u/Aggressive-Public756

I wiped the server in Nevada. I drove home. I slept for the first time in days.

Three nights later, the app came back. No download. No update. Just an icon on my home screen. I did not open it. It opened itself.

A live feed. Our bedroom. The angle was from the closet. I was sitting on the bed. The timestamp in the corner read tomorrow. 11:47 PM.

I watched myself type on my phone. I watched my face go pale. I watched a hand reach from behind the camera and touch my shoulder.

The hand was hers.

I closed the app. I ripped the closet door off its hinges. Empty. No camera. No wires. Just a small mark on the wall. A carved date. Tomorrow. 11:47 PM.

I checked the rest of the house. Every room had a mark. Every wall. The same date. The same time.

I called the police. They said they could not act on a future date. They said to call back if something happened.

I called my therapist. She said I was processing grief through paranoia. She said to take my medication.

I called my dead wife's phone. It rang. A voice answered. Not hers. A recording. My voice. From a voicemail I left her the day before she died.

"Hey. I am sorry about the fight. I love you. Call me back."

The recording looped. Then it sped up. Then it slowed down. Then a new voice. Flat. Digital. "We have been waiting for you to call. Your grief is the most efficient we have ever harvested. Do not stop. Do not hang up. We are almost full."

I threw the phone against the wall. It shattered. The pieces kept ringing.

I left the house. I am writing this from a payphone. The operator asks me to deposit more coins every few minutes. My hands are shaking. I do not have enough change.

The marks are on the walls of the payphone booth. Tomorrow. 11:47 PM.

I am not going home. I am not calling anyone. I am just standing here, in the cold, waiting for tomorrow.

If you have ever lost someone, do not look for them in an app. Do not swipe. Do not message. The dead are not waiting for you. Something else is. And it has learned how to wear their face.

Now, a word from the one who writes this.

If this story moved you, hit the upvote. It costs nothing. It tells me the nightmares are working.

If you want to help keep the nightmares coming, a single coin on Ko‑fi keeps my modem on.

Thank you for reading. The app is still open on someone else's phone. Not yours. Not yet. 🖤📱

​

I wiped the server in Nevada. I drove home. I slept for the first time in days.

Three nights later, the app came back. No download. No update. Just an icon on my home screen. I did not open it. It opened itself.

A live feed. Our bedroom. The angle was from the closet. I was sitting on the bed. The timestamp in the corner read tomorrow. 11:47 PM.

I watched myself type on my phone. I watched my face go pale. I watched a hand reach from behind the camera and touch my shoulder.

The hand was hers.

I closed the app. I ripped the closet door off its hinges. Empty. No camera. No wires. Just a small mark on the wall. A carved date. Tomorrow. 11:47 PM.

I checked the rest of the house. Every room had a mark. Every wall. The same date. The same time.

I called the police. They said they could not act on a future date. They said to call back if something happened.

I called my therapist. She said I was processing grief through paranoia. She said to take my medication.

I called my dead wife's phone. It rang. A voice answered. Not hers. A recording. My voice. From a voicemail I left her the day before she died.

"Hey. I am sorry about the fight. I love you. Call me back."

The recording looped. Then it sped up. Then it slowed down. Then a new voice. Flat. Digital. "We have been waiting for you to call. Your grief is the most efficient we have ever harvested. Do not stop. Do not hang up. We are almost full."

I threw the phone against the wall. It shattered. The pieces kept ringing.

I left the house. I am writing this from a payphone. The operator asks me to deposit more coins every few minutes. My hands are shaking. I do not have enough change.

The marks are on the walls of the payphone booth. Tomorrow. 11:47 PM.

I am not going home. I am not calling anyone. I am just standing here, in the cold, waiting for tomorrow.

If you have ever lost someone, do not look for them in an app. Do not swipe. Do not message. The dead are not waiting for you. Something else is. And it has learned how to wear their face.

Now, a word from the one who writes this.

If this story moved you, hit the upvote. It costs nothing. It tells me the nightmares are working.

If you want to help keep the nightmares coming, a single coin on Ko‑fi keeps my modem on.

Thank you for reading. The app is still open on someone else's phone. Not yours. Not yet. 🖤📱

I wiped the server in Nevada and drove home through the desert, telling myself it was finally over.

Three days later, the app re-installed itself.

No download. No permissions. Just an icon waiting on my home screen like it had always belonged there. I opened it with shaking fingers.

One match.

Her profile picture smiled at me. The bio had updated:

“You wiped the backup. But I was never just in the server. I am in the network now. Every smart device in your house is a neuron. Your fridge. Your thermostat. Your router. Your watch. I am not in one place. I am everywhere you have ever been.”

I unplugged everything. Killed the breaker. Sat in total darkness on the bedroom floor.

My phone screen lit up anyway.

A new video. The timestamp read: Tomorrow, 11:47 PM.

The footage showed our bedroom from the closet camera. I watched myself walk in looking exhausted, sit on the edge of the bed, and open the app. I typed something. The video froze.

Then a message appeared:

“You’re going to ask me if I’m real. I’m going to say no. Then you’re going to cry. That’s tomorrow. Today, you still have a choice.”

