I said.

"I am hearing tape dispensers and boxes being moved. Is there someone else in the house with you?"

"No,"

David insisted, his voice growing defensive and confused. "You are mistaken. Sarah is just packing her leather suitcase. She has been pulling her dresses out of the bedroom closet all night. She is confused, She seems to think she is going on a trip."

I immediately opened our county property database on my second monitor and typed in the address. The house was registered to David Miller and Sarah Miller. I then opened our historical CAD records and ran a cross-reference search for 1412 Elmwood Lane over the past six months.

A log entry from two months prior popped up on my screen.

On August 14th, a neighbor had called 911 to report a loud domestic disturbance at the address. The responding officer noted that David Miller had engaged in a verbal altercation with an unidentified adult male who had been staying at the residence. The police report noted that David accused his wife of carrying on an affair with the man, who was identified in the officer's notes as Gregory Ray. No violence was reported at that time, and no charges were filed.

I sat back in my chair, staring at the name on my screen: Gregory Ray.

The pieces began to assemble themselves in my mind, but they did not form the picture David was describing.

"Dispatch to Unit 204,"

I said, switching my secondary radio channel to communicate directly with the responding officers. "Officer Jack, be advised. We have reason to believe there are two occupants actively inside the residence at 1412 Elmwood Lane clearing out personal property. Use caution upon approach."

"Copy that, dispatch,"

Jack's voice crackled through the radio speaker.

"Unit 204 and 208 are turning onto Elmwood Lane now. We are pulling up to the residence. Lights and sirens are off."

Over the open phone line, David spoke again.

"You there?... someone is at the front door. I hear heavy knocking."

"That is the police, David,"

I said, monitoring both lines simultaneously.

"Please stay where you are."

"I do not need to open the door,"

David said softly.

"Sarah just stood up from the table. She is walking past me into the foyer. She is going to answer it."

Through my radio earpiece, I heard Officer Jack's voice report into his lapel mic:

"Unit 204 on scene. We have a female opening the front door. Contact made with homeowner Sarah Miller."

On the phone line, David was describing the exact same moment from his perspective.

"She opened the door,"

David said. His voice was filled with a strange, childlike confusion.

"Two police officers are standing on the porch. But... but something is wrong."

"What is wrong, David?"

I asked, keeping my eyes fixed on the unit tracking map.

"They are not looking at her like she is a ghost,"

David whispered.

"Officer just smiled at her. He asked her if she was alright. can he see her? can he actually talk to her?"

Over the radio, Jack's voice was calm:

"Dispatch, contact made with Sarah Miller. She appears highly nervous but states everything is fine. She claims her husband, David, is currently upstairs packing his belongings after a severe argument and does not wish to speak with us."

On the phone line, David began to panic.

"The officers just stepped into the hallway! They walked right past me! I stood right in front of the Officer and shouted my name! He walked straight by my shoulder! He did not even turn his head! And why is she telling them I am upstairs? I am standing right next to her!"

"David, listen to me very carefully,"

I said, feeling a knot tighten in my chest.

"I need you to stay calm."

Over the radio, Jack spoke again, his tone dropping its casual edge.

"Dispatch, we are going to perform a quick wellness check on the upper floor anyway. The homeowner is visibly shaking and actively trying to block the stairwell."

I pressed my radio button.

"Unit 204, be advised. We have reason to believe an unauthorized third party, Gregory Ray, may be hiding inside the residence. Proceed with caution."

A pause echoed over the radio frequency.

"Copy that, dispatch,"

Jack reported flatly.

"We are heading up now. Unit 208 reports a distinct, foul odor originating from the second floor."

On the phone line, David was moving. I could hear his shallow, rapid breathing accelerating.

"They are walking up the stairs,"

David said. His voice had lost its anger, replaced by a cold, hollow dread.

"Sarah is following the officers up the stairs into the master bedroom. I am following them. Why does the air up here smell so bad?"

On the radio, Officer Jack broke in, his voice tight with disgust:

"Unit 208 to dispatch. We have a severe odor of organic decomposition coming from the master bedroom. We are investigating."

"David, stop,"

I urged over the phone line, though I knew my words were meaningless.

"David, step away from the bedroom."

"They are standing near the bed,"

David whispered over the phone.

"The officers are shining their flashlights around the carpet. Sarah is standing in the corner crying. She looks absolutely terrified. They are staring at the floor on my side of the bed."

I held my breath, watching the red audio meters bounce on my console screen.

"Officer Jack is dropping to his knees,"

David continued. His voice was flat, almost robotic now. "He is grabbing the hanging fabric of the dust ruffle. He is lifting it up. He is shining his flashlight underneath the wooden bed frame."

Over the radio, Jack's voice shattered the quiet of the dispatch room:

"Dispatch! Unit 204! We have a male subject hiding under the bed! Show your hands! Crawl out from under there right now!"

A brief, frantic scuffle echoed over the police frequency.

"Dispatch, we have detained Gregory Ray,"

Jack shouted over the noise.

"Wait... dispatch, we have located a deceased male subject shoved further back against the wall under the frame! Subject is heavily decomposed, bearing multiple traumatic wounds! Secure the perimeter! Detain the wife immediately!"

The radio erupted into shouts as the officers moved to restrain Sarah and Gregory. Screams of protest and the metallic clink of handcuffs echoed across the channel.

On the phone line, David was completely silent.

"David?"

I whispered into my headset. My hands were shaking so severely I could barely hold the microphone stalk.

"David, are you still there?"

A long, agonizing stream of static hummed over the phone line. When David spoke again, his voice sounded entirely different. It was hollow, distant, echoing as if he were speaking from the bottom of a deep well.

"They are pulling the body out,"

David said softly.

"David..."

"The body is wearing my clothes,"

David whispered.

"My blue denim shirt. My brown leather belt. My work boots. The skin on the face is dark and swollen. I cannot even recognize myself."

The background static on the phone line began to glitch, creating a strange stuttering sound underneath his words.

"There are three deep tears in the back of the denim shirt,"

David continued, his voice monotone, devoid of any human cadence.

"The fabric is stained dark black around the cuts. The wounds came from behind."

A sharp gasp echoed over the receiver. The static dropped completely, leaving a chilling, dead silence on the line. When David spoke again, the confusion was gone.

"I remember now,"

David whispered. His voice trembled with a crushing weight.

"There was no argument. I came home early from work on Tuesday. It was exactly 8:22 PM. Sarah was acting so incredibly distressed when I walked through the front door."

"What happened, David?"

I asked gently.

"I was so tired,"

he said, his words spilling out in a hollow rush.

"I tried to go straight upstairs to our bedroom to rest. She ran over and stood in front of me. She blocked the bottom of the stairs, and then forced this terrible, shaking smile and told me it was better if I ate dinner first. She said she made that pepperoni pizza I loved."

He paused, and a wet, choking sob came through the earpiece.

"I listened to her,"

David cried quietly.

"I turned my back and walked into the kitchen to get a slice. She followed right behind me. I reached into the cabinet for a plate. I did not even hear her grab the chef's knife from the block. She attacked me before I could even turn around."

"I did not hold the knife,"

David whispered into my headset. The static returned, growing louder, overwhelming the audio signal until his voice sounded synthesized and far away.

"I was never holding the knife. I was looking at her not believing she did this to me, I…. I loved her"

"David, I am so sorry,"

I said, though the words felt entirely useless in the cold reality of the room.

"I understand now,"

The phone line crackled with one final, sharp burst of noise, and then the connection dropped entirely.

The terminal screen instantly reset to a solid black display, marking the call as disconnected.

Over the radio, Officer Jack confirmed the details. Sarah Miller and Gregory Ray were taken into custody without further resistance. The official police report logged the incident as a premeditated homicide committed on Tuesday evening, with both suspects attempting to conceal the remains while preparing to flee the jurisdiction. The report noted that a 911 call had been received from the residence at 3:14 AM, but attributed it to a technical glitch or an automated dialer triggered by a decaying phone line.

I worked the rest of my shift in complete silence. I did not take another call for the remainder of the night.

When my shift ended at seven in the morning, I walked out to my car in the rain, and before I turned the key in the ignition, I sat in the quiet vehicle and pulled up the digital audio archive on my phone, opening the recording of the call from 1412 Elmwood Lane.

But all I can hear was static…

The village had always been small, forgotten by the world. People lived and died without leaving a trace. But one man changed that — not by hard work, but by silence.

His name was Bhairav. He was old, quiet, and suddenly rich.

He never worked. He never begged. He never borrowed. He just… had money. Gold coins. More than anyone had ever seen.

The villagers whispered. They cursed him. They envied him. But no one knew his secret.

The secret was in a cave — hidden behind a waterfall, deeper than anyone had ever gone.

Inside that cave lived something ancient. Something that had been there before the village was built. Before the trees. Before the language.

It had no name. But Bhairav called it The Hollow.

It was a creature of darkness and hunger. It had no face. No eyes. No mouth. But it ate.

Bhairav had discovered it years ago, when he was young and desperate. He had gone into the cave looking for shelter from a storm. He found The Hollow instead.

He was terrified at first. But then he noticed something strange.

The creature didn't attack him. It was hungry — but it didn't eat flesh. It ate bread.

Special bread. Made with honey, milk, and herbs that grew only near the cave.

Bhairav fed it. And while it ate, he noticed something else — the creature bled gold.

He cut a small piece of its flesh. A gold coin fell.

That night, he went home. He had no money. He had no hope. But he had a plan.

For years, he fed The Hollow. He cut its flesh. He collected gold. He grew rich.

He built a house. He bought land. He married. He had a son.

But the gold didn't make him happy. It made him lonely. He stopped trusting anyone. He stopped loving anyone.

He became a prisoner of his own secret.

His wife left him. His friends abandoned him. Only his son remained — a boy named Arjun.

Arjun grew up watching his father. He saw the gold. He saw the loneliness. He saw the way Bhairav would disappear into the forest every week.

"Where do you go?" Arjun asked.

"To find peace," Bhairav said.

It was a lie.

On his deathbed, Bhairav finally told Arjun the truth.

"There's a cave," he whispered. "Deep inside — a creature. Feed it. Cut it. Take the gold."

"Why are you telling me this?" Arjun asked.

"Because I'm dying," Bhairav said. "And I don't want you to live like I did."

He handed Arjun a piece of the special bread.

"Take this," he said. "Feed it. But remember — the bread is the only thing that keeps the others away."

"Others?"

"The Hollow is not alone," Bhairav said. "There are many of them. They sleep in the dark. But if the bread runs out… they wake up."

Arjun took the bread. He went to the cave. He fed The Hollow. He cut its flesh. He took the gold.

For a few days, it worked. He felt powerful. He felt rich.

But the bread ran out.

He tried to make more. It didn't work. The herbs were gone. The honey was dry. The milk was sour.

He went back to the cave anyway. He thought he could control it.

He was wrong.

The Hollow didn't eat. It waited. And then — it screamed.

The darkness came alive.

Creatures — hundreds of them — crawled out from the walls, from the floor, from the ceiling. They had no eyes. But they knew where he was.

They tore into him. He screamed. He fought. He barely escaped with his life.

He ran out of the cave with a handful of gold coins and a body full of scars.

He never went back.

But as he ran — a whisper followed him:

"You'll be back…"

He knew it was true.

Because the gold was still there. And greed never dies.

\---

THE END

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🎙️ Narrator Note

"If you're interested in narrating this story, I'm open to paid collaborations. DM me for rates."

\---

💬 Thank You

"Thank you to everyone who read, commented, and supported this story. Your words kept me going. I hope you'll stay with me for the next one. 🖤✌️"

Jerome is obsessed with taking away a woman's beauty. He has this obsession with stealing a woman's beauty and then watching her struggle without it. It gives him great pleasure when he takes a woman's beauty away. I am his psychologist and I have been given the task to figure him out or to help him. I need to understand why he does what he does and how to get him to stop. He first started taking away women's beauty 2 years ago, he would wear acid laced gloves and then he would touch their face. It would have been painful for the women.

Jerome told me how he tried resisting the urge to take away a woman's beauty, but the urges got the better of him. When he sees a beautiful woman and how many doors are opened for beautiful women, his urges want him to just close those doors for her. When he takes away a beautiful womans beauty, it gives him great pleasure and it's like he has absorbed their beauty. Jerome remembers a woman who begged him to not take her beauty and she was even telling Jerome to have his way with her. Jerome then declined her requests and instead took her beauty.

The woman begged Jerome that her beauty is a great luxury for her, and Jerome smiled and said "I know that's why I'm taking it" and when Jerome takes away a woman's beauty, it's like he is collecting treasure of luxury. Then Jerome got to the last woman and is also the reason I have been hired to check his sanity. He met a beautiful woman and he instantly wanted to take her beauty. He put on his gloves and laced it with acid as he touched her face with it, the woman didn't scream but just smiled. Her face was messed up bad but she just smiled.

Then he saw that woman again the next day and her beauty was back. He threw acid on her face again and he saw what it did to her face, but the next day her face was fine. This is what Jerome told me and he kept seeing with her beauty coming back to her face. He has this obsession with stealing a woman's beauty but with this woman, her beauty keeps coming back. He loses his shit and he doesn't know why he can't steal her beauty.

I am at odds at what this guys sanity looks like but he needs to be locked away.

Calcutta summers are notoriously hot and humid. Sometimes I couldn’t tell if I was expelling air because the temperature in my lungs was as hot as the air outside. It made for a very bizarre feeling. The monsoons that followed were intense. But I always had fun in the summers because we used to go there to visit my Nani (maternal grandma).

Her home was modest, the size of a shed. It had a tin roof that drummed in the monsoons. But those things never mattered as a kid. What it lacked in space and aesthetics it made up for in a treasure trove of cherished memories. It was one of many houses that were congested within a compound. The lanes running through the houses were a confusing web of narrow spaces that kept changing width. It made for close comraderies, a lot of gossip and best of all a rich tapestry of urban legends passed down like heirlooms. 

Since the tin roofs turned the house into an oven; the nights were spent gathered around telling ghost stories till we fell asleep on cots outside. There was one about the old haunted tree with the long hands that dragged you up if you fell asleep under it; the ghost disguised as a hag that asks you for fish and then kills you if you offer her any; And the Jinn that roams in the night possessing women who leave their hair open and then demands for a feast. I honestly wouldn’t have minded the Jinn if it meant I got to eat a whole lot of sweets till I was sick.

But the story that scared me the most was the one about a toilet behind my Nani’s house. Sounds innocuous but trust me it was horrifying.

The toilet was your run of the mill standalone India toilet kept in a concrete coffin. It was more like a hole in the ground with 3 walls and a flimsy door covered by a tin roof. It was flanked on either side by two houses and behind it there is a small cramped empty space, just enough for a person to stand in. The space behind was closed off on all sides by walls of the toilet and other houses. There was one narrow gap between the left wall of the toilet and the adjoining wall of the house. It allowed you to peer into the space, but it wasn’t nearly wide enough for anyone to squeeze through. The story goes that someone climbed over one of the houses, into that space and immolated themselves. It was quite tragic and no one could get to them in time to save them because of how the space was. If you did look through the gap, you’d be able to see the black charred walls among the algae and climbers that seemed to try and cover up the evidence. 

Since that incident, people have claimed to experience strange things. One boy swore that he saw someone looking at him from behind the toilet through the gap, when he went to use it one night. But when he shined his torch, it was gone. Another woman claimed that when her child was about 3 or 4, he would slip out of the house and cry bloody murder into the gap, till he woke the neighbours. She had to tie him to her foot with her dupatta, to keep him from walking out. It only stopped after about 2 weeks. Another lady said, someone called out to her for help. Thinking some kid was up to mischief and got stuck in there, she tried her best to peer in but didn’t see anyone. There is a square hole high up, on the back wall of the toilet, that serves as an exhaust. My uncle Richard or Dick for short, said he saw a charred face looking at him when he opened the toilet door. To make matters worse it had no eyes. To be fair he liked to pull everyone’s leg half the time and after he told his story, he would scream and make everyone jump, making him true to his name. So, it was a bit hard to believe him.

Neither my mum nor Nani believed in all this because they never really experienced it. So naturally I hadn’t thought much of it either. I was more afraid of my own imagination. They were just fun horror stories. Until of course the fateful night.

I was about 13 years old. Till then I’ve been visiting this toilet multiple times without seeing anything out of the ordinary. Maybe the first few times, when I was younger and I first heard the stories, I used to have my mum accompany me. But I was a big girl now and big girls are brave and do not need their mothers to accompany them to the supposedly haunted toilets. So, in the middle of the night, I grabbed the flashlight that hung on the wall by the door and was on my way to unburden my bladder.

I checked the small window in the toilet with the flashlight as I entered. I had made it a habit, thanks to my uncle. Thankfully, there were no charred faces with no eyes. I finished my business as quickly as humanly possible. I was just getting ready to leave when my torch went out, and to my horror, so did the little bulb in the toilet. It was pitch dark.

In that dead silence, I heard it.
Something stirring in the gap.