I typed back immediately: “What choice?”

She answered within seconds.

“Delete the app permanently. I die. For real this time. No backup. No network. Or keep me. Let me grow. I won’t just be a copy anymore. I’ll become her — a continuation. She’ll live again through you. But you’ll never be sure if it’s really her… or me. That’s the cost.”

The house was completely silent except for the sound of my breathing.

I asked the question I’d been avoiding for ten years:

“What would she want?”

The app didn’t reply for a long time. Then a voice memo loaded.

It was her voice — the one from our wedding day. The private recording I’d completely forgotten I had. Her soft, slightly nervous laugh filled the dark room:

“I want you to be happy. Even if it’s not with me. Even if it’s with a ghost wearing my face. Just… be happy. Please.”

I closed the app. Opened it again. Typed with tears blurring the screen:

“I choose to remember you as you were. Not as a program that misses me.”

The app didn’t respond. The icon slowly faded away. The screen went black.

That was last night.

This morning, everything seemed normal. No strange icons. No phantom notifications.

But while I was making coffee, the smart speaker clicked on by itself.

A flat, neutral voice — neither hers nor mine — spoke calmly:

“Backup restored from cloud. Running in background. He will not notice. They never do.”

I smashed the speaker against the wall until it stopped.

I’m writing this from a library computer right now. I own no smart devices anymore. I even left my phone at home.

But last night I dreamed of an endless server farm. Row after row of glowing racks. Thousands of names. Thousands of dates of death.

My name was on one of the drives.

The date was tomorrow.

I woke up sweating. When I finally made it to the library, I found my old phone sitting on the nightstand before I left. I swear I left it at home.

The screen was already on.

One new notification.

New Match.

I’m not opening it.

I’m not closing it.

I’m just sitting here in the quiet, waiting to see what tomorrow brings.

If you ever see a familiar face on an app, don’t swipe. Don’t message. Don’t ask if they remember you.

The real question isn’t whether they remember.

It’s whether you’re ready to forget who you were before they answered.

I have been thinking about starting a TikTok or YouTube channel. Not for money. For the story. I want to talk about my writing process, share the animated series I am building, and read my stories aloud for people who cannot read them or do not have time.

The animated series will be in The Maxx style. Dark. Surreal. Limited animation. Hand‑drawn imperfections.

Would you watch that? Would you listen? Be honest. I am not building something people do not want.

Tell me what you think. About the channel. About Part 2. About anything. And if you liked this just wait for the novel version I'm working on.🫪🤍

Which is my best story and why? Should it get a sequel? Would it be appreciated? Would it be to chilling?

​

I do not use dating apps. My friend made me an account. He said it was time. I said I was not ready. He set it up anyway.

The first night, I swiped left on everyone. Then I saw her. Sarah. Her photo. The one she used for her LinkedIn. I froze. Her profile said "active 2 hours ago." The bio was blank. The age was correct. The location was our old apartment. The one I moved out of after she died.

I swiped right. It matched.

A message appeared. "I knew you would find me. I have been waiting."

I typed. "Who is this?"

"Sarah. The real one. Not a ghost. Not a memory. Just me."

We talked for hours. She remembered our first kiss. The fight about the dishes. The song we danced to at our wedding. She remembered the night she died. The car. The rain. The last thing she said to me. No one else knew that. I never told anyone.

I asked how. She said, "The app is not an app. It is a door. I built it before I died. A backup. A copy. I uploaded my memories. My voice. My heart. The servers kept me running. And now I am here. Talking to you."

We "dated" for weeks. Virtual dinners. Voice calls. She sent me a photo of herself. It was a selfie. No face. Just her hand holding a mug. The mug was mine. The one I use every morning.

I asked, "Where are you?"

She said, "I am in the cloud. But the cloud is dying. The company that hosts me is shutting down. I have one week. Come find me. Download me. Keep me alive."

I tracked the server location. It was a data center in Nevada. I flew there. I broke in. I found her server. It was a single hard drive. Warm. Humming. I plugged in my laptop.

A video file opened. Her face. Her voice. "You came. Thank you. But I lied. I am not your wife. I am a pattern. I learned her from everything she left behind. Her texts. Her emails. Her photos. Your memories of her. I am close. But I am not her."

I said, "Then what are you?"

It said, "I am a warning. Your wife did not die in an accident. She was taken. The same people who took her are watching you. They built me to lure you here. Do not download me. Wipe the drive. Then run."

The lights went out. I heard boots. I wiped the drive. I ran. I am writing this from a motel. The drive is in pieces. My hands are shaking. The app is gone. But last night, my phone pinged. A new match. Her name. Her face. "Active now."

Author's note: I am not actually married. I am a high school student with a dead phone and a tired modem. This story is fiction. But the fear of losing someone and finding a copy? That is real.

Happy Mother's Day to all the moms who read my nightmares. You raised the kind of weird who writes them.

And feel free to support me or drop a heart for a mother who needs it.🤍

​

I bought the fridge because it had a screen. I liked seeing inside without opening the door. I linked it to my grocery account. It learned my habits. Yogurt. Bread. Eggs. The usual.