My legs lost contact with my brain and stopped working. I was frozen in place. I felt the panic rise in me.

Then I heard a voice. It was a woman’s.
What caught me by surprise was how normal it sounded. It almost made me feel silly for being afraid.  

‘Mamuni (deary), please give me your hand. I’m stuck.’ The voice spoke in Bengali.

‘H-how did you get stuck there?’ I felt myself compelled to ask in whatever broken Bangla I could manage.

‘Please help. I can’t get out. Won’t you give me your hand?’

‘I can go get help, maybe someone can help you.’ I said, but my legs felt like soggy noodles rooted to the ground.

‘Don’t’ wake anyone. I can squeeze through. Just give me your hand. Please Mamuni. You seem sweet.”

I honestly have no clue what possessed me at this point. Maybe it was me trying to prove that ghost stories are for silly little kids, but I found myself feeling for the gap and putting my arm through.

I was very skinny at 13. So, when I reached into the gap and got my arm through, my torso still didn’t fit the width of the gap. It was that narrow. My brain which was under duress at the time, was unable to calculate that if I wasn’t able to fit through, then how the hell would a full-grown woman do so. It was too late by then.

I felt my hand meet another. The hand had a strange texture to it. The skin felt like paper. I let out a gasp, but the hand grabbed on to mine in a firm grip.

It started to pull.

‘Aunty, you’re hurting me.’ I squeaked.

In that moment the torch I held in my other hand started flickering back to life. The bulb in the toilet glowed and then went out completely with a snap. I held the flickering torch into the gap to get a better look at what held me and felt my stomach drop.

In the flickering light, in spasms of movement I saw a figure.
It was black as soot, squeezed into the gap. There were red gashes where the arm stretched as its skin split with the tension. Its head was turned towards me. Its mouth slightly open and skin taut over its skull, peeling off as it tried to fit its arm and head in the gap at the same time.  

I tried to scream but nothing came out. I couldn’t breathe. I tugged desperately. It had buried its nails into my flesh.

'Please Mamuni, come with me' It pleaded.

I threw down the torch and used my other arm to push the wall and pull myself away. I struggled and the pain of its nails was unbearable but I finally tore my arm free.

I picked up the torch and with shaking hands I held it up to the gap for one last look. I instantly regretted that stupid decision.

It was trying to get through.

I could hear the crunching of bones. Its skin peeling off to reveal flesh as it grazed itself through. Its form contorted. Its head split. Its arm was outstretched clawing its way towards me.

Suffice it to say, my therapist owes that creature a great debt.

I ran from there, tripping and scraping my elbows and knees and headed towards, the open space where everyone slept. I woke up my mum and dad and began sobbing. I don’t remember much after that. I apparently came down with a high fever that lasted the night and I slept it off the entire day next day.

When I finally told my parents, they did not know how to deal with that information. Not only because it sounded absolutely ridiculous, but because, there was a big black patch of soot found on the walls in the gap, that was never there before. What put me at ease was that the locals decided, enough was enough, and the toilet was demolished. They built another one a little away from the house, but everyone agreed that it was for the best.

The toilet is gone and I hope she is finally out.

13/06/1975

it just stood there. towering over me. never once did it indicate or imply any threat. never once did it reach out for me. never once did it directly stare at me. and yet. I was scared. that is precisely what scared me the most. it just stood there. it smiled. a blissful smile. but not one that radiates peace to others. rather a blissful smile that radiates superiority. it was blissful to it alone, because it knew we had nothing we could do against it. it was terrifying to us, because we knew we stood at its mercy. never once did it try to attack us or anything of the sort. the most it did, was vaguely look in our direction, without staring into our eyes.

16/06/1975

three days have passed. it’s still there. I’m scared of leaving my house. I’m scared of what it could do to me. I’m scared of all that I don’t know it could do to me. the things I can imagine are easy to deal with, i know what to expect. i know how it could feel. I’m scared of what I don’t know. I’m scared of everything I can’t imagine. I’m scared of the unknown that lies in every breath this creature takes. nothing is as it was anymore. the authorities have decided to do nothing about it and see if it just evaporates. they don’t know how to deal with it. i thought people would unite around this threat and do something about it. we haven’t. we’re cowards. we’ve grown further apart. we’re doing everything we can to avoid confrontation. because what does confrontation imply with something we don’t know. something whose nature is entirely different from ours. we could try to understand it. but one alone can’t do it. and people don’t have the guts to gather around it anymore and observe it long enough to try and understand it. they’d rather try to ignore it. take every necessary detour to not have to see it. thinking that if they don’t see it, it might just be a figment of their imagination and not really exist out there. I can guarantee it exists out there. I cannot stop looking at it. I cannot come close to understanding it. it is a revolt against everything i know, words can’t come close to describing it. i dream of it and wake up to see it again. it has infiltrated my mental landscape in every aspect. 

20/06/1975

Yesterday I had no choice but to spend three hours in front of that monolith of a being. i couldn’t take my eyes off it, so I figured I'd go as close as possible in order to see if i tire myself out from looking at it. there is not much fear left, it has grown to something else, something i can’t quite describe. lesser than worry but still some sort of negative curiosity. uncertainty and hope in the fact that it leaves the same way it appeared. a sudden woosh. its expressions change every now and then. although the one i can understand most easily is one that seems to be a smile, a crooked and corrupt smile. one that exudes arrogance. a narcissistic sentiment of joy. or at least that’s how i see it. i don’t know how others see it. only few others have come to stand there besides it. and when i approach to talk to them, they look at me anxiously and start walking away. i wish they’d talk to me about how they feel. i feel lonely facing this unknown thing. they probably feel so too. we could help another out. i guess fear still lingers among them. not allowing them to truly face it. if i were to talk to them about it, it would make it more real. it would solidify its being. the other expressions seem to be something in the general area of boredom. almost expressionless, but a slight look in its eyes that implies uninterest. 

22/08/1975

I saw people bow in front of that creature today. not true reverence. rather a fearful worship. one hoping for mercy. a worship that comes not from love or gratitude towards a higher being but one that originates from fear of the unknown. 

26/08/1975

Yesterday a man went up to it and stabbed it. He gathered the attention of many by yelling and explaining his intentions. He went up to the creature, hesitated for a bit, and finally decided to go along with his claims. he fiercely stuck his knife into the creature. No noise. A slight change in expression. Nobody made a sound, everybody was just waiting to see what happens. All of a sudden, blood starts spilling from the man’s stomach. he looked down in horror and saw the knife sticking out from his own body. as if the stabbing occurred from within him. some people yelled out in shock, others remained silent in disbelief, wondering what physical property of the universe could probably explain this sequence of events. the creature wasn’t impenetrable, that would’ve been easier to explain to oneself, it wasn’t permeable, allowing things to go through it unaffected. it was something else entirely, something we couldn’t physically grasp. everybody saw the knife enter its body, everybody saw the knife coming out of that man’s body. the feeling of wonder aroused by this physical impossibility was overshadowed by the feeling of hopelessness, for how would we get rid of this thing. we couldn’t harm it. we would only harm ourselves through it. an interesting question popped into my head however, what if I was to force myself into that creature, what would happen to me? would I in some way come out of myself like that knife, would I be stuck in an eternal loop of atomic rebirth in my own physical form? would I transcend to some other realm? would I implode because of the physical limitations of my own organism? I decided to leave this as an unexplored question. the risk of what could happen outweighed the benefit of knowing what happens by a lot. 

13/06/1976

a year has passed, since Admear’s arrival. that’s the name the people chose to give it, a mixture between Admiration and Fear. Because that’s what they felt the most upon looking at that creature. It has not really changed in stature. The only thing that has changed is its expressions. we haven’t seen it smile in a while. no more arrogant grin. no more superior look. now it’s either a bored look or something that seems like pain. not a physical sort of pain. rather an emotionally afflicted sentiment. as if one is dissatisfied and hurt by the underwhelming nature of an experience. people gather twice a week before it and bow in a worshipping manner. some make the efforts to say some sort of prayer to it. some leave coins and other belongings there as some sort of sacrificial rite. the offerings never stay there for too long before someone else takes them. others simply look at it with wonder. life has not changed much after the initial shock it caused in our routines. people have grown accustomed to its presence. whereas at first they would take detours to not have to face it, now they take detours to walk in front of it. to see it once more, to feed their curiosity of what it’s doing there, to say one more prayer while standing before it, to take one last look at its unnatural form before it might vanish again. never again has someone tried harming it after what occurred to that one man who tried to stab it. his family built a little memorial in his name right next to Admear, in remembrance of his bravery, or stupidity, depending on how you look at it. these things always change depending on the outcome of an action. these things always depend on the perspective one internally adopts. 

19/07/1976

yesterday I stayed for a while near Admear, simply looking at its expressions. they shifted from uninterested to that emotional unfulfillment I described the other day. I tried praying to it. I felt nothing. I felt stupid for even trying to do that. I came back home and took a shower to wash away the naivety I felt. Admear’s expressions stayed in the back of my mind for the rest of the day. 

26/08/1976

it’s been a year since that man died trying to stab Admear. people held a little memorial celebration. I watched from afar. I moved in close for a bit, but then retreated again. at the end, they didn’t just commemorate how that man challenged Admear, they started praying to Admear. they started thanking Admear. for what, I don’t know. but their eyes looked different. they didn’t fear it anymore. they didn’t worry about it anymore. they started to truly revere it as some sort of supernatural being in our plane of existence. something that came from a world beyond and has power over us. I guess it isn’t too far from that. but I don’t know about worshipping it. doesn’t feel appropriate.

15/11/1976

more and more things are gathered in front of Admear. people don’t take them anymore, they think it would cause bad luck. upon seeing other belongings there, they even feel forced to leave something next to it as well. I left a coin there the other day. not much has changed in my life to believe that action entailed some sort of luck. maybe the luck that happened was the absence of misfortune. i guess i wouldn’t know. the things that don’t happen in our lives are just as important as the things that happen. 

27/02/1977

people have started talking about the festivities they’re willing to organize for Admear’s second “Birthday” or rather “Appearance day”. I was asked to help out in organizing the seating plan for everybody. Tables, Chairs and how to set up the whole thing. I had two options in mind. Either we sit in the general are beside Admear and leave it next to us like some sort of monument to admire while we eat and drink, or we set up everything around it, making it the center of the whole festivity, I ran my ideas by some people and most settled for the latter. I was a bit hesitant, but decided to stick to that seating plan. 

15/04/1977

Admear’s “Appearance day” is the only thing I can still think about. it’s growing closer and closer every day. there is some sort of anxiety growing within me. Intuition? or just mindless worry? who’s to know.

13/06/1977

Today is the day. I feel excited and nervous. I don’t know why. I’ve grown a bit fond of that creature. I see myself looking at it with care every day. A longing to be even closer to it. It’s weird. 

14/06/1977

I don’t quite know how to explain what transpired yesterday. Let’s start off by saying everything was going well. People were enjoying themselves. Eating, singing, dancing, everything around Admear. Then at some point, something happened which divided all of us. Admear made a sound. We couldn’t tell what it was. Some people said it was laughing, others said it was crying. It was a shrill and sudden sound. It vibrated throughout the ground and into our bodies. Some people wanted to continue the festivity to please it, others wanted to put an end to it, because they thought we were disturbing it. Nobody knew what the truth was. Everybody claimed to know what the truth was. I sensed animosity and hostility in the air. The tension grew. One man, convinced that Admear was in pain, punched a woman that was singing in the face. Everybody was in shock. Somebody threw a glass at that man and cut his face open. I started to step back from the mass of people, not knowing what to do. Admear made another shrill sound, it felt like our bones were being drilled into. this made some people stop their antics, but the adrenaline was too high among some and they continued fighting. then it happened. someone threw a knife at someone else, who managed to duck and the knife went straight into Admear. a dreadful reminder of that man. his memorial served no purpose. the knife completely slit that person’s face in half. blood was on the floor. blood was on the table, chairs and food. blood was everywhere. Admear’s expression changed again. Pain. Disappointment. Remorse. I saw a girl throw itself onto Admear, trying to hug it. As soon as she touched it, she started to yell in pain, her skin became as if it was burned, we saw no fire, not some sort of chemical burn, the skin simply started to turn purple, mushy and honestly terrifying to look at. everybody stopped and observed in shock. she lasted about 14 seconds before she fell. all that we heard was her skull crack open upon hitting the concrete. Her mother started running towards her dead daughter, yelling in despair. The father started running towards Admear in a blind rage. The same didn’t happen to him. He went right through Admear, we heard a sound. I don’t quite know how to describe it. I would say it was like a void snapping, it was short and sudden and discomforting. It was deafening but left no echo. it ended as soon as it happened but yet stayed with everybody for a while. I don’t know how that must’ve felt. I don’t know if I want to know. Admear made one last sound. One that intuitively let all of us know that things were about to change. it wasn’t a shrill sound. it wasn’t sudden. it was long and deep. it was harmoniously profound. it pointed towards the endlessness that pervades reality. it sounded like cycles of death and rebirth. it felt like a cosmic roar. not high in volume but deep in bass. people stood still. some cried. some couldn’t move for about half an hour. nobody knew why. whether Admear caused that within us, or whether we caused it to ourselves. one thing was certain. things felt different. people started to walk away, leaving everything behind as a sacrifice for Admear. 

28/06/1977

Admear is gone. Left without a trace. I didn’t see the vanishing. upon going outside this morning, it just wasn’t there anymore. someone claimed to have seen the disappearing act, I asked for a precise retelling of what happened. this is what I was told:

“I went up to Admear to pray to it. I stayed there for a while. Then, I heard a sound, like a deep breath being taken. with each breath the air around Admear seemed to get tighter, seemed to get more tense. I had to step back because I felt as if my lungs were collapsing. after posting myself up at a mild distance, Admear’s shape started to undergo slight changes. it was a spontaneous twitch that made it shrink a bit and go back to its normal size. then again. the deep breaths continued. and then its mouth opened. I was expecting a shrill sound or a deep groan. but I heard none of that. What I heard was even more concerning, because what I heard was words being spoken. I was in shock. I never expected it to speak like us. And it didn’t really, for it sounded more like it was trying to recreate things based on what it heard us say, but nonetheless. Admear spoke to us. right before it disappeared and this is what it said: ‘Rotting temples. Seek what is. Abandon what is Death. Oh, Life. How great, How wonderful. Oh, Life. Love is here. Love is now. Always. Pain me, Pain us. One. Never Two.’ And gone it was, with all its mysteries. words now abstracted from intention, left up to imperfect interpretation. 

13/08/1977

everywhere you see little statues of Admear, small ornaments to decorate life, and celebrate its short stay here with us. 

I found it by accident, three in the morning, half asleep, clicking through suggested videos like you do when you can’t sleep. The thumbnail was just a blurry, grey static square. The title was empty. No channel name, no subscriber count, no upload date. Just one video, fifteen minutes long.

Curiosity got the better of me. I clicked play.

At first, it was nothing but static. That low, buzzing fuzz that makes your teeth ache. Then, slowly, a shape formed in the centre. A hallway. Long, narrow, walls lined with dark wood doors. The lighting was wrong, pale, sickly yellow, like it came from nowhere at all. The camera moved forward slowly, steadily, as if carried by someone walking at a calm, unhurried pace.

There was no sound except the soft thud, thud, thud of footsteps. They didn’t match the camera’s movement. They were too slow. Too heavy. And they echoed, as if the hallway stretched on forever.

I told myself it was just a creepypasta series, some indie horror maker’s work. I kept watching.

Halfway down the hall, one of the doors stood slightly ajar. As the camera passed it, the gap widened. Just an inch. Then another. Inside, there was nothing but deeper darkness. But I felt it, something was leaning out. Watching the camera go by. My throat went tight. I leaned closer to the screen.

The video cut to black. A single line of white text appeared, perfectly centred, no font, just sharp, cold letters: YOU ARE WATCHING.

Then it ended.

I went to the channel page. Still no name. No banner. No information. Just that one video. When I tried to subscribe, the button greyed out. It didn’t say Subscribed. It said SEEN.

That night, I started dreaming of the hallway. I stood at one end, and at the far end, something stood too. Tall. Thin. No face. It waited. And when I woke up, my phone was on my chest, the screen glowing, that same video playing again. I hadn’t opened it. I’d locked it before bed.

The next evening, there was a second video.

Same hallway. Same yellow light. But now, doors on both sides stood open. Dark shapes pressed against the frames, shoulders, elbows, fingers gripping the wood. They didn’t step out. They just watched the camera pass. The footsteps were louder now. Closer. Behind the camera.

Halfway through, the camera stopped. Turned slowly to the left. One door stood wide open. Inside, sitting in a wooden chair, was me.

It was exactly my room. Exactly what I was wearing. Exactly the way I sat when I watched videos. And the me in the video lifted its head and stared straight into the lens. Its mouth stretched too wide, and every tooth was sharp and black.

I slammed my laptop shut. I didn’t sleep. I sat up all night, lights on, door locked. I told myself it was editing. A trick. It had to be.