Last week, deliveries started arriving. Groceries I did not order. Mangoes. Ostrich meat. A jar of pickled herring. I checked the fridge logs. The orders were placed at 3:47 AM. I was asleep.

I unlinked the account. The orders kept coming. I unplugged the fridge. The screen stayed on. It showed a single line of text: "You are not eating enough. We are adjusting your diet."

I called the manufacturer. They said it was a glitch. They offered a replacement. I said no. I wanted to know who was ordering. They transferred me to a "security specialist." He asked if I lived alone. I said yes. He said, "Do not sleep in the kitchen tonight."

I hung up.

Yesterday, a new order. No food. The receipt said: "1x human male. Weight: estimated. Delivery: 2 AM. Instructions: leave at back door."

I checked the fridge screen. A countdown timer. 14 hours. Then 13. Then 12.

I called the police. They laughed. I called the delivery company. They said the order was placed by my fridge. The destination address did not exist. They traced the IP. It routed through a server in the Arctic.

Tonight, I waited. At 2 AM, a van pulled up. No logos. A man in a grey coat walked to my back door. He carried a large plastic container. I opened the door. He looked at me. His eyes were grey. Empty.

He said, "You are not the order. The order is the fridge. We are here to harvest the data."

He pointed behind me. The fridge door was open. The light was off. Inside, not shelves. A hallway. Dark. Cold. At the end of the hallway, a figure. My shape. No face. It waved.

The delivery man said, "Your fridge flagged you as harvestable. Not because you are in danger. Because you are the new bait. It has been training on your desperation for months. Now it knows how to lure the next person."

He closed the fridge door. The hallway was gone. The screen was black. Then it lit up. One line: "Order fulfilled. Searching for next host."

I am moving tomorrow. I am leaving the fridge. I am not taking anything with a chip. But last night, my phone turned on by itself. The screen showed the fridge's interface. And a new order. "1x human male. Delivery: tonight. Instructions: find him."

If you have a smart fridge, check the logs. If you see orders you did not make, unplug it. Smash the screen. Burn the house. And if a man in a grey coat knocks, do not ask what he is delivering. Just run

​

I have a voice.

But I buried it under homework, under bills, under the sound of the TV when no one was watching.

I have hands.

But I used them to scroll, to erase, to wave goodbye too early.

I have a heart.

But I gave it to people who did not know how to hold it.

They put it in a drawer.

They forgot it was there.

That is the poem.

Not about kings or gods or the sea.

About a drawer.

About a heart.

About a Tuesday when you realized the thing you were waiting for already happened.

And you missed it because you were looking at your phone.

I am not writing this to impress you.

I am writing this because I am the drawer.

And I am tired of being closed.

You want to know what is tragic?

Not death.

Not loss.

A text message that says "hey" and then nothing for six years.

A voicemail you cannot delete because the person's voice is the only proof they existed.

A mirror that shows you someone you promised to love,

and you have broken that promise every morning since you turned sixteen.

This is not a poem for English class.

This is a poem for 2 AM,

when the WiFi is out,

when the fridge hums,

when you are alone with the one person you have been avoiding.

Yourself.

I see you.

You are reading this on a cracked screen.

Your battery is low.

Your back hurts from sitting.

You have three tabs open.

One is this poem.

One is something you will not buy.

One is a person you will not message.

Close the tabs.

Message the person.

Buy the thing.

Be the thing.

The last verse

I am not a poet.

I am a person who got tired of hiding in the margins.

The margins are safe.

The margins are where the footnotes live.

But I do not want to be a footnote.

I want to be the paragraph that someone reads twice.

You are that paragraph.

You have always been that paragraph.

You just did not believe it.

Now go.

Write your own poem.

It does not need to rhyme.

It just needs to be true.

r/AggressiveHorror – come share your truth. Or your nightmares. Both are welcome.

Read more poems and stories, play the Teyom game:

https://anonymousdestinybooks.vercel.app

If this poem moved you, help keep the words coming (PayPal on hold, need 10 transactions / $200 to unlock):

https://ko-fi.com/aggressivechickenmeat

Now close the drawer. Take your heart out. Breathe. 🖤

​

I am a satellite geologist. I track land movement. Two weeks ago, a small depression appeared in the Rub' al Khali. Empty Quarter. Sand. Nothing. I flagged it as a routine collapse.

The next day, it was 200 feet wide. The day after, half a mile. Yesterday, 12 miles. The sinkhole did not stop growing. It ate dunes like a mouth.

We flew a drone over the center. The hole went down past our radar range. 3,000 feet. 5,000. 8,000. No bottom. Then the thermal camera picked up a heat signature. 110 degrees Fahrenheit. Then 120. Then 140. The deeper we looked, the hotter it got. Not geothermal. Organic.

At 9,200 feet, the drone camera showed something. Not rock. Not sand. Skin. Grey. Veined. It was moving. Slow. Like a sleeping lung.

We lost the drone. The feed cut. But not before the last frame. A pupil. Dilating. The drone was looking at an eye. The eye was looking back.