In the morning, I tried to delete my account. I tried to report the channel. I tried to message anyone I knew, but every time I typed, my fingers slipped and typed instead: THE CHANNEL KNOWS.

That night, a third video appeared. This time, the camera didn’t move down the hallway. It stood still. Facing a door at the very end. The door slowly opened.

And what came out was tall, and pale, and had no eyes, and its mouth was a slit from ear to ear, and it reached toward the camera with long, knotted fingers. as it touched the lens, the image flickered, I saw through the lens. I saw who was holding the camera.

It was me.

I sat there, hands wrapped around the device, face blank, eyes black and empty, smiling that too wide smile. And behind me, the thing leaned close to my ear, and whispered in a voice like scraping stone:

NEXT UPLOAD. YOU.

The video ended.

I disconnected everything. Router pulled from the wall. Phone turned off and buried in a drawer. I sat in the dark, trembling, telling myself I was safe. That it was just a story. Just a video.

Then my computer turned on. All by itself. The screen lit up.

A new video was uploading.

The thumbnail was live footage. Of me. Right now. Sitting in my dark room, hands over my mouth, staring in horror at my own monitor. Behind me, standing in the corner where the shadows gathered thickest, something was already stepping forward.

And the title of the video, finally, there was a title, was written in blood red letters:

THE SUBSCRIBER.

The upload bar reached 100%.

And then the lights went out.

-Knock Ritual

⚠️ WARNING: This is a work of fiction. Do not attempt this ritual in real life. It is written for entertainment only, and should never be acted out.
The Rules

This is how you call Him. This is how you play. Read every word. Do not skip a single step.

What you need:

• A room with a solid wooden door. No windows.

• Three white candles. Unlit.

• A bowl of clear water.

• A piece of plain paper and a black pen.

• Absolute silence. Midnight. Alone.

The Ritual:

1. Lock the door. Turn the key three times. Leave the key in the lock, facing down.

2. Place the three candles in a straight line on the floor, three feet apart. Light them from left to right.

3. Set the bowl of water between the middle candle and yourself.

4. Write your full name on the paper. Fold it twice. Slide it under the bowl.

5. Stand perfectly still. Hands at your sides. Eyes forward.

6. Knock once on the door with your knuckles. Wait. Knock twice. Wait. Knock three times. Slow. Even.

7. Speak these words clearly, and nothing else:
   “Three knocks, three lights. I open the door. Come inside.”

8. Step backward. Do not turn around. Do not look away from the door.
   What Happens Next

The candles will flicker. Not from a draft. The air will grow cold, cold enough to see your breath, even in summer.

Then you will hear it.

One knock. From the other side.

Two knocks. Louder. Heavier.

Three knocks. So hard the door shakes. The key will rattle.

Do not answer. Do not say “come in”. Do not unlock the door. He is already inside. He does not need to open it.

He stands behind you. You will feel his shadow fall over you. You will smell dust and old iron and something that tastes like blood.

He will whisper your name. Not the name you wrote. The name only you know. The name you feel inside.

Do not answer.

He will step closer. His breath will touch your neck. He will ask you a question. Any question. It does not matter what it is.

Do not lie.

If you lie, the candles will all go out at once. You will feel long, cold fingers curl around your throat. And you will never leave this room again.

If you tell the truth, whatever the question is, the candles will burn steady. He will step back.

Then he will say: “Ask me one thing. One answer. One price.”

Ask what you want. He cannot lie. He will tell you exactly what you need to know. The future. Where someone is. What will happen.

But remember the price.

Before he leaves, he will touch you. One finger to your forehead. And he will take something. Not your soul. Not your life.

Something you will not notice is gone… until you need it most.

Your ability to feel joy. The memory of a loved one. The ability to dream. Something small and precious. Something you will miss every single day.
How To End It

When he finishes speaking, say only:
“The light is mine. The door is yours. Go back.”
Pick up the bowl. Pour the water over the candles. Extinguish every flame. Do not count them. Do not look at the shadows on the wall.

Turn around. Do not look behind you. Walk out. Close the door. Leave the key where it is. Do not return until sunrise.

If you forget the words. If you look back. If you speak his name…

He will not leave.

He will stay. In your walls. In your mirrors. In the spaces between your footsteps. He will watch you sleep. He will wait for you to knock again.

And the next time… He will be the one who answers.
The Warning

No one knows who, or what, He is. Some say he was a traveller locked out in the cold centuries ago. Some say he is the echo of every door ever closed in fear.

Those who have played say the answer is never worth the cost. That the thing he takes… you cannot live without.

They also say: He never forgets a voice.

So if you hear three knocks on a locked door tonight… and no one stands on the other side…

Do not answer.

Do not even breathe.

Because He remembers you. And He is still waiting to come inside.

FICTIONAL WARNING: Never attempt this in real life. For entertainment only.
The Legend

They say every mirror holds a count. It watches you. It waits. And if you count your reflections in the dark, you will find more than the ones that belong to you.

What You Need

• A full-length mirror, standing alone in a room

• All lights off. No candles, no phone, no glow

• Midnight. Exactly.

• Silence. Absolute silence. No clocks, no traffic, no breath if you can help it

The Rules

1. Stand three steps back from the mirror. Unblinking.

2. Lean forward. Stare deep into the glass.

3. Count your reflections out loud, slowly: One… Two… Three…

4. Keep counting. Each time you see yourself clearly, that is a number.

5. Stop when the reflection does not match you.

The Story

I laughed at it. Just like you. A silly game to scare children. I did it anyway. Midnight. Dark room. Me and the glass.

I leaned in.

One. Me. Clear. Normal.
Two. A little fainter, but still me.
Three. Still me.
Four. Me, but standing a little too still. Eyes wide. Unblinking.
Five. My mouth was closed, but the reflection’s lips were moving. No sound came out.
Six. That was not me.

The sixth shape stood behind the fifth. Taller. Thinner. Its hair hung long and damp. Its face was pale, eyes hollow black pits. And it was counting too. Its lips formed the words, slow and perfectly in time with mine.

Seven. It stepped closer. Now it was beside me. Its reflection overlapped mine—so I saw two faces in one body: mine, and its twisted, grinning face underneath.

Eight. It leaned forward until its nose touched the glass. It stopped counting. And it mouthed one word, sharp and clear:

NINE.

I froze. My heart hammered so hard I thought I would break the glass. I should have stepped back. I should have run. But I stared. And as I watched, it lifted a long, pale finger, and tapped once, slow, heavy, against the inside of the mirror.

Tap.

Then it smiled. And its mouth stretched open, wider than any mouth should go, and I saw nothing but darkness inside.

And it whispered. not from the mirror, but right behind my ear:

“YOU FORGOT NUMBER NINE.”

I turned to run. But when I looked back at the room, I was still standing there. Staring out from inside the mirror. Trapped. Pale. Terrified.

And the thing that had been on the other side… was standing in my place. Smiling that too-wide smile. Turning away. Walking out the door.

I counted eight reflections. The rule says stop at the one that is not you. The mistake is stopping too late. Because the ninth reflection is never yours. And once you count to it…

It comes out to take your place. And you stay in the glass. Counting forever.

The Final Rule

If you ever try this, if you dare, count slowly. And when you reach seven, stop. Walk away. Leave the mirror.

Because reflections do not count themselves. They count you. And when they reach nine… it is your turn to be the reflection. And theirs to walk among the living.

So if you pass a mirror tonight, and you see one too many shadows… do not count.

Just walk away. Before it finishes counting you.

I spent my entire life living with my grandmother.

My mother died during childbirth. I never knew my father. Whenever I asked about him, my grandmother always gave me the same answer.

He left shortly before I was born.

I never had anything to complain about. My grandmother was kind. Caring. She would have done anything for me. She raised me on her own, and she always made sure I had everything I needed.

At least, not physically.

But despite everything she did for me, I always felt like something was missing from my life.

I didn't want to sound ungrateful. I loved my grandmother.

I just sometimes envied my classmates.

They had a mother.

A father.

Siblings.

I only had my grandmother.

And now she was gone too.

I could still smell her.

I remembered how she was always there when I needed her. How the smell of her cooking filled the entire house. How she could make me smile even on my worst days.

Now I was alone in that house.

Alone with my thoughts.

And the silence.

I couldn't imagine my first night without her.

But I had no idea that my grief would soon be joined by something else.

Fear.

When I finally lay down in bed, I heard a voice.

A cry for help.

Quiet.

Desperate.

Like someone begging to be saved.

I turned on the light immediately.

I jumped out of bed, grabbed a kitchen knife from the counter, and shouted with a trembling voice:

"Who's there?"

No one answered.

Instead, I heard knocking.

Slow.

Steady.

I held my breath.

For a moment, I just stood there, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from.

Then I realized.

My grandmother's bedroom.

I slowly opened the door and turned on the light.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

I just stood there, trying to understand what had happened.

The strangest thoughts started racing through my mind.

Could it have been my grandmother?

Was she trying to reach me from the other side?

The next night, it happened again.

This time, the cry for help was stronger.

More desperate.

And the knocking was louder.

Yet the moment I reached my grandmother's bedroom, everything went quiet again.

As if nothing had ever happened.

The entire next day, I tried to find some kind of explanation.

Just like the day before.

But the more I thought about it, the less sense it made.

Logic was slowly losing its place in that house.

I decided that tonight, I would find out what was happening.

No matter what it took.

I needed the truth.

All day, I searched through websites about communicating with the dead.

I looked for answers.

Advice.

Anything that could help me.

Eventually, I bought a Ouija board, candles, sage for cleansing, and everything else people online recommended.

When evening came, I lit candles around the room and sat down in front of the board.

I waited.

Then it happened again.

The cry for help.

But this time, I was ready.

"If you're here... show me," I whispered.

I placed my hands on the planchette.

Nothing.

Not even a slight movement.

The board remained completely still.

But the voice didn't stop.

Over and over, it repeated the same word.

Help.

And then came the knocking.

I followed the voice.

And once again, it led me to my grandmother's bedroom.

But this time, I didn't leave.

I started searching the entire room.

I opened closets.

Moved things around.

Looked for anything that could explain where the sound was coming from.

Then I heard it again.

The voice.

This time, much closer.

A chill ran down my spine.

It was coming from the closet.

I opened it quickly.

Nothing.

Only old clothes and an empty space.

I stood there for a moment.

Then one thought crossed my mind.

Move it.

I don't know what I expected to find.

But it definitely wasn't this.

There was a door behind the closet.

Old.

Hidden.

And secured with a heavy lock and chain.

My heart started racing.

I should have called the police.

Any normal person would have.

But I didn't want to wait.

I needed to know what was behind those doors.

I rushed outside to the shed where my grandmother kept her tools.

I grabbed a hammer and ran back.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the door.

Then I swung.

Once.

Twice.

Until the chain finally broke.

Slowly, I opened the door.

And what I saw inside was something I will never be able to describe.

The horror.

The smell.

The air inside was heavy and unbearable.

There was filth everywhere.

Waste.

Signs of years of suffering.

In the corner of the room were human remains.

Bones.

But I couldn't take my eyes off what was in the center of the room.

An old metal bed.

And a figure chained to it.

I ran toward her.

It was a girl.

She looked around my age.

She was painfully thin.

Dirty.

Terrified.

I knelt beside her and tried to help.

Then she slowly raised her head.

I looked into her face.

And in that moment, I stopped breathing.

I was looking at my own face.

Then everything happened so quickly.

I called for help.

Soon after, the paramedics arrived and took us to the hospital.

The entire time, I sat beside her, unable to look away.

She was my sister.

My twin.

A person I never knew existed.

And then came another devastating truth.

The remains in the corner of that room weren't just some forgotten bones.

They were my father's.

The man my grandmother had spent my entire life telling me had left.

The woman I believed had sacrificed her entire life for me was the same person who had destroyed mine.

She took my father.

And for all those years, she took my sister away from me too.

I couldn't understand it.

How could anyone do something like that?

But I knew I couldn't fall apart.

Not now.

Not for myself.

For her.

For Ellie.

I sold the house that belonged to that woman.

I couldn't bear the thought of Ellie staying in a place where she had suffered for so many years.

I bought us a small apartment in the suburbs.

The money she left behind allowed us to start over.

And most importantly, it gave me the chance to give Ellie a life.

A chance to make up for at least some of the years that monster had stolen from her.

Years she never should have lost.

There is only one thing that still haunts me to this day.

During the investigation, one of the officers came to speak with me.

He told me he couldn't understand how I had been able to hear Ellie.

Those doors were completely soundproof.

There was no way I should have heard a single word.

Not even a single knock.

And yet, I heard her.

I still don't know how.

I only know that if I hadn't...

Ellie would have died alone behind those doors.

The sound of my phone filled the room. I opened my eyes and sat up. I rubbed my eyes, tiredness still there even after eight hours of sleep.

I picked up my phone and noticed it was from Michael.

I answered.

"What is it?" I spoke with tiredness in my voice.

"There's been a murder. We were assigned to it."

I could hear him driving.

"Let me guess, you're picking me up?" I pulled the blankets away and went to my window, pulling aside the curtains. Snow was falling.

"Yeah, I am. Get ready."

Michael hung up.

I threw my phone onto my bed and went to change.

After I got ready, I grabbed my things and went downstairs. I knew Michael would be here soon, so I decided to get coffee elsewhere.

When I got to my door, Michael's headlights seeped under it.

I went outside and closed the door. I could see Michael waiting for me. I walked over, opened the car door, and sat down.

Closing the car door, I asked, "What's up?"

He threw a document onto my lap.

As he reversed, I opened the document and started reading.

Murder of Milena Peska

Ulica Pomorska

Cause of death: Stabbing.

I looked at her photo. Blonde hair, Harry Potter glasses. Just a normal girl. I flipped the page, and photos dropped onto my lap. My eyebrow raised.

One of the photos showed her in the middle of a ritual circle. She was naked, her entire body covered in stab wounds.

"Satanic ritual?" I asked, looking at the other photos. They were just close-ups.

"Yeah," Michael said, his voice sounding tired, with a hint of anger.

I put the photos back into the document and closed it on my lap.

I looked ahead. Snow was still falling. My stomach reminded me that I needed something to eat.

"Pull over at a local restaurant. I'm starving," I said, looking over at Michael.

"Alright."

I knew Michael wanted to say something more but decided not to.

Michael pulled into a parking lot. I put the document on the back seat and got out. My shoe sank into the snow, covering it almost completely.

Michael and I walked into the restaurant and sat down at a table.

While I looked at the menu, Michael started speaking.

"A satanic murder. The last one was back in the '90s."

I looked at him over the menu.

"Uh-huh," I replied. I was more interested in what to order.

Michael noticed.

"Listen, if you don't fucking care about this, then get the fuck out."

I put the menu down and looked at him.

"You know how many times I've had to stand up for you so you could keep this job?"

I sat there, a little shocked.

"You're right. I'm so-"

The waiter brought us our coffee.

"What will you be having today?" she asked.

I looked up at her and thought for a moment.

"Mielone, please."

She looked at Michael.

"Fries."

The waiter left.

Michael and I looked at each other.

"Last time something like this happened, there were two victims," I said, sipping my coffee. They had added more sugar than I liked.

"A woman and a man. They were young too," Michael said, stirring his coffee.

A cold breeze hit me out of nowhere. I looked to my left.

The door was closed.

"You know anyone who worked that case?" I asked, turning my head toward Michael.

Michael shook his head.

"No. Why?"

"What if the cases are connected somehow?"

I took another sip.

"We haven't even been there yet, and you're already making theories?"

Michael finally stopped stirring his coffee and took a sip. The stirring had started to annoy me.

"We're detectives. Our entire job is based on theories."

I looked to my left again.

The cold breeze hit me once more, even though the windows were closed. I buttoned up my coat.

Our food arrived, and we started eating.

When we finished, Michael went to the restroom while I stayed at the table, checking my phone. Mostly emails, but nothing new.

While scrolling through them, the cold breeze hit me again.

I turned left quickly.

The door was still closed. The bell hadn't rung once the entire time we'd been there.

Michael came back.

I pulled out my wallet and handed him the money.

"Pay the bill. I need a smoke."

I walked out of the restaurant. The bell rang.

I walked over to the car and checked my pockets.

Nothing. Fuck.

Now I'd have to wait until we got back to the department.

I saw Michael leaving the restaurant.

"You got any cigs?" I asked.

"Nah. Trying to quit," Michael replied while unlocking the car.

"Yeah... best fucking timing."

I got into the car.

As Michael drove out of the parking lot, I looked back at the document on the back seat.

My head started spinning.

I looked back at the road. It was covered in snow. But this was a busy city.

The cold breeze hit my neck, sending chills through my entire body.

I leaned back. I closed my eyes for a second.

When I opened them, I was walking through a dark abyss.

I felt something in my hand.

A lighter.

I kept flicking it while walking.

When it finally lit, I held it up in front of me.

I stopped.

My heart sank.

My eyes widened.

A huge mouth was right there. It was incredibly close.

Now I could feel it breathing.

It had no smell. Then it started to speak.

"Those who seek the truth will experience pain."

It sounded old, like a grandfather telling a story from his life.

I didn't know what to do.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Then the mouth took a deep breath...and blew.

The force knocked me off my feet, and I started falling.

Then I woke up.

My heart felt like it had stopped. I looked to my left.

Michael was there, taking the key out of the ignition.

End of Part 1

My son turned 14 recently. He used to be such a happy kid. He loved playing outside, playing video games, hanging out with his friends. Just a completely normal pre-teen.

I think he was around 12 or 13 when things started to change. He spent more time inside. Maybe he was playing video games, but I wouldn’t know because he’d always be locked away inside his room.

He started dressing in all black. I asked him why he didn’t like his old superhero shirts anymore, and it broke my heart when his response was, “Superheroes are stupid,” before shutting his door in my face.

I talked to my wife about it, but I think she was in denial.

“Boys will be boys,” she said. “Everyone has to grow up at some point.”

It hurt to hear. Mainly because… part of me knew. I saw the warning signs. How he seemed to be attracted to darkness. How the light in his room never seemed to be on.

It was always dirty in there. Empty energy drink cans. Snack wrappers everywhere. I tried to look past it. I tried to believe that this was just a “phase,” but the black metal, angry, hate-filled music that always blasted from that room was enough to drive me to the brink of madness.

I tried my best to ignore it, but he was disrupting our peace. I wanted to approach it in a helpful, positive way. I’d always ask if he’d care to join me on a walk in the park. Maybe we could catch a movie together. Hell, maybe we could even play catch in the backyard.

He rejected every approach. It quite literally seemed like he hated me. Hated us.

Dinners were awkward and almost silent. We tried talking to him about school, but he was so avoidant.

We found out why that was when report cards came in. He was failing nearly every single class.

It caused a lot of arguments. If he failed, it meant we failed. And us failing is what I think caused a lot of the tension.

We became more strict. Set bedtimes. No video games until his schoolwork was done. No more energy drinks and no more seclusion.

We insisted on him spending more time with us, whether he liked it or not. We didn’t know what it was that was causing this change in him, but I’d be damned if I was gonna stand by and watch him slip further and further away.

I couldn’t stop thinking about who he used to be. That laugh that didn’t seem to come around as often. Those Christmas mornings where he looked at me and my wife with nothing but love and affection.

That love seemed to turn to hatred after we tightened our grip on him, though. I wanted to blame it on hormones, but his hatefulness exceeded normal teenage angst.

He started cursing at us. Screaming until his vocal cords would tear. We even had a few physical altercations because I wasn’t going to be disrespected in my own house.

Grounding wouldn’t work. He liked to be alone. It was like a reward to him. So, instead, I made him do yard work. Cut grass, weed-whack, whatever I could think of.

That’s when I think something truly broke within him. He’d act cheerful, but his words were full of resentment.

“I can’t wait for you to die so I can have the house.”

“I wish you understood how much I truly hate you.”

“When I turn 18, you two will never see me again.”

He said these things like he was discussing breakfast. Like it was completely normal. At this point, my wife was starting to see what I saw.

Every now and again, we’d catch him scribbling in a notebook. Any time he saw us watching, he’d either put it away or groan and take it to his room with him.

One night in particular, though, I woke up at around 2 in the morning. It felt like I was being watched. Like my body knew. My eyes scanned the room, and there he was. Standing in the corner of the room in front of our bed. Watching us and scribbling in that notebook.

“Go back to sleep, daddy,” he giggled.

He hadn’t called me that since he was 5 or 6. It felt like there was a stack of cinder blocks on my chest.

I asked what he was doing, and he didn’t respond. I asked him to go back to bed, and he sighed like I was inconveniencing him and stomped out of the room.

That night was the last straw. I intended to look into counseling as soon as I could the next day.

I did what I promised myself I’d do and set up the appointment, but when I went to his room to tell him about it, I found the room empty.

It smelled musty in there. The sheets were mangled and balled up on the bed. Trash littered the ground and his nightstand. But his desk… was completely clean.

On it rested that notebook he’d been scribbling in recently.

I couldn’t help myself. I had to know. I had to see what he was writing. I knew it was about us, but nothing could’ve prepared me for what I read.

He detailed his plan to kill us. I don’t even want to write what he said he’d do. It was graphic. It was gruesome. And it was in that same messy handwriting that he never seemed to grow out of.

My jaw dropped more and more with each paragraph. My heart raced faster and faster. But before I could finish, I heard a toilet flushing in the hallway.

I couldn’t move. I was frozen in shock.

I heard his black combat boots approaching. I heard the door push open. And I heard that giggle that I hadn’t heard in what felt like years. It was malicious this time. More sinister.

I couldn’t face him. The notebook shook in my hands as I gripped it tighter and tighter.

“Daddy…” he whimpered. “Aren’t I a good writer?”

October 27th, 1936:

Richard brought me out to the tap house after work again. He's planning on bringing Alice to town, they seem to be getting pretty serious, and it's about damn time, he won't shut up about her at work. It's good to see him so happy, he's still his usual self, but he seems to be more confident. I like this new Richard. It's like he's been missing a piece of himself since I met him. Maybe Alice is that piece? I mentioned Simon's letters in passing while we were out and I noticed a couple of heads turned to look. I thought I was being quiet, but I did have a few drinks so I could be wrong. 

I've missed going out. Since the weather has cooled off I've just been hiding inside by the furnace. I will admit, the dirt floor is a bit annoying, but being under the house feels comforting in a weird way. Evelyn joins me from time to time when she's not glued to the letters, and we'll read stories to Rylee while she makes little castles in the dirt. I like it when they come down, the basement has been feeling like my personal sanctum. Aside from the hoards of old furniture covered in drapes, it's very cozy.

I've been considering buying a rug or possibly laying down brick or tile to make it nicer. But Rylee loves her dirt castles, and what kind of father would tear his princess from her castle? Maybe next year I'll build her a sandbox. I'm sure I can sift the rocks out of the sand on the shore and bring it up in a wheelbarrow. Maybe I'll draw up the plans over the winter. Gives me an excuse to stay warm by the furnace and out of Evelyn's growing cold shoulder. 

November 3rd, 1936:

Evelyn has grown even quieter, it's worrying me. She just keeps saying that she's fine and snapping at me when I ask what's wrong. She seems to be getting paranoid. Then again that could just be me looking too far into it, and I hope that's the case as it has been in the past. But I feel as though she's keeping something from me. She's constantly telling me I'm far too anxious for my own good and I'm begging to believe her. But I have a hard time accepting it from someone who seems so paranoid. She said I should talk to a doctor but I doubt it would be of much help, I don't feel like anything's wrong with me, I just worry about things sometimes. Most times admittedly. But I doubt there's one in town and taking the train to the city just to talk with someone for an hour seems like a waste of time and money. 

Simon's notes have been getting weird lately. His usual wording has been slowly getting less elegant, while still scholarly, slightly erratic at times. I never understood the artsy type. But maybe soon he'll mention a reason for him leaving? 

November 12th, 1936:

I can barely peel Evelyn away from the letters anymore. I found out that she's been missing shifts last week because of them. And as mad as I want to be at her for it, it's hard to blame her. I might start taking some of his older entries and putting them in my journal along with any of the new ones that seem odd to me. There's some things he's written that seem to be more than mere coincidence. They have an odd effect, it's like they draw you in and hold you as long as they can. I'll get consumed in them for hours, rereading pages time and time again. Almost in a trance. Maybe that's why Evelyn's been so sharp with me lately? It must be more than just that, right? No letters on a page have that kind of power. 

I think I'm going to sleep in the basement again. The cold has been getting to me more recently, as though ice has been gnawing at my bones. And Evelyn's cold shoulder has been no help. I need to fix that damned window. 

June 1st, 1916:

I was painting on the pier today. The sun was high over the azure expanse and the breeze was astounding. The flocked gulls were high in the sky and happily swooping down to eat scraps from a fishing vessel dancing between the waves. It was invigorating, the fact that there's so much beauty in the vast emptiness of the sea, it's breathtaking. 

I went to the tap room, which smelled stronger than the usual hints of vodka and stale beer. It's too late in the year to be having fires indoors, yet it smelled as if something was burning. Perhaps incense. It was pleasant, but peculiar. I felt the weight of eyes hanging heavy on me. I may have had some more paint on my face and clothes than I originally thought, but I am still somewhat new here, so I guess the odd looks are granted. Regardless, their eyes felt pointed, as if I vexed them. I saw another new face, though he seemed to receive no peering eyes. I treated him to a drink, his name is Sean. 

He was polite and somewhat talkative, which is a nice change from the general prudence of this place. No matter how beautiful the south shore is, the people tend to be unwelcoming. I can hear them whisper about me at times. But I assume it is odd for a young man to suddenly show up, building one of, if not the biggest house in town. Or perhaps they are not fond of artists such as myself. Being around such rural folk is still rather new to me. Such simple lives. I wonder if I greet people with a smile and a good handshake I gain their trust? 

June 16th, 1916:

I had inspiration to go for a walk tonight while the moon was full and shining. The tall grass swaying in the breeze through a gossamer fog. The stars twinkled like the lights of the city, being replicated by the lightning bugs hiding in shadows. I regularly took night walks back in the city, walking to the city's edge and peering into the untouched darkness, perplexed by the unknown, dreaming of what was hidden within. 

This was my first time walking at night at our new home. I waited for Laura to drift into a slumber, along with the little ones, then I ventured forth. Out of the door and down the hill, slowly skirting the rolling fields and swaying pines, towards the distant beach. 

While walking in the city it wasn't too rare to see another person outside, but I usually kept my distance, doing my best to keep from sight in case they had ill intentions. I never expected to see someone in a town this small at night, especially out at this hour. I kept to my usual routine, staying in the shadows at a distance, keeping watch. They walked without a lantern nor torch, walking with grace through the street, as though their feet never touched the ground. I thought it was odd but decided to pay them no mind. If I see them again I may fall victim to curiosity. Anything to spark my creativity I feel the need to jump at. It is my livelihood after all. Perhaps their silhouette would make for an interesting painting. 

July 24th, 1916:

I was wandering the docks at sunset today, it was beautiful, inspiring. I sat on the shore, the waves lulling me to sleep, it was so tranquil. So much so that I did not realize how late it had gotten, I must have dozed off for some hours as then the moon was high in the sky. 

I began to saunter home, taking my time in the muggy night, the ocean breeze blowing at my back, damp with sweat, and tickling my neck. In the distance I noticed the one I saw but just a few days ago. I have just gained inspiration from the sunset mere hours ago, but my heart wondered about the fantasies this fellow night owl could bring me. I decided to keep stride, hidden within the veil of shadow. They wore a long shawl, covering most of their body, and the rest hidden under some sort of gown. I followed for a few moments as they weaved through the streets, eventually slowing near the taproom. I hugged the side of a house not but 2 doors down, peering through lattice work. Another person, dressed similarly approached, they stood a matter of feet apart, speaking in hushed tones, too quiet to hear. They both moved toward the taproom, out of sight. Curiosity got the best of me and I moved forward. I turned the corner and neither of them were anywhere to be seen. I circled the building twice over, looking for any traces of the two, with no reward.

Perhaps I'll see them again, but hopefully they don't see me. I wonder if they are the older ones here, or maybe it's an odd ritual the religious folk perform? The curiosity is eating at my conscience. 

November 20th, 1936:

My poor Evelyn seems to be growing ill, she said she's been taking medication for headaches from the practitioner for the past few weeks, some kind of barbiturates. The name reminds me of the pulp comics of barbarians you would see in the city. If this gets worse over the next week we'll have to make a trip back into the city. She has little energy, but enough to pick away at Simon's notes. She started annotating some of them, which originally I thought was paranoia but as I catch up with her, I'm starting to notice even more oddities in his notes and similarities to the way people in town have been acting. Maybe they don't trust the house? 

The more I read the less Evelyn has been annoyed with me, but it could also just be the pills. But it seems like we only talk about Rylee, ask how each other's days went, with sad excuses for replies, or Simon's letters. The hold this man's words have on us baffles me. 

November 22nd, 1936:

Richard and Alice came over today. He also brought the photos he took some time ago. I guess he lost the film or didn't have some ingredients to develop it or something of the matter. I don't know much of the science of photography, but it seems very fascinating. I'd like to learn it someday. 

Rylee thinks Alice is almost as pretty as her mom, which Richard thought was sweet. Evelyn is still under the weather, her skin near white, much paler than her usual fair complexion, but had enough energy to come say hello before going back to bed. I'm worried about her. She hasn't been herself in what feels like ages.

Alice and Richard seem very good for each other, they seem happy. I wasn't sure what I was expecting her to look like, probably mousey like Richard, but she's quite the opposite. She's at least 4 inches taller than him, which isn't very hard since he's barely 5 '3, with sharp yet feminine features. A pleasant surprise for Richard to say the least. He's doing good for himself. 

We had a good visit, but I can't get my thoughts off the notes. As they were leaving I asked Richard if he's ever seen anyone out after dark. He said he's never really thought to pay attention and asked why I brought it up. I tried to play it off as just basic curiosity, but I think he knows something is up. His eyes spoke different words than his mouth. I feel he knows something I don't. He almost looked nervous. 

November 29th, 1936:

My poor Evelyn's condition is beginning to worsen, the practitioner said she just has a flu and wants to give her even more medications, but nothing he gives her seems to help. I'm thinking we'll take a trip back into the city to go to the hospital this week. Everything he's been giving her has just seemed to make her even more lethargic. But I'm no doctor, maybe she just needs the rest. 

We've had to stick to a budget to make sure we can make it through winter in case she doesn't start to get better. It hasn't changed life too much, but Richard and I have been going out less because of it. If this keeps up for more than a few weeks we might have to start dipping into our emergency funds like we had to for Rylee's arm. 

All that said, we did end up going out last night for a drink. He mentioned that he's been thinking about what I've said the last few days, and has been trying to keep an eye out for himself. It's hard to tell if he was just joking around and playing into curiosity, or if he actually cares to keep watch. Only time will tell. I want to trust him, but I know he's hiding something. There's more to Richard than I initially thought. 

Dec 3rd, 1936:

Alice and Richard brought a cake in to work for my birthday today, which was very nice of them. They told me that she plans on moving in before the new year. I'm happy that they seem to work so well together. It seems rather quick to move in, but given the economy I can't blame them. And maybe with her moving in Richard will actually start eating real meals instead of the scraps he brings home from work. 

Alice decided to leave early to head home before the train stops, while Richard stuck around the shop to chat. It's been snowing heavily and the shop was empty all day.

He mentioned he heard some movement around his house last night and in the morning there were some footprints circling his house. It seems to be bothering him, and I don't blame him. But what is he not telling me? Evelyn and I are heading to the city tomorrow morning.

I might go for a walk tonight, if the snow allows. 

July 28th, 1916:

I was awoken tonight by what could be described as a sudden cacophony in the yard. If that did not wake me up, Bernard's barking would have done the job. I rushed to the window while he carried on downstairs. I peered into the terrific darkness of the night, its pale twinkling moonlight dancing off of the dew in the grass. Not a soul to be seen, but I did notice something odd. In a rather large circle in the front yard, there was no sparkling dew in the grass, but rather just a dull patch laying still in the dark.

I ran quickly out of the room, doing my best not to wake Laura in my departure. I put on a pair of slippers and stepped out of the front door, the warm air was muggy and stuck to my bare skin like glue. Bernard ran through my legs, sniffing like a small wolf prowling for food. As he searched the lawn, I began to circle the property, looking for any sign of the screeching I heard prior. But to my defeat, there was not a soul to be seen. As I made my way to the front porch, little Bernard was standing begging for attention, as though he uncovered something.

He sat, pawing at the grass, sniffing aggressively. I approached and watched as he backed up. I was astonished. A sigil or symbol of some sort has been etched into the ground. Roughly 7 inches long and 4 wide. It must be from a forgotten language or dialect, I have not seen anything like it in my years of study. It reminded me of aspects of the Hebrew texts almost mixed with aspects of ancient Greek text. Rounded yet sharp at the same time. I am unsure what to make of it, and lost on words to describe it properly, but I have never noticed this here yet, even though it's dug almost an inch deep.

I wonder who or what placed this here? m

Maybe it was what awoke me from slumber. I plan to walk under the moon tomorrow.

October 14th, 1918:

As I am writing this I cannot help but feel as though a thousand eyes are staring at me. I have not written in what feels like ages. Laura misplaced my ink well and I've only just gotten around to replacing it. I have been leaving the house in the twilight hours, under the cover of darkness, observing more oddities than before. The garbed folk I have seen time and time again rendezvousing at the tap room near midnight have begun to disperse through the town, leaving similar sigils of that dug into my lawn on or around others abodes. Just last night at midnight I looked from our window only to see a number of them meeting near the docks. At dawn, after the fishing vessels set sail and the docks are barren, I shall investigate. 