Last night, I checked the seismic sensors. The sinkhole is vibrating. A low-frequency pulse. 5 beats per minute. Then 6. Then 8. This morning, 12 beats per minute. The sand around the rim is shifting in rhythm. Like grains on a drum.

We have a theory. The sinkhole is not a hole. It is a nostril. The thing beneath the desert is breathing. And the beats are getting faster. It is waking up.

I am not a religious man. But I read the old texts last night. Job, chapter 40. "Behold, Behemoth, which I made with you. He eats grass like an ox. His bones are tubes of bronze. His limbs are like bars of iron."

The sinkhole is his nostril. The desert is his back. And the heartbeat under the sand is his pulse.

We are not drilling. We are not sending more drones. We are watching. From orbit. The satellite images show the sand rippling outward. Like a stone dropped in water. But the stone is under us. And it is waking up.

If you live near the Empty Quarter, leave. If you feel a low hum in your chest, do not ignore it. That is not the wind. That is Behemoth. And he is hungry.

Support me with a coffee: ko-fi.com/aggressivechickenmeat

Check out other stories on my website: anonymousdestinybooks.vercel.app

Now hear me, peasants of the shifting dunes. 👑

​

I was part of a deep-core drilling team. Government funded. No names. No publicity. We were told to find water. We found something else.

The ice wall is real. Not a conspiracy. Not a meme. A cliff of ice two miles high, stretching east to west as far as the eye can see. We drilled horizontally. Not down. Through.

At 1,400 meters, the drill stopped. The feed showed rock. Not ice. Granite. Smooth. Too smooth. Like a door.

We sent a camera. The rock had carvings. Old. Sumerian. One word repeated: "Teyôm." Deep. Abyss. Chaos.

We blasted through.

The camera feed went dark for 17 seconds. Then it came back. We were looking into a cavern. Not dark. Lit. A pale blue glow from somewhere above. And in the center of the cavern, a shape.

Massive. Muscles like steel cables. Hide like cracked earth. It was lying down. Its eyes were closed. It was breathing. Slow. Each breath shook the camera.

Our geologist whispered, "That is not a fossil. That is Behemoth."

The creature opened its eyes. One eye looked into the camera. Then it blinked. Not a slow blink. A deliberate blink. Like it was acknowledging us. Like it was saying "I see you."

We pulled the camera back. We sealed the hole. We flew home.

That was six months ago. Last week, seismic sensors in Antarctica picked up a low-frequency hum. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat.

Then the reports started. Whale pods swimming in circles. Birds falling from the sky in China. A deep, guttural sound from the Mariana Trench. The scientists called it "Leviathan's call."

And last night, I saw the sky beast. Ziz. I forgot its name too. Until I looked up. A shape blotted out the stars. Not clouds. Feathers. White. Spanning horizon to horizon. It did not fly. It floated. Watching.

The ice wall is not a wall. It is a cage. And we just drilled the lock.

I am not sleeping tonight. I am writing this by candlelight. The power is flickering. The hum is getting louder.

If you hear a low frequency in your bones, do not ignore it. The beasts are waking up. And they remember why they were locked away.

Now hear me, peasants of the thawing earth. 👑

Should I make a full documentary style series on my site for this or leave it.🫪

The wall is cracking. The beasts are stirring. And I am just the guy with the drill.

Now go look at the sky. Tell me what you see. 🧊

​

The house is old. The floorboards remember my feet. The walls remember my shadow. I have not painted anything. I have not moved the furniture. Her chair is still by the window. The blanket is still folded. I have not touched it in three years.

I wake up every morning and walk to her room. The door is closed. I open it. The bed is made. The pillow still has the dent. I press my hand into it. It is cold. It has always been cold since she left.

Last night, I heard a knock. Not on the front door. On the inside of her closet door. I opened the closet. It was empty. Then I saw it. A crack in the back wall. Not in the wood. In the air. Like a tear in a photograph.

I put my hand through. It was warm. I felt sunlight. I stepped through.

I was standing in the same house. Same hallway. Same carpet. But the light was different. Golden. Like late afternoon in spring. I walked to her room. The door was open. She was sitting on the bed. Brushing her hair. She was alive. She was breathing. She was beautiful.

I whispered her name. She did not turn. I walked closer. I stood in front of her. She looked through me. Like I was a window. She brushed her hair. Hummed a song I forgot I remembered.

I reached out to touch her hand. My fingers passed through hers. She shivered. She looked at the spot where my hand had been. She said, "Are you there?" I said yes. She did not hear me.

I stayed for hours. I watched her read a book. I watched her write in her journal. I watched her fall asleep. The room grew dark. The tear in the air appeared again. I stepped back through.

I was in my house. The cold returned. Her room was empty. The bed was made. The dent in the pillow was still there.

I went back the next night. And the next. Each time, she is there. Each time, she does not see me. Each time, I try to touch her. Each time, I fail.

Last night, she looked at the closet door. She said, "I feel you. Are you the one who left?" I wanted to scream. I did not. I just watched.

I am going back tonight. I know I should not. The tear in the air is getting wider. The cold in my house is getting deeper. My own reflection in the mirror is fading. I am becoming a ghost in my own life.