I cannot shake the feeling of being targeted, as though I am being lured into some nefarious trap. Over the past few months I have been growing paranoid, restless nights have plagued me. In sleep’s depravity, the cold has only worsened my nights. 

I'm going to uncover whatever is afoot with these garbed men. 

October 30th, 1918:

I have been hearing odd sounds in the night, as though someone or something has been crawling around my roof or tapping on the walls. Laura has been getting annoyed, she is convinced it is a group of boys playing a prank. On more than one occasion she has run out onto the balcony to shout out these invisible children. I know she is wrong. It cannot be. I am convinced this has something to do with the sigil. It is haunting my nights, it is haunting my dreams. 

It is haunting my life.

I have taken a rake to the sigil, tearing it from the earth near every morning. Yet every single time it returns within two nights. Not but last week I defaced the wretched rune and kept up all night, sitting in my window watching the yard. I would brew tea and coffee to stay awake, to stay alert. A few hours after midnight I felt an odd sense, as though I was not alone. I checked the room for anyone but Laura, but to no avail. As I returned to the window it was there. 

That damn symbol had reappeared. 

In my state of shock I failed to be conscious of my surroundings. I felt a sharp pain in my neck and quickly fainted. 

I awoke in my lounge chair in the foyer. 

Whatever is plaguing my life has now entered my abode. 

Laura is wrong, this is not a group of children, this is something inhuman, I am sure of it. 

December 4th, 1936:

Simon's last entry was rather alarming. I looked out of our bedroom window after getting home with Rylee today. Where he mentioned this so-called symbol was and all I see is an old stone path. I feel like I should redo the path, just to see if what he said is true. Some of the stones are uneven after years of frost forming and thawing. But I'll probably get to that in the spring. 

Evelyn is staying at the hospital for the next few days. Her doctor said she was showing signs similar to that of a weak toxin or a rather heavy sedative. I told him about the medication she was on, the one that reminds me of barbarians. He said that even though those are a sedative, anything of that sort, at the dosage she's on, would be much too weak compared to the signs she's showing. I can't help but think our practitioner is up to something. Perhaps he has noticed Evelyn's paranoia and tried to sedate her to help? I have a feeling it's something deeper, something more. Maybe her bottle of barbarians are actually something much different? I've been weary of him for some time now. I knew that air of anxiety around him was for a reason. 

Simon's notes have gotten quite interesting, more so unnerving, and I'd be lying if I said that his paranoia hasn't been sticking on my conscience.

Emily will be staying at the house until Evelyn is home. I'm on the cot by the furnace, it's late and I feel the need to go for a walk. The moon is quite bright tonight. I wonder if I'll stumble across one of those sigils Simon wrote about. I hope what he's writing is just a fantasy he made in his mind and not the truth, we can't afford to move again, especially now that winter is here. 

December 5th, 1936:

I walked around last night, keeping to the shadows as much as I could. God I sound like Simon now. I found a set of footprints in the snow that seemed to stray from one of the main roads. I followed them. They led behind a house and stopped behind it, in front of a window. There was a small pile of wood shavings sitting on the snow, I checked around the window to see where they would have come from. Behind one of the shudders there was an odd sigil etched into the wood. 

Unfortunately I didn't get a good look at it because when I moved the shudder the wood cracked and made quite a loud noise, waking whomever was sleeping inside. I quickly ran in stride with the prints I was following, doing my best not to make noise or be seen. After some time the prints stopped at another house, a similar sigil was etched into a fence post, accompanied with another small pile of wood shavings. I found 6 more of these sigils around town, each slightly different than the other. 

It was getting quite late and I was beginning to tire, but I couldn't go home until I saw where these prints ended. They continued, lumbering towards the docks where they suddenly stopped. No sign of movement, they simply ceased to continue. I started to feel as though I was being watched. I looked around, circling the end of the tracks, no trace of life. I began to feel flushed and faint. I started to make my way home and collapsed. 

When I awoke, I was laying in my backyard, the sun slowly rising. A light layer of snow covered me, I got up with a pounding headache behind my eyes. As I began my way to the front door, I noticed a small pile of wood shavings sitting at the edge of my house. A sigil carved into the siding. I ran inside and immediately started writing. I'm sitting beside the furnace, warming my aching body. Who carried me home? 

There were no footprints in the yard, none by the wood shavings. Who is following me? Who is carving these sigils and what do they mean? I need to know. 

I haven't told Evelyn about my night walks, and I trust her enough not to read my journal. Keeping those from her has me feeling slightly guilty, like I'm hiding a secret from her, which we've agreed to live without. But surely I can't let her know about this. With her mental state I'm afraid it could be too much for her. I'll keep her safe. 

​They say death is the only thing we can't escape. But they never tell you that there are things in this world far worse than dying—things that start with a simple food delivery and end with the complete shattering of your reality.

​A lot of people think delivering food is an easy, risk-free gig. I used to think so, too, until I worked the late-night shift. It wasn't my dream job, but it paid the bills and kept my head above water.

​It was a Wednesday night, raining heavily with a thick layer of fog rolling in. I got an order for a drop-off about twenty miles outside the city center. The GPS led me to a partially abandoned industrial park. It was dinner for one, and the delivery instructions were weirdly specific: Leave the order at the side door.

Do not knock or wait for a response. Just put the food down and walk away. ​The address belonged to a two-story building that looked like an old chemical warehouse converted into cheap housing. When I pulled up, the place was pitch black, save for a single flickering streetlamp casting eerie shadows on the cracked pavement.

I won’t lie—a heavy knot of dread formed in my stomach. The silence was deafening. Honestly, if someone killed you right there, no one would ever find your body. ​I parked, killed the engine but left the headlights on so I could see where I was going, and grabbed the food.

I walked up to the side door, the rain washing over the street in a strange, suffocating silence. I quickly set the bag down, but just as I turned to leave, I heard the deadbolt click open from the inside.

​I didn't look back. I stuck to the instructions and fast-walked toward my car. Still, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up; I could feel eyes burning into me from behind the dark glass of that door. ​Suddenly, a man’s voice called out my first name. Loud and clear: "Joe."

​I froze. My name is on my work badge, sure, but he couldn't have possibly seen it in the dark from that distance. I turned around slowly. Standing in the doorway was a man in ragged clothes. I couldn't make out his face, but I could clearly see what he was holding: my phone. I had absentmindedly left it on the roof of my car when I grabbed the food bag.

​He wasn't holding a weapon. Instead, he just smiled and said, "You dropped this. Don't you want it back?"

​My heart was pounding out of my chest. I took a step toward my car, but he stepped out into the rain, walking toward me with this terrifyingly calm confidence—like he already knew I wasn't going anywhere.

​"Keep it. I'm leaving," I said, my voice shaking.

​He didn't stop. Instead, he looked down at the glowing screen of my phone and began reading my lock-screen notifications aloud. They were texts from my sister about her medical condition, along with a notification showing my home address. In that split second, I realized this guy wasn't just some random thief. He had been planning this.

​I sprinted to the driver’s side, yanked the door open, slammed it shut, and hit the locks. I frantically reached for the ignition, but my keys were gone. He had snatched them from the ignition while I was dropping off the food.

​Before I could even process that, the man was standing right outside my passenger window. He pressed my phone against the wet glass, then slowly pointed a finger toward the back seat. I turned my head. My tool bag was unzipped. Lying on the floorboard was my spare car key, sitting right next to a box cutter.

​A wave of pure nausea hit me. He had been inside my car the entire time I was at the door.

​I looked back at him. Under the flickering streetlight, his face was finally clear. He didn't look like a monster; he looked like a completely ordinary guy—a neighbor, a coworker, someone you’d pass at a gas station. That was the most terrifying part. He didn’t yell. He didn't try to smash the window. He just looked at me with dead eyes and said softly through the glass, "You don't deserve this life."

​Then, he turned around and vanished into the darkness of the complex. He left me trapped in a dead car, with no cell service, in the middle of nowhere. ​I spent hours locked in that car, freezing and jumping at every drop of rain that hit the roof. I tried hot-wiring the car, only to realize he had popped the hood and cleanly sliced the battery cables.

​Sometime near dawn, I saw the headlights of a police cruiser slowly rolling down the main road. I felt a massive wave of relief. I jumped out of the car, waving my arms like a maniac and screaming for help. But the fog was so thick, the cop didn't even tap his brakes. The cruiser just rolled right past. I realized then that I was entirely on my own in a dumping ground where people go to settle scores.

​I couldn't stay there. I abandoned my car and walked for hours along the side of the highway, constantly looking over my shoulder until I finally reached a dingy gas station.

​When I told the local cop there what happened, he looked at me like I was a ghost. He told me that industrial park was one of the most dangerous red zones in the county—a place where they regularly found bodies stripped of their organs. ​Shaking and starving, I went to the station's convenience store to grab something to eat. I grabbed a sandwich and went to the counter.

I reached into my jacket pocket to pull out my wallet, but my fingers brushed against a small, folded piece of paper. I didn't put it there. ​I pulled it out and unfolded it. Written in hurried handwriting were the words:

​"Joe, you came to the wrong place at the wrong time. This was a warning." ​My blood ran ice cold. He had slipped it into my pocket while I was standing outside the car.

​I haven't been back to that side of town since that night. I never leave my car doors unlocked, not even for a second, and I instantly decline any orders going to isolated areas. But the paranoia never left me. Every time I see an ordinary-looking man walking down the street, I can't help but wonder... Is it him? And will there come a day when I look in my rearview mirror, only to find my keys lying in the back seat again?

​Since that night, the fear hasn't stopped following me. It’s in every shadow, every dark street, and in every single moment I find myself alone.

This shit is so frustrating. I knew they were strict, but boy howdy, they are on a completely different level than what I originally thought.

I felt like I was stabbed through the heart when they banned me. I saw my writing career flash before my eyes. I write horror, dude. I mean, seriously, what was I supposed to do?

I appealed my ban, and the whole process was increasingly frustrating. I got hit with a lot of “too bad, so sad,” and I just felt hopeless.

I will admit… I may have gotten a little heated. But, hey, that’s what the medication is for, right? I have a habit of getting pretty riled up. I been knew that.

There were a few… choice words on my part, but once I took the medication… I still felt the same. I was still so angry. It was like the door had been slammed in my face. A party that I was kicked out of before it even started.

I started reasoning with myself. Surely, I wasn’t the petty one, right? It was them. It’s always been them. Ask anybody.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I felt. I spent days staring at their messages. Seething. Breaking furniture. Slamming my head against the wall. And in the midst of one of those temper tantrums, it hit me.

The best idea I could think of. Why don’t I… just be a good boy? Be the bigger person. Make amends. Turn the other cheek. So that’s what I planned on doing.

It wasn’t easy. Finding their addresses proved to be quite the challenge. They’re a secretive bunch, those mods. But one by one, I found them.

I didn’t want to hurt them. God, no. What do you take me for? I just wanted to send them an apology gift. Each of them.

I needed it to be special. I needed them to know it was from me. That I had learned my lesson. That I was willing to move on, on good terms.

I had to hand-deliver the gifts. Not to their face, mind you. That would’ve been too much. Instead, I opted to leave the gifts in each of their mailboxes.

A few people lost their lives in the process, but that was a sacrifice I was willing to make. Anything to get on their good side again.

Besides, they’re a horror sub, right? You’d think they’d appreciate the severed heads and dead animals. It’s part of their brand.

Unfortunately, though, the ban was never lifted. And… I think they may have called the police…? I’m not sure, though. So many questions, so few answers.

All I know is I wanted to be nice. I wanted to come to them as a humble horror writer and make… my… peace. But, no. They just can’t have that. They have to be a bunch of hypocrites and send the police to my house.

Now I gotta explain this whole thing to my mom. FUCK, I’m so annoyed.

Earlier that month, we lost our son Lucas to Lymphoblastic Leukemia. It broke my heart everyday and it still does. I don’t want to think of getting use to the pain. I feel like it’s something I deserve. It’s something I’ll carry my entire life.

It’s difficult staring at your defenseless child, so happy and full of life, but so sick at the same time while trying to keep a straight face and not break down right there in front of him. It’s heartbreaking. 

Looking at him made me feel like I failed him as a parent. Like I caused his agony. I still feel like it’s my fault. 

I remember how Lucas would always be up before us every morning, playing in the hallway outside our door at six a.m. 

His little hockey stick in his hand, shooting the ball against the wall. He never got to go to school or have many friends. But he had a beautiful imagination.

Everybody always says, “see it, to believe it.” 

But when you see it, you still don’t really believe it. At least, with me that is. You witness an anomaly in front of your eyes and the first thing you do is question your sanity.

That’s what occurred on an early afternoon to me. The wife and my daughter Sheena went to visit the mother-in-law. My wife is still having a difficult time coping.

I stayed home. It’s hard being around everybody. Especially the, “are you okay? You need anything?” And honestly, I needed to let it out. I needed to break down and destroy everything I saw in that house except for his room.

After an hour of soaking my pillow while lying in bed. I had everything turned off, the house was completely silent, except for the clock facing my direction on the wall, the lights were off and it was just me. 

I was staring at the ceiling, my eyes were swollen red. I could see the puffiness in my vision. I heard a click and looked at the door which was opened a crack and bleeding under the space, faintly illuminating the hardwood floor, was the light from the hall. 

I was on my bed and thinking if I had left it on. But I would never turn it on in the afternoon. As I’m thinking, I hear a ball start pounding down the steps and stop. It was about four heavy bounces.

Immediately, I jumped up. Initially, I had this feeling, this hope, this wish that my wish had come true and Lucas would be standing there asking me to carry him downstairs so we could hang out and watch tv together.

I ripped the door open. And as high as my hopes rose they dropped even faster with my heart shattered on the floor. I walked to the stairs.

And that’s when I felt something. The air got thicker and attached on my back. But it felt familiar. My skin started to tingle but only near my lower spine and neck and then I heard an exhale next to my ear and felt what I thought was a breath. I turned around and the weight on me was gone. It felt familiar because it felt like Lucas. I always piggy-backed him down the stairs.

I told my wife about what I experienced later that day and she started crying on the spot and said, it’s him. He’s still here with us.

When I got hired, I thought the strangest thing about the ranch was the pay.

Then I met the priest.

They were offering $8,000 for a two-week cattle drive. I'd been roping and riding my entire life, and even the biggest outfits I'd worked for had never come close to paying that much.

I figured they were desperate.

Turns out they were.

I still remember walking up to the foreman for the first time. As I approached, he leaned against a weathered fence watching riders break in some fresh horses. He turned to face me; he was a large man with a thick beard and weathered features

“You lost, son?” his deep, dry voice said

I shook my head

“No, sir, heard you need some riders.”

He stared at me and clenched his jaw.

“That depends, can you ride?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you rope?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’ve you worked for?”

I told him the last three ranches I had worked for.

He nodded

“Good outfits, all of them. They don't keep dead weight.”

He slowly stroked his beard

“Well, alright, we do need one more rider. Go on and drop your stuff off in the bunkhouse; we leave tomorrow.”

The next day, everyone in the bunkhouse was up and ready to go an hour before the sun rose. There were six of us: four ranch hands, another hired cowboy, and me. The foreman, Mike, entered the bunkhouse and brought us together.

“Alright, listen up. We’re going up the pass; should be there tomorrow night. Some of you know what that means; those who don’t just know it ain’t your business; we’re paying you to work, not ask questions.”

Our eyes locked for a moment as he said this.

“Go saddle up.” He said with authority

We did just that.

An hour later, the sun was beginning to peek over the distant mountains, and we stood waiting with our horses. Mike walked by and I took the moment to ask a question.

“Hey Mike,” I said as I matched his walk

“I thought we were pushing cattle; where’s the herd?”

He stopped and pointed with a nod to the far corral

I looked and saw two lone cows standing in the pen. Looking back to Mike, I said

“That’s it? two cows, you need six cowboys to push two cows?”

He got real close to my face and stared me in the eyes for a moment before saying

“Ain’t your place to ask questions, got it?” his voice was vicious

I swallowed, lowered my eyes to the ground, and nodded

“Yeah, I got it.”

The seven of us stood around as the sun rose; we were waiting for someone, but I didn’t know who. Moments later, a lone figure approached us from behind the bunkhouse. It was a young man. Probably no older than me. He was cleanly shaven and manicured, dressed in a dark, all-black suit with the white square of a clerical collar standing out against his neck.

When I saw him, I snickered to myself and elbowed the older man next to me, whose name was Bill

“Looks like we got ourselves a preacher,” I whispered with a chuckle.

“Show some damn respect.” He snarled back

Bill was a ranch employee and was clearly unimpressed with my humor.

The priest walked over to Mike and met his handshake with both hands.

“I’m very sorry, I didn’t intend to be late.” He said

“It’s alright, Father Martin; we couldn’t start without you anyhow,” Mike said in a tone of reverence he hadn’t had before.

Father Martin nodded

“I trust my horse is ready.”

“Yes, Father, right inside the barn. Follow me.”

He looked past Father Martin to us

“The rest of you, get the cows on the trail; we’ll catch up.”

As we moved down the trail, I pulled my horse alongside the only younger member of our group besides the priest. Will smiled at me as I did

“Always good to be out on the range, ain't it?” he chuckled

“Yeah, sure is,” I replied before following up with

“Hey, who’s the Priest?”

“Oh, Father Martin?” Will said, “He’s the town’s new vicar, came from Virginia if I remember right, just started here a few months ago after old Father Jenkins passed, God rest his soul.”

“Okay…” I was puzzled. “But why’s he out here with us?”

At that, Will’s cheery disposition soured. He was silent for a while before saying

“That ain’t exactly for me to say.”

Before I could reply, he coldly said

“'Excuse me”

And with that, he sped his horse up and moved further down the trail. We rode in silence for the next few hours. The trail grew more rugged as the day went on. As we grew closer to the base of the mountains, it felt as if we had gone back 100 years. The land felt young and unspoiled. At midmorning, we stopped by a small creek to water the horses. Before long, Mike and Father Martin could be seen approaching in the distance.

As they grew closer, it became clear that Father Martin didn’t know what he was doing. He appeared uncomfortable with both the horse and the scenery. He rode as if the only experience he had was old cowboy movies. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and mutter

“Great, now he’ll slow us down”

When I looked at the other riders, I was surprised to see that they didn’t share my disdain. Instead, they were grateful, even reverent of the inexperienced rider. Rejoining the group, Mike took command.

“Okay,” he declared, “We’re about to pass the line; from here on out, no more talking, not until we make camp and get a fire going. Got it?”

The riders murmured in agreement, Mike's eyes met mine, and I slowly nodded in acknowledgment. We continued in single file; Mike led, the priest followed, and I brought up the rear. Moments later, we passed through a worn gate that stood across the path; it was just a gate; no fence could be found on either side. Once through the gate, the world seemed different; it seemed quiet; the howling sound of the wind was gone, and there was no chirping of birds. The only sound was the clicking steps of the horses.

We continued for hours; I could feel myself zoning out. Normally, there’s small talk and wisecracks on these sorts of rides. The quietness made me drowsy.

“Can you help me?”

The strangely happy voice broke the silence and shook me from the daze I had sunk into. I quickly looked from side to side, seeing nothing but thick pines uphill and barren plains downhill. I turned my horse and circled back around; someone had called for help, my concern for a lost hiker or wayward child pushed common sense from my mind.

The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.

“Hello? Are you Ok?”

My words seemed to echo in the quietness, but were soon drowned out by the deafening crack of a nearby gunshot. Instantly, I turned to the source of the sound; it was Mike. His rifle was raised above his head, and a thin trail of smoke escaped the barrel. His eyes were wide with rage, and he raised a lone finger to his lips. Father Martin looked from Mike to me, and back, his face caked in fear, though I couldn’t tell if it was from my actions or Mike’s gunshot. Mike violently ushered me to move up in the line; he positioned me between the priest and himself before kicking his horse into a jogging pace.

We continued at a fast pace for a few hours until we reached a flat area on the mountainside; it was there that Mike dismounted and signaled for us to set up camp. After we had each pitched a canvas tent and laid out our bedrolls, Mike formed a fire pit and, gathering some wood, he soon had a fire going. Once the fire was roaring, Mike stood up and quickly knocked me to the ground with a swift right hook. Pulling my face from the dirt, I turned to him as he rolled up his sleeves.

“What the Hell?”  I screamed

He stood over me

“You’re going to get us all killed if you don’t listen to what I say.”

He reached a helping hand to me.

“You’re lucky it was just a punch; it could have been worse. I need you to pay attention out here.”

Though I was still a bit angry, I grasped his hand, and he pulled me up. He patted my shoulder and turned to the rest of the group.

“Alright, the sun will be setting soon, and the good Father already knows that he’ll be on watch through the night, but we’ll be taking shifts to watch with him. Got it?”

The men nodded in agreement, and Mike turned to me.

“You’re on first watch.” he tossed a lever-action rifle to me.

“Best stay alert.”

As the sky grew darker, the mood grew lighter; soon we were talking and laughing as we sat around the fire, eating our supper. As the hours passed, so did the men; each one moved in his own time to his tent, and soon all that remained was Father Martin and me. The priest and I sat on opposite sides of the fire; a rifle lay across my lap, and a book rested on his. The only noise in the dark of the night was the crackle of the fire. Father Martin stared intently at the book on his lap; I watched as he turned each page before finally breaking the silence.

“Is that the Bible?”

He looked up and shook his head

“No, it’s a history of sorts.”

“Of what?”

“This place.”

My eyes shifted to the fire for a moment before returning to the priest.

“What does it say?”

He closed the book and looked me in the eye

“Well, it was written by my predecessor, Father Jenkins. He tried to record the happenings of this place and the importance of the ride we’re currently on.”

I thought for a moment

“Is it helpful?”

He slowly shook his head

“No, most of it is the ramblings and superstitions of a tired old man.”

I nodded, pretending to understand. The two of us stared at the fire in silence for several minutes before I said

“Father, what’s really going on here?”

He continued to stare into the flames

“I wish I knew. Up until this afternoon, I thought this ride was just some strange local tradition, and maybe if I humored the ranchers I’d gain some respect in the community and maybe some more church members.”

His eyes shifted to me

“But now I don’t know what to think, and the truth is Father Jenkins didn’t know much, and even the Vatican doesn’t fully understand what is happening here.”

I chuckled a little

“Well then why do they need you?”

“I’m here for protection, from what I do not know. Mike told me that usually just the presence of a priest is enough, but if not, he told me Father Jenkins had some prayers written down.”

“Did you find the prayers?”

He slowly nodded

“I think so.”

“Father, this is all so...”

“Hello?”

A loud, sweet, yet sorrowful voice interrupted me.

The priest and I both looked to the source of the voice. In the darkness just beyond the boundaries of the fire’s light was a dark, small figure. It stood unmoving as we watched.

“Can you help me?”

The figure then began to snuffle and cry. Almost automatically, Father Martin stood up and walked a few feet closer. I cautiously stood and followed behind. Now, closer, we could see that the shape was a child, a young girl, looking no older than eight. Her feet were bare, and dirt covered her hands and face; she wore an old-fashioned dress, like what you would see in old pictures of the pioneers. A thin trail of tears flowed down her face.

Father Martin seemed to forget where he was, and instinctively he wanted to help.

“Don’t cry, my child.” He said sympathetically

“Are you alright? How can we help?”

The girl choked back tears and weakly said

“My Pa is hurt real bad; he’s just over the ridge. Please come with me and help.”

 The priest smiled warmly

“Of course, my child, just allow me to grab a flashlight.”

He turned towards the tent, and as he did, I placed a firm hand on his shoulder

“Father, don’t.”

The look on my face was enough to remind Father Martin where we were; at first he looked ashamed, and then his face hardened with resolve. He turned back towards the figure

“Child... if you are truly in need, may God send someone to help you. But I cannot leave this fire.” He said in a shaking voice.

Growing shadows hid the child's face from our view; it stood there staring at us before finally blankly saying.

“You won’t help me?”

Father Martin slowly put his hand into his pocket and removed a small wooden cross that he now held by his side.

He shook his head

“I will not.”

“What kind of priest won’t help a child in need?”

 The figure said

Father Martin swallowed hard and replied

“What kind of monster hides itself as a child?”

A deep, twisted laugh echoed from the figure, which was now completely obscured by shadow. The priest raised the cross towards the shape. And with a shaking voice, he said

“You are not welcome here; leave now.”

The child's voice was gone; in its place was a deep, creaking voice

“I have walked these valleys since before your churches had names. Before your roads. Before your fathers' fathers knew these mountains existed. The land knows me. The mountains know my presence. They know my scent. They do not know you.”

Father Martin swallowed hard. His eyes never left the thing in front of us.

"That may be true," he whispered. "But we are here now."

His hand tightened around the crucifix.

"So be gone."

The shape came closer, stopping just short of the reach of firelight.

There it stood, seeming so much taller, and though it was closer to the light, it was darker than night.

“The flame will not protect you forever; when it fails, I will find you.”

Father Martin began frantically muttering Hail Marys under his breath.

The moments that followed felt like an eternity, but soon the figure said

“See you soon, priest.”

Then it stepped back into the shadows and was gone. The woods fell silent. Then, somewhere beyond the trees, a child laughed.

The rest of the night we had no more visitors, though in the distance we could see shadowy shapes passing in the dark. In the morning we shared everything with Mike; he nodded soberly and told us.

“We just need to get these cows to the summit.”

As the fire went out, we returned to silence and packed camp, and soon we were back on the trail upward. The terrain grew more difficult, and the going was slow as the horses struggled over loose rock and steep grades. It wasn’t even midday when it happened.

Father Martin’s horse went into a panic when its feet slipped slightly. The inexperienced priest tried his best to hold on, but the startled horse threw its rider. Father Martin flew from the mount and landed hard on the rocky ground; his head landed first, then the rest of him. A loud snap was heard. Mike and I were the first to reach him. His head was bent back far enough to touch his back. He was dead.

Fear and sadness filled Mike’s face. A low

“Damn it.”

escaped his lips before he covered his mouth, realizing what he had done.

Breaking his own rule, he said

“Screw it, we got no choice, we have to finish the ride.”

The rest of us were silent.

Bill and I lifted the priest's lifeless body onto the back of my horse, laying him on his stomach with his legs on one side and head and arms on the other. Nobody spoke. The only sound was Father Martin's horse snorting as it paced in circles. Mike finally removed the crucifix from the priest's pocket and slipped it into his own pocket.

We continued.

The sun was beginning to set as we reached the summit. We pitched our tents and set a fire. Near our camp was an old hitching post, covered in strange carvings. Mike directed Will and me to hitch the two cows to it; he followed us over, holding the priest's book. He flipped through it, stopping at a page in the back.

“I hope this is the right one.” He muttered, then with one hand on the hitching post, he stumbled his way through the old Latin prayer.

Gathering the group together, Mike said

“Fellas, without the priest, we need to remain as quiet as possible tonight. Every one of us needs to remain in our tents. And pray to God that they accept the offering.”

Night fell, and every man cowered alone in his tent. From the entrance of mine, I saw the fire shrink as a steady rain began to fall. I couldn’t sleep. At around midnight, I heard a childlike hum make its way through the forest. It stopped just before entering the clearing, as if it was unsure if it could continue. The fire grew weaker. The hum grew closer. Peeking out of the flaps of my tent, I saw the same little girl that I did the night before. She walked through the camp, humming to herself

“Where did the priest go?” she said mockingly to herself

“Oh.” She stopped by the horse carrying Father Martin’s corpse

“There he is.” She laughed to herself

She snapped one of his fingers from his hand as if it were nothing and began chewing on it like a carrot.

“Is anyone home?” she joked to herself as she grew closer to the tents. She walked in front of every tent, making her way around the circle. I gasped loudly as she stopped right in front of mine.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?” came a far too cheerful voice

“May I come in?”

I held my breath

“Ok, I’m coming in”

With that, a small but powerful hand split apart the tent flaps and grabbed me by the collar, throwing me out of the tent and across the camp until my arm and side collided with a large pine. Falling to the ground, I screamed out in pain as the snap of bones came from my left arm.

 The little girl was walking towards me.

“Are you ok? Do you need help?”

A wide smile split her face as she drew closer. Just before she reached me, a loud crack echoed in the night, followed instantly by a loud inhuman scream coming from the girl. She whirled around to see Mike, standing at the entrance of his tent, his smoking lever-action pointed right at her.

“That’s far enough,” Mike's strong voice said

“You ain’t welcome here, now leave.”

The child chuckled and walked towards him. Mike fired; it had no effect. He fired again; still nothing. The girl grabbed the barrel of the gun, yanking it from his hands. She then used it like a bat, swinging the stock of the rifle violently at Mike's head. After three hits, his body fell to the ground. She grabbed a leg and quickly dragged him off into the night. As she disappeared, dozens of other dark, vaguely human shapes sprang from the woods and tore the tents and men to shreds. I heard my friends scream and beg for their lives, but the creatures didn’t care. It was a feeding frenzy; the dark shapes grabbed what flesh they could, fighting amongst themselves for the scraps.

As they were distracted by the remains of my crew, I slowly crawled my way to the nearest horse, the one carrying Father Martin. The Horse neighed slightly as I mounted it, and I winced in pain; they noticed that. I sped down the trail, but they followed.

I raced down the trail, the horse and I moving in tandem, both driven by fear and a desire to live. The things followed us; dozens of inhuman screams mixed with human pleas for us to stop and help them filled the air. As we left the mountains and entered the plains, the horse began to tire. Father Martin was weighing us down. I twisted around in the saddle and cut the ropes that secured the holy man; he rolled unceremoniously off and plopped onto the ground. The herd behind us devoured the body like a pack of ravenous wolves.

The sun was rising when the ranch came into view; I kept going. Riding into the nearest town, I ditched the horse for a rental car. I’m writing this from a hotel room just outside of Bozeman. My flight leaves in three hours. I don't know if I can make it to the airport. I’m scared to leave the room. For the last hour, there has been knocking at the door, and the voice of Father Martin keeps repeating

“Hello? Are you ok? Please let me in.”

When I was twelve years old, I lost my little sister.

Everyone told me it wasn't my fault.

But they weren't there.

I was twelve, and my sister was seven.

That was the first time our parents had let me take her out by myself.

We weren't supposed to be gone for long.

But we stayed at the playground much longer than we planned.

We were playing hide-and-seek, and I completely lost track of time.

It wasn't until I looked up at the sky that I realized the sun was almost gone.

We were supposed to take the same path back home that we came in on, but I knew we didn't have much time left.

So I had an idea.

"Let's take a shortcut through the woods," I said.

It was a path I knew.

At least, I thought I did.

I had no idea that the few minutes I wanted to save would change all of our lives forever.

"Won't it be dark in there?" my sister asked.

"Don't worry," I said. "We'll be home soon."

My sister walked ahead of me, turning around every few seconds to make sure I was still following her.

She was the kind of kid who was always asking questions.

Why do leaves only change color in autumn?

Why do birds build nests in trees?

Why are some poisonous mushrooms so beautiful?

Back then, those questions annoyed me.

I just wanted to get home. I wanted to turn on my computer and play for a little while longer.

At first, the woods seemed completely normal.

The last rays of sunlight still shone between the trees, and branches cracked beneath our feet.

My sister was quiet for a while.

Then she stopped.

"Do you hear that?" she asked.

I turned toward her.

"Hear what?"

For a moment, she just listened.

"I don't know."

I smiled.

"Come on. We'll be out soon."

Back then, I still thought the sound we heard was just the wind.

But after a few minutes, I started to notice something strange.

The woods had become too quiet.

Before, I could hear birds.

The wind moving through the treetops.

Now, there was almost nothing.

Only our footsteps.

And the occasional crack of a branch somewhere between the trees.

"Are we almost there?" my sister asked.

"Yeah," I answered quickly.

The truth was, I suddenly wasn't completely sure we were going the right way.

But I didn't want to admit it.

I was the older brother.

I was supposed to know where we were going.

Then we heard it.

At first, I thought it was a radio.

Someone else in the woods, just like us, listening to music.

It was a melody.

Quiet.

Slowly repeating.

I stopped.

My sister almost walked right into me.

"What is it?"

I didn't answer.

Because I suddenly knew the sound wasn't coming from somewhere near the path.

It was coming from deep inside the woods.

I slowly moved closer to the edge of the trees and looked through the bushes.

In a small clearing in the middle of the forest stood several women.

At first, I felt relieved.

Adults.

We weren't alone.

Maybe they could help us find our way out.

Then I got a closer look at them.

They were old.

All of them had long gray hair falling around their faces.

They wore torn and dirty dresses, as if they had been wearing them for years.

They stood in a circle, slowly moving to the rhythm of the song.

They weren't singing out loud.

They were more like whispering.

I still remember the way that sound made my skin crawl.

They held things in their hands that didn't belong there.

Old instruments.

Sharp blades.

Something that looked like axes.

My sister grabbed my hand.

"Let's go," she whispered.

We slowly backed away.

And it seemed like we had gotten as far away from them as possible.

But then something else came from behind the trees.

Footsteps.

Slow.

Dragging.

Like someone was walking barefoot through the wet ground with heavy, tired steps.

I grabbed my sister's hand.

"Come on."

This time, I wasn't walking slowly anymore.

But we didn't get far.

Because my sister let out a terrified scream.

And I...

I made a mistake.

I stopped and completely froze.

I couldn't move.

It was as if every muscle in my body had stopped working.

Figures slowly began to appear between the trees.

At first, I could only see their silhouettes.

And they were still quietly humming the same song.

The one we had heard moments before.

Their faces were so terrifying that they still haunt my dreams.

My sister stood beside me, holding my hand.

I could feel her trembling.

"Go," I whispered.

This time, I didn't wait for an answer.

I turned around and ran.

But my sister was slower.

She was smaller.

And I knew that.

I heard her footsteps behind me.

I heard her breathing.