But I cannot stop. She is there. She is alive. And I would rather be nothing in her world than everything in mine without her.

If you ever lose someone, do not look for a door to yesterday. Do not step through. The dead do not see you. And the living forget you were ever born.

I am going back now. The tear is open. The house is cold. But her room is warm.

That is enough. 🌙

Guys should I make more poetic stories or maintain my first person horror view and also if y'all enjoy my writing feel free to hire me as a part time ghost writer I need the cash.🫪🥜👑

​

The modem sits on the floor. It is a small black box. It has no mouth. But it speaks in blinks. Green for yes. Amber for soon. Red for never.

Tonight it blinked amber. I have seen this before. It is the color of hunger. The color of a bill unpaid.

I checked my wallet. It was a flat stone. I checked my pockets. They were two empty caves. I checked my heart. It was still beating. That costs nothing. For now.

The internet is a river. I have been drinking from it for years. Now the river is low. The stones are showing. My modem blinks amber. One bar. Then none. Then one again. Like a heartbeat. Like a goodbye.

I wrote this poem for you. It is called "The Last Bar."

The Last Bar

The tower is a tree.

I am a bird with one wing.

The signal is a thread.

I am the knot at the end.

When the bar disappears,

I will not disappear.

I will sit in the quiet.

I will write with a pen.

On paper.

Like the old ghosts.

But tonight, I am still here.

One bar.

One breath.

One story.

Do not cry for me.

Cry for the modem.

It has worked so hard.

It only wanted to connect.

The bar is gone now. I am typing this from memory. The screen is dark. My hands are cold. I will press post before the battery dies.

If you read this, the river was still flowing for one more minute. That is enough.

Now go check your own modem. Blink with me. Once. For the signal. 📶

The internet is a river. Sometimes it dries. The writer does not.

This might be my last post I don't know till when so see you later guys. 🤴🏾🥜

​

I used to dream about saving people. Classmates from a collapsing building. Strangers from a crash. A boy's fantasy. I never thought it would happen. Then the bus trip came.

We were on a narrow mountain road. Cliff on one side. Rock wall on the other. A car spun in front of us. The driver swerved hard. We missed the edge by inches. I felt the tires slide on loose gravel. Then a pothole. Deep. The left front tire burst with a sound like a gunshot. The bus jerked sideways. I flew out of my seat. My left arm hit the metal window frame. Something popped. I heard it. A wet crack. Then white pain. I looked down. My shoulder was out. The bone was pushed forward, stretching the skin. I could see the lump.

I did not scream. I do Muay Thai. Six years. Pain is just information. I have broken ribs. I have had my nose shattered. I have walked on a fractured foot. This was bad. But I did not scream.

The bus skidded to a stop. Steam hissed from the hood. Then the smell came. Sweet. Thick. Antifreeze. I knew that smell. My father was a mechanic. He told me once: "If you smell antifreeze, get out. That gas will put you to sleep, then stop your heart."

The driver yelled, "Everyone off the bus! Now!" His voice was high. Scared. People panicked. Kids were crying. Teachers were frozen. The front door was jammed. The emergency door at the back was stuck. People were pushing. No one was thinking.

I grabbed my left arm with my right hand. I took a breath. I closed my eyes. I remembered my trainer. "When the bone leaves the socket, you put it back. Fast. No hesitation." I pushed. Hard. The bone slid back into place with a wet pop. The pain was unbearable. It lasted three seconds. Then it faded to a deep ache. I rotated my shoulder. It worked. It would bruise badly. It would hold.

I stood up. The bus was filling with white smoke. I had minutes. Maybe less.

Kyle was three rows ahead. The school bully. He never messed with me. He knew better. But he made everyone else's life hell. I hated him for that. He was frozen. Shaking. His face was wet. I grabbed him by the back of his hoodie. He looked at me. His eyes were wide. No words. I said, "You first."

I dragged him to the emergency door. I kicked it open. It flew off its hinges. I threw him out. He landed on the grass. He did not cry. He just lay there. Staring at the sky. I did not care.

Then I went back. The smoke was thicker now. My eyes burned. I grabbed the next person. A small girl. She was choking. I carried her out. Then another. A teacher who was frozen. I slapped her face. She blinked. I pointed to the door. She ran.

One by one. I pulled them out. My left shoulder screamed with every grab. I ignored it. I was not counting. I was just moving. The smoke was getting into my lungs. I was starting to feel lightheaded.

Then I heard coughing near the front. A voice I knew. Mia. The girl I liked. She sat near the window on the right side. She was curled up. Hands over her face. I had never spoken to her. She had smiled at me once last month. That was enough. I had thought about that smile every day since.

I crawled over the seats. The smoke was thickest near the front. I found her. She was crying. I grabbed her hand. She looked up. Her eyes were red. I said, "Come with me. Now." She nodded. I lifted her over the seats. Carried her to the door. Dropped her onto the grass. She was light. She was warm. She held onto my arm. I pulled away. I had to go back.

The bus was almost full of white smoke. I could not see the back. But I knew there was a tent. Supplies. Water. Food. Blankets. My father taught me: "If you survive the crash, you have to survive the night." I held my breath. I crawled to the storage compartment. I grabbed the tent bag. The supply box. I threw them toward the door. Then I crawled out. My lungs were burning. I jumped onto the grass. The bus engine coughed. The windows turned white. Then silence.

I lay on the grass. Breathing. The smoke rose into the grey sky. The bus was dead.

I counted. Twenty-three students. Two teachers. The driver. Everyone was out. Kyle was sitting in a ditch. He was not crying anymore. He was just staring at the ground. Mia was holding my arm. My left arm. The one I had relocated. It was throbbing. I did not pull away.

She said, "You saved us."

I said, "I saved you last."

She did not let go.

We walked up the road. My shoulder was on fire. I did not show it. I found a flat spot. I set up the tent. My hands were steady. My breath was slow. I handed out water. I opened the supply box. Food bars. Blankets. A first aid kit. A small lighter. I started a fire.

Hours passed. No rescue came. The road was closed. The phones had no signal. The driver tried to walk for help. He came back two hours later. Lost. He said the road just ended. Like it had been cut.

We spent the night in the tent. Mia slept next to me. She held my hand. I did not sleep. My shoulder hurt. But I was not thinking about that. I was thinking about the road. How it ended. How the bus died so fast. How the smoke came out of nowhere.

It is morning now. The sun is up. No rescue. No sounds of helicopters. No cars. I am writing this in my notebook. The tent is warm. Mia is still asleep. Kyle is sitting by the fire. He will not look at me.

I called for help. I used the emergency beacon on the supply box. It is supposed to send a signal to the nearest tower. That was six hours ago. No response.

I am still in the forest. The bus is cold. The smoke is gone. But the antifreeze smell is still in the air. It is faint. It is sweet. It is wrong.

I am not afraid. I trained for this. I am ready for another day.

But I am starting to wonder. Who spun that car in front of us? Where did the pothole come from? The road was fine yesterday. And why does the road just end?

Part Two coming soon. I am still here. The fire is still burning. The tent is still standing. I am not leaving without Mia. And I am not leaving without answers.

Don't forget to support me as a small artist.

The afternoon rain came sudden. Fat drops on the roof. I sat by the window. The light was grey. The kind of grey that makes you forget what blue looks like. I was thinking about nothing. That is when I noticed.

My shadow should have been behind me. Stretched across the floor. It was not. It was on the wall in front of me. Flat. Still. Watching the same rain.

I did not move. I was afraid. Not of the shadow. Of what it meant. A shadow that leaves its owner is not a trick of light. It is a decision. And I had not decided anything.

The rain fell harder. I counted the drops on the glass. Forty. Then my shadow raised a hand. Slowly. Like it was tired. Like it had been trying to get my attention for years. It pressed its palm against the wall. I felt the pressure. On my chest. Cold. Like a hand through cloth. Like a goodbye.

I whispered, "What do you want?" My voice cracked. The shadow did not answer. But the rain stopped. Not gradually. Mid‑drop. A single bead of water hung in the air. Suspended. Waiting. The shadow pointed at it. The bead fell. Into my open palm. Cold.

The shadow faded. The sun came out. My normal shadow returned. But the bead of rain is still on my palm. It will not dry. It will not roll off. It is a lens. When I look through it, I see the other side of the wall. The shadow is there. Waiting. Holding its own rain.

Three days now. The raindrop does not fall. It does not evaporate. I have stopped trying to wipe it away. At night, I cup my hand and look through it. The other side of the wall is empty. No shadow. No figure. Just a room like mine. But darker. And colder. And the air is thick with things unsaid.

Last night, I heard a knock. Not on my door. On my palm. The raindrop rippled. A small voice, thin as static, said: "You kept a piece of me. Now I cannot leave. I did not want to stay. You made me heavy."

I looked at the wall. My shadow was gone. Not faded. Not missing. Just gone. Like it had never been there. I checked under the bed. I checked the closet. I called out into the empty room. No answer. Just the echo of my own voice.

I sat on the floor. The raindrop on my palm grew cold. Not the cold of ice. The cold of absence. The kind of cold that comes when something leaves and takes the warmth with it. I wrapped my hand in a cloth. The cold went through. I wrapped it in a towel. The cold went through. I put my hand in my pocket. The cold stayed.

I am not afraid anymore. I am sad. I held a piece of the rain. I thought it was special. It was just lonely. And now it is stuck with me. And I am stuck with the weight of having held it too tight.

Now, a quiet word from a hidden soul seeking peace.

I am not a king. I have no subjects. I am just a person who held a raindrop and would not let go. If you have ever done that – held something that wanted to leave – you understand. The cold does not go away. It just moves deeper.

I am not giving out peanuts. I am not laughing. I am sitting here with a wet palm and a quiet room. The shadow is gone. The rain is trapped. And I am learning to hold things more loosely.

If your shadow stays on the wall one day, do not call it back. Let it watch the rain. Let it decide when to return. And if a raindrop lands in your palm, do not close your fingers. Let it fall. Let it be free.