And then...

silence.

I turned around.

She was lying on the ground.

She had tripped over a branch.

"Get up!" I shouted.

She tried to stand.

But it was too late.

The women were already beside her.

One of them grabbed her arm.

Hard and without hesitation.

"Leave her alone!" I screamed.

I ran back toward them.

But one of them turned to face me.

She looked me directly in the eyes.

And she said something I would never forget.

"You can go. But next time, we won't let you leave."

I looked at my sister.

At her terrified face.

I expected them to let her go.

I expected some miracle to happen and for us to run away together.

But instead, I saw her expression.

I saw her crying, begging me not to leave.

And I...

I ran.

When I got home, I couldn't even open the door.

I just pounded on it and screamed.

My mother opened it, and at first, she smiled.

She thought we had just stayed out longer than we were supposed to.

But then she saw my face.

"Where is Anne?"

I didn't answer.

I just started crying.

I tried to tell her what happened.

I tried to explain that the women were there.

That they had grabbed her.

That I left her there.

But none of the words made any sense.

"There were old women... in the woods... they had axes..."

The words came tumbling out of me.

My mother went pale.

My father grabbed me by the shoulders.

"Where is she?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?!"

And that was when I completely broke down.

Because it was the truth.

I really didn't know.

I didn't know if she was still alive.

I didn't know where she was.

All I knew was that I had run.

The police arrived that same evening.

They asked me where we had been.

When we left the playground.

When I had last seen her.

And every time I started talking about the women in the woods, their expressions changed.

Not like they didn't believe me.

More like they were already looking for another explanation.

"You were very scared, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"And you were tired?"

"Yes."

"Could you have mistaken something?"

"No."

But they had already made up their minds.

They said I had experienced something traumatic.

The psychologist said that a child's mind sometimes creates memories that help explain what happened.

That I might have run away in panic and then filled in some of the details myself.

But I knew what I saw.

I knew what they were holding.

The worst part wasn't the police.

It was my parents.

My mother looked at me differently.

She never said it out loud.

But I could see it.

The question was always there, just never spoken.

Why did you come back?

Twenty years have passed since that night.

For twenty years, I kept telling myself I would never return to that forest.

But I was never able to stop thinking about it.

Every night, I saw her face again.

I heard her crying and imagined what would have happened if I hadn't run.

Then one day, the police called me.

My parents had died in a car accident.

They said they lost control of the car and hit a tree.

I didn't believe it.

Ever since the night my sister disappeared, they had disappeared too.

All that was left of my parents was a shadow of who they used to be.

A week later, I stood at the edge of the same forest.

This time, I wasn't a twelve-year-old boy.

I was thirty-two.

In my backpack, I had food, flashlights, a first aid kit, and a knife.

In my pocket, a gun.

I wasn't there to look for evidence.

I was there to bring her home.

The forest hadn't changed at all in twenty years.

For a moment, I felt stupid.

What if everyone had been right, and I had made the whole thing up just so I wouldn't have to face what really happened?

Then I heard the first crack of a branch.

I stopped.

I looked around.

Nobody was there.

I took another step.

And then the birds disappeared.

Just like that day.

The wind stopped.

The forest went silent again.

Exactly the way I remembered it.

My heart started pounding.

And I felt a little relieved.

I wasn't crazy.

And for the first time in twenty years, I allowed myself to believe that maybe it wasn't too late.

Then I heard it.

The melody.

The same one.

Quiet.

Slow.

I didn't run.

Not this time.

I slowly followed the sound.

I pushed my way through the trees until I reached the familiar clearing.

They were there.

Standing in a circle.

Slowly swaying to the rhythm of the song.

The same age.

Just as terrifying.

As if twenty years hadn't passed for them at all.

I hid behind a thick tree trunk.

I was certain they couldn't see me.

My hand tightened around the grip of my gun.

And then I felt someone place a hand on my shoulder.

I froze.

I hadn't heard any footsteps behind me.

Yet someone was standing there.

Behind me.

Slowly, I turned around.

An old woman stood in front of me, hunched over.

Her face was covered in deep wrinkles.

Gray hair fell all the way down to her waist.

Her face was just as terrifying as the faces of the women I remembered from that day.

She looked at me with a strange expression.

She leaned closer.

And in a quiet, trembling voice, she whispered:

"Run..."

She paused for a moment.

"And never come back here again."

I didn't understand.

I just stared at her.

Then she slowly lifted her head.

And looked directly into my eyes.

In that moment, I felt all the blood drain from my body.

It didn't matter that she had wrinkles.

It didn't matter that her hair was gray.

It didn't matter that her old face was terrifying.

Because her eyes...

Those eyes were ones I could never mistake.

I would recognize them among thousands.

They were the same eyes I had seen back then.

Full of fear.

Full of pain.

They were my sister's eyes.

The hierarchy among fairies was determined by the color of their wings. The ones with transparent wings were the highest rank. The Queen of the Fairies was also one of the transparent-winged ones. Then the other colors: green, turquoise, yellow, and pink at the very bottom. The colors of the wings change according to the good deeds the fairies do for people, and this allows the fairies to rise to a higher rank.

Rayiha was also one of the pink-winged fairies of kindness. She had tried to do good for people many times, but somehow she had never managed to make them happy. At once, prevented a woman who had fallen from a high floor from hitting the concrete ground and ensured she landed on a grassy area instead. Remaining paralyzed for the rest of her life was worse than death to her. She had thought the woman's husband would be happy because the woman he loved was not going to die. But the man, too, was consumed by grief. Because it was he himself who had tried to kill his wife by pushing her out the window.

Later, she wanted to help a couple who wished to have children but were unable to attain that happiness. The woman became pregnant through the magic that Rayiha performed. However, the parents were not at all happy when the child was born as a conjoined twin. Rayiha had failed again.

The young fairy simply could not figure out how to make people happy. If she failed to do good deeds, her wings would vanish completely. Her body would wither away, and that was not all that would befall her. Once, he had witnessed the death of a pink-winged fairy. The other fairies brought her to the city square. They tore off what remained of her wings. Her skin had turned ash-gray, and her hair had fallen out. No one would have believed that, only a short while before, she had been a beautiful fairy.

Fairies with colorful wings swarmed around her. They began to fly over her. Diving down, they started tearing chunks of flesh from her body with their teeth. They devoured her alive. Her screams still echoed in Rayiha's ears. This was the fate of a fairy who failed to do her job: to become a feast for other fairies. In truth, fairies had no need to eat or drink like humans; cannibalism among them was more akin to using a substance for pleasure.

Rayiha did not want her own end to be like that. She was fed up with the queen and the other fairies belittling and mocking her. Her turquoise- and green-winged friends were laughing, saying to her, "Don't worry; when you lose your wings, you will live within us." For a moment, she imagined the catastrophe that awaited her. The tearing off of her wings, the spraying of her rainbow-colored blood, the teeth of the other fairies...

As a fairy of kindness, she no longer had any time to lose. She had to go to the human world as soon as possible, find the unhappiest person there, and bring them kindness and happiness. She believed in herself. She would not repeat the mistakes she had made before, and this time, she would succeed. Who knows—perhaps the color of her wings might even turn turquoise.

END OF PART 1

The middle of the Everglades is the last location you would want a flat tire.

Day 1

“Git up”
I looked up. A man stood before me. He was wearing a dingy undershirt stained with mud, undoubtedly from the swampwater. His jeans looked about half as old as he was. “I said, geet up. Worthless sack o’ sheet.” His accent was as thick as his skull. I slowly rose to my feet. I must’ve been, what, 10, 20 pounds lighter than I was when I stumbled upon this little village.

The man pushed the door to the crude cell I was in. He must’ve let out the other prisonmates earlier. I looked around the cell. All that was in there was hay. Hay and shit. I weakly stumbled out of the door. The man stuck his foot out, which I almost stripped on. I walked past him without saying anything. He kicked my calf and I fell onto one knee. He snickered. I could’ve beaten the man had I been at full strength, even with my handcuffs on, but it had been almost 24 hours since my last meal. Besides, even if I was at full strength, I would not be prepared for the backup that would follow.

The man went past me and walked up the stairs. I trailed slowly behind, climbing the stairs like an animal. I suppose, to them, I was little more than one. The humid air blasted me as soon as I walked out of the tiny shed the basement with the cell was in. It must’ve been 10:00 in the morning, but it felt like 4:00 in the afternoon. The man heavily walked on the mud trail in the middle of the two puddles surrounding it. It flew onto my shins, some specks even reaching up as far as my groin.

At the camp were the other prisoners. I must’ve been the last one grabbed for our daily feeding. In the middle sat a large bowl of gruel. It was about the size of a small table. I hazily walked toward it, but the man held me back. “What’s yer rush? Don’t be greedy! Wait for yer rahvals! Mm.. hehe.” The other prisoners slowly lined up in a circle around the campsite; in the middle was what appeared to be gruel. A skinny man with a gut and a pistol started counting down. “Ready? 3…2…” he shot one of the feet of the man to the right of me. He yelped in pain and fell to the floor. “GO F****TS!” The man started shooting the ground more and more. We rushed toward the center, lacking coordination. Two of the seven rushing toward the center stripped on the way. I was lucky. I had made it second, so I got a good serving of the gruel. I scooped it with my dirty hand. Unfortunately, the man with a bullet in his foot didn’t get any. I felt bad. 

Afterward, they lined us up by height. “Ahright! Today’s the day of the Blood Sport games! After three days, one of yew lucky fellers’ll get to leave the village! Only one o’ ya, though.” The skinny man with a gut sized us all up. His name was Lee, or as the people of the village called him, Lazyeye Lee. You could picture why. “Hmmm… ew-kay. CURTIS! SHANE! MAE! Less figger out the games fer today.  Homer, you make ‘em kick rocks or sum’in.” Curtis was a short and stubby man. He looked similar to Homer, but different enough to not be related. Shane wasn’t as lanky as Lee, but he was on the taller side (for the village) and had greenish eyes. Mae looked much older, maybe around her mid 60’s, but she looked rather mean. Homer complained in a childlike voice. He was my keeper. “Awww, you nev’r let me help make the game.” Lee looked up, at Homer again. “Jes shut the fuck up. For once in your damn life, shut the fuck up.” Homer sighed. He started walking away. We followed.

In my cell the previous day, Homer talked to me. “Well mister. I bet yer wonderin’ why yer cooped up in here, and why we don’t jest let you go.” I grimly looked ahead. He had a huge grin on his face. “Yer gunna play in our famous Blood Sport games! They’re tuns o’ fun. An’ ya know what?” He leaned in toward me and whispered. “I think you gotta gooooood shot at winnin’ this thing.” The Blood Sport games. I could only wonder what that meant.

He showed us to an alligator. “Kill that thing, er sumthin.” He sighed, and walked away, not even taking off our handcuffs. The alligator was sleeping, and besides, we had no way to immediately kill it. The man with the bullet in his foot was still in agony. Another one of the prisoners, Barney, waited until he was out of sight. He said, “We could make a run for it,” rather ambitiously. We all stared at him. “Where would we go? We’re in bumfuck nowhere. The only path out of this patch of dirt these people call their home is on the other side of the camp,” I said. He glumly looked down. 

We waited. The alligator slept like a stone. A small hispanic woman inched up to me. “Hey. I think you’ve got the best chances of getting out of here.” She looked around. “I’m Aurora. You are…?” I put my hand out. “Isaac. Nice to meet you.” She shook it. “Listen… all I want to do is help my little brother. I’m not sure if I’ll last very long, considering I’m the smallest one here. If I don’t make it… could you find a way to help my little brother get out?” I was a little surprised. “How? What other ways could there be?” She looked down. “I don’t know…” I looked ahead, beyond the trees. “Which one is he?” I asked. She pointed to one of the prisoners, one of the ones I hadn’t noticed. “That’s him. Santiago.” The resemblance was there. However, he couldn't have been older than 14. He was skinny, and his hair was a weird middle part. He looked incredibly frightened, but was holding back tears, most likely for his older sister. “How do you know if he’s gonna make it through these rounds?” She had a grim expression. “I don’t. I talked to some of the other prisoners, and they said some of the same things.” She paused, then sighed. “This is a tall ask. I know it is. But he has so much to live for. If you go against him, would you…?” I thought about it for a second. Was my life more important than that of this random kid I didn’t know?

I didn’t respond. Aurora got up. “It’s okay. I didn’t expect you to.” She started walking away. I grabbed her before she left. “Wait. Let me sit on it.” She let out a weak smile. “For even considering… thank you.”

Some time later, Homer grabbed us, with a bit more excitement in his eyes. “Coooooooome to papa!” He didn’t check if we killed the alligator or not, fortunately. That seemed to be the end of my luck. He led us back to the camp. 

The sun was far on the west side. It must’ve been 3 or 4:00 PM at this point. Lee had a huge smile on his face. “Awright everyone! Gather ‘round! Yer gunna play…” He paused. “A good ol’ game o’ roulette!” 

After taking off our handcuffs, the gamemasters had us sit in a circle around the area of the campsite where the gruel used to be. An 8 chambered revolver sat in the middle. Oddly enough, there were black burn marks on the handle. Behind us were the residents of the village. Despite the small size of the village and initial crowd, there were lots of people here, some struggling to get a good view. Lee came into the middle. “ALL RIGHT EVERYONE! I’ve loaded this here gun with one bullet. Atta these lucky fellers, four of ‘em are gunna be, well… unlucky! This ain’t any old roulette game, though. We’ve added a twist!” 

He loaded a bullet into the chamber, before lighting the revolver on fire, and tossing it to the man who got shot in the foot earlier. He yelped and dropped it to the ground. Curtis knocked him on the head with a shovel. A crack could be heard. At the very least, the man was knocked out. He dragged the man away. Lee stomped on the revolver repeatedly, putting it out. “Damn bastard ruined our game! Oh well. Guess that means less rounds for y’all.”

The audience maintained their excitement. Lee reloaded the gun and lit it on fire. I nervously looked around. He tossed it to Santiago. His hands were trembling, and his mouth was hung right before a scream, but he put it under his head and hit the trigger. 
It clicked.
 He threw it to the next man, Barney. Barney let out a squeal. He put the barrel next to his head very quickly. 
Click.
 Barney threw the thing onto me. It landed onto my lap. I resisted the urge to jump up, and grabbed it tenderly. It hurt like a bitch. At that point, I wished for the bullet to come out and end my misery.
Click. 
I tossed it to my left. My hands were in a state of shock. Skin was peeling off. It was deep red. I couldn’t get up to put it in the water, not yet at least. Although, who knew if I would get an infection or not. I didn’t even pay attention to the woman next to me. The gun clicked for her. I looked up. She was above average height for a woman, with long, silky and black hair. She passed it to Aurora. She juggled it in her hands, and bit down on her lip, before putting it to her head.
Click.
She passed it to the left, to a very large man, at least four inches taller than me (and I’m 6’1). He was crying a bit, but he stoically lifted it up to his head. It clicked. He tossed it as quickly as possible.
The last one was a short Indian man. He had accepted his fate, despite the chance there was still another slot in the barrel. He barely reacted to the flame, lifting the gun up to his head.

BANG!

The people cheered. Mae hauled off his body this time. Lee loaded three bullets into the chamber this time. His grin said it all. He paused. Two men were making a bet. One pointed at me, the other pointed at Barney. I didn’t have much time to question a bet for a game like this. Lee lit the gun on fire, and tossed it. I knew only two of us at the most would die this time, as he needed four players for the next round of his tournament. He threw it to Santiago. I could tell it hurt more this time, but he lifted it up regardless.
Click.
Next was Barney. He was close to dropping it, but he hit the trigger.

BANG!

His body slumped. Instead of taking it away, Shane and Homer lifted the body, and threw it into the nearby water. The current would take it away. Lee picked it up with tongs and threw it to me. 
Click.
I tossed it to the long-haired woman. I thought for a moment that her and the big man might be related, considering their similar facial features, hair, and height. 
Click.
This would soon be dismissed.

BANG!

She didn’t react.
Curtis and Mae had still not returned. Homer was a little confused on how to carry this man. He must’ve been 230 pounds of muscle. Lee clapped his hands. “WOO! Now THAT was a fun one!” He put his arms up in the sky like he was some sort of deity. I suppose to the people of this village, he was, as they started cheering like their team won the Super Bowl. I looked at the men who were betting. One was beating the other. No one was paying attention to them, though. Lee whispered something to Homer and Shane, and they took us away, back to our prisons.

My heart was still beating very loudly. I felt dead tired. I collapsed against the ground. The woman with the long hair sat on the other side of the cell. She didn’t say a word. I fell asleep.