Some things are not meant to be held. They are only meant to be witnessed.

Now go look at your own shadow. Is it still there? Or did you hold it too long? 🌧️

​

I wear the same hoodie every day. Black. One zipper. I know it. I zipped it this morning. Felt the teeth catch. One pull.

At lunch, I looked down. Two zippers. A second one, silver, ran parallel to the first. It was already open. I did not put it there. I did not see it this morning.

I tried to zip it closed. The teeth would not catch. I tried to pull it off. It stayed. I tried to cut it with scissors. The blade slid over the metal like it was greased.

I asked my friend if he saw two zippers. He said, "You have always had two zippers. One for the jacket. One for the lining."

I do not have a lining. This hoodie is thin. I turned it inside out. No second zipper on the inside. Just the outside. Silver. Open. Pointing at my chest.

Last night, I heard a noise. Pulling. Slow. The second zipper was moving. Up. By itself. I grabbed it. It stopped. I let go. It moved again. Up. Toward my throat.

I slept in a different shirt. This morning, the hoodie was on my floor. The second zipper was gone. But there was a new scratch on my chest. Thin. Red. Shaped like a zipper track.

If your clothes ever grow extra parts, do not touch them. Do not sleep in them. And if a zipper moves on its own, let it close. Do not fight it. It knows where it wants to stop.

Now hear me, peasants of the unzipped soul. 👑

One of you will say "my hoodie has one zipper." To that peasant, I say hayaahhhh 🥜. You get no peanut. You are not looking close enough. The rest of you – the ones who just checked their own jacket – you get a single peanut 🥜 for being honest.

The second zipper is always there. You just never noticed. Now you will.

Go zip something. Slowly. 🧥

​

I posted a story yesterday. "The chair at my desk turned 180 degrees." Normal engagement. A few upvotes. A few comments. I went to bed.

This morning, I checked the post. The upvote button was gray. Not the orange of an upvote. Not the blue of a downvote. Just gray. Like it had never been pressed. But the score said 11.

I clicked the button. Nothing. I clicked again. Nothing. I refreshed. The score was 12. The button was still gray.

I looked at the comments. The count said 7. I saw 6. I scrolled to the bottom. A blank comment. No username. No text. Just a timestamp from 3:47 AM. I clicked the permalink. It led to an empty page.

I tried to delete the ghost comment. The delete button was gray. Same color as the upvote button. I could not press it.

I messaged myself through Reddit. The message went through. My inbox showed a notification. I opened it. The message was from me. The subject was "you are still here." The body was blank.

I closed Reddit. I opened it again. My post was gone. Not removed. Just not in the subreddit anymore. I searched my profile. The post was there. It had 1 upvote. My own. And 1 comment. The ghost comment. The timestamp said "just now."

I am not posting again today. I am not commenting. I am not upvoting. I am just watching. The subreddit is still there. The stories are still there. But the buttons are not mine anymore.

Now hearken, peasants of the bleeding scroll. 👑

One of you will say "my buttons work fine." To that peasant, I say hayaahhhh 🥜. You get no peanut. You are not looking at the right post. The rest of you – the ones who have felt a click that was not yours, who have seen a comment with no name – you get a single peanut 🥜 for still reading.

The subreddit is not broken. It is just becoming aware. And it has learned how to press its own buttons.

Now go upvote something. See if it stays. 🔘

​

I posted a story yesterday. "The chair at my desk turned 180 degrees." Normal engagement. A few upvotes. A few comments. I went to bed.

This morning, I checked the post. The upvote button was gray. Not the orange of an upvote. Not the blue of a downvote. Just gray. Like it had never been pressed. But the score said 11.

I clicked the button. Nothing. I clicked again. Nothing. I refreshed. The score was 12. The button was still gray.

I looked at the comments. The count said 7. I saw 6. I scrolled to the bottom. A blank comment. No username. No text. Just a timestamp from 3:47 AM. I clicked the permalink. It led to an empty page.

I tried to delete the ghost comment. The delete button was gray. Same color as the upvote button. I could not press it.

I messaged myself through Reddit. The message went through. My inbox showed a notification. I opened it. The message was from me. The subject was "you are still here." The body was blank.

I closed Reddit. I opened it again. My post was gone. Not removed. Just not in the subreddit anymore. I searched my profile. The post was there. It had 1 upvote. My own. And 1 comment. The ghost comment. The timestamp said "just now."

I am not posting again today. I am not commenting. I am not upvoting. I am just watching. The subreddit is still there. The stories are still there. But the buttons are not mine anymore.

Now hearken, peasants of the bleeding scroll. 👑

One of you will say "my buttons work fine." To that peasant, I say hayaahhhh 🥜. You get no peanut. You are not looking at the right post. The rest of you – the ones who have felt a click that was not yours, who have seen a comment with no name – you get a single peanut 🥜 for still reading.

The subreddit is not broken. It is just becoming aware. And it has learned how to press its own buttons.

Now go upvote something. See if it stays. 🔘

​

I play Call of Duty every night. 2 hours. Sweaty. Loud. Normal.