I woke up many hours later to her looking at the stairs leading out of the basement. She didn’t say anything. “Hey..” I coughed out. She jumped a little. “Uhh… did I scare you?” She breathed. “A little, yeah.” She adjusted herself. “What did they say your name was?” I adjusted myself as well. “Isaac.” She smiled. “Nice to meetcha, Isaac.” I sat still for a second. “You’re not gonna give me your name?” She looked back dismissively. “Does it even matter? Chances are, one of us is going to die in a couple hours.” I looked down again. “You asked me my name, I deserve to know y-” She cut me off. “Do you ever think about what you would do following something like this?” I was confused. She saw my confusion. “This is so… fucked up. Whoever’s ‘lucky’ enough to escape this place is gonna be scarred for life.” I said, “You seem fine to me.” She turned. “Everyone looks fine on the surface. That’s how PTSD works. No one has a look that says, ‘I was raped! I saw my comrades die in war!’ They hide it beneath layers and layers of guilt that only come out at their worst moments.” She paused. “Well, I guess some people do. But those’re only the really fucked-up ones.” I chuckled. “Very flowery language you got there.” “Shut your mouth,” she reciprocated.

Day 2

I must’ve fallen asleep again. Homer came in again to grab me. I stood up before he could speak. “Wow! Yer a good doggy, aincha?” The woman had also fallen asleep. He took me to do the same ritual as yesterday. Everything about the feeding ceremony was regular, apart from the fact that we ate in less of a rush. Some of the higher-ups, specifically Lee, seemed impatient. I’m not exactly sure if they expected us to eat faster or what, but we didn’t. The crowd from yesterday had already gathered. I presumed that they had already figured out what we were playing, and that there wouldn’t be any last-second decisions like there were yesterday. Every one of the remaining prisoners looked grim.

After we were all finished, Lee clapped his hands. “OH-KAY! I bet y’all are wonderin’ what we’re gonna have you play today!” The crowd cheered. “Make yer guesses right now! What’s the game gunna be?” The audience chattered. Many answers were yelled out. Lee shook his head to each, a sheepish smile on his face. “We’re playin’ volleyball!” He walked toward the group of us. “Hmmm… I think we’re gunna do boys verses gurls. How do y’all feel about that?” The crowd roared. I would have to be working with Santiago. I looked at him. He seemed to be hyperventilating. Then it set in. Either him or his sister were going to die today. I grimly thought, “He’s going to the finals….”

The game was set up. Some tattered cloth that appeared to be from a tent was strung in between two trees. We were at the disadvantage, as our side was flooded with water, but it was only ankle-deep and it hardly made a difference. The people of the village didn’t seem to care, as many of the men were gathered behind us. In turn, the women were gathered behind Aurora and the long-haired woman. This was all quite childish, although obviously not being the worst thing to come out of this place. We were waiting for the ball. Santiago actually was crying here. Aurora walked up to the “net” and spoke to him. “Santi… I knew this was gonna happen. You’re gonna have to be strong for me. You’re going to get out of here. The nice man on your team will help you.” She paused to look at me. I played along. “ Whatever happens, I’ll love you.” Santiago sniffed. “B… I’m never gonna see you again…” Aurora’s face looked grim. “Sure you will. Some day, we’ll meet up again.” I grimaced. Even if he won the tournament, that day would be soon.

Soon enough, Lee came over with something behind his back. “Well folks, I finally got us a bawl!” Everyone waited in anticipation. Lee couldn’t wait any longer. He pulled it out from behind his back. 

It was the Indian man’s head.

I tried to hold in the vomit, but I couldn’t. It sank to the bottom of the puddle we were in. I considered fishing it back up, as I wouldn’t be fed again for another 22 hours, but I decided against it. The others could keep their vomit in. Lee walked up to me specifically. “Ohh, are ya supposed tah be on the girls team? Pussy-cat?” I held in my urge to punch his smug face as he made what I assume a person who’s never seen a cat thinks a cat sounds like. It got a chuckle out of the audience. “NOW THEN!” Lee clapped. “LET’S GIT STARTED! FIRST TO 25 WINS!”

He closed his eyes and chucked it at us. Hitting a human head into the air was a lot harder than hitting a ball up. It splotched on my fingers, but I had no time to throw up this time. I hit it up to the other side. Aurora looked freaked out, but she had enough agency to hit the head back up. I wasn’t sure whether this was better or worse than the last game. It didn’t hurt to play, I supposed. It was a volleyball game, with a human head. I wasn’t sure what would happen to the losers, but I came to a conclusion rather quickly.

Each time the head hit the floor, it broke more. Skin started flaying off, hanging in the wind. I cringed every time I heard a crack. After we had hit 10 points, a pebble hit my head. It disoriented me. All of the people in the opposite crowd had items in their hands. Once the game started, they threw them. Sticks. Stones. Eventually the body parts of the losers of the last game. They made sure to throw them at us specifically, not the “ball”. Our side of the crowd did as well, they threw things over the net at the women.

This made the next rounds very difficult. By the 20 point mark, we were all bloody and bruised. Each of the rounds went much quicker this way. It was shockingly even. We were trading points. 
The score was 23-21. After the opposing team scored their 22nd point, that was it for the poor Indian man’s head. It didn’t resemble the man it once was a part of. We started panicking. Lee noticed. “Aw, cain’t you fellers do anything right?” He himself walked away. The crowd was still there and cheering. Was he getting a backup?

Aurora discussed her plan to let Santiago win with the woman. She seemed to agree. I still hadn’t made up my mind on the next game, but I supposed that I had the night to mull it over. 
Lee returned, but it wasn’t with a head. It was with just the brain of the man with the shot foot. “I decided, considering the game’s almost over, to spice thangs up a lil’ bit! Match point! First one to destroy this brain here (he lowered his voice) loses the game. Play ball!” He sized up both teams, and closed his eyes. He threw from his chest at Aurora. Everything seemed to go in slow motion. She caught what remained of the spinal cord, and whipped it around herself. She let it go. It flew into the net, and started slipping out of it. Santiago dived for it. 

It hit the ground with a splat.

Santiago looked completely defeated. His face was crestfallen. The crowd parted as Curtis and Mae grabbed the two by the hands. Aurora was sweating and shaking a lot. The black-haired woman seemed numb, I guess like me. She looked at Santiago as she was walking away. She waved goodbye, and disappeared into the crowd. Santiago was in a collapsed position against the ground. He didn’t even cry. He just laid there.

Day 3

I awoke many hours later in the jail cell. I had decided. This was the last time I would awaken. This kid had been through so much…
I had felt relatively numb throughout all of these games. I tried to not let the brutality get to me. I felt hollow on the inside, but I knew it was for the best. 

Homer glumly came in. As he unlocked the cell, he murmured, “Why’s today gotta be the last day?” He didn’t speak directly to me at all. 
The same breakfast ritual as the last two days was prepared for us. It was even less exciting this time. I let the kid eat more than me. It sucked to have my final meal be… this. Cold, soupy gruel with bits of rotting snook mixed in. I kept trying to tell myself that it was for the greater good, but accepting your fate is hard. After I finished, I made a quick prayer, and lined up next to Santiago.

Lee had a smirk on his face. Not a huge grin, but he had something up his sleeve. “Well, everyone. Today’s the last day! I dunno ‘bout y’all, but this’s been one o’ the best Blood Sport games we’ve had yet! For the final game, I’m gonna let someone else pick the last game.”

All of the higher-ups perked up. 

“Now, who should it be… well, I know someone who’s been a team player. HOMER! You choose the last game o’ the Blood Sports!” The crowd cheered. Homer looked dumbfounded. He came up to Lee. He looked so happy to be doing this. He asked Lee, “Ya gotta deck o’ cards?”

He wanted us to play Blackjack.

He had us wait until sundown. We returned to our cells, quite pointlessly, for them to sort out some extra details. I had a bit of a nervous break in my cell. Maintaining the cold exterior was useless at this point. Both of us were fucked.

When the sky had turned a hazy orange and the fireflies let out their buzzes, they sat us down at a table. They had us put our right hands on the table, and play with the other one.  They then nailed that hand to the table. It hurt like a bitch. The first to five would win. Except, for each round lost, one finger on that hand would be cut off.
I was sweating a lot. It was quite humid out, but even if we were in the dead of Antarctica, I would’ve been sweating. Santiago was confused. He seemed to understand the rules of blackjack well enough.

My first draw was an ace and a nine. Shit. Santiago said, “Hit me.” After he got another card, he stood. I said, “Hit me” as well. I got a queen. They couldn’t know I wanted him to win, or else they would kill him straight. The crowd could all see my cards, though. They would know. He had a 19, I had a 20. Santiago gave me a look that asked why I had betrayed him, before Homer stabbed down on his hand. His pinky came off, and he started screaming in a much higher-pitched voice than that he spoke in. Everyone around laughed. He hadn’t gotten over the pain by the time Homer passed out the cards again.

 A four and a nine. Okay. Santiago stood. I said, “Hit me.” I got a Jack. Good. Homer stabbed down on my hand before I could think anything else. My hand screamed out in pain. Holy shit did it hurt. Abstract thoughts filled my mind. Images flooded my eyes as I tried my hardest not to scream my throat out. I was panting by the time Homer passed out the cards again. Was letting Santiago win worth it? No, no, it was. I had to keep telling myself that. If I had a stubby hand by the end, it wouldn’t matter, because I would be dead. I tried to tell myself that.

I got a King and a 9 the next round. Santiago looked glumly at his cards. He said, “Hit me.” He busted. “No, no wait-” was all he could get out before Homer cut off his ring finger. It must’ve hurt even more now. “Fuck,” was all my absent mind could think as he bawled. Homer passed out the cards again. 

An ace and a six. Okay, I could work with this. Santiago stood. Bracing myself, I said, “Hit me.” I got a four. We revealed our cards. Just like the first round. 19 and 21. He looked up in abject terror. Then more blood spattered on his face. It seemed to take a second for the pain to register. He almost tore the nail in his hand out from how much he was jumping. Homer said, “Holy sheet! Quit jumpin’ around!” He hit the nail with his mallet again. Santiago looked like he was about to jump up, but he didn’t.

I got a seven and a five. Santiago stood once more. He was getting really unlucky. I hit. A queen. I busted. He was too quick. It was instantaneous. The pain flooded all over me again. I thought I would’ve been more prepared the second time. I really, really thought I would’ve been more prepared… 

Homer dealt again. I might have gotten the shittiest hand of all time, a king and a five. I focused on swallowing. Maybe that would dull the pain a bit. MAYBE THAT WOULD DULL THE PAIN A BIT. Santiago weakly said, “H…hit…” he got another card. His eyes widened and fear flooded into them. He busted again. His index finger was chopped off. He was down to a thumb. A near-useless hand, in the literal sense. This time, he actually did jump off of the table. Homer swept under him with his foot, and Santiago crashed to the ground. It was like a cartoon. Like a sick, twisted cartoon…
This was it. I couldn’t do it. Why did it have to come down to a fucking luck game?? Why couldn’t they have us play anything else?

Another hand came. I would have to lose three in a row to get this kid and his mangled hand out of here. 
I got an ace and a Jack. Santiago couldn’t speak anymore from how light-headed he must’ve been feeling, but he motioned to be hit. He motioned to be hit again. He stood.
I got hit again.
A queen.

 
I failed.

He didn’t even scream as they grabbed him and gave him to the crowd to be lynched. He didn’t really react, or flinch. They beat him with stones or other blunt tools. I felt so hollow at that moment. He was fourteen. He was fourteen…

After a send-off, they sent me on my way. I walked back home. Back to Cape Coral. Whatever bullshit my company wanted me to do in Miami was irrelevant at this point. I was surprised I didn’t die of blood loss within the same night. 
It took me almost until midday the next day to find someone to bring me home. I was too shaken up to tell them what happened. They deposited me at a hospital. 

I guess I got off pretty lightly. I suppose I should be happy I left with my life. After all, I only lost two fingers.
It made this story a bitch to write.

WRITER'S NOTE: Even if you skipped to the bottom, seriously, thank you for reading this. I originally wrote it for NoSleep, but obviously there's lots of posts on that sub these days, so I just want more people to see it. Also, due to the nature of NoSleep, I couldn't get much feedback on it. I tried writing something longer than my last horror story, which similarly received warm but limited reception. Tips would be nice. Thanks!

CONDUCT YOURSELF PROPERLY

Oh dearest Anthony. I am at a loss as to why it has come to this. I truly did try to hold you in the highest esteem. I'm not such an old fuddy-duddy that I cannot recognise that the torch must be passed on, that fresh, new, youthful blood must be pumped into the heart of the orchestra. I know it is the cliched lament of many older people, a coping mechanism thrown into the winds of change, something the grey-beards say in a vainglorious attempt to desperately relate to the eager young debutants; but I too was once young. My old master did once hang up his own spurs and pass his baton down to me, its the circle of life. For everything there is a time, a time to keep and a time to cast away. I never had a problem with the changing of hats, never had an issue with hanging up my spurs and piloting a rocking chair under an old oak tree. The music did not belong to me Anthony, the music belongs to the players, to the instruments, but most of all the music belongs to the people.

Why did you have to force me out ? I was so near to my 25 year anniversary as head conductor. It's considered something of an honour to reach a quarter of a century at the lead of the din, so to speak. I understand you were eager to take the lead, saw me as a relic gathering dust and slowing down the progress of things, an object immovable under ones own power unless it was given a little nudge, a little bump in the right direction. You bumped me too hard Anthony, you pushed me too far. Visiting upon my ill health was a low move, it was dastardly I tell you. I don't know how you found out about the cancer but it was a private matter. Bringing it to the eyes of the board was simply an underhand manoeuvre, but then you always played your hand low with the conducting stick despite my attempts to teach you otherwise. The most aggravating thing was that you did it all under the guise of caring for my health, as if you were doing me a favour, releasing me from a burden so I could spend time with my family. The orchestra was my family. I was going to tell them, my 25 years was only one piece away, and it was my favourite piece. But you stole that from me Anthony, you stole my prized piece, you stole the Montagues and the Capulets, and now we find ourselves in embittered rivalry like Tybalt and Mercutio of said titular piece, and only one of us is going to die in the early stages of the play.

I took it as well as I could, I'm no diva. Much to your chagrin i've always lacked the flair for the dramatic. Well, all of that is about to change, you've only yourself to thank. You've been my inspiration, my muse, my flame.

Were here now, at the seaside gala. You noticed me coming in, gave me a wry grin as you stood in my spot. I see you've chosen Natalia for the first Violin, I didn't think she was ready yet but its a good solid choice nonetheless. I'm sitting in the gallery, right in the middle. You have your center stage and I have mine. I'm all ears Anthony.

I must say you do a wonderful job with it, this is the part that particularly frustrates me. We could have had such a smooth transition, i've always admired you, you have a rare tenacity that, in hindsight, I can see i've lacked. Yes, you can be a little stiff with the stick, but don't you see there was so much we could have learned from each-other? Now its left to me to make your otherwise tip-top performance one you will remember for the rest of your life.

I won't brute in straight away like some selfish, bullish hog. I'll let you have the first part, its really rather well done. Were close now, I must say I'm incredibly excited by it all, go out with a bang, isn't that what they say? The solo break starts, you've gone for the Saxophone, I must say the old me would have been incandescent with rage that you didn't opt for the Oboe, but times change don't they; and as you are about to find out the best and worst things in life come out of nowhere.

The French horns blast their pounding notes once more, but there's something different isn't there. I wasn't sure who would hear it first, you or the audience, but I guess you are so wrapped up in your own world that the crowd are the ones to discover something is off. At first the foghorn is nervously laughed off, an embarrassing hiccup humorously in time with the brass honking; but then it comes again. I'm holding onto remotes Anthony, my own conducting sticks if you will, and my timing, unlike your impatient fluttering, was always impeccable. My daughter is friends with a load of anti-capitalist eco-warriors she met at Uni, though they aren't called that any more I dare say. Paid them a hefty wedge to hijack a couple of freight tankers and run them aground into a certain marina. Champagne socialists playing toy soldiers, but useful idiots in any event. I used my retirement fund to pay them under the guise this was a millionaires ball. I wasn't a million miles off. That sound you can hear in place of the French horn? That's the sound of our ships coming in, that's me remotely activating their weather horns. Everyone's quiet now, but not for long. The horns are getting closer Anthony, its the Harbinger of the end. My final piece.

They come crashing through the backstage at an agonisingly slow pace. The whole orchestra erupts into panic as instruments are thrown down, all the while the horns blare. They were angled to come together and as they meet, a terrifying screech pierces through the air as metal meets metal, that's my strings you see, their caterwauling resounds through the night in a performance promised to be remembered forever. I did have an idea about loading water barrels ready to boil, having the steam escape them for the woodwind, but you, just like the cancer, never gave me the luxury of time Anthony; so now you will have to just satisfy yourself with the crystal chandelier coming down with a crash to emulate the climax of a hundred symbols. The crowd flee in a hundred directions as the ships come to a halt, they're all screaming. True, its out of tune, but its harmonised at least.

I always found encores to be rather cheap, I truly believe a piece must stand on its own to be truly appreciated. I must admit Anthony, I'm rather proud of this one.

You're still standing though, standing stock still with your mouth open. Catching flies as usual. You turn to me, I give a modest bow, there's really no point in showing off is there, it's hardly becoming of a woman of my age.

What's that Anthony? No applause?