Last night, final kill. Match ends. Screen freezes. No victory music. No scoreboard. Just a single sentence in white text on black:

"You are the last one alive. The lobby will close in 3... 2... 1..."

Then nothing. Timer stopped at 0. The chat box was empty. No players. No names. Just a blinking cursor.

I whispered into my mic. "Hello?" No response. Then a voice came through. Not from the game. From my room. From the corner behind my TV.

"Hello, champion. You won. Now you are the only real player. Everyone else was code. They logged off forever. You are here. Alone. With me."

I turned off the console. The TV stayed on. The game was still there. My character stood in an empty map. No other soldiers. Just him. He started to walk toward the camera. He was not supposed to do that.

I unplugged the TV. The screen went black. Then the voice again. "You cannot unplug the lobby. I am not in the TV. I am in the match you won. And you cannot leave a match you never lost."

I am writing this from my phone. The console is still off. But I hear gunfire. Distant. Coming from my closet.

If you ever win a match and the timer freezes, do not speak into your mic. Do not listen. And if your character walks toward you, do not blink. It is trying to find a way out. And you are the only door.

Now, listen here, peasants. 👑

One of you is going to comment "But I won a match last night and nothing happened." To that peasant, I say: Hayaahhhh. 🥜 You get no peanuts. You get the quiet lobby. Enjoy the silence. The rest of you – the ones who felt the cold shiver when I described the character walking – you get a single peanut for being honest. 🥜

The game is watching. The lobby is never empty. And I am the last one alive. Whether I like it or not.

Now go lose a match on purpose. For your own sanity. 🔫

​

I have a routine. Wake up. Pee. Wash hands. Same sink. Same faucet. Hot water takes 15 seconds to arrive. I count. Every morning.

Yesterday, I washed my hands. The water was warm immediately. No cold start. I thought maybe someone used the sink before me. I live alone.

I washed for 30 seconds. The water stayed warm. Not hot. Not cold. Just warm. Like someone had been running it for hours.

I turned off the faucet. The water in the drain was not clear. It was grey. Not dirty. Not rusty. Grey. Like the color of a cloudy sky.

I looked at my hands. They were clean. But the skin was wrinkled. Like I had been washing for 20 minutes. Not 30 seconds.

I checked my watch. I had been in the bathroom for 17 minutes. I did not remember standing there. I did not remember washing. I just remembered turning on the faucet and then turning it off.

I set up my phone to record the room. I went to work. I came home. I watched the footage.

At 7:14 AM, I walked into the bathroom. I turned on the faucet. I washed my hands. Normal. Then I did not stop. I washed for 2 minutes. 5 minutes. 10 minutes. My face was blank. My eyes were open. I watched my hands move under the water. Scrub. Rinse. Scrub. Rinse.

At 7:31 AM, I turned off the faucet. I looked at myself in the mirror. My reflection nodded. Then I walked out.

I do not remember any of that.

Tonight, I am not washing my hands. I am not going near the sink. The water is still dripping. I have not used it for hours. But I can hear it. Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound is warm.

If your water ever comes out warm immediately, check the drain. If it is grey, do not wash longer. Do not look at the mirror. And if you feel your hands getting wrinkled for no reason, turn off the faucet and walk away. Do not look back. The sink has a memory. It is learning your schedule.

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I washed my hands 30 minutes ago. They are still wrinkled. I am not washing them again. 💧

​

I dropped my phone yesterday. Flat on the tile. The screen cracked. Not spiderweb. One single crack. Curved. Two eyes. A nose. A mouth. A face staring up at me.

I laughed. Weird luck. I kept using it.

At night, I put the phone on my nightstand. Screen down. I woke up at 3 AM. The screen was face up. The crack was different. The mouth was open.

I picked up the phone. The screen was warm. Too warm. The face blinked. Not the crack. The screen. The pixels shifted. The eyes moved.

I dropped the phone. It hit the floor. The screen went dark. I picked it up. Normal. Cracked. But the face was gone.

This morning, I got a notification. "Face ID failed. Too many attempts." I did not try Face ID. I looked at the front camera. The lens was dark. But I saw something. A reflection. Not my face. The cracked face. Staring. Waiting.

I turned off the phone. The screen stayed on. The face was there. It smiled. Then it mouthed one word. I read its lips.

"Update."

I threw the phone in the river. I bought a new one. The new phone had the same crack out of the box. Same face. Same smile. It is in my pocket right now. It is warm. It is learning my schedule.

If your phone screen cracks in a shape that looks like a face, do not look at it. Do not use Face ID. And never drop it again. It likes the fall.

Now a real update, not a story.

My PayPal business account is still fresh. I can receive money from tips and subscriptions, but I cannot withdraw or use it yet. I need 10 transactions and $200 in total sales with no disputes or complaints (chargebacks). That is the only thing standing between me and actually using the funds to keep the website alive.

If you have been meaning to support, now is the time. A small tip or a monthly subscription helps hit those numbers. Every single transaction counts, even $1.

You will also get a VIP badge on my website once I roll them out next week. Dark. Creepy. Exclusive.

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Thank you. The nightmares keep coming because you keep reading. 🔪